Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  An offering of spring has arrived, bringing with it the lingering scent of freshly cut grass. But still the air carries a mild chill and I silently pray that the temperature will lift in time for Sam’s wedding. Unlike your typical Monday morning, where it pours down and you arrive at work just to find your hair-straighteners have disappeared, this morning the air is perfectly crisp and scented with apples. A sheet of silky blue floats high with not a cloud in sight.

  I pull up directly outside the office, removing the orange traffic cone placed there deliberately. The rates are high enough so why shouldn’t I get my own space? Shoving the key into the front door, I twist it twice to the right and once back to the left, pulling it out roughly before using my hip to force the door open. That’s another item for my to-do list. Fix front door. There is a pile of post and junk mail lying messily on the floor and I gently move some of it with my foot so that the door can close behind me.

  I love coming into work this early and having the office to myself. There are no phones ringing, no clients dropping by, no solicitors asking where the damn house keys are. It’s quiet and tranquil which contagiously affects my mood as I fly through the pending tray, making an impressive dent in the pile.

  Chantelle will be delighted with the removal of this time-consuming work and it will certainly free up time for her to do just what it is she’s best at: selling.

  Collecting the post from the grey carpet-tiled floor, I scan through it quickly, sorting the more official-looking letters from the less important items, like promotional flyers, endless stationery catalogues and the Makro Mail which seems to arrive on a daily basis. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of it, but there are only so many toilet-roll deals a girl can cope with.

  I tear open a letter marked for my attention. “Private and Confidential.” At long last. Yippee! It’s the contract from Brian Steen. I make a note to ask Sam to cast her eyes over it before I sign it. I’m not one for signing anything unless every clause has been explained and clarified. I know she has a lot on her plate right now, not to mention her future in-laws but she won’t let me down and, apart from Simon (the less said on him the better) she is the only lawyer I know outside of my usual conveyancing contacts.

  This contract is like gold dust. I’m reluctant to put it down in case it gets damaged or I lose it. How many other opportunities am I ever likely to get where I can earn so much money in one transaction? Probably none. It’s practically been handed to me on a plate and, while it is true that I worked hard for the pitch, it was immensely enjoyable so it really didn’t feel too much like work. Play is a far better description for Mr Steen. But on a more serious note, the transactional value of this is truly overwhelming and is a life-changing sum of money which, spent wisely, could fulfil all my short-term business ambitions.

  “Morning, Tina! How was your weekend?” Chantelle bounces through the front door balancing a wad of files on her arm. She smiles at me as brightly as she does at five o’clock on a sunny Friday afternoon.

  I decide to say nothing about Gypsy Rose or my ridiculous stint at the art college.

  “Great, thanks, Chantelle. Pretty quiet really but so relaxing,” I lie, thankful for the ease with which it comes, but guilty as hell for doing it. “And yours?”

  “Wild! You wouldn’t believe how drunk Colin was on Saturday night.” She throws the files on her desk, shaking her arms out with relief. “He doesn’t even remember getting home!”

  “Were you at a party?”

  “My aunt’s seventieth!” She screeches with laughter. “I feel awful saying it but it was just so dull that we stayed at the bar all night.”

  She takes out a mirror and examines her eyes, pushing down gently on their slight puffiness with perfectly polished nails. Flipping the cover shut, she shakes her head, wincing. “Never again! I really do mean it this time.”

  “Yeah, right!” I laugh. “Oh, great stuff, Chantelle, you’ve just reminded me I have to do something.”

  “What’s that then?” She dabs a crème of some sort beneath her dark alluring eyes.

  “I need to set up a direct debit for Age Concern.” I notice how she is looking at me suspiciously. “No, really, Chantelle. Do you know how hard it is for these people to manage on the measly state pension this country gives? So many die every year from hypothermia just because they can’t afford to put the heating on in the winter. It’s an absolute disgrace and unless members of the general public like you and I do something to help, they’ll continue to suffer in silence.” Crikey, where did that come from? I stand down from my soapbox.

  Chantelle looks chastened. “I’m sorry, Tina, you’re so right, forgive me.” She bends down under her desk, picks up her handbag again, removing her purse and pulling out a folded note. Chantelle pushes the note into the charity box and looks at me gratefully. “Thanks for reminding me, Tina. It really is a privilege to work for someone so caring and honest.” She grabs me in a tight embrace.

  Well, one out of two isn’t bad.

  “Kate, it’s me!” I yell in the direction of the hands-free kit. “I saw you this morning – you were brilliant!” The line crackles rudely.

  “Hello, you!” Kate echoes back. “How are things?”

  “Oh you know, same old, same old. Trying to bag the sexiest man I’ve seen in years, possibly opening a second office, chief bridesmaid duties in a few weeks.” I beam at the phone proudly. “Usual stuff, Kate.”

  “As busy as ever then.” Kate raises her voice over the interference which seems to have become louder. These hands-free kits are a nightmare but still it’s better than three points on your licence. “I meant to call you about this morning,” Kate shouts. “But it was such short notice. Stewart Heart was supposed to be on the show but he got the flu last minute so they asked me to stand in for him. Great or what?” She snorts. “Apart from dealing with that Anna woman, bloody great plank of wood!”

  I screech with laughter at Kate’s honesty. And perception.

  “You were great but she was totally shite. Why the hell is she still hosting that show?”

  “Rumour has it that she’s shagging the director Sam Jenkins.” A retching sounds booms down through the speaker. “He is so gross she must be desperate! Here, Tina, I’ve got a few weeks at the end of next month. Fancy getting away somewhere? I was thinking we could go back to Crete. You know, old times’ sake and all that stuff?”

  “Oh definitely, Kate, I so need a break!” I call back excitedly.

  During our second year at Uni, Kate and I spent the entire summer travelling around Crete, stopping to work at various resorts when we’d run out of money, throwing back ouzo like it was going out of fashion and learning just about every Greek speciality possible – if you know what I mean. Okay, at the time we didn’t realise half the men teaching us these local specialities were married but, looking back, we were a little naïve. Any wonder we were so popular.

  Kate and I chose Crete as we’d spent a week holidaying there the year before and we’d got to know the place quite well. We needed somewhere with endless bars and night life to ensure that we’d have no issues getting work. Plus we made great friends with many a bar-owner who promised us jobs if we returned the following season. They didn’t let us down although we learned very quickly that they always wanted some kind of favour in return.

  “Tina, I have to go now,” Kate whispers. “I’ve just been chased out of the green room to go on set. Call you later about the holiday. Bye.” She blows kisses down the phone before the line goes dead and my car radio kicks back in.

  A holiday is just what I could do with. Lying on a deserted beach allowing the calmness of the sea to send me into a deep state of relaxation, Piña Colada in one hand, Marian Keyes in the other. Well, not Ms Keyes herself naturally although I am a big fan of hers. Just not in that way.

  At least for now I’ve got my date with Mr Steen to look forward to. Who needs to wait for sex on the beach when it’s already in the diary for Saturday night? Without
the sand, of course, but that’s definitely a plus – that stuff gets everywhere.

  “A man in motion always seeking new challenges.”

  By the time I’ve finished with you, Mr Steen, motion sickness will be the only challenge you’ll be facing.

  “Damn!”

  Someone has parked in my space right in front of the shop. I glare at the car as if that’s going to help matters and notice that, a few cars up, someone is pulling away. The lines are double yellow but I’m only popping in to collect messages and check the office is still intact. I quickly reverse into the space, thankful of rear parking-sensors and wondering what the hell I ever did without them. A few months ago, however, I did reverse into a bollard. There was no damage done apart from a small scratch to the silver A6 bumper. But when I told my dad he roared with laughter. “Tina! You’re the only person I know who can ignore as loud a warning as that bloody car sensor of yours!” I guess I must have been reversing a little too quickly because before I knew it I heard a high-pitched bleeping noise followed directly by a bang. And then a four-letter expletive.

  Glancing up and down the street now, it appears safe enough. There are no obvious signs of traffic wardens so I abandon the car and run towards the office, popping my head around the door. The office is dead. No foot traffic in sight. I guess that’s what a sunny day does for you.

  “Any messages for me, Chantelle?”

  Her head appears from behind the flat-screened monitor and she smiles at me, removing her black-framed glasses which make her look damned intelligent and even more sexy than usual.

  “Hi, Tina.” A radiant smile lights up her face and her eyes twinkle responsively. “Nothing urgent for a Monday and certainly nothing I couldn’t take care off.” She stands up, pushing her skirt down, ironing out the creases, and flicks her dark shiny hair over to one side.

  “I can’t stop,” I rattle quickly. “Some cheeky sod is in my parking space and I can’t afford to get another ticket.”

  “Okay but I want to run something by you so I’ll come outside with you.”

  She steps out of the office and perches herself on the white-painted windowsill, squinting as the sun practically blinds her.

  She looks preoccupied for a moment and I feel my heart pounding, preparing for the worst. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

  “What you said this morning, Tina, is so right and I can’t believe I’ve been so neglectful towards those less fortunate than myself.” She shakes her head in disgust. “My mother would be turning in her grave . . . It’s just that sometimes . . .” She pauses sadly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve had my own fair share of bad luck and yet I’ve had no choice but to get on with it. But you made me realise this morning that there are always people worse off.” She grabs my hand tightly. “And for that I am truly grateful.”

  I feel so bad I could cry for her. I have no idea where that soap-box lecture came from but I sure as hell didn’t mean for Chantelle to be at the receiving end of it.

  “Don’t be so stupid, Chantelle!” I perch myself next to her, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Take no notice of me! God knows what I was on this morning, honest gov. You know me – Queen of Crap!” I laugh, trying to win her over.

  She turns to face me, beaming away. “It’s okay though because guess what I’m doing on Saturday?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to help supervise a group of disadvantaged kids,” she declares joyously. “St Stephen’s Church are taking them to an open farm for the day so I’ve put myself forward as a volunteer.”

  Well, that’s not so bad. I thought for a minute she was going to sign a life-long contract to the Mormons or join some religious cult like the Mooneys.

  “Yeah, my gran mentioned it the other day, said I might find it fulfilling and all that.”

  “And I’m sure you will.” Relieved, I am resting my head against the warm glass, stretching out my legs to even out the weight on both feet when Chantelle bolts up, jumping in front of me, blocking the sun completely with her size-eight frame.

  You’re blocking the sun!

  “Why don’t you come with me?” she cries. “The two of us will have a blast, Tina!” She grabs my hands, shaking my arms up and down like I’m a puppet incapable of moving on my own. “Animals aren’t really my thing, Chantelle.” I try to hide the panic in my voice. Neither are kids for that matter. And besides, I have my Saturday nicely planned. Pampering, more pampering and sex, sex, sex!

  “Mine neither but think of the kids, Tina. We’ll be doing it for them.” She looks down on me with those brown puppy-dog eyes, gentle but deceivingly disobedient. “Imagine their little faces. This might be their only day out all year, poor kids!” She looks as though she’s about to cry. God, she’s wasted.

  Suddenly, flashes of those heartrending TV commercials flood my mind. The ones where they show you orphaned and emaciated kids with filthy flies landing on them and yet they still manage to smile graciously. It puts me to shame. I always mean to call the number and make a donation. But then it goes out of my head.

  “Come on, Tina. We’ll have a ball.”

  “I’m not that great with kids.” I wince. It’s true. I’ve never been around them.

  “You only need to supervise them, Tina. They’ll be so distracted with their annual day out they won’t notice how you’re being.”

  “I guess.”

  I mean, what harm can it do? It’s just a few hours for heaven’s sake with farm animals and a few small kids. A doddle, in fact.

  “Okay, you’re on, Mrs,” I declare jovially. “It’s a date.”

  I feel good about the decision. It really is the right thing to do and, besides, won’t Mr Steen be impressed when he asks about my weekend so far? Oh, you know, the usual stuff, Brian, charity work, blah blah. I just need to make sure I get back early so that I can get ready without a mad rush, although thanks to my harsh waxing the other weekend I’m still in pretty good shape. In fact, you know what? I’m quite looking forward to Saturday now. Cute little animals and the warming sound of children’s laughter. A little TLC, that’s all they need.

  Poor things. Auntie Tina’s here.

  13

  My legs wobble as I clutch the loose handrail, trying to stop myself from falling down the stairs head first. From the virtual-web-images the property looked to be in much better condition than it is in reality, and the list of potential, not to mention, costly jobs is getting longer by the minute. The stairway itself is a liability. Every stair is uneven. The handrail is practically hanging off and the carpet is so threadbare it might as well be renamed underlay. Relieved as my feet touch the ground, I look back up to the top of the stairs, wondering if it would be safe to bring Brian or one of his guys with me next time, assuming I get out of here alive. Perhaps I might suggest some steel-capped boots and hard hats just in case. Now we’re talking!

  Downstairs looks to be in better condition which is unusual given this is where the hive of activity would have been. The building, previously an ice-cream parlour, is currently sitting in vacant possession and evidences very little of its former life apart from a tantalising sweetness which I pray will never leave. It is much larger than our existing High Street branch but then again most of the units here in Camberwell Road are double-fronted which is one of the primary reasons for choosing this location. Not to mention the other two other estate agents who are extremely well established in this area. Most of us these days are so shrewd when it comes to parting with our cash, that I think it’s safe to say that the punters are likely to shop around all of us before deciding which one is going to sell their home. And Harding Home’s strike rate is over eighty per cent, mainly down to Chantelle given I spend so much time out of the office these days. If or when the next shop is opened, I intend to transfer Chantelle up here where she can manage this plus the staff, leaving me to manage the High Street branch. My baby. I’ll need to recruit someone else to take on the valuations for us. I’d much prefer to sp
end time working in the business than going out price-tagging.

  The openness of the ground floor is vast and, better still, there are two small office rooms which could be used as interview rooms. Fantastic! So far we’ve been referring our mortgage business to a neighbouring Independent Financial Advisor for a small kickback in commission, but for the new office I’ll most definitely be looking to recruit a qualified mortgage advisor who will be office-based. Paid no salary but then again charged no rent. They can’t lose either way and neither can we. The majority of clients who come through our doors need some form of borrowing and if we can’t service their requirements then somebody else will. Missing out on such a moneymaking opportunity would simply be foolish. A one-stop shop. That’s what this office is going to be all about. A moneymaking empire.

  “Mark will be with you in just a few minutes now, Tina,” she says politely. “Can I get you a coffee while you’re waiting?”

  I put down the magazine, bored of reading the Weight Loss for Wimps column, nodding gratefully. “Thanks, Jo, white no sugar, please.”