Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “What did you do to her, you naughty girls?”

  Kate and I shrug innocently.

  “We just stayed in and played a few games, Mark,” I say. Kate nods in agreement. “She’s not a drinker,” I add sympathetically.

  “Doesn’t that show.”

  Sam returns, pale and shaking, and sinks into the chair as Mark gets to work like a man on a mission. I catch him glancing in the mirror, taking in the clock on the wall behind, and smile at him kindly, knowing full well we’ve kept him late. He doesn’t smile back but I know Mark well enough to say that he’ll be loving every second of the drama.

  He blasts and flat-brushes Sam’s hair until it’s dry before scooping it up and rolling it into an immaculate French pleat. He gently teases out some of the underneath strands, wrapping them around his fingers in an attempt to add some curl and softness to her look.

  “You’re wasting your time, Mark,” I tell him. “Sam’s hair hasn’t a kink to it. Has it, Sam?” Her eyes are closed and she doesn’t answer. “Sam!” No answer. I give up. “Try the tongs but don’t burn the back of her neck like you did that poor girl. Remember?”

  Sam’s eyes fly open.

  “Just kidding, Sam, go back to sleep,” I taunt wickedly.

  A young whippet of a girl, dressed in the black salon uniform, taps Mark on the shoulder and whispers in his ear before walking away. “That’s one of my juniors.” He motions to Kate. “She says can she please have your autograph before you leave.”

  Kate swivels around on the stool, gloating at me. She loves this bit of her job, who wouldn’t? “I’m so famous, I’m so famous!” she sings to me, grinning like a two-year-old, deliberately preening her long blonde hair in the mirror. “La la la la!”

  “And modest with it, you vain cow!”

  For the most part I’ve felt remarkably renewed, given the copious amounts of wine we put away, the remnants of which have discoloured my teeth and left a black line running across my bottom lip. But now I’m really flagging and, lying back against the basin, I feel my eyes blinking rapidly, fighting to stay awake. That’s the trouble with these seats, they’re just too damn comfortable.

  Mark opened his salon just over a year ago, after spending the past decade or so as a mobile hairdresser. The location is amazing, slap-bang in the middle of the city centre but with amazing rent and rates thrown in for good measure. The décor is state-of-the-art with low-level triangular basins and red-leather reclining chairs with built-in foot rests. I swear I’m practically horizontal but it sure as hell beats sitting upright with your neck at an awkward angle, cursing as the water gushes down your face attacking the fake tan and non-waterproof mascara. Never again! I’d sooner pay a few quid more and enjoy the experience.

  Keith, Mark’s second junior, is massaging the conditioner through my hair with his fingertips and, while my head is still slightly tender, each application of pressure is sending my body into a deep state of relaxation. As his hands knead my scalp from base to crown, I feel all the impurities and late stress escaping from my pores.

  Mark thrusts a pile of magazines onto the glass shelf in front of me before sending orders for more coffee. White, no sugar. Perfect.

  “Pity Sam couldn’t have stuck around to give her tuppence’ worth,” he says, spraying my hair with much-needed detangler. “Did she say how she wants your hair to look, Tina?”

  I put the magazine on my lap and look at him through the mirror. “She said it was up to me, Mark.” That’s the truth. “Just do something bridesmaidy and nothing that will take the shine from her.”

  He sniggers cruelly. “You sooo don’t mean that, my girl!”

  “I so do mean that, Mark.” I’m totally offended. “She’s my sister and this day is about her and no-one else and I’ll be damned if anyone or anything gets in the way of that.”

  I’m shocked at my little outburst.

  “Okay,” he yields cheerfully.

  “Ooh!” Keith leans over my shoulder, pointing to the back page of the glossy magazine. “I’ve always wanted to see one of them.”

  I think you mean ‘one of those’, darling.

  I look across to the opposite page from the one I’m reading and just stare while Mark bends forward nosily. I feel his warm breath on the back of my exposed neck.

  “Destiny calling!” he reads aloud. “Density more bloody like. Bunch of con-merchants, the lot of them!” I’m tempted to jump in, telling him he’s wrong, but on what grounds? What solid evidence do I really have that the predictions given to me weren’t derived from a quick imagination and a penchant for a fast buck? Although at the last reading she did describe Brian to a tee. Okay, she added that he’s a hard man to tie down and so far that hasn’t surfaced. In fact, he’s keeps coming back for more. Well, maybe not more given that ‘more’ implies something having happened in the first instance.

  My skin develops goose-bumps as I recall the old lady at the Psychic Fayre telling me of my failed past and advising me to trust myself. Only you know who and what is right for you. I thought I did. I think I do. But sometimes life throws so many balls at you that you catch the ones closest to you, dropping the others without a moment’s thought and you never think to pick them up the next time your hands become free. It sometimes feels like a game of bingo. You wait excitedly for your numbers to be called out, but when they’re not, you never think to make the most of those numbers you were given. You know, make them work for you. You spend the rest of your life mourning over the numbers that could have been. They could have been yours.

  “Thank you for calling Psychic Readings by phone,” the pre-recorded message continues. “You can talk to a live psychic right now. Phone calls cost one pound fifty per minute from standard landlines. You must be over eighteen to use this service. Press one to continue.”

  I hang up quickly. One pound fifty a minute does seem rather steep. Tapping the desk in agitation, I shove a pile of paperwork out of the way, allowing me to think with no added distractions. Why are you doing this, Tina?

  I wait for an answer. Nothing happens.

  Why? Why?

  I’ll tell you why. Because my love life sucks and always has done, the only career I ever wanted passed me by in a flash leaving me with only what I stood up in and now the opportunity for me to change the quality of my life has practically been handed on a plate and I damn well want to make sure I don’t stuff up like before! That’s why. That’s bloody well why!

  Satisfied that my decision is purely logical and pragmatic, I redial with more confidence holding the receiver pressed between my ear and shoulder while I fumble for a credit card. I listen impatiently to the same message before pressing option two.

  “If you wish to speak to Alexia, select Pin 1076. If you wish to speak to Dario, select pin 1295, if you wish t–” I punch in the numbers of the first option given. What’s the point of waiting? I don’t know them from Adam. “Please key in your credit-card number followed by the hash key.” After what feels like an eternity a real voice transmits through the receiver. “Hello, caller, this is Alexia, who am I speaking to?”

  “Oh hi.” I feel like hanging up but it’s too late now. “I’m Tina.”

  “Hello, Tina, have you had a reading by telephone before?”

  “No.” This is my first and last.

  “Okay. Let me explain to you what is going to happen. You may choose two topics for me to link into and I will try to be as thorough as possible around those areas.” She sounds like she’s reading from a script. She probably is. “You can choose from ‘Finding Love’, ‘Finding Happiness’, ‘Career and Success’, ‘Pet Psychic Zone’ and ‘Live Astrology’.”

  Pet Psychic Zone?

  “‘Finding Love’, and ‘Career and Success’, please.” These seem the most appropriate to my situation. I don’t want anything airy-fairy. Just stick to the key issues.

  “Okay, Tina, please try not to think of anything. This will allow me to pick up psychic images from you. I will then trans
late those images back into psychic messages.”

  I perch myself on the edge of the seat, pen poised to record every word.

  “I see a relationship doomed to failure,” she begins. “Although this relationship is about to be moved to its next level, it really shouldn’t be. One person is turning the water into wine but the other is drinking it.”

  What?

  “I see a ring linked to this relationship but feel that, if it goes ahead, failure is imminent.”

  A ring? I’ve had a few dates with Brian and been given a Rolex but slow down with the wedding business – we haven’t even passed first base yet . . . well, that is debatable after the skirmish in the ice-cream parlour but . . .

  “Now I’m not sure if this person has even proposed yet but, regardless, this relationship should be stopped.”

  What? My whirlwind romance halted in its tracks?

  She goes on to talk about my career, telling me how successful and innovative I am and how I like to be in control but adds that I should cut myself a bit of slack and not be hard on myself for not achieving perfection one hundred per cent of the time. How general is that? True admittedly, but a very generic statement. Most women are hard on themselves. We’ve created a millennium version of ourselves which is damn hard to live up to. Sometimes I think we’re our own worst enemy and those women who choose to stay at home while the husbands go out to work have clearly got it right, unlike the ones who try to balance everything and wonder why they’re constantly stressed and unhappy.

  She carries on without waiting for any reply from me. “Your career and success are not linked, which is unusual. I feel that your career sits in isolation from what you deem to be success but for most people they go hand in hand. Just not you.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m baffled.

  “Success to most people means a good job or career with a decent income but from you I’m picking up vibes in my solar plexus that your success still awaits you and is not related to your present career.”

  I’m feeling butterflies in my stomach – maybe that’s what she’s picking up from me. It’s called hunger.

  “Your success won’t necessarily come in the form of your job or money,” she goes on. “I can’t tell you where it will come from but a link with study keeps flashing before me. Have you been considering any studying lately?”

  “No, and I haven’t the time,” I tell her flatly.

  “Well, maybe it’s past studying, maybe it’s future studying, but whatever it is, it will help you.” Then she repeats, “Help you.”

  I’m close to running two estate agent’s and you’re telling me to go out and study? Get real.

  “You’ve a real healing quality about you and the colours white and blue surround your aura.” I’ve a telephone aura now?

  “White for your caring, healing side, and blue for its health implications. Now there’s nothing to worry about, but often the colour blue can represent certain conditions which need attention, such as backache or looking after your immune system better or it can even relate to your mental health, such as looking out for obsessive or addictive behaviours.”

  Oh my God, I’m an addict. I could only be an alcoholic though. I can’t think of any other addictive downfalls. Then again, alcoholism runs in my mother’s side of the family.

  “I sense you get a little stressed sometimes and would suggest that you carry around some stone or quartz crystals with you. These should help during tense times. I would recommend rock crystal – this has a natural affinity with the earth and all things spiritual. Just be careful sometimes, though, as the energy these things have can be so powerful you may be prone to the odd small electric shock.”

  Laughter bursts from my mouth, belting down the phone, but I recompose myself quickly. I thought something had to be live to be electric? Yes, I can change a plug, thank you.

  She ignores my laughter. “For healing yourself, why not try blue agate? We can arrange to send you samples of these pure rock crystals, all one-hundred-per-cent genuine, and simply charge it to your card.” There is a silence. “Shall I arrange for these to be sent to you with notes of your reading?”

  Anything for an easy life, Tina.

  The reading finishes shortly after, much to my relief given the cost of the call. Maybe my relationship with Brian is doomed although one could hardly call it a relationship at these early stages. Doomed to failure before it’s even begun. But hang on a minute, aren’t I supposed to be taming him? Isn’t he my soul mate, my destiny?

  Is it any wonder I’m confused?

  17

  The hive of activity at Mum’s is frantic as we all rally around, bumping into each other, giving over-the-top apologies and other phoney niceties. In reality, it’s a stress bomb waiting to go bang!

  Sam is sitting in her bedroom with her feet up on a small glass-topped table slurping on what appears to be her tenth cup of coffee this morning. I take it she wants to be awake to consummate her wedding but at this rate she’ll not be sleeping her entire honeymoon.

  “Come and get ready, Sam. You’ve only got an hour before the cars get here!” My voice is high-pitched. I’m starting to feel the Matron of Honour pressure.

  Sam sets the cup down on the table and smiles at me with a peaceful serenity. “Tina.” She pats the empty seat next to her. “Take a load off.”

  “Have you been smoking dope?” I ask her suspiciously, examining her pupils.

  She just grins at me. “No, silly. But try to relax, Tina.” She tightens the belt of the towelling robe. “My hair and nails are done so all I have left to do is to put a little makeup on and get dressed. How can that take an hour?”

  “Am I still allowed to do your make-up?”

  “Yes, but make me look like a Barbie doll and I’ll kill you.”

  “Au naturel, big sis, I promise. And no offence, Sam, but a Barbie doll is something you’ll never be!”

  “That’s the best compliment you’ve ever given me, Tina.” She smirks. “Although don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying to turn me into a Barbie over the years!”

  I gasp with incredulous innocence. “Me?”

  “You indeed!” Sam shakes her finger at me chidingly. “Remember that time I asked you to book me in for a dry trim but when I got to the hairdresser’s they had me down for a peroxide blonde rinse?”

  I forgot about that one!

  “And the other time I let you come when I had the personal shopper for the day and you took her to the side, telling her I was really a rock chick but too embarrassed to admit it – and that my outfit should mirror how I felt inside!” Sam laughs with hearty ease.

  “Yes, but the clothes she was picking out for you were so frumpy and middle-aged.”

  “Tina.” She stares at me through freshly tinted lashes and perfectly plucked eyebrows. “I was going to a wedding!” We fall into peals of laughter and suddenly I can see just how trying I must have been for all those years. All thirty-one of them, in fact!

  But God bless Sam for never trying to change me.

  “Tina, Kate’s here!” I hear my mother yell up the stairs. “Go on up, darling.”

  Mum is relishing the hustle of the day and blossoming into the mother-of-the-bride role effortlessly.

  Kate pops her head around the bedroom door. “Is it safe to come in?” she says, pushing the door back and slowly entering like her theatrical curtain has just risen. God, does she look amazing!

  “Wow, look at you!” I say.

  “You look beautiful, Kate,” Sam agrees.

  “I’m supposed to say that to you!” Kate laughs, taking in Sam’s head-to-toe exterior. “Although I’m not sure about the towelling dress. Perhaps something a little more traditional might be more appropriate?”

  Sam picks up a lilac satin cushion from the bed and hurls it towards Kate who ducks with impressive speed. Kate picks the cushion up and puts it back on the pillow. Kate’s fingers run across the gold embroidered lettering SH.

  “I kn
ow what you’re thinking,” I say to Kate quick as a flash.

  During our first year at secondary school we attended mandatory needlework classes with a head-case of a teacher called Mrs Pringle, often referred to as Mrs Prickle. Or Mrs Pric on a really bad day. At the start of our very first class, she gave us the option of making a rather kinky-looking nightdress or a decorative satin cushion. Given that neither Kate nor I could see the fun in doing either, we opted for the cushion, thinking we were taking the easy option so we could finish it quickly and skive for the rest of the term’s classes. You take a piece of square material, stick some sort of stuffing filler inside of it and then sew it together so it doesn’t fall out. Right? Well, that was the height of our experience at the age of twelve anyway. Horrified, we discovered that each cushion had to have a specific design on its cover and the bulk of our assessment score would be judged on its decorative complexity.

  Kate chose to weave a simple cross in the centre of her cushion on the basis that it would win her Brownie points. And given we were in one of the most strict Church of England schools in the county I could understand the merits of her choice, but I decided that my cushion was to be a gift to my big sister who was in fifth year at the same school. I would often see her in the playground, hanging around with her friends and I truly thought she was the coolest sister in the world. Every now and then she would come and check on me or give me money for sweets on the way home and so I dedicated my cushion to her with hand-stitched SH gold lettering and a series of woven kisses in each of the four corners. The innocence of a twelve-year-old!

  She loved it and hence has never parted with it.

  While Sam escapes to the bathroom to inspect her freshly made-up face, I confide in Kate about my escapade with Brian. I’ve been conscious of a cheapness hanging over me ever since.

  “I feel like a cheap old slapper, Kate,” I moan. “Fancy getting them out like that in the middle of the afternoon!”

  “Stop being so bloody prudish, Tina,” she dismisses me bluntly, retouching her lip gloss in the hand-held mirror. “You’d had enough failed attempts by that stage and you guys must have been like dogs on heat!” She tilts her head back and gives a canine yelp. “Oow oow!”