“I wasn’t aware I was out long.”
Chantelle looks up at me kindly. “I was just wondering what you were up to really. Nothing more.”
“Oh, this and that,” I reply vacantly. “Chantelle, do you remember a few months ago when that lady from the charitable trust called around?”
She nods, still picking away at the staple, well and truly immersed in a batch of papers.
“If you get a second, can you dig out her details for me and tell her it’s fine for us to display a charity box in here.”
“Ah ha!” Chantelle shouts gleefully. “Little sucker!” The staple, now successfully removed, is hurled into the bin. “Of course I will. Charity begins at home, as they say.”
Warm-hearted, I dander upstairs to my office. Firstly to reflect on the morning and secondly to clear some work. I’m a little bit behind.
Every now and then, my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach as my thoughts trace back to Saturday night and the humiliation brought with it. Any wonder Simon never asked me about the date. I’d already rung him and arranged it! Once more I missed out on an episode with Brian and can’t help wondering if somebody is playing a huge joker card in my life. Like in the film with Jim Carey where his life is a series of events, pre-rehearsed and impressed for all the world to see. The Tina Show, that’s it, but with me for once as the leading lady.
Simon’s touch keeps coming back to me. His soft hands and warm breath. The smell of his unkempt manliness and soft, unshaven facial hair. I recall the sheer horror in his eyes as I yelled for him to get out, and, now that I’ve had a little time to mellow, I’m fraught with guilt about how he must be feeling. Pretty soon I’ll have to face the music. The wedding rehearsal is only a matter of weeks away. But that’s just one thing. The obligatory dance is another. Thanks, Sam. Still, there’s nothing like the taming of a handsome man to take my mind off things.
“Brian, it’s Tina here,” I announce sexily. “I just want to thank you personally for the flowers and also to apologise for the brief text message.”
A raucous laugh booms down the receiver.
“My office staff followed my every move that day so I couldn’t even ring you, but thank you,” I offer once more. Now enough of the niceties. “This unfinished business . . .”
“Saturday would be good.”
“What?”
“Dinner at eight.”
“Where?”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Right . . . okay . . . great. See you then.”
This time I don’t bother with the goodbyes but hang up and pull out my diary, going straight to next Saturday’s page where I mark ‘Dinner with BS’. He has it all planned, it would appear. Hopefully more efficiently than I did last weekend but at least we’ve spoken and, unless I’m going completely mad, I did ring his number and he did respond when I called his name so things are looking up already. At least my fingers and phone are synchronised this time, if nothing else.
On this occasion we will be mixing business with pleasure, having received the particulars of what might be office number two. By the looks of things, it is in need of some remedial work so I’ve decided to ask Brian’s advice and perhaps even invite him or one of his builders along to the viewing. Not that it has come off yet but even the mention of office number two is an achievement in itself.
For the first eighteen months or so, I managed Harding Homes on my own. Closing the shop for quick comfort breaks, eating behind my computer, coming in early and staying late. To even contemplate that the business generates, or at least will generate, enough revenue to manage the overheads and staff for a second office, is beyond my wildest dreams. The premises in Camberwell Road, although sighted on paper alone, seem to tick every box in terms of what I’m looking for. The unit is double-fronted, unlike the current single window downstairs, enabling it to hold substantially more property displays. I’d also love to have a window-mounted plasma TV running throughout the night, demonstrating a continual slide show of all the properties on our books. It will increase the electricity bill slightly but being able to sell even with a closed shop has to be money well spent. You have to speculate to accumulate as they say. There is a little interior work required with the removal of an internal wall and refitting of sanitary ware and new windows but it shouldn’t be too bad in terms of budgeting. The comments of a pen-pusher, however. I’ll wait and see what the professionals say. Still, one-and-a-half-per-cent commission on six hundred thousand pounds times fifteen apartments should cover it. Once more, I do the maths on my ancient scientific calculator and again have to pinch myself at the volume of numbers displayed on the keypad. All I need now are for the agency contracts to roll through the front door and for a host of recognisable names and faces to bombard us with viewings. And down payments.
I add a note to my to-do list to call Gerry, my last agent, to get his feedback from the presentation.
Oh sod it, I’ll just ring him now and take the bull by the horns.
“Hello, Tina?”
I recognise Chantelle’s voice. “Oh, hi, Chantelle, I was just trying to get an outside line.”
“A Paul Stewart is on the line from the Northern Art College. He mentioned you’d been enquiring about an art course?” She giggles away.
“Oh. Erm . . . yes. Put him through, thanks.” I wince, wondering what on earth to say to this man about my hidden creative talents.
Standing at the enrol table I look around shyly, feeling unprepared yet excited at the thought of a new venture. I was always good at art. Funny that I should have forgotten about it. Okay, I did get a D in my Art and Design O Level but that was only through lack of application. The talent is all there. It just needs a little development.
A tall, skinny woman wearing a tight black-and-white-striped top, with a matching red belt and red beads, appears before me. She introduces herself as Elizabeth Wren, one of the art tutors, and begins to explain the various courses available.
“Actually,” I whisper, a little embarrassed, “I haven’t done any artwork since school and I’ve just taken a notion for it.” I’m being honest. Well, almost.
Her striking shoulder-length bob is well and truly glued down. As she moves from side to side, collecting the various leaflets, her hair remains in a fixed position but her beads sashay from left to right jingling away like a wooden xylophone. She exudes an air of artistic eccentricity.
I’m definitely in the right place.
“Here are details of classes for artists of any level,” she offers. “Most of them are Still classes so you can work at your own pace.” She smiles at me with those scarlet lips that match her colourful accessories.
She glances behind me and I take that as my cue to stand aside, noting the small gathering that has formed. Thanking her, I collect the flyers and perch myself on a plastic chair in a quiet corner of the registration-room-cum-gym-hall, pondering which of the classes will realise my artistic ability.
Fifty pounds lighter, I follow my new classmates into a small studio kitted out with free-standing easels, hard wooden stools and walls that are decorated with an amateur exhibition of what I assume to be current pieces. Nervously, I choose my stand. My home for the next ten weeks.
Removing the sheet of paper from its elastic band, I unroll it and deftly attach it to the easel, securing it in place like an expert. I pick up the only battered pencil I could grab from the office, poised and ready to go.
I hear the door open and close. My nerves kick in and I stay hidden and out of sight. I don’t want to attract unnecessary attention just to find out I can’t quite bring it together. My school days are long over. You can’t hide forever, Tina! Holding my breath, I step out slowly from behind the easel and take in the full view. But not of the teacher as I had expected.
Oh my God!
It’s not a plant, nor a bowl of fruit or even a vase of flowers. It’s a man! A very very naked man at that, who is now sitting down on the carefully positioned chair with one le
g resting on the floor and the other hunched into his pale and rather bald-looking chest. In all its glory his man-piece just hangs there, protected by masses of unruly pubic hair jutting out in all directions and looking like the after-effects of an electric shock.
A loud gasp escapes from my mouth, followed by a childish giggle as I point to his bits, looking around the room open-mouthed. A sea of blank faces greets me and I can hear a few tutting sounds from the back.
“Hhmm . . .” I clear my throat, trying to control myself.
The model looks to be in his early twenties and my guess is that he’s a student. A scruffiness hangs over him and from his greasy hair to uncut toenails he looks in need of a good scrub. Settled in a position of maximum exposure, he averts his eyes from the audience, seemingly focusing his attention elsewhere and probably thinking, “There’s always one!”
I finally compose myself and touch the paper with the blunt pencil, making a small spot at the top of the page. It’s a start. I seem to remain in this fixed position for some time. My hand has no idea in which direction to take me and I look from him to paper, from paper to him, wondering just where the hell to begin. I’ve only drawn in Pictionary over the last decade and even then it was matchstick men and crap ones at that.
Woah! I’m off the starting-block and am attempting to trace the outline of his head. Not quite the exact same shape as his, but it’s trickier than it looks. I make a mental note to add his hair in later and, in fact, his entire face will have to wait for now. Maybe I could interpret mine as the faceless man? You know, give it that modern, contemporary feel? I clumsily mark out the shape of his unshaven jaw-line and rather pointed chin and allow my pencil to imagine it is tracing the wide line of his neck down to his broad shoulders. I let my hand wobble with bizarre unsteadiness. Okay, he’s a little long and giraffe-like but I’m getting there. What’s the hurry? Concentrating hard, my hand attempts to sketch his bony shoulders, trying to gauge at what point to slope them down so they blend into a pair of arms, but I lose that vital hand-eye contact and get carried away as my drawing leaves the width of the page, spilling out on to the wooden easel. Damn. I was doing so well. Perhaps he can have really short arms?
Refusing to give in, I stand back to evaluate my work of art. Staring back at me is a rather large head with an incredibly long neck and seriously distorted arms, not to mention no eyes or ears. But still, I try simply to rectify my error and move on.
“Excuse me. Do you have a rubber?” I whisper to the older lady next to me, gesturing to my quite obvious mistake.
Again, I am greeted by her deadpan face while those within earshot continue to cast me distasteful looks.
“I seem to have made a cock-up,” I add genuinely.
Quite suddenly the inappropriate choice of vocabulary hits me and I quickly dart back behind the safety of the easel, fiercely trying to repress my hysterics. Naked man, rubber, cock-up! I stare at the picture with the tears streaming down my face, snorting at the ridiculousness of the situation I have found myself in.
Throwing the pencil down, I grab the page and crumple it up, throwing it in the nearest bin, and through stifled bursts of laughter grab my bag, mouthing my apologies to the rather sheepish model as I exit.
Who the hell are you trying to kid, Tina?
I run through the exit into the car park letting it all out, screeching with laughter.
Tina Harding, the only artist you’ll ever be, my girl, is a piss artist!
12
“For those of you who have just joined us at WNW we have an action-packed show that will literally Wake the North West!!” she sings cheerily.
But I swear I detected a slight cringe as she delivered those last four words. As usual I’m always looking out for flaws. Ever the critic.
Lying propped up against the pillows, I slurp huge mouthfuls of strong coffee in an attempt to wake myself up and muster the energy for another day at the office. Last night I struggled getting to sleep, whereas usually I’m out for the count as soon as my head touches the pillow, but I found myself thinking about what she had said. You know, giving in too soon and all that stuff.
“Coming up next we have Kate Simms,” she reads from the auto-cue. “Dishing the dirt on her co-stars and giving us a sneak preview of the second series of Family Furores.” She smiles directly at me. “I do hope you’ll join us after the break.”
Almost choking on my coffee, I sit bolt upright, grabbing the remote control, turning the volume up in anticipation of seeing my best friend on WNW. She never told me she was going to be on this morning. Normally Kate lets me know so I can tape these things for her. She says she’s collating as much footage as she can so that when she’s old and wrinkly and her kids are calling her a sad loser who knows nothing, she can show them that she was once a familiar face to our nation. Not to mention wrinkle-free and well toned.
Good idea actually. I must make sure I keep hold of my modelling photographs. Some of them.
Jumping out of bed, I knock back the last of the coffee, grimacing at its tarlike strength. I give myself sixty seconds in the shower, which is probably all the time I have left before I see my best friend on air. I so need to watch this and in fact I never miss it when Kate is on TV. Maybe it’s the pride factor or maybe it’s because every time I see her I wonder if she’s going to mention me. Her best friend. The one who didn’t make it.
Barely wet, I’m out of the shower and running back into the bedroom where I perch myself on the end of the bed just in time to hear that awful jingle of the Wake the North West tune.
“Welcome back.” Anna Peters grins delightedly as she gestures to her next guest. “Kate Simms is here as promised by WNW and looking as stunning as ever.” She turns her body in Kate’s direction and the camera closes in on my friend who is sitting on the florescent pink guest chair, leaning back and looking extremely relaxed. Not to mention extremely stunning.
“Good morning, Kate, and thank you for joining us at this early hour.”
“Early hour?” Kate laughs. “I haven’t been to bed yet. This is just a late night for me!”
They both laugh right on cue and Anna continues with the previously researched set of questions and I can tell that Kate is loving every minute of her air time.
“So, Kate, firstly congratulations on the success of Family Furores.”
Kate nods appreciatively.
“And, secondly, can you tell our WNW viewers what we can expect from your character in the second series?”
Kate takes a sip of water and places the glass delicately on the smoked-glass table in front of her. “Well, Anna, my character Scarlett has been somewhat colourful, hence the name!” She grins, raising her eyebrows. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’m afraid you won’t be seeing her in quite as much lingerie during the next series. She’s taken on a whole new role.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Although it’s not easy for a girl like Scarlett. Let’s just say she’ll never be a nun!”
Anna looks slightly shocked for a moment, probably wondering if they’re likely to receive a host of complaint letters from convents up and down the country. But she says nothing that isn’t part of the auto cue and continues on professionally. My feeling is that she hasn’t the brain power to ad-lib. There’s no-one home, if you know what I mean.
“In the final episode you walked out on Harry saying, I quote: ‘One ex is a mistake, Harry, but two is just careless.”’
Her reading of Kate’s line was hideous. Don’t give up the day job, love. “Can you tell us what that was about?”
Kate sits forward in the neon chair and, as she does so, her miniskirt slides further up her cellulite-free thighs. She crosses her legs sexily, creating further enhanced visibility of the thighs, practically showing the curve of her bottom cheek.
I screech at the TV screen, knowing full well that Kate has this move well and truly practised. I yell loudly to her, “You big tease, Kate!” Like she can hear me!
“What’s
that all about then, Kate?” asks Anna, quickly looking away from Kate’s exposed flesh.
Too late – caught you!
“Well, Anna, naturally I can’t divulge too much, but I can say that his ex and I get very friendly.”
The camera jolts slightly, unless it was my imagination but I don’t think so. There’s only so much a hot-blooded male can take this early in the morning.
“And let’s face it, we already have something in common. A lying, cheating Harry who is enough to put any woman off men for life!”
Here we have one of the UK’s most popular actress practically announcing to the country that she’s embarking on a lesbian affair on national television. That ought to do it for the ratings, Kate. Go, girl!
The rest of the interview goes smoothly for Kate but not as well, it would appear, for Anna, who seems to find herself a little embarrassed at Kate’s openness about girl-on-girl action.
My thoughts drift back to one particular night. Skint as usual but glammed up to the nines, Kate and I came up with a plan as to how we could get trashed on the guts of a fiver each, and as usual this plan revolved around us flirting outrageously in front of whichever guys looked the most cash-rich. We would play it coy as though we’d never done it before but, for a free round of drinks, perhaps we could try a little kiss . . . but only because they’d put the idea into our heads. We would literally down our drinks, the more expensive the content the better, and give each other a soft kiss on the lips, lingering just a little too long for it to be platonic but not long enough so they got their money’s worth. Perhaps another drink might help us loosen up? You’re buying? Great!
Anyway, one night we were out celebrating our mate Lauren’s twentieth birthday. After being plied with alcohol from a group of pompous barristers in the Courthouse bar, Lauren came staggering towards us doped off her head and whinging that we always left her out. Given it was her birthday she too wanted a piece of the action. The next thing I recall was the three of us fighting over tongues, eating the faces off each other as the entire bar came to a stand-still. You could almost hear the conflicting opinions of our fellow-drinkers. The blokes loved it but their girlfriends detested us for manipulating the attention. Rightly or wrongly. It was one of those surreal moments where I knew we’d overstepped the line, but I was so pissed that I didn’t actually care what I did. I do remember feeling a little awkward though when Kate and Lauren’s mouths were glued together. I felt redundant, but not giving up I tried to make room for a third mouth, squeezing my head in between theirs, gate-crashing their private party. The only thing I remember after that is drinking pink champagne and making up stories about my sex life with Kate simply to keep the bubbles free-flowing! Naturally, that was in the days where Kate wasn’t a recognisable face. If we ever fall out, which is highly unlikely, but if it did happen I could seriously make a small fortune by selling stories to the Sun and other such newspapers. I doubt I’d ever have to work again! Now there’s a thought.
Crystal Balls Page 13
