“Oh, and all nine of your children will have different fathers!” I put her hand down. “That will be fifty pounds, please!”
We both laugh as Chantelle examines her chest, thankful of its northerly position. Her face screws up and she pants heavily. “I’m about to drop another one!” She stoops down, holding the small of her back. “Get the towels, quick!”
I grab the cutting, crushing it into a ball, and hurl it towards her. “You’re sick, Chantelle! And close your legs, will you? I can nearly see your kidneys!”
“Hang on a minute?” She regains her perfect posture. “I’m sick? Pot and kettle come to mind.” She chortles. “I’m not the one who slept with a fifty-year-old!”
Bitch! “He said he was forty!” I retort. “My God, don’t remind me of that, you big horror! I was only twenty-three at the time!”
“Which makes it even worse!” She tuts. “Slapper!”
My shoulders shudder with nausea. We were in the throes of foreplay when he asked me if I was ready? I replied yes but what was the question? After he noisily climaxed, alone, the cheeky bugger turned and said, “I thought you were ready? You’ve got a lot to learn, sweetheart.” He got out of bed, still semi-erect, leaving me there naked and humiliated and not knowing whether to slap him or try again. I told Chantelle that story after a few too many!
Chantelle retrieves the crumpled cutting from the floor and throws it in the bin across the other side of the room. It lands perfectly. She smirks, turning back to face me. An impish devilry decorates her exquisite face – she truly has no idea how beautiful she is.
Every piece of displayed flesh shines with a dark-gold hue. Her thick black eyelashes protect eyes so dark a shade of brown they can be mistaken for black from a distance. Her dainty nose, a Hungerford inheritance, portrays an air of aristocratic exquisiteness and dark red lips in a permanent yet unaffected pout add the penultimate finish to perfection. The finale, however, is a heart so pure and full of virtue that humility would serve her well if it bowed down. As is expected, Chantelle is unaware of the degree of influence and control she possesses and, what she uses, she uses in jest. With her charm, ravishing appearance and a bit of Machiavellian practice, she could actually be quite dangerous.
“It ain’t worked, Ms Harding!” She shakes her finger at me. “Stick to what you know about, girl, cos palm-reading and comedy just ain’t your thing.” She struts about the room in gangster fashion. Terrible American accent – piercing to the ears in fact. At least my gypsy voice was believable even if the content wasn’t! “Seriously though, Tina, how about I just get a reading done and you can wait outside? At least then you’re not wasting money and I get someone to go with?”
When you put it like that! I suppose I could consider it. Conceding, I mean. What harm can it do really? It can’t be that bad if they’re using the Royal Fort. People use that hotel for weddings and conferences. In fact, it’s a pretty good endorsement for their business, using such a prestigious location. Perhaps that’s part of the master plan? I’m not interested in having a reading but I guess there are no reasons why I can’t support my own staff in doing so and it’s very rare for Chantelle to ask for anything.
“Okay, okay, I’ll go with you,” I give in reluctantly. “But only book yourself in, Chantelle, seriously, and don’t try to convince me otherwise. Anything to get you out of my office. Some of us have got work to do.”
A jubilant Chantelle runs around the desk, bending forward to hug me. She’s practically sitting on my knee!
“Thanks, Tina!” she grins. “You’re the best. I can’t wait!”
Skipping heavily to the door, she turns serious for a moment. “Oh yeah, Tina, Brian Steen’s PA rang earlier to remind you about the meeting.” Her eyes twinkle. “Don’t worry – I told her you’ve been looking forward to it all week.” With a cheeky smirk, she closes the door behind her and seconds later the floor vibrates with the thud of her descent.
What is it with that girl and how, once again, have I managed to succumb to her charm?
I thought I was the boss around here?
2
The prospect of the meeting with Brian Steen fills me with nervous energy. He is a familiar name to those in the trade. A ruthless property developer, with the Council heads and bank managers in his back pockets. Never refused planning permission or any amount of finance. And yet, even with his slightly fearful reputation, we all flocked with tenders in tow to sell our agency services.
Steen and his team of builders have recently started working on executive apartments in Liverpool’s docklands. The land remained derelict until his construction plans were approved, ironically in the same week another’s were declined. Rumour has it that the competitors have applied for a judicial appeal, but they haven’t a leg to stand on and they know it.
The two apartment blocks will each contain fifteen split-level, two and three-bedroom apartments, fully equipped with mod cons including integrated sound systems, a communal gym, underground parking, twenty-four-hour security. The list goes on. And on. And at a starting price of six-hundred thousand pounds, these state-of-the-art premises clearly aren’t for the average Joe.
In truth, I couldn’t have prepared more for the meeting had I tried. Many an evening has been spent curled up on the sofa, with the compulsory glass of wine, studying the apartment specifications and exploring the impressive yet fairly short history of Steen Developments Ltd. For a man in his early forties he certainly has some balls and, with what appears to be flawless business-planning and decision-making, I’d say they must be made from crystal.
To say I have drifted off into a fantasy world once or twice is an understatement. What are the chances of me owning one of these luxury dwellings? I could have an L1 docklands postcode. If I thought I was someone now, forget it; I truly would be someone living there. No more queues for the treadmill at Fat Busters with the mandatory fifteen-minute maximum workout. No more purple veins in the water telling tales of vile imbeciles urinating in the pool. No more packing and unpacking of the gym bag with the wet towels and dripping swimsuit all crammed together in an impatient attempt to make them fit in. Sound familiar? Imagine arriving at the gym in sixty seconds. Unstressed and with light hand-luggage containing lip-gloss, hair-bobble and MP3 player. Workout complete, welcome to the power showers of the century. Lather yourself into a frenzy under waterfalls of free-flowing hot water beating down on your body with all the sensations of a sports massage, before getting lost in heated, soft, velvety bathrobes. Next, cleanse, tone and moisturise with complimentary Molton Brown products, leading to the finale: a generous application of whipped body soufflé slathered onto your soft glistening skin. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it? Well, after the workout it does anyway.
My sporadic gym visits consist of leaving with soaking wet hair, venturing into the cold climate of this wonderful country while fumbling for the car keys. Shivering all the way home, you will the dilapidated heater to kick in before you reach your front door and hypothermia sets in. But no need for any of that here if you have wads of cash. Basking in your continuously healthy glow, simply press a button for the lift to be chauffeured back to your door. A smooth, seamless ride to even more luxury. One can dream and, by God, I truly have.
The reality is that my homework has been done both in relation to the properties and their prospective marketing requirements and I know who and what competition I’m up against. But someone has to win the tender and I’ve already achieved a short listing. It’s surprising that Brian Steen himself carries out the interviews – you’d think he’d have an underdog carry out that task for him. Still, I’m delighted with the prospect of meeting him personally and nervous enough to be able to put in a personal best in terms of performance.
I am a trained actress after all!
My hair is sleek, nails are manicured and with the incentive of one-and-a-half-per-cent commission for the sale of every apartment, the stakes have never been so high. Securing this deal has tangible bene
fits that include settlement of existing bank debts and, with the remaining cash, the ability to open a second office debt-free, potentially doubling my business turnover and keeping me in the lifestyle I’ve constantly craved. The success of this contract can seriously take Harding Homes to its next level and never has there been a more crucial opportunity to grab this with both hands and turn the dream into reality. It truly is make-or-break time and only destiny knows on which side the coin will land.
Fidgeting rather nervously, I take in the simplistic surroundings of the café bar. I have to admit that it does seem a rather strange place to do business, particularly when the other options include my business premises, Steen’s various offices and a multitude of hotels and affluent bars eager for our trade. I find this thought a bit disconcerting as it is vital that I understand what makes Mr Brian Steen tick. But I am confident that I will be able to figure him out. I have always considered myself a perceptive person and pride myself on my ability to tap into people’s minds. I suppose I typify the majority of Geminis in that I can be a little spontaneous at times, particularly when I want something, and how to achieve it is irrelevant. In this case, be it through mind-tapping, business acumen, professional flirting or razor-sharp stilettos, I care not. I intend to have him eating out of my hand at first sight.
Today’s wardrobe has been given considerable attention and I must say even I am taken aback. I haven’t looked this good in ages. There is definitely something to be said about power dressing. Sporting my best Jaeger suit, comprising a straight skirt sitting just above the knee, coupled with a buttoned-up three-quarter-length jacket nipped in at the waist and bearing low enough to expose a deliberate cleavage, I thank God for padded bras. Thank you, God. With a head-to-toe coat of natural-looking fake tan, the pale cream suit complements my just-back-from-holiday look, and I feel feminine and sexy from the inside out. The recent addition of blonde and brown hair-tints has added warmth and colour to my complexion and, strangely, even my freckles appear more forgiving than usual, which given how I feel towards them can only be a good thing.
My considered assessment of this place is that he has deliberately chosen a middle-of-the-road establishment. Not too flashy in order to avoid the stuffy, phoney atmosphere synonymous with those high-class types of places, and yet not too basic, simply I imagine for reasons of common courtesy. Yes, that’s definitely it. This place is well thought out. I have to give him credit for his analysis – perhaps I’ve been underestimating him, like I do most men.
How easy would it have been for me to be taken to JC’s, Liverpool’s most elite private members’ bar? He could have easily and deliberately chosen to remain within his own level of comfort, not giving a damn about me. Not that I would allow myself to be distracted by wads of cash being exchanged for bottles of Bollinger and Taittinger. Of course not! The fact that champagne happens to be my favourite drink is purely coincidental. It certainly beats tap water which was all I could afford once upon a time!
“Can I get you something to drink?”
I look up to observe a handsome young man, wearing fitted black trousers with a tight black T-shirt tucked in, accessorised with an eagle-head cowboy buckle. Yum. Only a guy with his firm young torso has the ability to wear this worn, slightly faded uniform which would make anyone else appear dowdy and bland. Although the trousers do seem a bit tight though – you know, around the . . .
“Sorry . . . did you want to order a drink?” he muses, shifting uncomfortably. Hardly surprising wearing pants at least a size too small.
Oh my God, snap out of it, Tina. Eye contact above crotch level. Quickly.
I focus my eyes on the brass-and-silver-plated buckle, pretending to have been taken by it.
“Yes, thank you.” I put on my best business voice just to show I am not a complete idiot. “I’ll have a sparkling water, please.” I clear my throat. “Nice belt.”
He acknowledges this with a smile, somewhat amused at my lobster-coloured face and neck. I’ll bet he wears those pants deliberately. He must rake in the tips. I might just start frequenting this place after investing in a purchase of green compact. I hear it does wonders for hiding blotches of colour and with that bulge just inches from my eye-line, where else is a girl supposed to look?
My papers have been efficiently arranged on the plywood coffee table in front of me. Cleverly enough to allow my eyes to glance down at the material in the event of short-term memory loss, but discreetly enough to hide confidential information which I know Brian would not like to be broadcast. Not at this stage anyway, but soon enough he’ll be expecting one of us applicants to shout it from the rooftops. Literally. Let’s hope it’s me.
Looking around, I reassess my choice of table. Most of the seats are backless brown-leather stools which are fine for a short time, although for longer periods the soft leather chocolate-coloured sofas look incredibly inviting. The problem with those is that you have to sit right back, languishing in their total comfort and running the risk of an element of complacency setting in as you drift into a soporific state. Or you can attempt to stay alert by perching awkwardly on the edge as your knees shake from the exertion of supporting your weight, which you pretend is light as a feather. What a choice!
Attempting to impress Brian Steen with intricate detail, I opt for the stools, placing them opposite each other so we can make clear eye contact, observe each other’s body language head on and share our material intimately but professionally.
Oh God, I should have gone for the sofas! Too late now.
My heart thumps heavily and an intemperate dizziness hits me.
I watch him glide across the floor, moving with the natural grace and sophistication of an Arab sheikh, and in one seamless motion he is standing before me with his coat slung casually over his arm. I’m almost breathless, and standing up in anticipation of my impressively firm handshake (another Tina trademark), takes all my energy. You can do it. You can do it.
Brian launches his masculine hand in greeting and taking a solid grip of my, by comparison, feeble one, he locks his eyes with mine. The corners of his mouth flicker affably but it is his eyes that carry the weight of his smile, authentic and sincere.
Refusing to be intimidated, I attempt to take control of our first encounter.
“Pleased to meet you,” we chorus.
Damn.
Brian laughs, letting go of my hand. “Great minds think alike, Miss Harding.” His eyes sparkle. What a beautiful colour! Neither green nor blue, but crystal clear in the centre and whiter than white on the outside. Almost edible, if you’re into that sort of thing? Perhaps they could make sweets just like them, only tasting better of course. Aqua drops. I bet they’d sell quite well.
“You could say idiots never differ, Brian,” I offer, already flirting outrageously. “Not that my assessment of you is that of an idiot of course,” I add quickly, invisibly smacking my head against the nearest wall. “Although there are plenty of them around.” What am I on?
Thankfully he appears distracted and I watch him deftly remove his suit jacket, placing it and his overcoat carefully over the stool I had positioned for him, right opposite me. Great! Where the hell does he think he’s going to sit now?
I watch as he grabs a spare stool from the table behind him, dragging it along the floor to our table, placing it inches away from me. His knees brush against mine as he sits heavily and a bolt of reality hits me. It’s him. The man everyone wants to work with. The man with the Midas touch. The god of couture construction. And here is me. A failed actress trying to turn a small business into a high-street brand and completely unqualified to do it, apart from a burning drive so powerful it draws bile to the back of my throat. I suddenly become aware of his masculinity, observing the size of his smooth hands, broad chest and distinguished face, which until now had only been witnessed from a distance. Next to him I feel slight in frame and slightly meek, if I’m honest.
Come on, Tina, you’re going to have to do better than this. You nev
er get a second chance to make a first impression.
“I hope you don’t mind me sitting here, Tina?” he says plainly.
I shake my head, scared to speak for fear of another faux pas.
“I’m not a great fan of formality – reminds me of the days when I had to beg, borrow and steal from the bank manager!” He shudders and then grins. “If I can avoid putting someone else through that intimidation then I make it my mission.”
Cocky bugger. Me? Intimidated? Erm?
I watch him watching me, observing my determined face and clearly witnessing the sharp change in my expression.
“Unless of course you’d prefer to be intimidated, Miss Harding?” he mocks outrageously, cocking his head to one side. He looks at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Fascinated for a moment by his ability to be so expressive, I lose myself in his gaze. How could that face intimidate anyone? Yes, he must be in his mid-forties but he really is in immaculate condition and forty is the new thirty after all.
His tanned, smoothly shaven skin emphasises his perfect bone structure and square jaw-line. Full lips protect a set of white teeth which must have seen the benefit of cosmetic dentistry over the years. They look too faultless to be natural. I’m speaking from personal experience, having undergone painful episodes of pulling, filing and refitting myself.
Sitting up straight, I twist around on my stool until my entire body is facing his like for like. It’s called mirroring. I learned it at drama school.
“Mr Steen, you couldn’t possibly intimidate me,” I tease back, raising my eyebrows in a gesture of humour but never losing that vital eye contact.
“Is that so, Miss Harding? In that case I’m beat!” He winks at me. “Then let’s get straight down to business.”
While I have impressed myself with my ability to appear both fierce and flirtatious, my new positioning has made it impossible for me to see my well-devised notes. Shit. Second dilemma of the day. Do I revert back to my pre-rehearsed angle giving him a side profile, albeit a pretty decent one, but potentially displaying signs of retreat, or do I continue to face him head on and wing it?
Crystal Balls Page 2