Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  In silence, my hand is lifted gently over my head and I wince with lust as the silk fabric tickles my wrist, tying it firmly to the bedpost. Taking the other hand, he leans over me – his face brushes mine and I long to snatch at his soft lips. I shudder as my legs are pushed apart, sliding gracefully over the satin sheets, and he gently kisses my ankle before wrapping another scarf, a little too tightly. His teasing fingers run up and down my stomach and I breathe in, arching my back, groaning with pleasure.

  I feel my foot being held and listen to the sound of the buckle unclasp, the shoe hitting the floor with a thud as it separates itself from the orgy. Soft lips wrap around my toes and a tongue attempts to penetrate through the stocking fabric, both hitting and missing touch points but driving me wild with restriction. I relish the prospect of the removal of the stockings, imagining my toes being sucked vigorously and wallowing in his eager wet mouth.

  “Come up here,” I pant, desperate to take in this moment of pent-up longing, well overdue, and yearning to thrust my mouth onto his. I take on his tongue in battle.

  Our mouths lock magnetically as his lips bully mine and, for once, I am happy to be bullied. I taste the remnants of beer and note its bitter aftertaste.

  My heart stops.

  Brian doesn’t ever drink beer!

  I tear off my blindfold.

  “Simon!” I screech, my mouth as wide as the Mersey Tunnel. “How the – what the – get out! Get out now!”

  Simon has leapt to his feet. He just stands there looking bewildered as I struggle to free myself.

  “B-but what have I done wrong?” he stutters, apparently as shocked as I am.

  Well, not quite.

  “Get me out of these things! And don’t you dare look!” I snap through gritted teeth as he fumbles nervously with my wrists, loosening the fabric.

  I break free like a caged animal. Grabbing my dressing gown I frantically wrap it around my body, tying the belt so tightly that I can hardly breathe. Sitting on the end of the bed, not knowing what to do, I just freeze.

  “Tina, talk to me, please,” Simon says softly, keeping his distance.

  I can’t. I can’t move.

  “Tina, you invited me . . . you set all this up . . .”

  I continue to stare deep into a corner of the room, deafened to his pleas and oblivious to all but the sound of my chest thumping.

  With no response, he moves towards the bedroom door, picking up his jacket from the floor. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” he whispers sadly, “but I’m so sorry.”

  I can’t do this any more. I’ve made such a fool of myself, again, that I might even have to tell Sam I can’t go to her wedding. The tears roll down my face with shame. What happened? I grab my phone, scrolling down the directory until I reach the name Steen and, shaking my head in disbelief, I see the name Simon, sitting before it, as clear as day.

  Shit, Tina. Why can’t you be like Sam and get things right? Why do you ruin everything?

  I knock back the rest of the wine. Grabbing a replacement bottle from the fridge and turning up the music, I slam the bedroom door angrily before clambering into bed. I tear off the outfit from beneath the sheets and throw it across the room, never wanting to see it again. I curse it. I curse me and my inability to succeed in love and most other simple things. Apart from my business.

  Downing the second glass in a matter of minutes, a warm fuzziness mellows me and a glimmer of hope appears in my mind’s eye. Well, not for much longer!

  The prospect of my appointment aids my bruised ego. I never need to be degraded again like I was this evening. I’ll have someone looking out for me, telling me what to do, pointing me in the right direction.

  Bring it on!

  11

  “Pick five cards and place them face down on the table,” she says, shuffling the pack before handing them over.

  Pick five good ones, Tina.

  Closing my eyes, I will myself to choose wealth, success and anti-ageing cards if they exist. I try to focus on those cards, which appear to be calling out to me, choosing those either sticking out or those almost hiding as if deliberately. I focus on the Law of Attraction, putting out clear signals of the things I want most in life, using my energy to send out the right frequency. I read about this stuff years ago: The Power of Positive Thinking. Apparently what you think about, you put out into the universe, causing the universe to transmit it back to you. It’s supposed to be practised daily but, sometimes, well, on most days actually, I forget.

  I spread the cards out, face down as instructed, and scanning my eyes across the back of them, I wait for my future to be revealed.

  Gypsy Rose, close up, looks to be no older than I am although I guess she must be, on the assumption that the young girl Chantelle dealt with at the exhibition is her daughter. She looks different from when I last saw her, but perhaps I’m the one looking differently at her? And maybe with increased anticipation. But today she is simply stunning. Facially, that is. The rest of her lets itself down (without being too blunt about it). What a tragic shame to be so facially attractive but let the rest of you go! Well and truly. I’m sure she’ll use childbirth as an excuse like most women I hear venting about excess weight. “I was a size zero before I had the kids!” Yeah. Whatever. Although perhaps I should refrain from judging until I’ve actually been there. Ouch!

  She attaches an unlit cigarette to the corner of her mouth and, making minimal eye contact with me, turns the cards over one by one, placing them in the pre-marked squares on the black cloth. Some of the cards are placed on top of others but at a different angle so you can still see the images that lie beneath. The cloth clearly dictates where and how each card should lie, providing pre-marked squares and presenting an Idiot’s Guide to Tarot. Even I could manage this bit.

  Each card is decorated with amazing images and vibrant colours, and an air of mystery and adventure leaps from them. Their façade bears no immediate indication as to their underlying message and a well of confusion overcomes me until my muddled thoughts are interrupted.

  “It is important that you don’t talk until this part of the reading is over,” she says.

  I nod.

  “It’s best that I don’t hear your voice and that you pass no comment on what I say to you until I’ve read every card and tried to explain how it fits into your life.”

  Once more I nod vigorously, anxious for her to simply get on with it.

  She looks up at me smiling and gestures to the first card. “You’ll like this one.” Her finger touches the card delicately, never losing contact. “This one reveals an exuberant, flamboyant man. A man always in motion and constantly seeking new challenges.”

  My skin tingles with goose-bumps as thoughts of Brian flood my head. He’s determined and certainly seeking new challenges. Me for instance!

  “This card is the Knight of Wands and it shows us that a male person, who is around you already, craves adventure.” She hesitates. “Although he can be a little divorced from reality.”

  I can cope with that! I don’t even watch the news these days it’s so depressing. Reality! Who needs it?

  “The Knight of Wands is a real charmer – women tend to love him but,” she looks at me seriously, “no woman can hold him down.”

  Whatever! I’ve got him eating from the palm of my hand.

  I try to remain emotionless as the reading goes on. It’s so difficult though. Keeping your mouth still is one thing but stopping your eyes from showing signs of life or giving away snippets of information is so hard and, for some reason, particularly today, trying to get my right eyelid to stop quivering on its own is posing a challenge in itself. Funny, it started a few weeks back and whenever I get excited or nervous I can feel it flickering about. I’ve never managed to look in the mirror while it’s been happening but I hope that whatever is going on is from the inside only. I lift my hand to hold it still, pressing down on the eyelid, looking at her through just one eye. She looks thinner. Half the size in fac
t. Once again I try to focus and unblock my mind from the usual rubbish it hoards in an effort to allow her into my psyche.

  She draws my attention to a rather hideous card called The Hanged Man. It has a picture of a naked man (naked bar loincloth), shackled in a tortuous position on the face of a cliff. I shift in the chair rather uncomfortably.

  Gypsy Rose observes my horrified face and laughs aloud. “It means sacrifice,” she explains. “This card shows that you need to sacrifice something in order to acquire something else.”

  “Like what?” I interrupt, immediately regretting opening my mouth.

  “The sacrifice can be one of many.” Her tone is clipped and edged with reprimand. “In the case of this card, the hanged man is tortured with an anxiety that his sacrifice might come to nothing, but he is prepared to sit it out and suffer for his cause. But how do I see it fitting into your life . . .?” She tilts her head to one side, pushing her ample chin down so that it practically hangs over her shoulder. “You need to adopt more of a willingness to put your trust in unseen events. Perhaps even take a more . . . you know . . . gambler’s approach.” She talks directly at me. “Go with your gut reaction a little more and, remember, nothing ventured nothing gained.” She shrugs. “You need to learn that putting yourself through your paces, as they say, is a small sacrifice if it opens up new doors for you.”

  Put so vaguely I’m really struggling to understand what all this stuff means. To me. Tina Harding. It’s all very well her telling me the story of each card but, if she can’t explain how this is likely to impact on me and my life, then what’s the point?

  I struggle to comprehend Chantelle and the goosebumps she had when she left this woman that day. The urgency with which she dragged me to one side. The shaky pitch of her voice as she told all.

  Okay, Tina. It’s you. You’re making it difficult for her. Focus. Focus.

  Gypsy Rose, lost in her own world, is scribbling down notes for me to take away. Thoughtful of her if her writing were legible, but they may as well be written in hieroglyphics from what I can see. I wonder if I can borrow her pen and paper? I open my mouth to ask and then shut it firmly again as those piercing green eyes hypnotise me.

  “I can’t seem to get past this card,” she frowns, tapping The Hanged Man with a tar-stained finger. “There’s a message in it for you but I can’t quite get it.” She repositions the cigarette that has been quite settled in her mouth for some time now, lighting it without asking and dragging heavily on it. She reaches behind her, picking up an ashtray overflowing with cigarette stubs and places it on the table to the right of her. Overweight smoker? Does this woman not want to live for much longer? My sympathy for her pretty face but disproportionate body suddenly disappears.

  The air carries a taste of second-hand smoke and already my clothes smell of a night on the town – the only night I’ve ever come away from sober and financially intact! Although I haven’t paid her yet. She blows the smoke to one side, taking a long final drag before stubbing the remains out and placing the ashtray behind her once more. Her façade is more relaxed now and her face less strained.

  “This card is telling me that you have made past sacrifices . . .” She pauses. “But you gave in too quickly.” Her eyes soften as she regains confidence. “Don’t speak but do you understand this?”

  I nod in slow motion, my brain working ten to the dozen as the words translate into my own interpretation.

  “You have great potential in this area and the self-doubt you carry needs to be removed.” Once again she scribbles on the paper, finishing the page and starting a new sheet of indecipherable mush. “In summary, what I’m saying is that you gave up too soon.” She points to the card. “There is no reason to be a martyr to any cause like this guy, but only a fool allows a single blow to keep him down.”

  My heart is beating so fast it’s practically in overdrive and I’m pretty sure that, even in her current condition, her cardio-system at this very moment has to be stronger than mine. My chest tightens as I recall that very day I chose to put closure on the only dream I ever had. Was it too soon? Surely I’d tried everything to sustain its life? But that’s the weirdest thing, isn’t it? Even when you’ve made agonising decisions based on logic, facts and reality, you still feel torn up about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’. What more could I have done with no fixed abode, no cash, no energy and certainly no fight left in me whatsoever? Oh and no regular work coming in.

  Throughout the rest of the reading, I find my mind drifting away as her inability to be specific takes its toll on my concentration. She turns over card after card, talking about cups and pentacles and other such trivia and once again I am forced to question myself about my reasons for being here. I recall them. But things haven’t quite transpired as I had imagined.

  Rose collects the cards, integrating them back into the rest of the pack. She shuffles them thoroughly like a trained croupier.

  “I want you to think about a burning quest –” she coughs suddenly, her cheeks flaring with redness and her chest sounding like it’s about to explode, “– question, hhm, sorry!” She croaks painfully, holding her ample bosom (her chest must be under there somewhere). “Keep it in your mind so I can try to answer it.”

  I wonder if I can speak now? Oh God, she’ll think that’s my question. It’s not, it’s not.

  “Okay – ready,” I reply, keen to show my openness to work with her.

  What is my ultimate purpose in life? What is my ultimate purpose in life? I repeat this in my head over and over again, staring her in the eyes, willing her to answer me plain and simple. After a long pause she lights up another cigarette and begins. Her eyes blind me with determination as she stares deep into me and a feeling of sudden relaxation hypnotises me.

  “You have a good heart but so far your virtuous deeds have been minimal.”

  What? I raise my eyebrows defensively.

  “You are extremely gifted in terms of being creative and resourceful and I feel these skills could be put to greater use in terms of helping others.” Her cough returns once more, bringing with it a cloud of smoke from her open mouth. Her eyes water as she holds her chest, excusing herself from the table. I hear the chink of crockery and the running of a tap, followed by silence and then footsteps. The laminate floor vibrates beneath my chair.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, concerned about her general wellbeing.

  “Nothing that I don’t deserve.” She laughs a deep chesty laugh. “Thanks for asking. And, there, didn’t I tell you just how kind you were?”

  My face lights up. Actually, she did. How nice it is that someone recognises a good point in you. It’s usually the negative stuff people are so quick to point out.

  “Thanks,” I beam, feeling warmed up.

  “Now where were we?” She frowns, settling back into the hard chair. “Oh yes, strong links with creativity and helping people are coming through. I see you undertaking some type of charitable deed. You know, Karma is a wonderful thing and it will pay you back for your forthcoming virtue. What goes around comes around as they say.” She clears her throat roughly. “Just remember, Tina, that you don’t always get it back off the same people you’ve given to, so don’t expect it. Life is full of surprises.”

  I couldn’t agree more about trying to do the best for people when I can fit it in, but in terms of being paid back it doesn’t really work like that, does it? How naïve is she? What about the murderer who won the lottery? What about the people who devote their entire lives to helping others only to suffer more misfortune than the rest of us put together? What about those women so desperate to be mothers and bursting with love who are denied the joy of conception? I tut-tut aloud at the unfairness of life.

  Taking in my obvious shift in attitude, Gypsy Rose hands me her pages of notes. I stuff them into my bag, thanking her, although I am desperate to flick through them given my mind went a little AWOL for a good part of the session.

  “Just remember you have a great
heart, Tina, and a creative head. Once your head and your heart are synchronised, you’ll know exactly how your life is supposed to be.”

  “Thank you very much,” I say awkwardly but at the same time thinking, Hang on, isn’t that your job? You know, to tell me how my life is supposed to be?

  Glancing around the tiny conservatory, I look for the door. “That was, er, great,” I mumble, before leaving and hurrying to my car, conscious of the time and mindful of a series of valuations waiting to be done.

  It all feels a bit of an anti-climax really. Why couldn’t she have just told me in no uncertain terms what to do? And why do these things have to be so vague? Something more concrete would have been nice. But, still, there were a few real specifics.

  Weren’t there?

  “Hi, Tina!” A cheerful Chantelle grins up at me from the front desk, wafting a wad of forms in the air. “These have all been signed up this morning. Five new properties in the space of half a day.”

  “Well done, you, that’s incredible.” I shake my head in amazement at the difference a few hours can make. “Do they need valuations carried out?” I ask, suddenly remembering the increased workload every new property brings with it.

  “Only three of them do and they’re all local. The other two are switchers from Blenheim Jones – they’re sticking with their current valuation figures so it’s just a case of getting some photos and getting them on display.” She separates the work pile, placing some into the ready-to-go tray and the rest into the pending tray. “Apparently Blenheim Jones haven’t marketed these two at all. They’ve never ever been in the window! And they have the damn cheek to charge commission without actually doing anything!”

  I laugh at Chantelle getting so worked up. But I love that she is so organised and reliable. In fact, if I never ask her about those properties again, I can rest assured that they’re in the window displays, on the website and more than likely, sold. Case closed.

  “What took you so long?” she asks, trying to remove a staple with her long manicured nails.