Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “Can you please try again? I’m nowhere near my credit limit.”

  These machines are so temperamental. I keep the credit limit fairly low to avoid the temptation of going spend-happy, but generally I’m pretty constrained. I got my fingers burnt with credit-card debt as a student and I’ve managed to avoid a repeat scenario since. As a matter of course, I carry only a single credit card at any one time. It’s safer that way.

  I take a seat and wait patiently while she tries the card once more.

  She shakes her head. “Same again.”

  Huffing with a tiredness made worse by this twelve-hour day, I part with what cash I have in my purse, dialling the credit-card company as I turn to leave.

  Some holiday this is turning out to be. Day one and I’m wrecked!

  25

  The streets are littered and dirty with gangs of teenagers hanging from street corners, hooded and armed with attitude. With no remaining cash for a cab, I’ve been forced to walked to the Ambassador. My back is aching from the weight of the holdall and my shoulder is bruised from yesterday’s passing-out episode (a familiar occurrence at the funeral parlour, it seems).

  My hair is frizzy and dry, suffering from alienation and the damp north-west air.

  I spot an off-licence and cross over to the other side of the road, desperate for a drink. With less than a fiver to spend, I opt for a cheap bottle of German white with a screw cap and the temptation not to swig it on the journey is killing me, especially after the news I’ve just had. I’m still in a state of shock. I had a three-thousand-pound limit on that card. I can’t understand it. The adviser was extremely pleasant as she read out to me the list of transactions and I swear I detected a degree of humour in her voice. Okay, so I went to see those guys a couple of times and had one or two telephone readings, from memory, but I never expected the bills to add up to this. Twenty minutes here, half an hour there and you’re talking hundreds. And hundreds. And more.

  I squeeze the wine bottle into the holdall, giving myself a mental bollocking as I relay the list of items read out to me. Crystals, sleep-inducing water, tarot cards, a library of books, the medium pendulum, daily horoscope text messages, a crystal ball . . . oh and calls charged at one pound fifty a minute! Stupid, stupid cow.

  This is not turning out how I imagined. None of it is.

  I battle with myself for the remainder of the journey, something I haven’t done for years – apart from of late. There are so many things to deliberate, the business which is starting to become extremely successful, my love life which appears to have taken a nosedive and my absolute inability to be me, like I used to be. I miss myself.

  Message after message has been left for Brian and not once has he returned my calls or texts. Good enough, he’s kept to his word and one of his men is carrying out the building work for the new shop as we speak, but in terms of contact with him, it’s non-existent and for the first time I’m beginning to wonder whether in fact he isn’t my soul mate after all. Maybe she was right in that “no woman can tame him”? I certainly don’t appear to have succeeded. Or maybe she was wrong? Wrong in her vocation, wrong in her message and wrong for telling me something she couldn’t possibly have known without knowing me? Although what feels right is as clear as mud these days and once again I feel compelled to ask for some help. But it’s those very words that provide the clarity I need to remind myself just how the debts ran so high. I need help! Every time I’ve been required to make any type of decision, no matter how small, I’ve called one of them, whatever they answer to – psychic, fortune-teller, clairvoyant, spiritualist – but I’ve ended up more confused than ever. I’m no longer capable of making choices or sticking with a simple decision and I’m stuck in a strange zone from which I can’t escape. It’s almost like being an addict. Just one more, I tell myself. Okay but this will definitely be the last. But it never is.

  I frantically scroll through my phone’s address book, speed-dialling the number while grabbing my purse for my bank card.

  “Look, I’m in a desperate hurry and I need help fast.” The words sprint from my mouth.

  This one is definitely the last. I really mean it.

  “What else have you been in then, Tina?” Craig enquires, knocking back the remainder of his drink. At the rate he’s downing Jack Daniels there’s going to be a sore head amongst us tomorrow.

  “I haven’t been in anything for years,” I tell him, slightly embarrassed. “I left acting a while back to set up my own business.”

  “Cool. What do you do?” He rattles the ice around, swigging back any watery remnants.

  “I’m an estate agent,” I tell him proudly. “I’m just about to open my second office.”

  He looks suitably impressed. “Wow. How are you managing to juggle the business and Stiffs without a nervous breakdown?”

  “I have the most amazing office manager,” I gloat. “She’ll have the place ticking over nicely.”

  “I’ve always fancied being my own boss, you know, when I get bored of this stuff.” He gestures to the waiter for more drinks. “Maybe owning a restaurant or a bar or something.”

  “That’s what my best friend wants to do, open a restaurant but serving fat-free food.” I giggle. “Kate is as thin as they come but she won’t eat more than twenty grams of fat per day as she says the camera puts too much weight on her.” I wince as another glass of white wine is placed in front of me. I’m exhausted.

  “Kate,” he repeats. “She’s in the business then?”

  “Kate Symms,” I boast. “She’s my best friend.”

  He grins at me, chinking his glass against mine. “Every man’s perfect pin-up.”

  “Yes, she’d be mine too!” I think out loud.

  He looks dramatically shocked and raises an eyebrow. “Are you two . . .?”

  “God, no!” I squeal. “We’re way past that stuff now!”

  I wobble to my feet, thanking Raymond for his kindness and promising to pay him back tomorrow night. Despite the insistent offers, I decide to call it a night and decline to join the others on their quest for absolute drunkenness. I hardly know my lines for tomorrow’s scenes. For those folk who do only this for a living it’s easier, but for me, trying to run a business between burying my head in pages of scripts, it isn’t easy.

  Thankfully Balmy is more of a thinker than a talker but she says enough, and it’s what she doesn’t say that makes those scenes all the more difficult. In addition, I need to know most of Raymond’s lines so I know what I have to do or say once he’s finished, and the timing has to be to absolute precision. Do something too fast or too slow and the entire scene has to be reshot, stand an inch too far to the left or right and you’re out of range. What looks so natural on television is about as natural as an albino with a sun tan. There’s so much to remember but all I can think about right now is getting a good night’s sleep.

  The room is pitch black and I flick the bedside lamp on to check the time. Damn. It’s four a.m. and I’ve been out for the count, fully clothed. The script sheets are crumpled where I’ve rolled on to them and I gather them, putting them under the heavy mattress to straighten out. I wriggle out of my jeans and T-shirt before diving back into bed with only two more hours of sleep before the alarm goes off.

  The set is awesome today, a little too awesome really. It looks like a replica of the funeral home and I did hear that Frank Bolton played some part in its design. Metal tables are lined up in the middle of the room with clinical white sheets draped over them. Some of the extras have been painted pale grey with blue lips and are lying partially naked beneath the thin white cloths, the hard surfaces no doubt aiding their pained expression and as they lie there, breath held.

  The camera films a shot of the empty room. The scene is shot from inside the room and the camera zooms in on the door. The sound of a key turning can be heard amidst the absolute silence of death. The door creaks open and the camera closes in on a pair of black shoes entering mutely. As it travels north, it
stops at the neck of the intruder, leaving us guessing just who it is. It continues its journey of intrigue by capturing a shot of the person from behind. We see him remove the plastic sheet from a resting female before he begins to fondle her breasts. His other hand disappears to crotch level and a gesticulating action is clearly evidenced, the deliberate sound effects make clear to the viewer exactly what is happening but without the graphic imagery.

  My stomach is turned but good on Raymond for his performance – he’s amazing as is the poor model lying there allowing her tits to be fondled by someone earning ten times her daily sum.

  “Cut!”

  Raymond fumbles with his fly, apologising to the actress for his cold hands.

  “You’ve done that before!” I tease him.

  “Not without a pulse, I haven’t!” He laughs dirtily. “Do you want to run over our next scenes?”

  “Yeah, that would be good.” I rummage through my bag for the script, removing its entire contents but coming up empty-handed. I curse under my breath. “It’s under the bed.”

  “Whose bed?”

  “My bed.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “The script is under my bed in the hotel. I slept on it last night and put it under the mattress to straighten it out.” I feel like such an amateur right now. “I forgot to get it this morning. Can I share yours?”

  “You can share my bed any time, Tina!”

  Five missed calls and three voice mails.

  I listen to the messages and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. Chantelle sounds more and more irate with each message and while she has apologised for ringing me when I’m on holiday, it appears there is some sort of mistake she needs to talk to me about. Apparently we were supposed to complete on a purchase for a young couple yesterday but the bank have refused to release the funds until all offer conditions have been fully met. It seems the title deeds, which where sent to me, have disappeared. I do recall receiving them but I swear I sent them on to the clients’ solicitors.

  I think frantically before returning her call. The name sounds familiar and I can almost, if I try hard, recall putting the deeds in an envelope and into the external post tray. I dial the office, praying that no-one answers. I can’t lie to Chantelle usually but today I’ll have to.

  “Good afternoon, Harding Homes, Chantelle speaking.”

  She answered. Damn. “How are you coping?”

  “Fine, Tina, thanks, apart from this hiccup.” She sounds calm which is good. “About 87 Roundhay Gardens. The vendors’ solicitors say they posted the title deeds to you. They know this was in error and have apologised, blaming it on a trainee conveyancer but her file clearly shows they were sent for your attention two weeks ago.” She pauses. “Do you have them?”

  I rack my brains again to recall such a rare thing happening.

  “I’ll be honest, Chantelle, I do recall seeing some title deeds but I could have sworn I posted them back with a compliment slip, noting the error made. But I’d be lying if I said I could recall the full details.”

  “The Barkers moved out of their flat yesterday and have had to move in with family until the bank releases the money.” She sounds empathetic if a little fraught. “I wonder how quickly we can get another copy?”

  “Get back on to the vendors’ solicitors, and get them to explain to Planning what has happened. They should be able to request duplicate copies for a fee.” I sigh heavily and wish I was there to sort this out myself. “One thing’s for sure, the bank won’t release any mortgage funds until every single offer condition has been met.” I sigh heavily. “Wouldn’t you think their solicitor would have realised this one condition was still outstanding?” I tut. “Plus we need that commission so I’m keen to get it wrapped up, Chantelle.”

  “Absolutely.” She sounds a little guilty. “Sorry for bothering you on holiday by the way. How is it?”

  “It’s great, thanks. The usual sun, sea and sangria.” I laugh. Suddenly remembering that I’m supposed to be in Greece where they don’t drink sangria. It’s raki or ouzo. Thankfully she doesn’t twig.

  “Well, enjoy it and I’ll send you a text to let you know the outcome. Oh and sorry for all the messages. There were other problems I had to sort out but they’re done and dusted now.”

  Historically, we have made few mistakes at Harding Homes, but I can’t help but think that a few more and Chantelle might gain some much-needed experience in learning to put them right. On her own.

  Raymond and I run through our lines once more before going on set. I take my position by the corpse while he stands close behind me on a clearly marked spot. As usual I’m dressed in loose-fitting trousers and a blue linen overall, showing nothing of the figure I’ve worked so hard to maintain. The make-up is pale and uninteresting, giving me that barely there look. A look I detest in anybody.

  “Action.”

  Raymond as Craig removes his suit jacket and loosens his tie before opening the top button of his shirt. He looks stressed and agitated.

  “What’s gotten into you, Craig?” I ask blandly in my Balmy role as I apply concealer to the corpse’s painted blue lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  He looks uncomfortable and shifts nervously about the room.

  “These places give me the creeps,” he tells me. “I don’t know how you can work here, Balmy.” His words quite clearly speak a different language to his body and a look of lust is evident to all but Balmy who is engrossed in her work of art. “But I love you for it.”

  His hands grasp my shoulders from behind, massaging them roughly, using his thumbs. He fumbles with the belt of his trousers, dropping them to the floor and bites my neck with sexual vigour.

  “Craig!”

  I try to duck away from his hungry mouth but his hands wrap themselves around my waist, pulling me close and holding me firmly in place, face down. “I’m working! Stop it!” He clumsily grabs hold of my breasts with one hand, pulling my elasticated trousers down with the other and we simulate the act of full penetration. He thrusts rhythmically, holding onto my hips, staring at the corpse in front of him while I remain bent over with my back to him. “What do you do to their bodies, Balmy?” he pants excitedly.

  “We put – moisturiser – on them – to keeeep – their skiiin – sssoft . . .” My words break as I’m jerked forward with each intense thrust.

  “Where do you put it?” he shrieks.

  “Ev – ery – where!”

  He yells with orgasmic pleasure.

  “Cut!”

  We’re into the eleventh hour and my knees are starting to buckle. In between breaks I’ve been checking the office is running as smoothly as can be with so few staff and my eyes are blinking like mad as the continued fight to stay awake becomes more difficult with each passing moment. This is supposed to be fun and, while I am enjoying being on set, the fatigue of almost twelve hours, day in day out, is beginning to take its toll. The rest of the cast look as fresh as the first day, but me, I’m slowly starting to look like I need some serious embalming.

  Every night I’ve been falling into bed, often without my usual beauty regime, which is a clear indication of my low energy levels and I’m out cold before my head hits the pillow. Up at the crack of dawn, I shove a few spoonfuls of breakfast down with very strong coffee and bury my head in the day’s call sheet while refamiliarising myself with the lines. But it’s getting harder with every scene and I’ve noticed a few extra takes here and there which isn’t helping. This lie really feels like a lie now, a big fat one at that and I so wish I was sunbathing on a beach with my best friend, laughing at her childish quips and drinking ice-cold beer while planning my evening attire.

  I can’t believe I’ve kept this from everyone. My mum, my sister, my best friend, my colleagues and even the man I thought I was courting. Obviously not. I’m lonely and isolated and don’t ever remember working so hard for something I can’t even share with those I love. Living a lie is no fun and neither is
living a double life. I can’t, however, regret getting this out of my system. It must have been meant to be because, although I still feel like I belong in front of the camera, I feel more like I belong as Christina Harding, the businesswoman and honest citizen I am, or once was. Reliable, trustworthy and family-loving.

  Acting is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be and I can see why Kate speaks so harshly of it but, as she often says, she’s incapable of doing anything else so they’re stuck with her.

  Well, they’re not stuck with me. Good riddance! Almost.

  26

  The blasted phone hasn’t stopped ringing and I’m too tired to answer it after one of the hardest weeks of my life. I switch it off and thrust it deep into my bag.

  It’s the wrap party tonight and I’m determined to be the belle of the ball and show my fellow cast that beneath the baggy linen overcoat is a woman with curves in all the right places, although less after the physicality of this week. Raymond has been a complete flirt and I’m looking forward to making a grand entrance now that it appears I might be temporarily single. The ironic thing is that I can’t even pretend I’m overly sad about Brian although I am a little mixed up. We were doing so well together and the chemistry was there in bucketloads. For it to have ended so abruptly, with no warning and as far as I can see with no valid reason, is a blow. I feel more cross towards him than anything else. A simple sorry would have sufficed.

  I cast my eye over the Rolex, wondering whether I should give it back. No chance, matey! I miss the cars, the expensive meals and the prospects of what could have been, but it’s the what-could-have-beens that have landed me in so much trouble lately. It should have been me. It could have been me. Maybe he’s my soul mate. Maybe it’s meant to be. Perhaps I’m supposed to take this path . . .

  I perk up as I take in the view of myself in the mirror, glamorous and sexy on the outside and absolutely wasted on the inside. My limbs ache, my head hurts and my mind would be happy not to think of anything else for all eternity, but as usual I’m incapable of switching off. In fact, I’m surprised I even sleep at all.