Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “Besides,” he grins cockily, “it’s in my best interests to ensure all goes well.” His mouth remains in a fixed position but his eyes are wicked and laughing from the inside out.

  I sense a déjà vu which somehow winds me up. It’s not fair, I should be focusing on the task in hand.

  “Oh, back to that intimidation thing, are we, Mr Steen?” I purse my lips determinedly, ignoring Chantelle’s startled look.

  “Miss Harding, any attempts to intimidate you are merely a figment of your imagination.”

  Don’t think you can win this one, buster! I’d sooner spend five grand on a new rug than back down now. How dare you sidetrack me at such an important time. That’s just damn cruel. And deliberate!

  “Really, Mr Steen. Tell me, what do you know of my imagination?” I confront him, narrowing my eyes, mad at him for turning up five minutes before the curtain rises and throwing me out of character.

  “Well . . .” He rubs his chin with a bronzed hand and holds still, mimicking the statue of the thinking man, only a six-foot-tall version. “Actually, Miss Harding, not as much as I’d like to know.” He casually walks toward the door, then stops dead and turns in my direction. “But when you’re ready to share it with me, you know where I am.”

  Once again, I am left just standing there, staring at the open door, angry for allowing him to distract me and get right under my skin as always. If I were a betting woman, I’d even say he dressed for the occasion. Unfortunately! Okay, it’s only been twice that we’ve met formally, but surely he doesn’t wander around like Don Johnson’s double every day of the week? But who the hell knows? And in fact who the hell knows what he’s all about? One minute he’s the ruthless pig, then he’s ever the gentleman, then he’s making explicit promises – which he has yet to deliver. But the less said on that the better. I’m confused. But taking in Chantelle’s shocked expression, not as much as she is. Here we go.

  “Tina!” she belts out. “He well fancies you!” Her eyes are so wide with amazement that her whole face has almost become a caricature.

  I don’t answer. I can’t.

  “He’s gorgeous, Tina! What did he say in your ear?”

  Oh shit! “He said . . .” I hesitate, “‘You didn’t tell me your office manager was so beautiful!’”

  Chantelle laughs. “Really?” She turns around to see bodies making their way into the room and adds quickly, “Well, how kind . . . but from where I was standing, I’d say he only had eyes for one woman around here.” She heads to the door before winking at me. “And it sure as hell wasn’t me!”

  “A very good morning to all of you.” I smile engagingly at the small but well-apportioned audience. “Before we officially start – you will all have noticed a briefing pack left on each of your chairs.” I hold up a sample pack, displaying the deep red and blue Harding Homes colours. I feel a bit like an Air Hostess showing the safety card, about to demonstrate the brace position – or maybe not – I’ve already been down there once today. “Can I ask you to take these away with you, please, ladies and gentlemen, and refrain from reading the material during today’s presentation?” A little bossy but with the attention-span of agents such as these, you need to remove all distractions, trust me.

  The sound of zips opening and closing and briefcases clasping shut dies down and I continue once more. “Thank you.” I smile radiantly, imagining I’m on a West End stage with the world’s most successful talent scout in the audience. “Right then.” I take a side-step, putting down the sample briefing pack on an empty chair. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, let’s start with the introductions. For those who don’t know me, my name is Tina Harding and I’m the managing director of Harding Homes.”

  I open my arm out as rehearsed and Chantelle gracefully steps forward, dazzling as always. Close your mouths, guys, I can see your bloody tonsils!

  “Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” She grins eagerly. “My name is Chantelle Hungerford and I’m the sales manager at Harding Homes.”

  She switches on the projector and picks up the remote control, pressing the button to commence the slide show. The massive screen shows our professional slides. Their content is deliberately brief so we can ad-lib or at least pretend we’re ad-libbing. But in truth, every single word has been carefully put together and rehearsed like a high-budget blockbuster.

  Chantelle runs through the content of the agenda, finishing with an explanation of the question and answer session to be held at the end of the presentation. Now over to me.

  “It’s great to see some of my former agents here today.” I nod to them. “I hope my leaving the industry hasn’t caused you too much financial hardship!”

  They laugh politely.

  “But if it has,” I gesture, “I may just have a replacement solution for you.”

  Chantelle and I take turns to deliver each slide, vividly describing the turnkey apartments and creating visualisations of everyday living. I note a few raised eyebrows and brief nods, even a few impressive glances between neighbours. Go for it, Tina.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I turn off the projector to grab their full attention, “this is where you come in.” My voice is deep and authoritative as I continue. “How many of you offer additional services to your clients over and above the normal contractual arrangement?” I glance quickly at the clock on the back wall. Bang on schedule.

  Not a single hand is raised, so I continue.

  “How would you feel if I were to show you a way not only to increase your bottom line, but to practically make yourself indispensable to your clients?” Carried away, I find myself pacing up and down, loving every minute of it and knowing damn well that I’ve got them where I want them.

  “What are you saying, Tina?” a voice shouts out.

  “Good question,” I reply, realising a little too late just how patronising I sounded then. “I’m saying that you have been presented with the opportunity to provide realtor services to your clients in addition to your casting and PR operations.”

  I stop deliberately, hoping the next comment will be from the open floor. Bingo.

  “Ladies,” a creamy voice speaks up, “great idea, but there aren’t enough hours in the day as it is.”

  He shifts in his seat and I can see who it is now. He’s actually one of the bigger agents. “Plus, we’re not qualified to do this,” he continues.

  I nod empathetically and share with the room the fact that he has raised a hugely valid point. “In the hand-out packs, ladies and gentlemen, as you will later see, a supply of marketing letters and pre-printed leaflets have been included and as such –” God, we’re good, “you need only risk the cost of a stamp and an envelope or, where appropriate, simply hand the material personally to your contacts.”

  I open up my pack, removing a wad of letters and fan them out, clearly demonstrating volume and attention to detail.

  Chantelle steps forward. Her face is more serious than before as she continues. “Tina has significant expertise in your industry, understanding the highs and the lows, and she’s fully aware of just how difficult life can be for you.”

  Oh stop!

  Her cheeks are flushed with energy and concentration. “And in terms of alleviating any further stress to you,” she gloats, “we have ensured that Harding Homes’ telephone numbers are boldly highlighted on every single piece of literature.” The room is silent as she goes on. “To simplify it, ladies and gentlemen,” she concludes, “you take advantage of your existing networks by committing to a simple task of communication.”

  “That’s right,” I add. “And in return, a generous commission fee will be paid upon completion of each sale. You have all the right contacts here, ladies and gentlemen, and only clients of your calibre can afford these executive homes. It’s as easy at that.”

  You could hear a pin drop. The silence is both illuminating and menacing, and although I’m desperate to shout out ‘Please say you’ll do it!’ I know I can’t.

  I take a gener
ous sip of carbonated water before carrying on.

  “Any questions?” I invite.

  A young guy sitting in the front row pipes up.

  “Tina,” he preens himself, “I come from a sales background myself. And I’ve always believed that if something sounds too good to be true then it usually is!” He belts out a peal of laughter and the rest of the room follows suit.

  I too laugh, intentionally, careful not to appear defensive and alienate myself from the group. “You’ve had good training,” I compliment him jovially, letting him see that I’m just like the rest of them. “Let me put it another way to you . . .” I consider. My hand rests on my chin as I think deeply. “If I were simply to approach Joe Public and ask as many of them as possible if they know of anyone looking to purchase a six-hundred-thousand-pound apartment . . .” I pause, “what are the chances of them knowing such clientèle? And how long do you think it would take me to sell all the apartments?”

  Chantelle butts in. “You might never sell them, Tina. It’s a restrictive market at those prices, plus we don’t have the resources to undertake such activities.”

  “I can see why I hired you, Chantelle.” I nod in her direction and then look back at my audience, grinning. “Not just a pretty face!” A little tacky but, trust me, our delivery oozes spontaneity.

  A business card flies in Chantelle’s direction and an orange-faced wrinkly shouts out, “Give me a call, love, if you’re looking for a change in career!”

  Chantelle pretends to be flattered and picks up the card, putting it in her pocket. He looks like she’s just accepted his proposal of marriage.

  “She’s right,” I say. “You guys have all the contacts we need to sell every single apartment here, without mass advertising and draining resources that we simply don’t have.” My tone is one of a barrister summing up, proving to the open court that his client is of good standing and not guilty. “It makes perfect sense that I outsource the marketing to people such as yourself.” I hold out my arms to the room. “You touch these types of people every single day,” I summarise, “We don’t, and therefore, in return for your effort, albeit minimal,” I wink, “I will pay you a fixed percentage for merely handing out a leaflet or holding a two-minute conversation which results in a sale.”

  I have nothing further to add, Your Honour.

  Determined to put closure on the session and conscious that we are billed by the hour for the boardroom, I assertively hold up the agreement form, kindly drafted by Sam. “On the table behind me you can pick up your agreement form should you wish to avail of this opportunity.” Here they come! Yippee!

  I pick up the forms, handing them out one by one as the delegates come forward, raising my voice over the buzz. “Please look over it and contact myself or Chantelle should you have any questions.”

  Chantelle has positioned herself strategically by the door, ensuring no one can exit without having to bypass her first. Or should I say bypass them! Her chest is standing to full attention and with one slender leg pushed slightly in front of the other, exiting without making direct physical contact is going to be somewhat of a challenge. We discussed this tactic at length and our objective was to ensure that she shook the hand of every single person before they left, using raw instinct to gauge a feel for the potential inners and leaving me to answer any technical questions from that small percentage who hang around at the end of these events, asking anal and irrelevant questions. No question is a silly question, they say. Bollocks to that!

  I didn’t, however, expect Chantelle to take this to such extreme levels but I’m so proud of her. That’s my girl.

  Our glasses chink together as we sip on celebratory Bellinis, cosseting each expensive mouthful. Sitting in the hotel lobby we sink into sumptuous sofas, flagging after all the mental stimulation, yet animated with hopes of prosperity.

  “What’s your gut reaction then, Tina?”

  “I’m not sure to be honest, Chantelle.” This is the truth. “I’ve done so many of these things over the years. Not outside of our own sector though and that’s why I can’t really say. It’s as weird for me as it is for you . . . but I still think it’s going to work.” My face warps as I swallow a mouthful of cocktail containing more peach syrup than champagne. Why are they never as generous with the bubbly as they are with the mixers? At ten pounds a drink you’d think they might be a little less tight. I run my tongue over my teeth, cleansing the syrup away before a cavity develops. “With no additional work for them and easy money, I do think we’re on to a real winner.”

  Cash flow really is the bane of their industry. No sooner have the producers sent the agency payments due, their clients are banging down the doors to get it, and as an agent if you’re left with a fifteen-per-cent cut you’re lucky. As an actor, I still haven’t been paid for one of my commercials after seven years, and have sob story after sob story to tell, like waiting an average of six months to receive payment for various performances. It was fine while I lived with my parents but, when you’re on your own, how many times can you expect your landlord to forgive you because you’re on TV? It provided clear evidence that I was working, but in terms of paying the rent – much as I tried – an autographed copy of my headshot didn’t really do it for him!

  Perhaps now you can understand the industry a little more. It does seem amazingly glamorous on the outside but dig a little deeper and you’ll find that most actors are overdrawn right up to their collagen lips, and trying to find an agent who will pay you on time is near impossible. Still, you get loads of freebies. You get to keep most of your costumes, unless it’s low budget when you wear them with the tags on so they can be returned for a refund afterwards, and you get invited to most of the film premières, even if it is to make the numbers up.

  “You know what, Chantelle?” I declare. “Seeing those guys today made me realise that I could never go back to that life.” I stare into the open room. “Never.”

  She smiles at me, full of reassurance, like a proud mother watching her child take his first steps. “Good,” she says. “I don’t know how good you were before, Tina, but I do know how good you are now.”

  I squeeze her hand fondly. I know that Chantelle is one thing and that’s honest. She doesn’t tell you what she thinks you want to hear and I find that so refreshing if not a little irritating at times, but I wouldn’t have her any other way. Like I have a choice.

  “I was good actually,” I say shyly. It’s not really something we’ve talked about before. I guess I never wanted her to see me as a failed anything, not in the early days of our employer-employee relationship. The barrier is down a little now. “I was bloody good.” I laugh arrogantly. “In fact, I might just get one of those guys to sign me up.” I flick my hair around dramatically. “You know, now that I’m more confident and self-assured!”

  Chantelle joins in the banter. “Yeah, me too, I could go in for glamour modelling!” She pouts sexily.

  “Too right you could,” I answer earnestly. “I’d buy a picture of you, Chantelle!”

  She looks a little shocked and I forget that she’s not Kate who would understand that I was kidding. I guess these lesbian-type jokes can be taken a little seriously. I roll my eyes at her. “Joke.”

  She looks disappointed for a moment. “Spoilsport!” she says, before falling about with laughter, still trying to pose sexily and not realising she does it every second of every day. Effortlessly.

  Joking aside, much as I could no longer bear the travelling or the fourteen-hour days, I do mean it when I say I have more confidence now. I remember my mother always quoting “Youth is wasted on the young” and I used to think she was talking rubbish, which in fact reinforces the point exactly. It is wasted on the young and if I was the same person then that I am now, I’m pretty damn sure I would have walked those auditions. But that’s the harsh reality of life, isn’t it? You live in constant hindsight, never learning at the time but much later on in life. You wish you could turn back the clock and that you had lis
tened to your parents instead of thinking they were sad losers with a capital L. If only there was an easier way to live! A way to get ahead of the game. You know, see in advance what life holds for you and simply head in that direction. Why go through the aggravation of suffering catastrophically just to write it off as a learning curve, when you could go straight to your destination without passing go? Who the hell needs to fail first just to win second? What’s that all about? If we could just get it right from the very beginning . . .

  I grab my bag with a fierce spontaneity and swiftly polish off my drink, multi-tasking at fast-forward speed. “Oh no!” I look at my watch dramatically and then at Chantelle. “I forgot I have an appointment.” I set the glass on the table clumsily and run out of the lobby, leaving behind a speechless Chantelle. “See you tomorrow!” I yell.

  Tina, what are you doing?

  Still in speedy motion, I punch the numbers into my mobile phone before I can change my mind. My breath is held as it rings.

  “Oh, hi,” I pant. “I want to make an appointment, please . . . for as soon as possible.” My hands shake. “Brilliant. Thanks.”

  I flip the phone shut, putting it back in my bag, flooded with guilt for leaving Chantelle behind, but delighted at the prospect of what lies ahead. But it wasn’t as if it was all planned. Suddenly the penny just dropped. If Chantelle says that old woman knew stuff she couldn’t have known, surely that’s it? The key to my future? Why on earth would I want to keep making mistakes and then learning from them when I can simply avoid the bloody mistakes to start with? Why all the pain when it’s the pleasure we aspire to achieve? I can’t believe the answer has been staring me in the face all along! It’s practically genius!

  If you guys want to go through life learning the hard way, then that’s your prerogative. Just leave me to take smartest shortcut and I’ll meet you there!