Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2011

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Amanda Brobyn 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  1

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84223-468-6

  eISBN 978-1-84223-532-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Typeset by Patricia Hope in Sabon 11/14.5

  Printed by

  CPI Cox & Wyman, UK

  www.poolbeg.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amanda Brobyn, originally from Liverpool, moved to Northern Ireland in 1999 where she lives with her husband and two children. Amanda’s media career kicked off as a scriptwriter before moving onto novels, and she recently graduated with an MA in Film and Television Production, Management and Policy from the University of Ulster. She is already working on a feature film adaptation of Crystal Balls.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In an attempt to be inclusive, let me thank all those people who have played a part – no matter how small – in the making and publication of Crystal Balls, my debut novel.

  I cannot even begin without firstly thanking Paula Campbell of Poolbeg Press for making my dreams come true – you had faith in me all along, Paula, and without you I might still be in the awful world of financial services, so from the bottom of my heart – thank you. Thanks to Sarah Ormston, also at Poolbeg, for allowing me to pester her regarding my hare-brained PR ideas and for encouraging me to bring more – you might regret that! A massive thank you to Gaye Shortland, my editor, who worked me like a slave over the Christmas holidays! Joking aside, your skilful eye for detail has left me glowing in the knowledge that Crystal Balls is the best it can be . . . and that is all down to you. Thanks to Paula Clamp who recommended Poolbeg to me and for carving out the pathway to my new career.

  Moving on to family and friends, firstly thanks to Michael and Claire Noble who read the first draft of the book and returned the manuscript to me with a gold star! To my dear friend Richard Crawford without whom this book would not have been possible – you believed in me as a writer even when I doubted by own ability and it is you who has opened up this whole new world for me and I adore you. To John Brooks, one of the best friends I have ever had – you predicted that all which has happened, would happen, didn’t you? Your strange insightfulness once again turned out to be as true as you are a friend to me – and I to you. For Karla Robinson of David M Robinson Jewellers, thank you for being a proud friend and for taking the time to help me with the book’s promotion and for using your contacts to get it out there. The next favour is from me to you!

  Thanks to Cyril and Doris for their creche facilities(!) and for buying me the time I needed to write in peace.

  Thanks, Mum, for your constant encouragement, hilarious (and very true) anecdotes and for telling the whole world just how proud you are of me, and thanks to my dad for conceding when I got the publishing deal! I’m not sure you believed I would, but I can see in your eyes just how much my achievements mean to you. You are both extremely special parents and I hope I make you want to burst with pride.

  An enormous thanks to my sister, Jo, who read and re-read every single draft of the book, bouncing back with copious notes – some good, some bad, and for making me see that I could write like all the other authors. I always believe you, Jo, because you tell me the truth and this book is for you as much as it is for me.

  Thanks to my husband Stephen – who has never read the book but probably knows more about it than me – thank you for not buying ear-plugs and for listening to me over the years – I love you. To my beautiful children, Josh and Harriet – for Josh, thanks for telling your teacher the book was actually called Big Balls and for making me explain to her that it was not indeed a top-shelf publication! For Harriet, thanks for never grumbling when I spent our entire maternity leave glued to the laptop – you were so good and now Mummy gets more time with both of you.

  Finally, for those inexplicable situations which make your spine tingle and the hairs on your arms stand on end. For the times you spin around to see who is there to be greeted with an empty space. For the strange smells and cold spells you feel, but no-one else does. For the times the lights flicker or a cold breath hits the back of your neck. For the strangest feeling that someone is watching over you . . . they probably are. Thank you, too!

  www.amandabrobyn.com

  For Stephen, Josh and Harriet with all my love.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Prologue

  Slumped over the battered suitcase, she flings up her hood, protecting herself from the violent grey rain as it hurls down from the murky London skies. Each drop whispers words of failure, basking in its power to pelt her harder and harder. Gloating like a playground bully. Her torso is already numb but no amount of physical affliction can come between her and the gruesome mental punishment which holds her trapped in anguish and despair.

  Unable to hold back, a tear escapes from her tightly closed eyes, followed by another and another, and she begins to sob uncontrollably, not caring about the weird looks from passers-by. None of whom are bothering to ask if she’s okay. But hey, this is London.

  “This isn’t how my life is supposed to be!” she screeches hysterically, her voice breaking under the exertion. “I’m talented,” she whispers, sobbing, “and I don’t – know – what – else I can do – if I can’t do – this.”

  She breaks down once more and her shoulders convulse with each sporadic heave of breath as she cries wildly. Red eyes squint from beneath the oversized hood and her face glimmers with an iridescent wetness as she continues to weep in desolation. She is now oblivious to the awkward glances from the foot traffic around her. Her best monologue yet, wasted on their closed ears and selective eyes. Wiping her runny nose on the arm of her sleeve, she hangs her head in remorse, immersed in a fog of blankness.

  How can she tell her mother she’s failed? Failed her.

  Her mother had spent her own early years wanting to make it as an actress, under the constant repression of an unambitious family telling her to wise up and live in the real world. So from the moment her own daughter could walk and talk, she was pushed incessantly by
a woman who was clearly living her dream through her offspring. Every ounce of energy her body possessed was injected into allowing her child to have the opportunity to become that very thing she never was.

  “And I have failed her,” the girl repeats again and again. “I have failed her.”

  The dream is no longer.

  She stands, slowly and painfully, cold from being static for so long and stiff from putting her body through excessive auditions day and night, year upon year.

  Dragging the heavy case behind her, she trudges heavily through the sopping streets of Soho, looking for a home and silently praying for someone to take her away.

  1

  Chantelle clambers up the stairs, thumping loudly on each one, with all the grace of a baby elephant. How is it that weighing in at only eight stone such a little thing is capable of creating a mini-tremor?

  Breathlessly she knocks at the office door.

  “Tina, are you in there?”

  “No, I’m not here!” I answer with playful sarcasm. “I’m the boss and I’ve given myself the afternoon off!”

  Chantelle enters, panting heavily, and plonks herself at the opposite side of the desk. An immediate emission of stale cigarettes fills the air.

  “Chantelle! You told me you’d given up!” I exclaim with the disgust only an ex-smoker is capable of.

  “Well, I’ve kind of given up so I wasn’t lying,” she explains, straight-faced and earnest. “I’ve actually cut back which in reality means I’ve given up what I used to smoke.” She stares at me, looking smug and clever at her response.

  I can’t even contradict her – there’s logic in there somewhere.

  I trained Chantelle as a saleswoman, a better one than even myself, but the downside is that she has an answer for everything and at breakneck speed.

  I’m feeling mellow today after a joyous meeting with my accountant and it’s a day for celebrations. Let her kill herself with lung disease if she wants to, providing she abides by the rules of no smoking on the premises or in front of the building or during any type of hospitality event. I guess I can’t ask for much more, apart from asking her not to really kill herself of course. She’s my right-hand woman and I’m not sure I could survive without her, but as much as I tell her, I’m not quite sure she believes it.

  “Chantelle, don’t you know how unattractive it makes you look?” I preach. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous but you ruin it all by having a fag hanging out of the side of your mouth.” I laugh off the frustration. “Very ladylike! And why do you keep knocking, you daft sod? If the door isn’t shut tight, just come on in. Open-door policy, remember?”

  Chantelle nods approvingly. “You know what, Tina, I got so used to being treated like a skivvy and a nothing in my old job, it still seems, well, kind of weird that you’re the boss but you’re so nice at the same time.”

  Her honesty and respect are admirable qualities although I can’t help but feel that, at twenty-seven, she ought to be showing signs of greater maturity and aiming to work as more of an equal rather than being happy as a subservient. And this is why I made her the office manager twelve months ago, a recognition well deserved and well overdue in terms of her entire career span.

  Needless to say, I headhunted her from Goldsmith Kings which was easy given she hated it – well, hated the owner really, and for all the same reasons I had done. Her reputation promised her to be worthy of recruitment and, once the word on the street was out – that the chauvinistic pig’s success was practically off the back of Chantelle – I made her an offer I knew she couldn’t refuse and, after her obligatory notice was served, she was all mine. And I certainly didn’t intend to lose her. I love her, the punters love her, the wives and girlfriends are taken in by her natural charm and flattery, and Chantelle graces her way through each day with the ease and simplicity of a woman who works purely for the passion of it, never asking for anything but always giving. She has been and still is indispensable.

  “Earth calling Tina!” she teases.

  “Sorry, Chantelle, I’m in a world of my own.” I roll my eyes at her. I don’t want to keep telling her how valued she is, knowing how uncomfortable it makes her.

  “Penny for them?” She smiles at me affectionately. “Oh my goodness, talk about food for thought!” Bright-eyed, Chantelle suddenly jumps up, digging her hand deep into her jacket pocket and pulling out a newspaper cutting. Leaning over the desk, she quickly unfolds it, holds it in front of me, positioning it far too close to read. She dances around impatiently, hopping from one leg to the next.

  “Please say you’ll come, Tina, please!” she blurts out, looking down at me with big dark-brown eyes set firmly in you-cannot-say-no mode. Although, to see those eyes, you have to look past her ample chest first.

  “Will you give me a chance to read it, for heaven’s sake? I don’t even know what it is!”

  I scan my eyes quickly over the article while Chantelle childishly bounces around, twitching like she has heavily overdosed on speed.

  She is clearly desperate to speak again and, seeing my eyes lower towards the remaining lines, she bursts out uncontrollably: “Will you come with me, please, Tina? I’ve always wanted to see one of those guys but I’d be too afraid to go on my own. Honestly, Tina, this means so much to me I can’t tell you. Please come with me!” She takes in my reluctant face. “Pretty, please?”

  “Chantelle, breathe,” I tell her. “Just take deep breaths.” I stare at her like she is a woman possessed. “I’ve never seen you like this before – you’re usually so collected.”

  I flick through the article once more. My gut reaction is a no, but her excitement and near-desperation have stirred something in me. She opens her mouth to speak again but I silence her with my finger to my lips like a kindergarten teacher. It works beautifully. Why have I never tried it before?

  “Hang on a minute. Just let me read it again. And will you keep still? You’re making me feel sea-sick.”

  I digest the article for the third time, reading it slowly and mulling it over in my head, but I begin to feel quite uncomfortable at the prospect of it. It’s fine for Chantelle but not for me. I’m not the lost little girl who needs to find herself. That was in the past where it will firmly remain and this is the here and now and, from where I’m sitting, it’s looking pretty damn good. I know exactly who I am and where I’m heading and I simply don’t see the point of paying thirty quid for some deranged spoof to impart a pack of lies. I can understand Chantelle’s interest, however, and in her shoes I might well share her sentiment.

  The article, a full-page spread, is promoting Liverpool’s first Psychic Fayre where it aims to demonstrate communication and contact with the spirit world, through mediumship and clairvoyance. Fine if you’re into that sort of thing, I guess, but the idea of it all fills me with ambivalence. I really don’t like it. What if they ask you questions? Personal questions? What if the next thing you know is that some crook has stolen your identity, cleared out your bank account and eradicated you from your own existence? You are not really you any more. Someone else is you.

  Shaking my head, I quickly attempt to figure a get-out clause.

  “You know what, Chantelle, I really don’t feel comfortable going if I’m honest. It’s a complete waste of money and probably run by a group of phoneys.” I hate doing this to her but in a way I’m also trying to protect her. “I mean, think about it logically, it can’t be authentic, honest gov.”

  Chantelle leans across the desk, practically lying on it face down. “Please, Tina, oh please!” she begs. “I really need someone with me and you’re just the person to keep me grounded. I can’t go with Colin because he doesn’t believe in that stuff and my nan would kill me if she knew what I was up to.” She laughs. “My nan says it’s the devil’s work, not that I believe that but . . .” her black-olive eyes widen with innocence, “but I can be a little naïve sometimes.” The corners of her mouth turn upwards and her thick lashes flutter prettily. “I get so taken in by it
all. I really do need to have someone there with me.”

  What a performance, Chantelle! Move over, Hollywood.

  “Look, I’m not really the right person to go with you,” I point out adamantly. “I’m a cynic who is in control of her life because she made it happen. I am where I am because of sheer hard work and this time around I ain’t gonna fail!” My voice breaks a little as I recall that very phone call to Mother asking to be rescued. “It’s up to you, Chantelle. You have to create your own destiny and make your own luck in this life.” I feel a sudden stab of pain. The fight to turn my life around came at a price but, still, I live to tell the tale and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or so they say.

  I watch her despondent face and mellow slightly. I step down from my invisible soapbox. “It’s about action and about doing, Chantelle.” I look around me. “Blood, sweat and tears has been injected into this business. At one point I only had the clothes on my back.” I shake my head at her, conscious that I may have been a bit heavy. “A crystal ball can’t map your life out, Chantelle. All it will do is make your pocket lighter.” I take in her obvious disappointment. She’s as transparent as they come, and wears her heart on her sleeve. I find her simplistic approach rather endearing. I endeavour to make light of the situation by grabbing her hand. With my index finger I trace the contour of her palm, holding the hand firmly as she tries to wriggle it away. My manicured nail trails slowly along her jagged lifeline, deliberately tickling it to torment her.

  “You have a long life in front of you, my dear,” I begin in jest, my voice quaking for dramatic effect. “You will live way into your nineties but your faculties will have left you long before.” I stifle a giggle. “Your chest will go south and your pelvic floor will join it after having nine children . . .”

  “Ouch!” Chantelle’s eyes begin to water at the prospect.

  “You will come into money, a lot of it, but you will always remain faithful to your employer!”

  She snorts at me wickedly.