Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  The room is overflowing with energy as Sam and Tim talk giddily about their wedding plans, with frequent interruptions from both the Major and my mother. I think she’s found her soul mate and he’s definitely met his match. And seems to like it. Hilary is taking a back seat, followed closely by Dad, whose only questions will be “How much?” and “What?”

  Simon, who until now has been sitting quietly, stands up and excuses himself, returning just moments later looking mildly embarrassed.

  “Mrs Harding, where is your bathroom, please?”

  My mother, a little more forward with alcohol, links her arm through his and takes him out to the hall, returning on her own. She winks at me tactlessly while I glare back with a ‘Don’t even go there’ expression. Honestly.

  I can see why my mother is so happy though. I mean Tim is the next best thing to royalty. Well spoken with a double-barrelled surname, undoubtedly to be used as a bragging tool to anyone and everyone. I can just imagine my mother at her hospital League of Friends meeting. “Oh, did I mention our Samantha has married a Heath-Jones? I did? Silly me, I must have forgotten.” Like hell! That woman has the memory of an elephant. It’s unlikely that there will be any real commonality between the two families, Tim and Sam being the exception of course. But does there really need to be? Gone are the days where families gather together for loved-up Christmases, revelling in the ambience of The Waltons, each family member consumed with the virtue of its true meaning both in terms of faith and traditional family values. Christmas is undoubtedly the most stressful time of the year, particularly if you are married or in a serious relationship. Make one family happy and you offend the other. Go home separately and your marriage is in jeopardy! Celebrate at home, just the two of you and you’re antisocial. Sometimes you just can’t win.

  Perhaps being single is easier? But why does the grass always look so much greener on the other side?

  Simon joins me on the two-seater fabric after retrieving his glass. Clink!

  “Cheers – again,” he smiles and we drink. “I wish I could stay for longer but I have to go in a few minutes. Still, it’s better than a no-show, I guess.”

  “You’re not a bit like your brother,” I reply. “Not physically anyway.”

  “Is that good or bad?” He laughs raucously. “Actually, don’t answer that!”

  “Indifferent.”

  He grins and gets up to leave, putting the champagne flute on the mahogany coffee table in front of us, still half full. He notices my look of sacrilege.

  “I’d happily drink it all but I’m driving,” he remarks. “Usually I don’t drink at all if I have the car but today I bent the rules. And quite rightly.” He smiles again and his entire face lights up. He looks both young and middle-aged at the same time, with flawless skin, pale but interesting, and a mop of hair conveying that just-out-of-bed look. His green eyes are speckled with a red tiredness and his expensive clothes are in need of a little TLC. I see before me a man who clearly knows his own mind and a man who may be in need of a little TLC himself. Starting with an ironing service.

  “Perhaps you might like to have a drink some time, Tina?” he asks, barely audible and looking around shyly. He plays nervously with his key-fob.

  I never had him down as the shy type. Quiet, yes, but not shy. Then again, he is in a room full of people, including his own parents. It’s not exactly the venue for a blossoming romance.

  I feel bad letting him down, but after the ridiculous day I’ve had it’s time to make a decision like an adult. Head on.

  A high-pitched bleep sounds and through the bay window I watch the lights flashing on the classy Porsche Carrera, pillar-box red with a private plate.

  I don’t hesitate. “Okay. That would be nice, thanks.”

  He looks taken back with the alacrity of my response. It’s plain to see he half-expected me to say no.

  And I fully expected to say no!

  “Oh, well, that’s erm . . . splendid.”

  I open my purse, pull out a business card and hand it to him. “Call me.” I glance up at him with Bambi eyes, teasing him skilfully through long eyelashes subtly coated in a single layer of black.

  “Most certainly.” He is flushed and distracted bidding his gentlemanly farewells.

  Escorting him to the door, I watch as he pulls away with caution, edging the car forward inch by inch until the coast is clear.

  Nice car. Simple Simon.

  6

  Chantelle slowly peels back the sticky fold. The envelope shakes in her hands and her face is solemn. I know she is willing the news to be good. Not good but great in fact. Or better even. Rarely does she lose control of her composed façade, but today the entire office knows what is riding on the back of the content of this letter.

  She pulls out the folded paper, dropping the envelope to the floor, and opens it out fully, looking up at me for permission to read it.

  “Just tell me, Chantelle.” My voice trembles. I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my hands over my ears. I’m too scared to know. I dare not hear nor see unless the news is worth both hearing and seeing.

  “Dear, Miss Harding,” she reads slowly. “Further to our recent mee–”

  “Yes or no!” I screech.

  Her head moves left to right as she speed-reads, talking in fast forward before she yells, “I am delighted to tell you that Harding Homes has been awarded the contract to –”

  I remove my hands from my ears yet can hear nothing. My world has fallen into slow motion and my ears ring with the sound of nothing. The weight of my body struggles to balance on quivering legs and I feel as though the breath has been sucked right out of me, leaving me feeling winded and nauseous.

  Jumping high, I punch the air as euphoria sets in and my body strength jerks from instability to zip in a microsecond. I kick my legs as high as they will go, skipping from one end of the room to the other until breathless and panting, I force myself to be composed. Oh, what the hell!

  “Waahhhh!” I shriek, doing playground star jumps. “We did it, we did it, we did it!” I can hardly believe it. This can’t be real. “Will someone pinch me? Aah!”

  Heather nips me with her stubby fingers, a little harder than desired. I survey the office, clearly wide-awake and definitely not dreaming.

  Ever since I was a little girl I had aspirations to be an achiever. Someone who was tenacious and driven, never stopping until success was all mine. Whatever it looked like. But after my initial vocation left me high and dry and flat on my homeless face, it took a long time to shake off the memories of failure. It didn’t help that I was reminded each and every time I looked at my mother. But now, unless I’m hallucinating, I swear I have just witnessed my Thespian soul leave my body, floating above me and waving a last goodbye.

  The exorcism of a failed past.

  The champagne flows easily, poured by hired professionals also offering hand-made, mouth-watering canapés with crab and goats’ cheese and other twenty-first-century culinary inventions. Whatever happened to sausages on sticks or cheese and pineapple?

  Fresh arrangements of flowers protrude from tall glass vases placed with a well-judged precision. They dress the premises beautifully, oozing classiness and a joyous potent scent. The room is crammed with invitees, both business and personal, all celebrating in style at our expense. My mother used to say, “If you’re going to throw a party, make it a good one.” Hence the expense of the evening, but money well spent in my opinion. Not to mention tax deductible.

  Chantelle is on meet-and-greet duty, a perfect role for a woman with her magnetism, and Heather by the look of things is promoting her own accounting services. Trisha, hard-working as ever, is swiftly removing empty glasses and finished plates. She was invited here as a member of the team and she is unable to stop giving and working like a trooper. My role this evening is to network and rub shoulders with the local business-owners and other professionals, from travel agents to insurance brokers. All of whom I intend to make my mark on, predicting
that at some point in the near future their services and wisdom will be at my disposal. Similarly, Harding Homes will reciprocate where necessary as is the unspoken rule of any successful business. What goes around comes around as they say. Reciprocity in business. Karma in life.

  Through a small gap in people-traffic, I spot Simon listening intently to a lady I recognise from one of the offices on the high street, but I can’t quite place her. She poses no threat to me, although for a woman of her mature years she is extremely attractive, and Simon, ever the gentleman, is nodding courteously, his body language evoking interest. He’s probably bored silly.

  Tonight was supposed to be our first encounter but was cancelled in light of the news. So I did the next best thing by inviting him here to join the rest of my family, including Sam and Tim. Until now, I had completely forgotten about him and catching his eye I wave across at him, gesturing that I’ll be with him as soon as I can escape from these boring suits.

  Why do people never quite grasp the concept of selling? Quit the shop talk where possible, talk about the other person as much as you can by asking them questions about themselves, without being intrusive of course, and never ever underestimate the fact that people buy from people. Business is about relationships and without a fundamental understanding of that simple rule, you are doomed to failure at an accelerated speed.

  It becomes apparent that while I have acquired a vast quantity of information about my fellow business folk, very few have sought to ascertain the specifics of this celebration and what this means to us. Each individual is merely consumed by the WIIFM factor – ‘What’s In It For Me’ – as is the case with most serial networkers. They almost make a hobby out if it. You see the same faces at every event and tonight has reminded me why I categorically avoid cold networking events like the plague.

  Extricating myself from a group of boring blokes, I squeeze through the crowd, standing on the odd toe here and there, breathing in to fit through barely-there gaps. I pray that a fire doesn’t break out as I am undoubtedly in breach of health and safety. But that’s what happens when complimentary drinks are up for grabs. Something for nothing works every time.

  “Sorry, Simon, it’s mad busy – I feel like I’ve neglected you.” I flick my hair back from my shoulders, lifting it off the nape of my neck in an attempt to both cool down and look sexy.

  Simon, straight from work, is dressed in his typical lawyer attire. Dark pinstriped suit, loosened sober tie, and tidy hair for once. Quite a contrast to the laid-back impression portrayed last weekend, although he does look a little uncomfortable. His tired gentle eyes convey compassion and loyalty and his hypnotic gaze has thrown me. Standing before me is a man who could converse with his eyes alone, his lips emitting no detail but leaving you with a feeling of wanting to hear more.

  “Seriously well done, Tina.” He smirks at me playfully. “Or is it Christie?”

  Cringing, I shake my head. “Ignore my mother. She’s a little eccentric.”

  “Well, I was worried when she escorted me to the bathroom,” he mocks in good humour. “I thought she was never going to leave!”

  “I never had my mother down as a serial bathroom-loiterer,” I snigger. “Are you sure you weren’t fantasising?”

  Simon shudders, rather sexily in fact. He looks like he’d quite a good mover – on the dance floor of course!

  “Tina, like all men I cannot deny I have many a fantasy, but sharing the evacuation of one’s bladder is not top of my list.”

  The pair of us burst into laughter. How distasteful a conversation for our first encounter, but how nice it is to feel at such ease with a practical stranger soon to be an in-law.

  As Simon bids his farewells, I apologise profusely once more for letting him down at such short notice, offering to rearrange very soon. How can a girl say no to a man with a Porsche?

  The evening has been truly successful although the place looks like a Beirut high street. Discharging Trisha early was clearly not a good idea but in my drunken kindness I sent her home. Lip gloss glistens from half-finished glasses and turned-up sandwich crusts wilt. Flakes of pastry garnish the carpet unattractively and an abundance of cocktail sticks lie scattered on the floor. A copious amount of champagne bottles sit empty and lonely, separated from their corks, still in the fixed position they landed in.

  I’m awash with a mixture of alcohol, lack of food, exhilaration, euphoria and the dawning realisation of the task in hand. Contrary to the proposal put to Brian, talking the talk as they say is much easier than walking the walk. The sheer volume of preparation is suddenly overwhelming me as is the anticipation of owning and running a second office, which is now wholly achievable. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  My head is splitting. No other drink hurts your head as much as champagne, but still it tastes divine and the bubbles tingle your nose and stimulate your tongue.

  The office, now immaculate thanks to a Tina/Chantelle team effort last night and an early-morning effort by Trisha, is ready for business as usual. But a comfy bed, coupled with horse-sized painkillers is what my body is crying out for although there is too much work ahead.

  My eyes are sore to touch. The pain emanates from the back of them, drilling its way to the front, and moves up towards my forehead as the morning drags on.

  I attempt to outline a scarecrow plan, a prototype of how to drive this project forward, a plan which can be modified where appropriate – but with a head feeling like an out-of-control washing-machine on constant spin cycle, even thinking produces pain.

  The presentation needs to be to the point. Catchy and delivered expertly, highlighting the benefits of owning one of these apartments, and brought to a climax by dropping in the percentage up for grabs here for an agent.

  Talk about going the extra mile for your clients! Most PR and media agents tend to stick to serving the basics, unless of course they’re Max Clifford or other arrogant PR agents keen to be in the face of the bloodthirsty media. Generally, they arrange only the fundamentals from first meetings to auditions and castings – all on your own time and at your own expense, of course – and when you’ve worked your butt off to get the job, they have the cheek to deduct undeserved commission. Plus, they pay you late every time without fail. Why the payments always have to go through the agent is beyond me. Anyway, I am offering these PR and media agents the opportunity to become realtors to their clients, securing them a place of residence incomparable to anything else on the market right now, and making themselves indispensable to their clients. A one-stop agent. Perfect.

  The intention is to keep the brief as simple as possible as research shows that people’s concentration span lasts approximately thirty minutes. That’s fine by me, given that the boardroom charges by the hour.

  I scribble a note to contact Mark at Commercial Ventures. There’s no harm getting a head start and putting the feelers out to see what second premises are available.

  Second premises! It sounds wonderful. All achieved by Harding Homes with me at the helm, responsible for my own destiny.

  A decision I made long ago, way before we secured this contract, was that I would go it alone and trade as myself, not under the EMA franchise to whom I was initially signed. During our first meeting they had promised a comprehensive training package to include SAGE training, trading standards and trade-description regulations, plus detailed budget-management planning. It was promised that complete support would be given in terms of marketing, advertorials and sales training, but once the early honeymoon months had passed by, I struggled to get any assistance still less the Full Monty they had promised. And I had paid for it – all fifteen grand’s worth. My calls weren’t returned, emails were left unanswered and it didn’t take me long to establish that buying into a franchise probably hadn’t been the best idea. I felt robbed, not only of money but of the trust I had placed in them.

  After a sharp legal exchange, they were out and Harding Homes was in and it felt good to be left to stand on my own two feet w
ithout someone else taking a cut of what was mine.

  The phone rings and I answer it, faking eagerness. “Good morning, Harding Homes, Tina speaking.”

  “Miss Harding. Mr Steen here.”

  My heart jumps with apprehension.

  “Congratulations on your new appointment. I hear I missed a great party last night?”

  What’s he heard?

  “Well, you were invited, Brian,” I say, matter of fact. “And again let me thank you for making a decision you will never regret.”

  “I have faith in you, Tina.” He pauses. “I wonder if you would like us to get together?”

  “As gratifying as your company is, I have a golden rule of not mixing business with pleasure.” I hear Brian exhale calmly.

  “Perhaps this is mixing business with business?” he says.

  That’s a new one!

  “I would like to offer you an invitation to dinner, Miss Harding.” Clearing his throat. “Purely business.”

  “What’s on the agenda, may I ask?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  There is total silence and more silence and then the penny drops. I get it.

  “What is on the agenda, Mr Steen?”

  A roar of laughter bellows down the receiver. I join in laughing at the stupidity of two adults behaving like overgrown teenagers but disappointed at my slow response. Although as a sense of humour goes, I wouldn’t recommend he gives up his day job. I’ve definitely heard funnier.

  “Sorry, Tina, I apologise for my sense of humour. I couldn’t resist it.” He sniggers.

  How childish! Can I resist the urge to say yes to dinner? To stare into the aquamarine underworld of his eyes, floating in waves of lust, resuscitated by those puffer-fish lips?

  Please don’t rescue me. Leave me to drift ashore and come around in my own time, hanging on vividly to every moment.