Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “Why didn’t you tell them the truth about what you were doing?”

  I decide to answer him honestly. “Because I’d already tried my hand at acting and, while I had some successes, it wasn’t enough to carve a career out of it.” I clear my throat. “Plus I didn’t really know why I was doing it, especially with a business to run, so all things considered it wouldn’t have gone down well with anyone.” Apart from my mum. “I got the part by sheer default and, to be honest, it never ever felt right seeing it through so I lied about it.” I don’t mention Kate who warned me to steer clear of her.

  John raises his eyebrows towards the live crowd who are oohing and aahing their way through the show. I tell all how it was when I auditioned for the role, right through to being found out, planting the odd white lie here and there to glamorize it, but mostly I plug the show at every given opportunity. It was so tempting to talk about Harding Homes but that wasn’t the deal and I’m a woman of my word. And I want out.

  The crowd gasp with excitement as I tell of my trip to the funeral parlour and I leak authorised snippets of the storyline to wet their appetite.

  “What’s next for you then, Christina?” John asks.

  “Watch the show and see for yourself. I can say no more than that.” I smile at him and he stands up, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek.

  “Thank you for telling us your story, Christina.”

  He takes centre stage, once again reading from the auto-cue.

  “That’s it from The Today Show, ladies and gentlemen.” The camera zooms in. “Just remember that honesty really is the best policy.”

  The camera takes one last shot of me sitting there serenely without a care in the world. If only they knew.

  I activate the alarm and yank the door closed as I leave.

  Today was a long, lonely day without Chantelle and it felt like I had lost my right arm. I miss her, I need her, and all the more to keep me grounded after last night’s show was aired. I have barely been able to walk down the street without being mobbed. Okay, slight exaggeration, but I have lost count of how many autographs I’ve signed today and the most irritating part of it all is that I’m desperate to sell houses and get on with business as usual. But everyone else wants to focus on the celebrity gossip and the apparent glamour of this rather peculiar industry. Momentarily I imagine how life would look with a permanent role in a long-running, successful series or more importantly, in my temporary vision, how much money I would earn. And then I laugh. I don’t care.

  Glad to see the long day drawing to a close, I lock the door, thrusting against it with my hip to check it’s firmly secured. Stepping back I feel my heel penetrate something soft and a loud yelp belts down my right ear.

  I swing around. “I’m so sorry!” I apologise to the owner of the foot and then look up at him. “Brian!”

  He hops around like a fool, rubbing the front of his expensive suede shoe. “Why do women never wear flat shoes?”

  “Some do.”

  “Like who?”

  I stop dead, pensively. “Traffic Wardens!”

  Brian pulls me towards him, planting his lips on mine. How I’ve missed them! Missed him. And by the looks of things he’s missed me.

  “Uniforms – now we’re talking,” he replies indecently. He behaves like we have never been apart. His blue eyes are alight and incandescent as he checks me out sinfully. “You were great last night by the way.” He surveys me, making no attempt to hide his lustful scrutiny.

  You’re not so bad yourself, Mr Steen. I look towards the sky, praying silently. Thank you, God! Oh, by the way, there’s just one other thing I need some help with . . .

  The small row of town houses are immaculately groomed and the street is free from debris. A neighbour waves across at me, continuing to scrub the small doorstep on her hands and knees. The scent of bleach stings the warm air, cleaning it abrasively.

  I press down on the metal latch of the rusty gate, pushing it back as it creaks with aged fatigue. The narrow concrete path is lined with an array of potted plants bursting with colour and oozing a summer scent slightly premature for this time of year, and the small square of grass is immaculately mown with newly turned borders.

  At a snail’s pace my feet travel up the short path until I can walk no further and I stop and simply stare at the replica front door. The shiny brass greets me with my own reflection and it echoes my apprehension. I’m nervous. More nervous than I’ve been for a long long time and I desperately need the outcome of this to be positive, otherwise I’m finished. Okay, maybe ‘finished’ is a little dramatic, given I started off on my own, but Chantelle has been instrumental in helping me grow the business and I realise that I need her more than she needs me.

  I flip the matching brass letterbox a few times, letting it fall back with a tinny clang. My fingerprints leave their trace on its highly polished surface and I quickly rub them away with my sleeve.

  An elegant lady, perfectly preened, surveys me. Her eyes squint with scrutiny and for a moment I feel exposed, revealed. She clasps her hands together. “Tina, how wonderful to see you!” She takes hold of my arm, leading me into the box-sized hallway. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” She laughs. “And how are things with you, dear?”

  I follow her into the kitchen and plonk myself down on a chair while she lifts a teapot, clad in its knitted garment and shakily pours it into three matching mugs. I watch her hand tremble and my emotions almost capsize at the thought of anything happening to her.

  “Arthritis,” she explains. “It’s crippling me but still I shouldn’t complain. There’s always someone worse off than me, isn’t that right, dear?”

  From the moment I met Grace I fell in love with her and her amazing outlook on life and I can clearly see where Chantelle’s humility derives from. Her name encapsulates the very essence of her soul and her magic continues to live on through her beautiful and gracious granddaughter.

  “Where’s Chantelle?” I cringe, wondering just how much Grace knows.

  “She’s upstairs.” She sips her drink unsteadily. “Be a dear and tell her there is some tea for her, please. Or take it up to her perhaps?”

  I prise myself reluctantly from the chair.

  “It’s not like her to be unwell, is it, Tina?”

  I’m not sure whether that’s a rhetorical question or if there was any hidden agenda behind such a statement, but I pick up the mug and make my way up the freshly hoovered stairs, leaving a trail of flattened prints behind me.

  Tapping anxiously on her bedroom door, I will her not to answer so I can leave the tea outside and run away fast.

  “Come in, Tina.”

  Still in her pyjamas, Chantelle is propped against the pillows, staring at the portable television on her antique dressing table. She pulls her legs up to her chest, giving me room to sit down on the end of the bed. I glance around, wondering how she survives there – I feel claustrophobic already.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I heard you downstairs.” She lifts the mug of tea. “Thanks.”

  I face her head on, keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.

  “Chantelle, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now but please hear me out,” I beg her. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  29

  The party spills out onto the street and passersby stop to watch the commotion. One by one they’re yanked in for complimentary drinks, their pockets stuffed with business cards.

  The room has been tastefully decorated with earthy corporate colours of stone, clay and vanilla. It feels bright and airy but still exudes a homely ambience.

  Matching pearlised balloons float gracefully on the newly plastered ceiling with tightly curled satin ribbons falling elegantly beneath. Large banners of the company’s logo sit proudly on the three available walls and freshly printed marketing material is prominently displayed at eye level for easy reading and housed in easy-to-clean transparent boxes. The
room reeks of success.

  The groomed waitresses squeeze through the crowds, holding high trays of canapés with scallops, crayfish and fois gras and chilled champagne flows plentifully, served from borrowed flutes, its giddy effects taking their toll on some of the guests. The atmosphere is rich with enthusiasm as all enjoy the free-for-all. Today is an open house and a perfect opportunity for me to play the hostess role that I so love and all with the support of my family close by me.

  Camberwell Road is a perfect party venue. Not only does it hold double the capacity of the High Street office, it also offers more competition from the other estate agents who have set up shop on the main strip of this double-sided street. At one stage I might have felt threatened by that, but in the past it’s actually worked in my favour. People shop around usually, hopping from agent to agent, but once Chantelle and I have them in our grasp, we won’t lose them. But in my opinion, there’s only one estate agency I can see penetrating the marketplace around here. And that’s mine. I’ve never felt such a fierce determination to make this work. Not even when I first started out. And the prospect of losing all of this has made me want it all the more.

  The local press have arrived as requested and are snapping away at poor unassuming folk. No press is bad press, as they say. I did try to get the national press involved with me being a familiar name and that but it’s so true, what is one day’s news is the next day’s chip-wrappers and no-one really cares now that I’ve turned up alive and well. How dull is that? I imagine next week when Stiffs is aired their response might be somewhat different but I dare not cross that line with Nick. My word is my honour and if it weren’t for him, and Simon of course, this party wouldn’t exist. I’d be chained to the camera with heavy bags under my eyes, working with a bunch of shallow knobs.

  This launch not only represents achievement and success, it represents a new chapter in my life, a new dawning and a way of living which encompasses everything that’s important to me: trust, self-belief and grounding. It took me a while to learn these simple ethics.

  I caved in and told my family about my roller-coaster journey of readings and the rationale, or lack of it, behind the strange series of events. My parents as always were empathetic, but Sam, she just threw her head back and laughed until she cried and just when I thought she was calming down, she’d start all over again at which point I started to see the funny side of it. The pair of us chortled away like we did when we used to sneak into each other’s bedrooms, pretending to be asleep whenever we heard Mum or Dad coming up to check on us. I’ve missed her so much. I feel like I’ve been leading a double life and wearing a mask which restricted seeing who I really was, but I’m back now and while it’s been a difficult ride I can honestly say that I wouldn’t change a thing. What’s the point? It’s the crap life throws at you that makes you who and what you are – it develops you and if you’ve any sense you’ll learn from it and embrace it.

  “Tina, the car’s pulling up!” Lucy squeals.

  Lucy is the new sales advisor for Camberwell Road and has natural ability in shed-loads. She’s young and can learn at an accelerated pace and my gut tells me she’s going to need to be a fast learner the way the housing market is moving.

  “Move the cones, please, Lucy, thanks.” My voice quakes with excitement.

  We pile outside to see the Mercedes pulling up and Lucy removes the cones to make available their reserved parking space. I glance at my mum who already has tears in her eyes. No more champagne for her! My dad has his video camera rolling away to capture the moment although he’s promised not to come anywhere near me with it, or else!

  The car rolls to a smooth halt and the driver jumps out, opening the rear door. His hands are clothed with pristine white gloves and he lends one of them to the lady who exits with graceful poise. Her consort follows and they stand together waiting to be announced.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the driver announces. “Lady Mayoress and her consort.”

  The gathering breaks into an uproar, clapping loudly and stamping their feet.

  I step forward with my hand extended and curtsey simultaneously, a move I’ve been practising at great length.

  “Thank you for coming.” My voice is a little shaky and I’m more scared than I thought I’d be. “Are you ready?” I ask her, bowing ever so slightly to show total respect.

  Lady Mayoress smiles at me with a warm assurance and takes the scissors from my hand.

  “Stand back, please!” I yell to the crowd as she makes her way towards the open door which is dressed with a thick band of silk purple ribbon.

  She attaches the scissors to the centre of it, holding them there, and pausing for effect she turns to the crowd.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls,” her voice is audible and confident, “it is with great pleasure that I witness the opening of this new enterprise in our town.” She looks directly at me before snipping the ribbon which falls down weightlessly. “I wish you every success. Let us celebrate by raising our glasses to the Harding and Hungerford Partnership.”

  Ouch! Chantelle’s nails dig into my hand and I whisper in her ear for her to let go. Now!

  “That’s my name up there and it’s taking up more space than yours!” she gloats, takes a massive gulp of champagne, then clinks her glass against mine. “I’ve got more letters! I’ve got more letters!”

  “Well, at least I know I’ve hired someone who can count.”

  Chantelle coughs with an air of importance. “Actually, Ms Harding, you haven’t hired me,” she scolds. “We are equal business partners for this shop, might I remind you.”

  As if I could forget.

  I grin with pride at her sudden air of confidence and self-belief. She’ll never let it go to her head, she’s not like that, but she will give it everything she’s got, that much I know. Why else would I have created such a proposition? Apart from the fact that she deserves it of course.

  “How do you get on with Lucy?”

  “She’s brilliant, Tina.” Chantelle beckons Lucy over. “Nothing is too much trouble and it’s mainly down to her that we’ll be ready for business on Monday morning.”

  Lucy stands in between us and we raise our glasses to girl power and an all-female business.

  “Wait for me!” Heather excuses herself through the foot traffic but, substantially overweight, she’s pretty slow in getting here. She bounces off the poor folk standing in her way, sending them flying with her hefty frame.

  “Hurry up, Heather!” Chantelle shouts authoritatively. “I’m gasping to KB this!”

  Heather arrives, panting from the mere six-foot journey.

  “KB?” she frowns and Lucy laughs loudly.

  “Knock Back, Heather,” she tells her. “It’s slang.”

  Heather salutes us all with her full glass and drinks its entire content in a single gulp. She surveys our faces smugly. “Slang, don’t make me laugh. Actions speak louder than words, you lightweights!”

  I make a point of finding out who is who. It’s always good to have allies and like-minded people you can turn to when the need arises. Quite a few faces are already familiar, although perhaps I recognise them from the plethora of visits here, one visit in particular which I can’t forget. Talking of the man himself, Brian and his team are all here. They’ve turned up to support us and, regardless of the minor issues we’ve had personally, I can honestly say I couldn’t have done it without him. He gave me the contract and provided all the building work and, most importantly, he gave me the biggest confidence booster I’ve ever had. Him. There are times when I ask myself whether I’ve just used him for suitability, but I think not. Maybe he used me? But regardless of how I won the contract, only we at Harding Homes sold those apartments, perhaps with a slightly unusual sales strategy but still we did it and no-one can take the credit for that away from us. And my bitch of a best friend for buying one!

  I watch Brian chatting to Lucy. She knows of him but hasn’t been formerly introduced. I make my way ove
r, waving behind them to my dad who gives me the thumbs-up. He’s still trying to capture a ‘You’ve been framed’ clip. He’s a typical accountant in that he’ll do anything for money.

  “Have you two been properly introduced?” I take in Brian’s delight at talking to the young Lucy.

  “Miss Harding.” He bows slightly. “We’re not worthy, it appears.”

  I see Lucy grimace from the corner of my eye but choose to ignore her. She really doesn’t know him from Adam and, besides, she’s young and probably not a good judge of character at her tender age.

  “Nonsense.” I shake his hand formally as part of the act. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Brian, and I mean that with all sincerity.” He looks shocked at my formality but now is not the time to flirt with him. There is only one firm agenda behind today and that involves myself and my new business partner.

  Surveying the room, taking in its hustle and the hum of contented guests, I spot Simon arriving late as usual and in desperate need of a shave. I observe his confidence as he walks through the gathering, smiling sincerely and excusing himself profusely, a gentleman through and through.

  “Will you excuse me, please, Brian?” I disappear before he can answer, conscious that I have another person to whom I owe much gratitude.

  I tap Simon on the shoulder, ducking down to hide as he turns around. “Boo!” I jump up, almost head-butting him, and he pretends to be taken aback.

  “Blimey, you’re scary!” He acts pretty well but then again just look at his vocation. I don’t know a lawyer that isn’t a born performer. “No, I really mean it, Tina, you are scary!” he teases solemnly.