Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  Kate’s face is green and tight and as the mask dries out it drags at her skin, distorting her face, pulling it in different directions. She catches me smirking at her, wondering how she can pluck her eyebrows at the same time

  “It’s not easy being an actress,” she mumbles, barely moving her lips. “Everyone thinks it’s so glam, don’t they? It drives me mad.” She yanks at her brow fiercely. “Shit, that hurt!”

  I laugh at her stressing over the tediousness of earning in excess of two hundred grand a year, walking from job to job, getting her hair and make-up done and having her clothes picked out.

  “Get a grip, Kate!” I snap. “Most people would kill to have your lifestyle. Me included.” I stare at Kate, shocked at my comment and the ease with which it slipped out. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that,” I declare, somewhat stunned.

  “Tina, you’re definitely not yourself. I thought you were over all that stuff! In fact, you told me so when you got the contract.”

  “I was. I am. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe I was just thinking generically.”

  “Why did you say ‘me included’ then?” she challenges me, as she prepares to scrub away the green clay, soaking cotton balls in water before wringing them dry.

  “God knows,” I answer truthfully. “Although maybe it’ll never really go away, Kate, even though I’m happier and more stable with the way my life is now.” I rest my head on my knees, tucking them into my chest. “Maybe I can’t help but wonder if the next audition would have been the big break.” I pause. “Perhaps I gave in too early?”

  “Tina,” Kate says with concerned authority, as she dabs at her face, “when you rang me the other week to tell me about the contract, I hadn’t heard you so excited in years. I could almost feel you tingling and, I didn’t tell you this, I had tears streaming down my face with pride.” Her eyes fill up now at the thought.

  “Really?” I am surprised. “Kate, I only ever think I should be proud of you.” I hesitate. “For making it right from the start – that’s a damn good achievement, you know.”

  “I know it is, Tina, but although we talk about grafting, a little luck was also on my side. Never forget that. But you, Mrs, have worked your socks off with that business. You put your house at risk for it and if that’s not a testament to how much you want it to work,” she sighs heavily, “then I don’t know what is.” Her eyes penetrate me. “But I do know this, Tina. Whatever it is that’s got into you, get rid of it, because you’re not the strong-minded assertive Tina you were the last time I was home.”

  What’s she on about? I’m no different than I was yesterday, last week, last month. But still, I don’t answer her. She only tells it like she sees it.

  Perhaps I’m taken aback by the accelerated speed with which my life is progressing. Perhaps it’s the male attention or Sam’s wedding causing me subtle distractions. I don’t know, but I do know that I am determined to prove that stupid old woman wrong for haunting me with past ghosts. Why the hell did I ever go to her?

  Cheering up, I think of the contract and how close I am to opening the second Harding Homes. Yep, that’s what I want from life. No doubts about it.

  “Kate, I’m fine honestly. There’s just so much going on right now.” I polish off the remains of the coffee, setting the empty mug on the floor. “Now pass me that magazine and get off your bloody pedestal.” I laugh, cowering as she hurls the magazine towards me like a cricketer bowling to take out his batsman.

  Lying back against the cream suede cushions, I glance at the contents and flick through the pages – then stop abruptly. “Ooh. God, that’s weird!”

  “What’s weird?”

  “My horoscope. To think I never used to believe in these things but this one might have been written for me!”

  Kate shakes her head, grabbing the magazine from me.

  “Tina!” She shakes my shoulders roughly. “What have you done with my best friend?”

  9

  “Hi, can I help you?” Chantelle ventures across to a young couple holding hands, pointing at the various property displays and ooing and aahing excitedly at every detail. “First-time buyers?” she asks cheerily. They look at her, astonished, and nod giddily. “Good for you guys.” She shakes hands with them. “I’m Chantelle. Please, have a seat and we can chat about how Harding Homes can help you.”

  The couple follow her, hands still gripped, eyes aglow with eagerness, clearly delighted at the prospect of their own place with no parents, no rules and no housework if you can’t be bothered. I know Chantelle is wondering at what point to discuss the budget planner – outlining utilities, council tax, home insurance, mortgage payments and life insurance – and how best to avoid shattering their illusions about what they envisage to be, simply, a round-the-clock sex den.

  The front door chimes as it opens and a uniformed man enters, holding a huge bouquet of flowers across his arm, balancing them with his other hand. Romance is definitely in the air today.

  “Excuse me, love,” he interrupts Chantelle. “Tina Harding, is she here?”

  I step forward. “Yes?”

  Chantelle apologises to her clients for the interruption. Making an effort not to be distracted through sheer nosiness, she continues professionally with the young lovers, both of whom are now clearly consumed by curiosity about the flowers.

  “Wow! Who are they for?” I ask, mesmerised by the size of the arrangement and desperate to tear them from his hands.

  “You’re Tina Harding?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Here you go then.” He thrusts the flowers towards me with a gesture of relief, shaking his arms out, thankful for the release.

  A flush of embarrassment sweeps over my face as Chantelle falls silent and the room comes to a standstill, blatantly waiting for news of the sender. Me too. I pull the card from its plastic stand and rip open the envelope, anxious to know who thinks me so important to have purchased the entire florist’s.

  Miss Harding, You and I have some unfinished business.

  Scarlet, I shove the card back into the envelope and risk a glance at Chantelle who winks surreptitiously.

  Heaving the flowers from the centre of the floor, I rest them against the wall out of the way, with the card tucked safely in my trouser pocket. The room suddenly looks like it has shrunk in size and smells like the Chelsea Flower Show. My heart is thumping wildly as I recall his message to me and I am desperate to take him up on it sooner rather than later. God, that chemical thing, it’s happening again. Think of your VAT returns, Tina. Anything!

  Chantelle bursts into my office. “Oh – my – God! How big were they? What have you to say for yourself then, boss?”

  I really should have been prepared for the Spanish Inquisition but since my mind has been taken over by a vision of me lying naked beneath his six-pack, it’s left me little time to concoct a plausible fob-off.

  “Simon,” I say blandly. “They’re from Simon, how sweet.”

  She looks at me with raised eyebrows, picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “And what have you done to deserve those? I thought you two hadn’t even officially dated yet?”

  “We haven’t. In fact, the last time I saw him was the other week at our celebration bash. Perhaps he’s missing me. Come on, he’s only human!” I laugh, fluttering my eyelashes.

  “Is there something in your eye, Tina?”

  “Aren’t you the funny one!”

  “So what happens next with you two?” She perches herself on the end of my desk, arms folded and feet crossed. “I really think you should ring him to say thank you and arrange a date. Don’t you?” She lifts the phone eagerly. “Call him!” she directs with a masterful glint in her eyes.

  “No,” I answer without hesitation. “I can’t disturb him at work, Chantelle, he’s probably with clients or something.”

  “Well, at least leave a message for him, just so he knows you’ve received the flowers.”

  Give me a break. Sometimes with Chantelle
it’s like knocking to find no one is home. I love her enthusiasm for my love life but, for heavens’ sake, this time I would prefer her to keep out. “I’ll send him a text then if it keeps you happy.” Picking up the mobile I quickly text a short message, holding the phone at an angle away from Chantelle’s view. I send it to Brian.

  “There, message sent.” I flash her the screen face as evidence. “Happy now?”

  She nods approvingly. “My gran has always said that, if you’re not academic, you should use your social skills and they will get you anywhere you want to go in life. Manners are of vital importance.” She stares at the floor pensively, her head tilted to one side, enhancing her perfect jaw-line and profile.

  “What are you thinking about?” I enquire, keen to steer the conversation away from me, for once.

  “I was just thinking about my mother and how she used to make me repeat a word over and over again until I was able to say it without the Liverpudlian accent.” Chantelle shakes her head, smirking. “At the time it used to drive me mad and I thought my mother was such a snob, but the funny thing is that she was right in a way.”

  “Why do you say that”

  “Well, when I dropped out of my A Levels and was trying to get a job, it was so simple. I practically walked every interview I ever attended.” She snorts comically, still managing to look angelic and ladylike. “Because I was so well-spoken everyone assumed I was far more intelligent than was the actually the case, so I stood out more.” She throws her head back in laughter.

  “How stupid were they!” I snort.

  “You mean, how stupid were you!” she retorts.

  “Oh yeah!” I screech. “Oi, you – you posh thicko, you’re fired!”

  The room is awash with the sound of two laughing hyenas, braying childishly, indeed displaying no evidence of the so-called intelligence we are perceived to have. Although didn’t Chantelle just say if you’re not academic to use your social skills? What’s that supposed to mean?

  “Well, thank heavens you didn’t take those jobs or I wouldn’t have you here now.” Gesturing to the door, I point rudely. “Now get back to work, you good for nothing phoney!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chantelle salutes me, back straight, chin up, chest out, and marches to the door, turning to bow to me before exiting.

  “Bloody hell, Chantelle, don’t do that on the sales floor – your knockers nearly fell out!

  “Oops!” Chantelle fixes her top, pulling it up by about, erm, a millimetre. “Wouldn’t that be terrible for sales?” She winks sexily. “Who needs the likes of Brian Steen when you’ve other such assets working for you.” She pouts dramatically, folding her arms, thus inflating her already ample chest.

  “Much as I find you very attractive, the thought of being seduced by you doesn’t exactly do it for me,” I declare, “but if I ever decide to bat for the other side, you’ll be the only girl for me!” I roar with laughter as she stares.

  But I have misconstrued her reaction.

  “Are you saying that you do want to be seduced by Brian?” Her eyes are wide with interest.

  “God, er, no way!” I fake.

  “Phew, for a minute there I thought you were breaking our number-one office rule.”

  “Not a chance,” I answer convincingly and with relief as she stomps heavily down the stairs, ready to professionally seduce her next victim.

  “Shit, the projector isn’t working.” My hands shake nervously as I fumble around with the lead, double-checking it is firmly inserted into the back of the laptop. I could seriously do without this hassle and have just twenty minutes to go before two dozen invitees strut arrogantly through those boardroom doors – venturing out of their world of Casting, Media and PR to hear what I have to say.

  Chantelle puts down her flyers and offers assistance, deftly flicking on the switch at the back of the projector and squinting as we’re almost blinded by the laser of light piercing our eyes.

  She touches my forearm gently. “Tina, don’t be nervous.” Her dark brows almost meet in the middle as she frowns intensely. “This stuff is a walk in the park to you.” Her eyes kind and sincere.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I usually love doing this kind of thing but today, for some unknown reason, I feel sick. Sick with nerves, sick with excitement and burdened by the sheer amount of potential commission I can make within the next half an hour. It’s mind-blowing. And to know that my future business rests on every word that will shortly leave my lips is making me freeze with trepidation.

  Just remember that you won the tender fair and square, Tina. You did it then. You can do it now.

  “Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail,” I repeat aloud, reminding myself that once again I have truly worked like a trooper for this event. I understand not simply my invitees but their industry, including the types of people they are in touch with. I am also fully aware that apart from the hook of making money, the majority of my guests know little about today’s subject matter and, as such, I have prepared a killer presentation that should have the desired effect. Where do I sign?

  The room is bright and airy, with the temperature set deliberately low to ensure that Chantelle and I aren’t pitching to a dozen sets of closed eyes. Simplicity is the key for us today. I guess it’s a bit like singing. Stick with the melody because it’s what people know and expect and they can join in, but go off-key and bring in the harmony too early and people will get confused with the unpredictability. Make sense?

  I have selected three key points for today’s discussions: Why? What? How? And the entire delivery will revolve around the answering of those three questions.

  Why should they take part?

  What is in it for them?

  How will we do it?

  Taking a deep breath, I survey the room in satisfaction. The refreshments have been delivered to a table positioned at the rear of the room. On each chair sits a pre-printed brochure, designed by Heather, paid for by Brian, providing key features of the apartments, prices and commission fees for the agents. My business card is stapled neatly to the face of each one.

  “Tina?” Chantelle asks as she carefully slides the spare brochures into a purple folder. “Where are you hoping to open the next office?”

  Good question and I have just the answer. In fact, even before I opened the High Street branch in Little Hutton, I had mapped out the exact locations of twelve Harding Homes branches spread throughout the North West. “In Camberwell Road,” I answer promptly. “There are two key players there already which is great news, plus the national stats on census show the surrounding areas to be among Merseyside’s most populated.” I smile assertively, glad to know that my research has paid off. “Did you know that sixty-nine per cent of households in our region are owner-occupied?” I show off. “Which is slightly higher than the national average for England.”

  Chantelle cackles like a fishwife, her hands on her hips. “There is more to you than just a pretty face, Tina Harding!” She runs her fingers through her dark locks, sweeping them away from her brow. “I’d love to have the concentration to sit there and digest all that stuff,” she shrugs her shoulders, “but I just can’t.”

  “It’s certainly not done you any harm, Chantelle – you’ve done alright for yourself.” The truth is, while our relationship is that of employer-employee, in real terms Chantelle could buy and sell me in a flash. I know it but she doesn’t. If I can use the analogy of her physical self – hers is natural, raw and untouched – whereas mine is man-made, lightened here, darkened there and high maintenance but with hefty dividend payments.

  “I know I’ve done okay, Tina, but who is the boss here?”

  Turning to face her head on, I fall onto my knees, bowing down before her, my nose hitting the floor awkwardly. “You are, oh Mighty One!”

  Our laughter explodes through the room as Chantelle fakes her best dominatrix impression, producing a ridiculous sound as she pretends to crack her whip, while I cower down subserviently. “Take that, you go
od for nothing wench!” she proclaims.

  Ever the actress, I throw myself in the brace position with both hands protecting my head as I beg for mercy. “Stop!” I beseech. “I’ll do whatever you wish, have mercy on me!” I lift my head pathetically, hands in prayer position and eyes wild with desperation.

  “Stay on your knees where you belong, you –” She breaks off abruptly and just gapes.

  “Well, well, well!” I hear behind me.

  As I recoil in shock Brian Steen steps up to Chantelle. He winks playfully at her as he pretends to take the invisible whip from her hand and throw it across the room, gallantly stretching out his hand to rescue me, practically lifting me from the ground with the strength of a single bicep. “My lady!” He preens. “I am here to rescue you from a terrible fate.”

  Okay, Tina, you can let go of his hand now.

  “Brian Steen.” He offers his now freed-up hand to Chantelle who shakes it firmly but shyly, looking up at him as though butter wouldn’t melt, with dark eyes portraying innocence and naivety. “Chantelle Hungerford. Delighted to meet you, Mr Steen.”

  Brian fires me a risqué glance as his eyes quickly scroll up and down my body, telepathically undressing me, leaving me stripped and vulnerable.

  Control yourself, Tina.

  He leans forward, pretending to kiss me on the cheek, muttering into my ear, “On your knees? Interesting.”

  “What are you, er, doing here, Brian?” I ask, feigning lack of interest, albeit most unsuccessfully.

  “I thought I’d wish you luck.”

  He stands casually with his hands buried deep in his linen trouser pockets. His matching jacket has a Miami Vice look and the open-necked shirt leaks strands of chest hair, dark and lush. What I wouldn’t do to run my fingers over his six-pack and knead his firm torso roughly, slowing down the pace and aggression as I reach . . .