Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “You haven’t answered yet, Miss Harding.”

  My loins have.

  “When where you thinking? I’m exceptionally busy right now.”

  “You name the time and the place and I will be there.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  I am taken aback and don’t have an awful lot of little grey cells today. They’ve been mutilated by Veuve Clicquot. I flick noisily through the blank pages of my diary, ignoring the Wednesday ‘drinks with Simon’ note. I hold the receiver deliberately close so it picks up the sounds of the turning pages, making me appear busy and important.

  “Let’s see, I can make Friday 7 p.m. at The Merchant,” I declare boldly. Too expensive for my existence but pocket-money for him.

  “Perfect. I will see you then, Miss Harding.”

  “Brian,” I jest, “don’t forget to bring the agenda, will you? After all, it is a business meeting.” That’ll teach him I’m not up for grabs.

  The line is dead. What is it with that man and abrupt goodbyes?

  Let’s hope his hello is more welcoming.

  Chantelle enters the office, looking remarkably well given the after-party party we had last night. My policy was for the staff to hold back on the drink until it was clear that everyone else was relaxed and well catered for. It really is the most professional way. There’s nothing worse than the host acting like some drunken lush, slumped in a corner. Sounds a little too familiar actually.

  Chantelle does look worse for wear but unlike me she recalls arriving home, getting undressed and hitting the sack. My last recollection is sitting in the tiny yard slumped on the bench with my bare, smelly feet draped over Chantelle’s cream trousers, dragging on a Silk Cut. Any wonder my mouth tastes like a dustbin today. I detest smoking with a passion, even to the ridiculous point that I glare at people smoking in restaurants who light up, even if they are in the designated smoking area, and yet without fail, every time I’m intoxicated, I steal a cigarette from someone, somewhere.

  “Thanks for helping me clear up last night, Chantelle. I’ll give you the time back when it’s a bit more quiet.”

  She shifts uncomfortably in the guest chair, looking pensive. Chantelle is pretty transparent as people go. What you see is what you get with her. Me? I’m a bit of an enigma to people but I kind of like it that way. Never hand anything to them on a plate. Keep them guessing and on their toes. Not our clients of course – that would just be silly.

  “What is it, Chantelle?” I ask. “What’s going through that head of yours?” I laugh and a stab of pain compresses my delicate head. “You look pained!” And I feel it.

  Playing with her pen, she presses down the top, clicking it on, off, on, off. “You know last night you told me how you went back to see that gypsy woman. Gypsy Florence?”

  What? I don’t recall telling her that. By God, I must have been out of my tree.

  “I told you that last night?”

  “Yep, when we were in the cab on the way home. You couldn’t stop laughing about it, but I knew the name was familiar and then, this morning when I woke up, I remembered it.”

  “Remembered what?” I sit up straight in the chair, anxious to hear what she has to say.

  “I told you that my friend Sophie was going that Saturday, only we didn’t bump into her, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Sophie rang me on the Sunday to tell me that that woman, Gypsy Florence, knew about her abortion.”

  I shake my head impatiently. “Chantelle, a huge percentage of women have terminations at some point in their lives. She could have guessed it.”

  Chantelle bites her bottom lip. Her face is taut as she recalls the details. “I was with her when she went through with it. We were fifteen. She was so unlucky – it was her first time and the two of us were so green in that area it never dawned on us that she could get pregnant. But she did.”

  I’m not budging here at all. “I do empathise, Chantelle, but so what?”

  “So, she told her the baby was a little boy. And it was. She told her that she was just weeks away from her sixteenth birthday when it happened.” She pauses while a tear rolls down her face.

  I pass a tissue across the desk, squeezing her hand as she takes it.

  “She also told her that she can no longer have children because of the botched operation and it’s true. She can’t. She couldn’t get the money together to get a proper job and her parents would have turfed her out if she’d asked them. Devout Catholics they were.”

  I snort at the last statement. Bloody religion. It’s a curse.

  Chantelle blows her nose and dabs her eyes gently. Her tears have soaked her thick eyelashes, elongating them, framing her dark eyes in a perfect snapshot.

  I absorb the information. How much is fact and how much is fiction? What is the probability of guessing three specifics as accurately as that? It is rather peculiar. And what a risky statement to make just out of the blue. Surely even those crooks wouldn’t risk it?

  I drift back to sitting in that darkened make-shift room, my mind working overtime and asking muted questions. I remind myself how within a split second of my every thought, she had answered the very question that had been consuming me. I shudder as my spine tingles and the hairs on my arms stand on end. She had mentioned a failed past, which I agree most of us have experienced. But her single line still haunts me: “It is okay to be less than your dreams.” I was, in fact, less than my dreams for a long time. The dream didn’t realise. It’s a simple as that.

  I jump up, standing tall. “Right now I am not less than anything or anybody! I am more than –”

  “Who are you talking to, Tina?” Chantelle asks, looking alarmed. “There’s only me here and I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  I belt out a peal of raucous laughter at the stupidity of even considering Gypsy Florence’s words to be true. “I’m just having a blonde moment – something you know nothing about!” I tease.

  “Colin said he’s sure I’ve been dying my hair brown for years and that I must be naturally blonde underneath.”

  “Cheeky sod. Hey, Chantelle, tell him there’s only one way to check! Do the collar and cuff test!”

  “Ooh! Naughty girl,” she squeals, playing her coy act beautifully.

  Colin is one lucky man.

  Being serious for a moment, I collect my thoughts so I can file them away in my brain’s archive. I so need to write of this experience and even apply logic to what Chantelle told me about her friend. Some guesses work, some don’t, and perhaps Gypsy Woman just struck lucky. A failed past, come on? How general is that?

  There. Case dismissed. Filing complete.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful though, Tina . . . about whatever it is she was warning you about.”

  She really is so caring but it should be me mothering her.

  “I will be, I always am.” I avoid eye contact, pretending to concentrate on the post so we can end this conversation. I consider telling her of the business meeting at The Merchant, but change my mind. I’ve said enough lately and don’t want her to worry any more than she already does.

  You can tell that Chantelle was raised by her grandmother. She is way older than her years in terms of her outlook on life and how much she worries, and for a young woman she should loosen up a little but, as always, she means well.

  Your soul mate is all around you. All around you. But I’m permanently surrounded by men. It could be anyone . . . if it were true, of course. My mind runs through an accelerated list of my male counterparts and dismisses them one by one. My face contorts as I imagine acts of consummation with some of them. Yuck. How gross! No! It couldn’t be. No way. But then again didn’t the crystal ball say not to be surprised at who was about to ask me out? It said he was my destiny, my soul mate and that I probably already knew the person who would shortly cross my path for a more intimate, soulful purpose.

  Deliriously, I journey through my married life – perfect children and the sound of laughter e
manates from my imagination. The scent of money drips from every orifice . . .

  What are you doing, Tina! It’s all nonsense – every bit of it. Snap out of it!

  Coming to, my logic steals the moment. This is nothing more than pure coincidence. The fact that this date with Brian is the only exception to the business/pleasure rule I have ever made is nothing more than synchronicity.

  Isn’t it?

  7

  “Tina, it’s Kate.” Her voice echoes. “How the hell are you?”

  I was thinking of Kate that very second – how bizarre.

  “Kate, so great to hear from you. I’m really good, thanks, loads to tell you. Where are you?”

  The sound of a loudspeaker reverberates through the handset, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “I’ve just come off set – we’re filming the sequel to Family Furores.” Kate’s phone bleeps, indicating a low battery. “I’m about to lose you.” She coughs from exerting her voice above the background noise. “I’m coming home this weekend – fancy a girly night?”

  Do I? Kate works so hard that I barely see her and there is so much to tell right now, from hot date to wedding gossip, that I am in desperate need of someone to confide in. There is nothing that Kate doesn’t know about me nor I about her.

  “I’m well up for it but it will have to be Saturday,” I reply gleefully. “Give me a shout when you’re home and we can take it from there.”

  “Will do.” She snorts. “Let’s go for glam, yeah?”

  “Definitely.”

  Glam I can certainly do and, after my recent application of fake tan, both Brian and Kate will most certainly be snooping around for my white bits – all one of them in the shape of a perfect landing strip and neater than a Wimbledon tennis lawn.

  During our university days, when we were poor students and plied with alcohol, Kate and I would inevitably end up snogging each other. It made good business sense all round. She was damn gorgeous and, given our Thespian nature, we didn’t care about anything apart from the male audience kindly providing free pints for an encore. Fortunately, we grew out of it, what with me as a prominent local businesswoman and Kate Symms practically a household pin-up. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it is my motto and I’ve tried many things in my time. The beauty of being an actress is that you can put it down to research.

  Six forty-five p.m.

  I scour the wardrobe, willing an outfit to present itself, fly off the hanger and glide over my body, leaving me the simple task of stepping into sexy stilettos before doing the obligatory last-minute twirl in the mirror. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Nothing’s happening. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I grab an old favourite. A simple black dress, fitted and to the knee. I throw it over my lace bra with matching thong, dragging a pair of sheer stay-ups from the underwear drawer, scanning frantically for ladders and pulls. Straightening the lacy stocking-tops around my thighs, I pull down the dress, loosely tying the fabric belt around my middle and rather dangerously opening an extra button, exposing a sneak preview of what may well be on the cards, providing he lets me deal.

  The cab honks its horn impatiently. I grab the house keys while quickly drowning myself in a last-minute dose of perfume, spraying it up into the air, allowing it to fall in invisible sprays over my head and shoulders.

  After the office had closed, the urge to catch up with outstanding paperwork had simply consumed me. With a massive backlog, the result of an entire day spent doing practically nothing, suffering from the hangover from hell, I got carried away, immersed in a forest of papers, invoices and SAGE printouts. Driving home like a maniac, I congratulated myself for the forward-thinking lunch-time hair appointment and attempted to soothe my concern at how little time there would be to get ready, by using the ‘less is more’ argument.

  That’s the beauty of having an all-year-round tan – you need very little else to complement it. Just a few good coats of mascara, a squirt of high-shine lip gloss and a gentle dusting of shimmered powder to accentuate your cheek-bones and leave you looking radiant and sun-kissed, at minus one degree.

  I shudder as the chilled air hits my skin and regret the decision to leave my coat hanging over the white wicker chair at home. Spring is close yet the days are still tinged with a frosted fragrance. The seasonal daffodils have begun to poke up their budding heads but their survival is dependent on spring bringing forth its thawing qualities and this has yet to be in evidence.

  The scent of perfume exudes from my hair and neck and journeys throughout the cab, causing a fracas with its sitting tenant: vomit! The cab reeks of stale sick and, opening the window, I gasp for breath only to be met with a cloud of exhaust fumes. But what’s the travelling alternative? À pied? Definitely not! Feet weren’t made for walking. They were made for shoes, the higher the better, bejewelled and dangerous. But this evening I have kept it relatively simple. Glancing down admiringly at the black patent-leather shoes, I rotate my right foot, sexily practising the art of seduction, noting how slender my feet look in the four-inch heels and how toned my ankles appear wrapped in criss-cross straps with a simple diamanté buckle fastened on each side. It’s quite a close call between shoes and sex. Sex truly is the physical act, but shoes are the foreplay, a teaser to what’s lurking beneath, a metaphor for stimulation. Their uniqueness promises individuality between the sheets and mine tonight declare power, danger and a sense of wildness.

  “Just here, thanks,” I rattle quickly, sensing the cab is about to drive right past the hotel and at some speed.

  Winding up the window, I notice the outline of dried lip-marks on it, the detailed lines on full display like a fingerprint waiting to be traced.

  Desperate to escape the filthy vehicle and making a mental note to never use this firm again, I hand over a five-pound note. “Keep the change. Cheers.”

  “Ta, love.” His heavy Liverpudlian accent collides comically with his ethnicity.

  The cab door swings open unexpectedly and a smooth pristine-white glove reaches in. Startled, I look up to take in a man dressed in black trousers with long grey tails and a matching top hat. Quickly realising it is the concierge, I take his hand gracefully and swing my legs out, placing both feet flat on the ground, knees together, before allowing him to take my weight and pull me from squalor to splendour. I feel like royalty.

  “Good evening, madam.” He smiles at me with a happy sincerity. “Will you be dining with us this evening?”

  By God, this place is amazing.

  “Yes, I will. If you could direct me to The Platform restaurant I would be most grateful.” Best behaviour already.

  “Let me show you, madam.”

  Following him up the granite-paved ramp, I am personally escorted to a set of revolving brass doors turning at quite some speed it would appear. Flashbacks of my playground days suddenly engulf me and I recall a single moment of standing alone, watching enviously, as my friends tossed two ropes together, in opposing directions. Squealing with delight, the onlookers jumped into the middle, one maybe two at a time, elevated and spritely, carried along by the high-energy chant of the spectators, clearly demonstrating the skill of tackling two ropes coming at them, one from each side. But I could never master it, much as I tried. One rope was fine but not two. My legs couldn’t operate that fast but by God did I try hard!

  Kate was the skipping champion. She was tiny and thin and bounced around like a pogo-stick on acid. I was constantly tripping. Isn’t it funny how you hold on to certain memories, mostly the bad ones? The ones where that feeling of failure and humiliation never leave you.

  “Excuse me?” I turn in the direction of the concierge.

  “Madam?”

  “Do you have another entrance, please?” I raise my eyebrows in recognition of the doors. “I’m not too good with these doors at the best of times.” Lifting my leg a little, I show the impressive shoe heel to the concierge, seeking a degree of empathy.

  He bows slightly in a ‘message
understood’ fashion and personally escorts me through the doors and into the reception area, pointing out a set of stairs displaying a sign for The Platform. Thank God! The doors themselves weren’t necessarily the issue. It was knowing when to jump and timing the speed they were revolving. I swear I could have been there all night!

  This place is absolutely incredible. I’ve never actually been inside before, although a few months ago Chantelle and I staggered up the main steps trying to sweet talk the doorman into letting us into the private members’ bar. We failed fantastically.

  But tonight, I am a guest of the hotel, and should a handsome gentleman taking me by the hand be an indication of the total experience, then I’d say I’m definitely in for a good night.

  Climbing the stairs, I grip the handrail, already wobbling slightly, thankful that there was no time for the obligatory gin and tonic usually consumed while getting ready. God, I need to get back to the gym. Out of breath, I reach the top stair and step onto a small landing area, heavily carpeted. My feet sink into its deep-red shag pile. A huge brass mirror is on the adjacent wall and I risk a quick glance before entering the restaurant.

  Throwing my head upside down, I ruffle my hair messily before jerking back up at whiplash speed in an attempt to gain as much height and volume as possible. I love that Mark, my stylist, manages to get it so poker-straight, but it leaves it with no real body and for a hot business date like I have tonight, that simply won’t do.

  “Upside down, Miss Harding? How novel!” a familiar voice murmurs close to my ear.

  I feel the warmth of his minty breath.

  Oh God, how long has he been here? It isn’t any wonder I didn’t spot him, wearing a body of hair over my face like an out-of-control cavewoman. But I had to mess it up in order to fix it. It’s a female thing.

  “Brian.” My face is flushed and I’m suddenly stuck for words. “Hi.”

  Incapable of anything better, I thrust out my hand to shake his, but Brian clearly spots my awkwardness and simply leans forward, kissing me on the cheek.