Crystal Balls (30 page)

“Ha ha. And, erm,
no
!”

“Well, did you give her ours?”

I kick myself mentally for coming up with such a bloody stupid name. Hazel Topping! I did go to school with a girl named Hazel but God only knows what her surname was – it certainly
wasn’t Topping.

“I bet she’d be up for a good whipping!” Brian continues in full flow.

You asked for it, Tina.
I coolly ignore his continued gestures and silly but actually funny quips as my mind plays the scene of the first floor over and over again. And again. The sheer
buzz of it, the thrill of the familiarity, the tingling sensation as you await your turn to demonstrate your natural ability in front of the camera, pushing yourself as the next amazing talent yet
to be discovered. The anticipation that it could be you. You’ve as much chance as anyone else in the room. Haven’t you? But sadly, the harsh reality of it all is simply this:
does
your face fit?
As I said, in the years I spent as an aspiring actress, I often starved myself for days on end, once surviving on nothing more than two pieces of toast in a whole week. My hair
was died a peroxide blonde and every casting saw me turned out to perfection. My young, naïve mindset advised me that you had to be some type of
Baywatch
pin-up to make it and even when
I’d hung up my cloak I agonised over whether I’d failed due to carrying that extra few pounds during certain times of the month or whether it was the cursed freckles my ancestors
unkindly donated. The inherited freckle gene. Why me? Only as the years have passed and I’ve become more mature and secure in my own skin has the penny dropped, just a few years too late.
Why, in casting, is it necessary to look like anyone other than yourself? Why turn out like a blonde bombshell when they could be casting for the girl next door? Why put your body at the risk of
infertility by eating tissues and shoving fingers down your throat when they might be looking for a girl mirroring the national average size fourteen? Why feel the need to go blonde and sexy,
spending a fortune on dying every last strand, not to mention matching eyebrows when they could be looking for a Plain Jane brunette? It’s simple logic, isn’t it? But at the time that
degree of lateral thinking bypasses you. You feel the constant pressure of younger, thinner girls pipping you at the post, leaving you standing alone in the cold to once again analyse the very
thing to which no reply ever comes.
Why not me?

Whatever is going on in the casting suite must be high budget because of the massive turnout, not to mention the choice of casting location. It also means it’s likely to be a production
filmed in the North West. Castings don’t generally hit the road unless they are for some sad talent show – they’re usually carried out within close proximity to the filming
location. Instantaneously, I think about the contract and the speed of our success, the pending value of its impressive commission and the second office we’re
this
close to securing. I
envisage myself driving past a Harding Homes office beaming with pride as I pass yet another and another and am in Tina heaven with my very own empire at my size-six feet. I fantasize about living
next door to Kate, rubbing shoulders with anyone who’s anyone, popping in for a latte with television’s latest sensations and meeting and greeting in the gym for a mild workout followed
by cocktails galore, my competent management team subconsciously forcing me to down yet another as I sit back in the comfort and thought of sleeping in the next day, afforded by the luxury of well
paid and highly motivated staff.
How many years from now though, Tina? It might never happen.

I’m well on my way already. It is happening.

A successful TV series would bring this level of comfort overnight.

And then what? A quick win, then back to estate agency, or sell the business and back to door-knocking? No, thanks.

“
Your success won’t necessarily come in the form of your job or money.”
Her voice rings in my ears. But what is success to me? Is it purely financial? Or is it a sense
of achieving the unachievable? I wish I knew. I thought I knew.

“
Your career sits in isolation from what you deem to be success.”

Stupid woman, repeating herself! You’ve made your point already.

What have you got to lose? It’s just an audition!

It’s pure regression, I’ve moved on.

Isn’t it strange that you’re here while they’re here? It’s meant to be, Tina. Go for it!

Life is full of coincidences. That door was closed a long time ago and it was the right decision. I’ve achieved great things since then and my life is exactly where I want it to be.

Who are you trying to kid?

Ah, shut up!

The tip of his tongue teases my bottom lip, flicking it roughly, teasing with its sharp edge. I part my lips, desperate to feel it in my eager mouth but he continues on the
outside only, making my tongue redundant. I surrender to his overpowering strength, resting and preserving my energy for when I’m invited to join in the exertion. He expertly worms his way
into my mouth, writhing and slippery, exploring it with vigour and a fiery passion.
My turn at last.
Locked in a head-on collision, our mouths launch in simultaneous attack as we thrust and
bite, with the intensity rising second by second, and my hips thrust against him in a reflex action. Brian slides his fingers through my hair, grabbing it with a rough tenderness and clenching his
fists around it while pulling my head back. He pounces on my open neck, licking it from bottom to top, his tongue simulating the lascivious actions of lapping dripping ice-cream, and my neck feels
the skilful touch of his warm sweetness applied with a delicate touch. He leads me to the bed, still in oral embrace, and we perch on the end awkwardly. My hands slowly clasp his thick, firm waist,
kneading it aggressively to get a true feel for his well-toned body before sliding up his torso towards his impressive pectorals. He groans with pleasure as I feel around for his nipples,
scratching them with manicured nails over protective clothing which has outlived its welcome. Slowly, I unbutton his shirt to the waist, pushing it away on each side to reveal his tanned chest and
perfectly proportioned body hair, blonde and appetising. I nuzzle into it, inhaling its rich fragrance, hyperventilating with each draw of short, sporadic breath. Single-handed, he expertly opens
the buttons of my shirt and my nipples tingle with apprehension but he takes it slowly, kissing my chest with tiny pecks, stopping at the impressive cleavage, a creation credited to the push-up bra
only. I breathe in, lifting my ribcage, ballooning my chest in the process, emphasising that it’s ready and waiting.

Rising to my knees, I straddle him, gaining an air of dominatrix confidence as I look down at him.
He’s still thinning on top.
Grabbing his shoulders, I push him so forcibly that he
tumbles into a perfect horizontal position and I wallow in my new level of control. Shuffling clumsily, my knees move up inch by inch until my hips are in line with his crotch and with aggressive
movements I push against his hard bulge, simulating sex without the actual penetration. He groans, grabbing my hips, adding pressure to the friction with the weight of his grip and an immediate
wetness gushes through me, giving me sunstroke symptoms with the intense heat. As his hand travels up to my open neck, his watch brushes my skin, cold and sterile, and I glance down at its
expensive face.
Don’t look at the time. Don’t look at the time.
The remaining few shirt buttons come undone and Brian pulls back the flesh of my see-through bra to reveal a
single pert C-cup. My nipples harden with insane speed and I’m caught on the verge of an orgasm without actual sex. It’s just too much!

Your hour is nearly up, Tina! Don’t miss the opportunity.

Once again I’m in the throes of passion with one of the Mersey’s best catches but this time, come hell or high water, we’ll damn well get it on.

Just make an excuse. Tell him you’ve got business to take care off. Improvise, it’s what you do best!

N. O.

I plunge down onto Brian, our bare skin touches, releasing an immediate stickiness. My mouth clasps his for planned distraction and he takes the opportunity to yank the shirt from my shoulders,
pulling it down from my arms and throwing it across the king-size bed before un-clipping the ludicrously expensive bra.

Tina, your chance is slipping away.

Then it’s not mean to be, is it?

For some reason, flashes of the old woman at the Psychic Fayre penetrate my thoughts and unwittingly I cease the oral fanfare with Brian. The intensity of her ageing eyes, the questions she
answered that I didn’t ask, the concern she held for my regard. “
You have not yet learned to trust your inner voice . . . believe in yourself . . . find a way to forgive
yourself.”
Maybe I haven’t forgiven myself? Maybe my mother hasn’t forgive me for her lifelong investment which realised no return. Why can’t I simply accept the past
for what it was? For what it is.
“I feel that you are battling with a failed past . . .”
Maybe she was right. Why would she spoof at her age? Surely she’s a bit long in the
tooth to go around telling porkies? And she did look genuine. And caring. She practically read my mind!
“Trust your inner voice.”

I am your inner voice. Trust me. Just do it!

I leap from the bed with the aid of a bolt of electricity, an inner current created momentarily. Brian stares at me in wonderment like a dog with its juicy bone taken away. “Tina, what are
you doing?” He watches as I grab my bra and shirt before disappearing into the bathroom, dressing at breakneck speed, grabbing my carelessly tossed shoes from each side of the room. My face
is flushed and I need a cold shower but there is no time. No time at all.

“Tina, what’s going on?” Brian stands there, naked from the waist up, but clearly dressed with a look of pent-up frustration.

“I am so sorry,” I lie with ease. “I forgot I have a telephone appointment and I’m late for it!” I inject a tone of urgency to my voice to convince him.
“It’s a deal I can’t afford to lose,” I add quickly, flinging my bag over my shoulder.

“But . . .”

His hand thrusts into the air, open and questioning as the exasperation kicks in but I’m already out of the door, running to the elevator at top speed with the aid of the lush shag pile
helping to bounce me that little bit further with every step. I’m sprinting like my life depends on it. Maybe it does?

The first floor is eerily quiet by earlier comparison and the lingering disappointment of many stings the climate-controlled air. Scrunched-up numbers lie angrily tossed, refusing to hide their
disappointment and sulking for all the world to see. The administration table is still manned by the same person but as I make my way towards her my stomach sinks with a deep fear that I may be too
late. The place is empty. Beads of sweat sit on my upper lip and I dare not lift up my arms for fear of wet patches. Talking of which I truly do need a thorough wash everywhere, but acting is
acting and I’ll have to make do and think myself clean. In my mind’s eye, I see Brian standing in the plush executive suite, alone, wondering what the hell just happened – this
time. Will he blame me? Will he take it personally? My excuse is pretty valid though – he can hardly expect me to lose out on a lucrative opportunity because of heightened libido! How selfish
would that be? And it’s nothing we can’t take up from where we left off. And let’s face it, it’s starting to become a habit. I’m sure he expects little else.

“Sorry I’m late,” I pant. “I had to go back to work and I barely made it out.” My words are short and clipped as the nerves kick in and I’m out of breath. My
vital signs feel like they’re shutting down and the backs of my knees wobble slightly.

She looks up at me with the same friendly face and down-to-earth expression.

“Boss trouble?”

I nod emotionally.

“No worries, love. There’s a girl in there now who had a scheduled meeting with the director but she should be out in a minute or two.”

I wipe the sweat from my lip and waft the neckline of my shirt to let in some much-needed air. “Get yourself a glass of water. Looks like you need it!” She grins, exposing a perfect
set of white teeth. Her only immaculate feature apart from her empathetic temperament.

At the back of the room I find a table and quickly grab a clean glass, filling it with water before knocking it back, sloshing the remnants around in my mouth to cleanse my palate and rid it of
the taste of Brian.
Nothing personal, Brian. It’s all very short term.
Flicking open the silver clasp, I peer in my small mirror, horrified at the person looking back at me. My lips
are like a blow-up doll’s, puffy and red with lipstick as far up as my nose. My cheeks are red and hot and any evidence of cheekbones is long gone. My eyes aren’t too bad although they
are a little bloodshot but nothing that a squirt of eye-drops won’t sort out. With impressive speed, I cleanse my face with a tissue dabbed in water before dotting tinted moisturiser around
and rubbing it in, quickly but gently. A second coat of mascara opens up my eyes and I apply a layer of clear lip gloss to my reformed mouth before finishing with a light sweep of blusher on each
cheek.
That’s better. I wonder if I’ve time to nip to the loo?

The casting door opens and I freeze as I hear the distinct sound of a recognisable voice.
No, it can’t be.
I listen again to the man and woman holding the conversation.
It is. Oh
shit! Think, Tina, think!
Darting behind the nearest pillar, I hold my breath and stand rigid like a wooden soldier, pinning my arms to my side. The voice becomes louder and I pray I
won’t be seen. I can’t risk it. I make a dive towards the table behind me, scrambling underneath it and curling into a ball. A five-foot-seven-sized ball.
Damn.
My handbag is
left on the table next to the water jug. The door closes with a bang and the voices continue.