Crystal Balls (7 page)

I’ve heard that before.

“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Everything happens for a reason, my dear,” she answers gently.

“Not this,” I retort, angry at myself.

“Let this not be a wasted experience for you.”

I find the break in the curtains with relief and am as desperate to run back out as I was to run in.

“Tina!” she calls to me and I stop to look back at her elderly face and stooped posture. Her distorted hands are dry and craggy.

“You know . . .” She pauses. “It is okay to be less than your dreams.”

I stand there just staring as her tired red eyes pierce through my soul, washing me out and leaving me with a feeling of great unease.

Maybe. But is it okay to be less than others’ dreams for you?

Stopping off at the office, I deactivate the alarm and tear up the stairs to grab a bottle of champagne.

Every year we receive a case of this wonderful stuff from the solicitors across the street. The conveyancing staff over there are so efficient and thorough, and with their close proximity we
recommend them whenever we can. Keep it in the community, as they say. It certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by them and they reciprocate in any way possible. It’s usually on a social level
which is right up our street. Chantelle and I get invited to their Christmas bash, and every year we stagger home with enough post-bash gossip to last us through the following year. It’s
generally who’s shagging who, the ongoing sexual-harassment case against the senior partner, and the dirt on underhand transactions and who is doing them. Illegal as they are, they happen,
believe me. Alcohol does wonderful things to you, doesn’t it? It loosens the tongue, lubricates the imagination and releases all your inhibitions. Oh, and makes you think you can sing karaoke
better than anyone else in the universe.

Our office parties are extremely quiet by comparison. Besides Chantelle and myself, I employ Heather, the SAGE accountant, for two mornings a week, and Trisha, the singing cleaner, or
‘domestic’ in politically correct terms. She cleans for us three evenings a week. Much as the balance sheet is a glowing indication of Harding Homes’ success, the property
business is both fluctuating and somewhat seasonal and we get slaughtered by any social or economic downturn. We’re just coming out of the mid-winter crisis and very slowly prospective buyers
are starting to prise themselves out of hibernation, ready to face the property world and all the sharks in it. Or so they think.

For the time being, the salary overheads are right on their upper limit and an embargo has been placed on recruitment but once the sales pick up in the spring I fully intend to remunerate the
staff with some sort of sales incentive. Or commission bonus. I want to keep them and I want them to want to stay with me. Good management is all about satisfying your staff. Reward them with
thanks, encouragement and achievable incentives and in return they will serve you unequivocally. And if that doesn’t work get them completely pissed and they’ll love you forever!

Looking around, I note the odd jobs that need doing, simply to bring the office into mint condition. It’s nothing major but it is in need of a little touch-up. It’s been three years
since the upstairs rooms were painted. Both of them. We use one as the staff-room-cum-storage-room where the stationery, exhibition banners and photocopier live. The other is my office, used also
for client interviews, away from the inquisitive ears of snooping folk. With so much identity fraud, it doesn’t do to convey your personal details in an open room full of strangers. I
wouldn’t do it and I certainly don’t expect my clients to.

The premises as a whole comprises a large open-plan ground floor, with separate WC and a small storage room to the rear of the building, and the two large rooms upstairs. There is a small back
yard scattered with potted marigolds and pansies, which Mum kindly donated to us, in addition to a stained timber bench which was the congratulatory opening gift from my wonderful family.

Talking of whom . . .

Pulling up outside the large white detached house, I witness a driveway overflowing with cars, two of which I recognise, the rest not, but I would certainly like to meet the
owners.

My former home is today playing host to a Porsche Carrera and a BMW 5 series with a private plate. You wouldn’t get much change from sixty-five grand if you bought that.

Parking on the busy road in front of the house, I adjust the rear-view mirror, quickly applying a dab of Touche Éclat but going completely overboard on the lip gloss. You never know who
you’re going to meet or when, and yes, I was in the Brownies. You really do have to be prepared.

Hurrying down the long gravelled driveway, I admire the mature gardens and inhale the fresh scent of the recently mown lawn.

Sam and I had some fun playing in the front garden with the other kids in our street. Or ‘
road
’ as Mum would correct.
“A street, darling, is for council
houses.”
My mother, a snob without any just grounds, is part of the reason for my past shortcomings, or so I feel, rightly or wrongly. It was she who pushed me towards a media career. It
was she who was first in line to sign me up for dance lessons and it was she who managed to land me an agent at the hormonally challenged age of fourteen. I guess like a lot of parents they live
their dreams through their kids and by God was my mother ever the dreamer.

Talk of the devil!

“Christie. Darling.” She smooths down the cashmere sweater, fixing it just below the waistband of her tailored trousers. “Hurry up, sweetie, we’re all waiting for
you.” She is standing at the front door, bouncing excitedly. Her eyes are more alive than I have noticed for years. It’s nice to see.

“Hi, Mum.” I hand her the champagne. “Sorry I’m late, I had to call in to the office first.”

She grabs me, crushing me to her ample bosom, before roughly pushing me back to take in the view.
How subtle.

“Never mind about that, darling. Isn’t the news just wonderful?” She scans me from head to toe. “You look so well, you know, I really don’t know why you’re
still single, Christie. Look at you! You’re gorgeous.” She squeezes me once more, not noticing my lip-gloss smudge on her beige sweater. “And well done for keeping the weight off,
sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”

For crying out loud, it’s been ten years since I lost all that weight yet she still talks about it like it was yesterday.

‘Christie’, incidentally, was my stage name, acquired after my agent suggested that Tina was perhaps a little bland. Charming. Mum still uses it for some bizarre reason.

“Where’s Sam?”

Taking my arm, Mum leads me into the living room like a tour guide.

I used to live here, for heaven’s sake.

A sea of faces stares at me, each one smiling joyfully with untouched champagne flutes in hand.

They’ve more willpower than me, that’s for sure!

“Tina!” Sam releases her hand from Tim’s and rushes over to hold me in a tight embrace.

I can almost smell her happiness. It seeps from her invisibly yet distinctly. I grip tightly onto my big sister, my heroine, tears welling in my eyes. The reality hits me and quite selfishly I
wonder if our relationship will ever be the same again.

“Congratulations, Sam!” I offer, not breaking away from her. And I really do mean it. Her happiness is my happiness. “Don’t forget about me, will you?” My voice
breaks. “Am I still your best friend?”

Sam squeezes me tighter, stroking my head, kissing it with tiny sisterly kisses. “You and Tim are the two most important people in my life,” she assures me solidly, disengaging her
grip but holding my shoulders firmly. “Don’t you ever forget it. Okay?” Her eyes are kind and full of love, sparkling with elation.

“I won’t. Thanks, Sam.”

I feel a bit better now. We’ve only ever had each other and the thought of not having her in my life would seriously kill me. I really do think I would die. She understands me so well. We
had no cousins and no grandparents on either side so it’s always just been the four of us. Our own little family. But for Sam and me, it was just the two of us. No-one else could have
penetrated the special bond we shared. And still share.

On her manicured hand sits a cluster of diamonds, dazzling effortlessly, with one massive stone in the centre surrounded by six smaller diamonds each side and encased in a platinum setting. When
the sun shines in through the bay window, the walls and ceiling come alive with a scattering of light pockets. Each one a different shape and dancing their own unique celebratory dance.

“Let me introduce you to Tim’s family,” Sam proposes as Mum thrusts a much-needed glass of champagne in my hand.

I am so tempted to down it in one after my eventful day but, taking in the evidently snooty in-laws, this is neither the time nor the place. But, by God, do I need it right now!

I am introduced to Major Heath-Jones, Mrs Hilary Heath-Jones and the rest of the family comprising Tim, who I know of course, and Simon his younger brother. Looking at his parents, it comes as
no surprise that Tim is so dull. He’s probably been raised with military precision by an overpowering father and a timid mother too afraid to voice her opinion in a ‘
Know your place,
woman’
milieu.

Simon is actually quite cute and bears no resemblance to the rest of the family with his strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes, compared to their olive skin and brown hair. Hilary, whose hair
colour looks wildly confused, is in dire need of a trip to a decent salon. I could recommend a few. I’ll get to know her a little first. Simon, unlike the rest of the Heath-Jones,
doesn’t speak with a mouthful of marbles and, although he is well spoken, it’s in an ordinary passable way and not at all snooty.

I wonder which of the cars is his?

My mother is in her element playing the wonderful hostess, while Dad feigns interest in the Major’s anecdotes and Hilary nods away with interest, not admitting to have heard them all
before.
The obedient wife!
Ordinarily, she might have got away with it, but laughing heartily a split second before every punch-line gives the game away. Comedy acting is all about timing
and, Hilary darling, yours needs a little work.
Perhaps I can coach you while we’re at the hairdresser’s?

The room is overflowing with energy as Sam and Tim talk giddily about their wedding plans, with frequent interruptions from both the Major and my mother. I think she’s found her soul mate
and he’s definitely met his match. And seems to like it. Hilary is taking a back seat, followed closely by Dad, whose only questions will be “How much?” and
“
What?
”

Simon, who until now has been sitting quietly, stands up and excuses himself, returning just moments later looking mildly embarrassed.

“Mrs Harding, where is your bathroom, please?”

My mother, a little more forward with alcohol, links her arm through his and takes him out to the hall, returning on her own. She winks at me tactlessly while I glare back with a
‘
Don’t even go there’
expression. Honestly.

I can see why my mother is so happy though. I mean Tim is the next best thing to royalty. Well spoken with a double-barrelled surname, undoubtedly to be used as a bragging tool to anyone and
everyone. I can just imagine my mother at her hospital League of Friends meeting. “Oh, did I mention our Samantha has married a Heath-Jones? I did? Silly me, I must have forgotten.”
Like hell! That woman has the memory of an elephant. It’s unlikely that there will be any real commonality between the two families, Tim and Sam being the exception of course. But does there
really need to be? Gone are the days where families gather together for loved-up Christmases, revelling in the ambience of
The Waltons
, each family member consumed with the virtue of its
true meaning both in terms of faith and traditional family values. Christmas is undoubtedly the most stressful time of the year, particularly if you are married or in a serious relationship. Make
one family happy and you offend the other. Go home separately and your marriage is in jeopardy! Celebrate at home, just the two of you and you’re antisocial. Sometimes you just can’t
win.

Perhaps being single is easier? But why does the grass always look so much greener on the other side?

Simon joins me on the two-seater fabric after retrieving his glass.
Clink!

“Cheers – again,” he smiles and we drink. “I wish I could stay for longer but I have to go in a few minutes. Still, it’s better than a no-show, I guess.”

“You’re not a bit like your brother,” I reply. “Not physically anyway.”

“Is that good or bad?” He laughs raucously. “Actually, don’t answer that!”

“Indifferent.”

He grins and gets up to leave, putting the champagne flute on the mahogany coffee table in front of us, still half full. He notices my look of sacrilege.

“I’d happily drink it all but I’m driving,” he remarks. “Usually I don’t drink at all if I have the car but today I bent the rules. And quite rightly.”
He smiles again and his entire face lights up. He looks both young and middle-aged at the same time, with flawless skin, pale but interesting, and a mop of hair conveying that just-out-of-bed look.
His green eyes are speckled with a red tiredness and his expensive clothes are in need of a little TLC. I see before me a man who clearly knows his own mind and a man who may be in need of a little
TLC himself. Starting with an ironing service.

“Perhaps you might like to have a drink some time, Tina?” he asks, barely audible and looking around shyly. He plays nervously with his key-fob.

I never had him down as the shy type. Quiet, yes, but not shy. Then again, he is in a room full of people, including his own parents. It’s not exactly the venue for a blossoming
romance.

I feel bad letting him down, but after the ridiculous day I’ve had it’s time to make a decision like an adult. Head on.

A high-pitched bleep sounds and through the bay window I watch the lights flashing on the classy Porsche Carrera, pillar-box red with a private plate.