Switching off the engine, I practically fall out of the car, slam the door shut and sprint up the marble steps of the hotel. My legs run instinctively towards the Great Hall. Don’t do it, Tina, don’t do it! But my feet seemingly run of their own accord. The physical battling the mental and winning fiercely. And why do I keep attracting the wrong person? Surely I have a soul mate out there? Doesn’t everyone?
I halt abruptly, breathless and panting, staring deep into the Great Hall, willing myself to have the strength to turn and go. Just walk away.
I am my destiny. I hold it. I control it. The words drill into my brain. Repeat after repeat after repeat. I watch Holler Man still singing the same dreary song and using the same pitch. This is clearly a déjà vu.
I gaze at the stained-glass window showering flecks of brilliant light across the room and decorating the walls and floor with a million tiny rainbows. An abundance of colour dances prettily, costumed out and performing to an unappreciative audience, bar one. I feel the tingle of angel dust as it travels through the atmosphere and I inhale its medicinal remedy until dizziness results. It tickles my senses and penetrates my soul and then, with an invisible click, the spell has been lifted and once more I am of this world.
Phew! That was close, Tina, you bloody idiot! What the hell were you thinking?
5
“Place your hands on the crystal ball, my dear, and try to free your mind of any thought,” says Gypsy Florence.
Free my mind? How long have you got? It’s suffering from a humongous thrashing. Beaten by a pair of legs. I guess it was a case of who got there first, and it well and truly lost. Mind over matter? I don’t think so.
I don’t expect this to take long. Having said that, I didn’t expect to be here to start with. In fact, it’s one of those surreal experiences where you keep asking yourself ‘Am I really here?’ But here I definitely am. I attempt to eradicate any level of contemplation by exhaling it noisily from my body. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Tina,” her forehead creases, “can you fix your eyes directly on the crystal ball? Try to erase all thoughts.” She frowns once more.
The cubicle is dimly lit and my eyes adjust slowly. The atmosphere is mellow and relaxed and suddenly focusing is easier. But I am feeling a little tired now. The crystal ball is sitting in the centre of a small round table covered with a black velvet cloth trailing to the floor. A foldaway chair bears an open leather briefcase displaying a pack of tarot cards, various crystal rocks and a rag or cloth of some description.
A flicker of light shines into the cubicle and the crystal ball glistens as the light travels across it. Muttering, Florence excuses herself momentarily, awkwardly prising her elderly body from the chair, and fixes the canvas curtains in an attempt to black out any distractions.
“Plays havoc with the magnetism,” she fusses. “It’s only just been charged up.”
I glance down at the crystal ball, curious as to how you might charge a piece of glass. Looking up I catch her surveying my face intently. It feels intimidating.
“You leave it out during a new moon,” she tells me. “It makes it more powerful.”
My question never moved from my lips. Freaky.
Seated once more, she resumes the reading with my hands wrapped securely around the crystal ball, willing it to predict a future of lavishness and love. In any order.
“You have an unusual aura around you,” she begins. “A mixture of outspokenness combined with a rare sensitivity.”
She is looking around my shoulders from one side to the next. For what? I quickly turn my head left to right but can see nothing.
“Does that make sense to you?” She pauses. “That you can be almost confrontational but at the same time have a sensitive side?”
I guess it does really. I’m renowned for my outlandish and outspoken opinions but unravel the layers of hard-nosed Tina and you’ll find a purring pussycat lies within.
Determined to give nothing away, I remain without emotion and simply shrug my shoulders.
“I am being drawn to your higher self,” she continues. “Your higher self indicates that you have not yet learned to trust your own voice.” Leaning into the ball, her eyes strain and she looks at me fixedly. “You need to believe in yourself.” Her face softens. “Find a way to forgive yourself.”
What is she on? Forgive myself for what?
“I feel that you are battling with a failed past and I must warn you that you must not become what you are not truly destined to become.” Her face is overflowing with concern and a deep grimace distorts her already heavily lined forehead. Taking a break, she squints and moves her eyes from the ball for a few moments and then questions me directly, seeking affirmation. “Can you identify with any of this, my dear?”
Like I’m going to tell you. How unspecific was that? Doesn’t everyone have a past failure that they’d rather not discuss? Feeling ill at ease and somewhat deflated at my lack of willpower, I simply nod. Humour the old dear so you can get out of here, Tina.
I could be with Sam, knocking back champagne.
“Good.” She smiles. “I thought you might understand that.” Her face lights up excitedly. “Ooh, I am also being shown a ring which indicates a marriage.”
I sit up, suddenly interested to learn more, nodding for her to continue.
“I don’t feel that this relationship belongs to you, however, although the person who is destined to be your soul mate is all around you.” Scratching her head, she asks, “Are you in a relationship currently?”
I shake my head, attempting to hide my disappointment. Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?
“Well, it won’t be long for you, my dear. As I say, this person is around you as we speak and your paths are destined to cross very soon if they haven’t already.” She hesitates. “If you allow it, Tina.”
That is the first time my name has been used which in fact was all she asked me for, apart from the thirty pounds of course.
“If you allow it,” she repeats, watching me sternly.
Okay, I got the message the first time around.
Fidgeting on the white plastic chair, I cross and uncross my legs impatiently, unable to relax and cursing myself for just being here. My sharp stiletto heel clumsily attaches itself to the draped velvet cloth and I jerk my knee up trying to free myself. Ouch! It bangs hard beneath the table top and I freeze in horror as the table rocks with its force. In what seems like slow motion the crystal ball rolls towards me, twisting and turning and heading for the edge of the table.
“Jesus!” I manage to grab it just before it rolls off, clutching it without a millisecond to spare and holding it tightly to my chest.
I watch as her face changes from a ghostly panic to utter relief. It looked like the old dear was a goner for a moment.
She prises the ball from my perspiring hands, frantically examines it and heads to the open case where she pulls out the soft cloth. She wipes the ball with soothing, loving strokes.
“I’m so sorry . . . it . . . it was an accident,” I implore. “My heel got caught on the cloth.”
But she ignores me, still wiping the ball. Caressing it with affection.
It’s a bloody piece of glass, for God’s sake. Nothing more than a big marble.
She stares at me. A look of repugnance crosses her face. “This ball is made from quartz crystal,” she scolds. “And I simply cannot practice without it.”
Okay – once is coincidental. Twice is plain spooky.
I stand to go, no longer feeling the need to hear more. Enough damage has been done for one day.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I mutter in embarrassment. I turn to go, looking for the break in the canvas drapes. “Again, I’m really sorry.”
“Tina.” Her voice is lowered and calm as she hobbles towards me, giving the impression of being concerned. “I no longer have a connection to continue.” She inhales deeply and with much effort. “But I must warn you that you truly need to learn
to trust yourself.” Her eyes, although worn and bloodshot, are filled with wisdom and compassion. “Only you know who and what is right for you and things are not always as they seem.”
I’ve heard that before.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Everything happens for a reason, my dear,” she answers gently.
“Not this,” I retort, angry at myself.
“Let this not be a wasted experience for you.”
I find the break in the curtains with relief and am as desperate to run back out as I was to run in.
“Tina!” she calls to me and I stop to look back at her elderly face and stooped posture. Her distorted hands are dry and craggy.
“You know . . .” She pauses. “It is okay to be less than your dreams.”
I stand there just staring as her tired red eyes pierce through my soul, washing me out and leaving me with a feeling of great unease.
Maybe. But is it okay to be less than others’ dreams for you?
Stopping off at the office, I deactivate the alarm and tear up the stairs to grab a bottle of champagne.
Every year we receive a case of this wonderful stuff from the solicitors across the street. The conveyancing staff over there are so efficient and thorough, and with their close proximity we recommend them whenever we can. Keep it in the community, as they say. It certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by them and they reciprocate in any way possible. It’s usually on a social level which is right up our street. Chantelle and I get invited to their Christmas bash, and every year we stagger home with enough post-bash gossip to last us through the following year. It’s generally who’s shagging who, the ongoing sexual-harassment case against the senior partner, and the dirt on underhand transactions and who is doing them. Illegal as they are, they happen, believe me. Alcohol does wonderful things to you, doesn’t it? It loosens the tongue, lubricates the imagination and releases all your inhibitions. Oh, and makes you think you can sing karaoke better than anyone else in the universe.
Our office parties are extremely quiet by comparison. Besides Chantelle and myself, I employ Heather, the SAGE accountant, for two mornings a week, and Trisha, the singing cleaner, or ‘domestic’ in politically correct terms. She cleans for us three evenings a week. Much as the balance sheet is a glowing indication of Harding Homes’ success, the property business is both fluctuating and somewhat seasonal and we get slaughtered by any social or economic downturn. We’re just coming out of the mid-winter crisis and very slowly prospective buyers are starting to prise themselves out of hibernation, ready to face the property world and all the sharks in it. Or so they think.
For the time being, the salary overheads are right on their upper limit and an embargo has been placed on recruitment but once the sales pick up in the spring I fully intend to remunerate the staff with some sort of sales incentive. Or commission bonus. I want to keep them and I want them to want to stay with me. Good management is all about satisfying your staff. Reward them with thanks, encouragement and achievable incentives and in return they will serve you unequivocally. And if that doesn’t work get them completely pissed and they’ll love you forever!
Looking around, I note the odd jobs that need doing, simply to bring the office into mint condition. It’s nothing major but it is in need of a little touch-up. It’s been three years since the upstairs rooms were painted. Both of them. We use one as the staff-room-cum-storage-room where the stationery, exhibition banners and photocopier live. The other is my office, used also for client interviews, away from the inquisitive ears of snooping folk. With so much identity fraud, it doesn’t do to convey your personal details in an open room full of strangers. I wouldn’t do it and I certainly don’t expect my clients to.
The premises as a whole comprises a large open-plan ground floor, with separate WC and a small storage room to the rear of the building, and the two large rooms upstairs. There is a small back yard scattered with potted marigolds and pansies, which Mum kindly donated to us, in addition to a stained timber bench which was the congratulatory opening gift from my wonderful family.
Talking of whom . . .
Pulling up outside the large white detached house, I witness a driveway overflowing with cars, two of which I recognise, the rest not, but I would certainly like to meet the owners.
My former home is today playing host to a Porsche Carrera and a BMW 5 series with a private plate. You wouldn’t get much change from sixty-five grand if you bought that.
Parking on the busy road in front of the house, I adjust the rear-view mirror, quickly applying a dab of Touche Éclat but going completely overboard on the lip gloss. You never know who you’re going to meet or when, and yes, I was in the Brownies. You really do have to be prepared.
Hurrying down the long gravelled driveway, I admire the mature gardens and inhale the fresh scent of the recently mown lawn.
Sam and I had some fun playing in the front garden with the other kids in our street. Or ‘road’ as Mum would correct. “A street, darling, is for council houses.” My mother, a snob without any just grounds, is part of the reason for my past shortcomings, or so I feel, rightly or wrongly. It was she who pushed me towards a media career. It was she who was first in line to sign me up for dance lessons and it was she who managed to land me an agent at the hormonally challenged age of fourteen. I guess like a lot of parents they live their dreams through their kids and by God was my mother ever the dreamer.
Talk of the devil!
“Christie. Darling.” She smooths down the cashmere sweater, fixing it just below the waistband of her tailored trousers. “Hurry up, sweetie, we’re all waiting for you.” She is standing at the front door, bouncing excitedly. Her eyes are more alive than I have noticed for years. It’s nice to see.
“Hi, Mum.” I hand her the champagne. “Sorry I’m late, I had to call in to the office first.”
She grabs me, crushing me to her ample bosom, before roughly pushing me back to take in the view. How subtle.
“Never mind about that, darling. Isn’t the news just wonderful?” She scans me from head to toe. “You look so well, you know, I really don’t know why you’re still single, Christie. Look at you! You’re gorgeous.” She squeezes me once more, not noticing my lip-gloss smudge on her beige sweater. “And well done for keeping the weight off, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
For crying out loud, it’s been ten years since I lost all that weight yet she still talks about it like it was yesterday.
‘Christie’, incidentally, was my stage name, acquired after my agent suggested that Tina was perhaps a little bland. Charming. Mum still uses it for some bizarre reason.
“Where’s Sam?”
Taking my arm, Mum leads me into the living room like a tour guide.
I used to live here, for heaven’s sake.
A sea of faces stares at me, each one smiling joyfully with untouched champagne flutes in hand.
They’ve more willpower than me, that’s for sure!
“Tina!” Sam releases her hand from Tim’s and rushes over to hold me in a tight embrace.
I can almost smell her happiness. It seeps from her invisibly yet distinctly. I grip tightly onto my big sister, my heroine, tears welling in my eyes. The reality hits me and quite selfishly I wonder if our relationship will ever be the same again.
“Congratulations, Sam!” I offer, not breaking away from her. And I really do mean it. Her happiness is my happiness. “Don’t forget about me, will you?” My voice breaks. “Am I still your best friend?”
Sam squeezes me tighter, stroking my head, kissing it with tiny sisterly kisses. “You and Tim are the two most important people in my life,” she assures me solidly, disengaging her grip but holding my shoulders firmly. “Don’t you ever forget it. Okay?” Her eyes are kind and full of love, sparkling with elation.
“I won’t. Thanks, Sam.”
I feel a bit better now. We’ve only ever had ea
ch other and the thought of not having her in my life would seriously kill me. I really do think I would die. She understands me so well. We had no cousins and no grandparents on either side so it’s always just been the four of us. Our own little family. But for Sam and me, it was just the two of us. No-one else could have penetrated the special bond we shared. And still share.
On her manicured hand sits a cluster of diamonds, dazzling effortlessly, with one massive stone in the centre surrounded by six smaller diamonds each side and encased in a platinum setting. When the sun shines in through the bay window, the walls and ceiling come alive with a scattering of light pockets. Each one a different shape and dancing their own unique celebratory dance.
“Let me introduce you to Tim’s family,” Sam proposes as Mum thrusts a much-needed glass of champagne in my hand.
I am so tempted to down it in one after my eventful day but, taking in the evidently snooty in-laws, this is neither the time nor the place. But, by God, do I need it right now!
I am introduced to Major Heath-Jones, Mrs Hilary Heath-Jones and the rest of the family comprising Tim, who I know of course, and Simon his younger brother. Looking at his parents, it comes as no surprise that Tim is so dull. He’s probably been raised with military precision by an overpowering father and a timid mother too afraid to voice her opinion in a ‘Know your place, woman’ milieu.
Simon is actually quite cute and bears no resemblance to the rest of the family with his strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes, compared to their olive skin and brown hair. Hilary, whose hair colour looks wildly confused, is in dire need of a trip to a decent salon. I could recommend a few. I’ll get to know her a little first. Simon, unlike the rest of the Heath-Jones, doesn’t speak with a mouthful of marbles and, although he is well spoken, it’s in an ordinary passable way and not at all snooty.
I wonder which of the cars is his?
My mother is in her element playing the wonderful hostess, while Dad feigns interest in the Major’s anecdotes and Hilary nods away with interest, not admitting to have heard them all before. The obedient wife! Ordinarily, she might have got away with it, but laughing heartily a split second before every punch-line gives the game away. Comedy acting is all about timing and, Hilary darling, yours needs a little work. Perhaps I can coach you while we’re at the hairdresser’s?
Crystal Balls Page 5
