My body prickles with the anticipation of my future laid out as clear as day and unambiguous, and I relax at the prospect of having life’s equivalent of an in-car navigator. Simply hold the wheel and let the route take its course.
How difficult can that be?
10
Stepping into the A-line skirt, I pull up the side zip and turn around, allowing the assistant to tighten the laced corset. Facing the full-length mirror I am speechless.
The strapless design has created curves not previously there and the satin skirt skims my hips elegantly, finishing a centimetre away from the dainty Liz René pumps. The deep wine colour sets my skin alight and the fabric sheen reflects against my softly curled hair, complementing it perfectly.
Pulling the curtain back, I stand there in full regalia, taking in the open mouths of Sam, my mother and Sam’s future mother-in-law. Sam just sits and stares at me. She says nothing and I say nothing. We can’t. I know what she’s thinking and she knows what I’m thinking. The corners of my mouth twitch emotionally as Sam just looks up at me, her eyes so filled with love for her little sister and mine so filled with green envy that I might lose her forever, even though she’s promised to never forget me.
“You look incredible, Tina.” Her voice breaks. “I’m supposed to be the belle of the ball, not you!” She laughs affectionately and the rest of us follow suit.
“No-one can ever show up a bride on her wedding day,” I reply firmly. “It’s not possible.”
“Give us a twirl then, darling,” my mother orders and right on cue I take the catwalk, right foot over left, exhibiting myself to the world, stopping at the end of the runway (well, the wall actually but I’m improvising), hand on hip, sultry pout – and hold position! This brings back some memories I tell you. Mostly the ones I mentioned earlier – the merciless the sound of retching.
“Sam, is that how you’re going to walk, darling?” my mother asks. What is she on? “Just like Christie did then?”
Sam over the years has got used to my mother comparing her rather frumpy façade with my apparent glamour and simply adopts a nonchalant expression.
“Actually, Mum, I thought I’d walk like I have done for the past thirty-six years.”
I turn to avoid laughing at her wit in front of the potential mother-in-law. Belittling my own mother wouldn’t go down too well, particularly while she is still in the “I’ll act like a phoney to impress the Heath-Joneses’ mode!”
“Well, maybe Christie could give you some lessons,” she suggests. “You know, the way people go to classes to practise for their first dance.”
Bless her, she really thinks she’s helping.
Sam, as blasé as usual, has an answer for everything. Like a typical lawyer and unlike myself who doesn’t believe in humouring anyone, she remains cool and unperturbed and never rises to the bait. I’d love to be like that. I’d love to be like Sam. Intellectually.
“Actually, Tim and I aren’t going to have a first dance,” she announces, deadly serious.
I watch her intently, expecting to see her keel over with laughter at any second and for Jeremy Beadle to jump out to the mothers, shouting “You’ve been framed!” or whatever shoddy line they use. But silence penetrates the air and the shop assistants exchange speedy glances, looking at each other with sheer disbelief.
“You’re serious, aren’t you, Sam?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yep.” Sam stands up and faces the mothers, standing tall while they sit low down, looking up at her. Clever tactic. “We’re simply not comfortable doing it,” she proclaims flatly. “Neither of us wants to be exhibited simply for the purpose of tradition.” She stands behind me, lifting the back of the dress and fluffing it up to give it more body.
The assistant rushes over. “Let me do that for you.”
“It’s okay, thanks,” Sam answers dismissively.
She’s never been one for much fuss, our Sam. Even today she’s turned up in a pair of jeans she’s had for years with a baggy polo shirt hanging over them and a pair of flat loafers which do nothing to elongate her five-foot-four body and slightly curvaceous figure. She doesn’t really care about the stuff I spend hours and hours each week luxuriating in. Seriously, for all her academia, if you said to Sam your tan was from St Tropez, she really would think you’d been to France. I, on the other hand, was so excited about today that I planned my entire wardrobe days ago. And not because we’re meeting up with the men this afternoon, but because you never know who you’re going to bump into. If I learned anything from my modelling career, it was to always look your best. Needless to say, I feel both casual yet sophisticated in my new Diesel jeans paired with a casual Versace Jeans couture top, with plunging neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves. A pure silk scarf hangs loosely around my neck, adding an element of class and my camel coat has been carefully hung to stop it from creasing.
“Sam!” I exclaim. “I can’t believe you’ve had the willpower to sit there watching me try on dress after dress when you’ve tried on nothing.” I aim to divert the conversation away from the first-dance saga. To be continued, no doubt.
Sam just laughs. She leans forward, giving me a sisterly kiss on the forehead. Don’t worry, there’s no danger of her leaving lipstick marks.
“Tina, I knew whatever made you look bigger than a size ten would definitely make me look short and dumpy,” she admits affably. “So by having you do all the donkey work, knowing full well you’d love every minute of it,” she sniggers, “I’ve been able to narrow things down to the type of dress I think will suit me!”
What a carry on! Here’s me thinking I’m the businesswoman of the two of us and all along I’m perspiring like a woman in labour, whipping clothes on and off at her demand, while we play the Harding sisters version of Trinny and Susannah!
“You great big sneakster!” I declare raucously, noticing as Hilary looks from one of us to the next. She hasn’t quite realised what her precious Timothy is marrying into. Yet.
That reminds me we’re meeting Timothy and Simon for lunch this afternoon to discuss colour schemes so they can get measured up for their morning suits. I’d better think of an excuse and fast. Simon versus Brian. Is there any comparison? I think not.
Sam and I giggle like a pair of overgrown teenagers. Me for letting her get one over on me and her for getting one over on me. Yet again.
In the changing cubicle, Sam helps me undress – for the last time I hope – and I decide this is the right time to question her. “Sam.” I pause. “How did you know that Tim was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?” Her eyes light up and her entire face portrays the essence of love. At this very moment, even with her understated attire and cleansed face, to me she looks wonderful and I can clearly see why Tim wants to be with her.
“I can’t explain it, Tina, to be honest.” She shakes her head at me vacantly and shrugs her petite shoulders. “The day after I met Tim at the Law Clerks Ball I said my goodbyes to him and set off home.” She breaks out into another humongous grin, literally reaching from ear to ear. “But I had this weird feeling.” She frowns. “You know, like I’d forgotten something.”
“What?” I implore, standing nearly naked in the small cubicle. “What had you forgotten, Sam?”
A glow sweeps across her face and for a moment I can see deep into her soul and almost feel her euphoria. “Tim,” she declares proudly. “I’d forgotten Tim.” She fixes her hair and applies a drop of clear gloss.
God, it must be love.
“And then I realised,” she says, screwing the top back on the bottle before putting it back in her bag.
“What?” I ask.
“I realised that Tim belonged to me.” She looks down at her rock of an engagement ring. “And I belonged to him too.” She nods with deliberate emphasis. “I felt empty without him, like I didn’t belong anywhere.”
I take hold of her face with both hands and rub my thumbs against her plump cheeks. “I’m so happy fo
r you, Sam, I . . .”
My voice buckles under the weight of pent-up emotion and I break into a sob, falling into her open arms. Sam holds me tightly, just like she did when I was little or when I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid of the dark. I had imagination overdrive (I’m sure that’s not too difficult to believe).
“I hope Tim knows how bloody lucky he is,” I snuffle. “I’ll kill him if he ever hurts you, Sam!” Then I laugh at the ridiculousness of Tim ever hurting anyone. “Although, you know what, I’ve barely even heard him talk so I can’t imagine him hurling a load of insults at you!”
Sam sighs. “He is quiet actually, but never let that put you off a man!” She winks and nudges me in the ribs. “Now hurry up and get dressed. There is another man I don’t want you to put off!”
Wonderful!
Standing outside the quaint Italian restaurant I watch a cloud seep from my mouth as my hot breath collides with the cold wintry air. I secretly pray for the spring warmth to accelerate its journey, conscious that an event of majestic importance is looming.
Taking a risky peek through the window I spot them all inside, chatting away, menus closed. Grabbing my phone, I search through the directory alphabetically and, finding the number, I quickly press dial, conscious of my rudeness in making this call as the Hardings and Heath-Jones wait patiently. In the warmth.
It’s ringing. My heart thumps at double speed, shortening my oxygen supply and I fear I may not be able to speak.
“Hello?” Here goes.
“I was just thinking about our last conversation,” I whisper without waiting for a response. “I take it I’m going to have to show you just how imaginative I am.” My voice exudes sex appeal and I mentally plan my seduction wardrobe. “Be at my place at eight o’clock.” I press the red key to disconnect the call. No goodbyes? See how you like it.
Picking up at the wonderment of an evening filled with multiple orgasms I flip the phone shut, more equipped to deal with the in-laws, now that I have a distraction and someone to think about to alleviate my guilt as I let Simon down as gently as possible.
The smell of garlic belts me as I open the panelled door. My mother waves her arm at me frantically, disgusted at my lack of manners. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.
I reach the table, finally lowering myself to Simon’s eye-line as my bottom hits the padded cushion. He grins cheekily, taking in my form from top to toe and not even attempting to hide his obvious gratification at seeing me.
“Sorry about that, everyone,” I announce courteously. “It was an important client I needed to speak to.”
My face deadpan and assertive, I pick up the menu, holding it in front of me, deliberately blocking out the adjacent view. I bet he kept this seat free on purpose. Enjoy the view of the menu, Saddo, because that’s all you’re getting.
“How are things then, Tina?” Simon breaks the silence from our end of the table, raising his voice over everyone else jarring about the wedding.
I set the menu down on the table. “Really good, thanks, Simon,” I answer curtly. “Exceptionally busy but I can’t complain.”
He grins at me stupidly, his messy hair sticking up in all directions, his rugby shirt creased down the arms and his flawless hands wrapped around a pint.
Pen-pusher!
“Jolly glad to hear it.” He nods earnestly, eyes intense with concentration and much more green than I remembered.
“How are you keeping?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me. He just sits and stares. And stares.
“Excellent,” he beams after an uncomfortably long delay. “Never been better in fact!”
The waiter suddenly appears to my right, pad positioned, pen poised. Cute. I have a terrible penchant for Italian waiters. Sam and I have always had a thing for waiters ever since we were teenagers and our hormones had kicked in. Waiters of any nationality generally, but Italian ones more so. Maybe it’s the combination of their olive skin with the mouth-watering aroma from the kitchens, but whatever it is or was, it gets to me every time. Sam and I would usually fall into fits of giggles, spilling out our order between childish snuffles and attempting to flirt competitively. But today, I watch as Sam chats merrily with her future in-laws, paying no attention to the waiter as she delivers her order like a grown-up. A happy sadness consumes me once more. My parents used to get embarrassed by our behaviour. But right now, Sam looks and sounds like Sam, but her memories appear to have been deleted. How can she behave this strangely in an Italian restaurant? We’ve never been sensible around waiters. It’s always been the same for us. Flirting, flattery and free drinks. Well, if love denies us our past, then I’m not sure I want it.
I observe Tim making the occasional shy one-liner and then retreating back to silence, even in the company of his own family. How strange. Quite a contrast from his weirdo brother sitting in front of me and still ogling playfully like a maniac who’s been let out for the day.
“So, Tina,” a voice bellows from the other end of the table, “when are you going to make wife material? Find a man to take care of?”
It’s Major Heath-Jones and my mother joins in on cue. Dad gives me a wink, knowing full well what I’m likely to be thinking. It ends in ‘off. This guy really rattles my cage and I can see why Tim is so quiet. I’ll bet he was never allowed to voice his own opinion.
“Actually,” I challenge obstinately, “I was rather looking for a millennium man who might look after me.”
I watch as his grin fades away and the penny slowly drops that I am deadly serious. Well, not fully, but I’m damn well not going to let him know that.
“Yes,” I continue, “I need a man who can cook, clean, iron and know his place in the home.” Okay, perhaps I’ve taken it a bit too far but, seeing Simon’s crumpled face, I am forced to break into a grin and suddenly the two of us snort with laughter as we watch the rest of the table, open-mouthed and deadly silent. Sam keeps her head down, intent on not getting involved even though I can clearly see she is desperate to laugh.
That ends that conversation.
Simon points to his tufts of messy hair and creased-up clothes. “Well, I can cook!” he declares jovially. “One out of four is a start! And as for making the bed – I simply don’t see the point, Tina.” He winks. “Do you?”
He really is quite funny but sometimes I don’t know whether to feel flattered or plainly insulted by his quips. There is nothing complicated about him from what I can see – he’s just Simon, although actually not simple. Someone quick-witted and sincere. Someone who can laugh at himself and take life in its stride. It seems. I make a mental note not to be mean to him anymore. He doesn’t deserve it.
His fair skin is flushed by the struggling winter sun breaking through the window, illuminating his face. He carries an aura of youthfulness about him, perhaps more in attitude than anything else but isn’t that what counts? I’m still slightly concerned that he is the only member of his family with pale skin and green eyes, but thankful that he is unlikely to end up as arrogant and chauvinistic as his father. Although why do I care?
Quite surprisingly, he hasn’t asked me about our date yet which is pretty endearing of him. Perhaps he doesn’t want to embarrass me which is very gentlemanly.
What he’s not, however, is Brian Steen!
Stepping out of the shower I shiver as the warm drops of water turn cold on exit and watch as goose-bumps garnish my torso. Quickly wrapping myself in a towel, I take off the shower cap, checking my hair hasn’t frizzed with the steam.
My clothes, if you could call them that, are carefully positioned on the bed, outlining the shape of a woman’s body and placed in accordance with the order of dressing.
The music is romantic and scented candles are dotted prettily around the room well away from the curtains and with drip trays underneath. I’ve made those mistakes before, setting the curtains on fire and scalding the furniture with dripping hot wax.
I look deep into the heart of the full-length mi
rror. Wow. Earlier I had a bellyful of pasta but these wonder-knickers make me look amazingly slender with their high-cut sides elongating my legs. The black seamed stocking are doing their best to hide my scattered freckles and they stop just high enough to expose a few inches of tanned thigh. The push-up bra exposes just enough to tease, with the party piece hidden beneath soft padding.
It’s eight o’clock. I look out the window. No sign of him yet.
I take a huge swig of wine followed by a smaller sip, conscious of the need not to relive the late embarrassing episode but too anxious and too excited to be stone-cold sober.
I check my teeth for gloss-marks and feel so grateful towards the cosmetic dentistry sector. How the hell did we survive without it?
I glance out the window again. Shit, a car! It must be him. Time for another seductive performance! Perhaps this one might even reach third base.
Once more I stare at the sexy woman staring back at me. The black bra hoists up my chest like two firm, ripe grapefruits. The briefs cover very little as is the point and the home waxing kit has worked a treat. Removing the hair from my buttocks was a little tricky and I’m not sure I would recommend the home Brazilian kit. Great if you’re a contortionist, mind. My new black lace suspender-belt sits on my hips and the hooks cling tenderly to the lace-topped stockings. Finally my killer black-patent-leather heels allow me to stand tall and dominant.
The bell chimes again and, barely clad, I strut sexily through the candle-lit hall, ruffling my hair.
Standing there exposed in full erotic regalia, I fling open the door as a shadowy figure approaches it, then immediately spin around to expose my pert buttocks as I strut sexily towards the bedroom where I slip on a lacy black eye-mask and lie on the bed in a well-rehearsed pose.
“Close the door behind you!” I call out provocatively as manly footsteps vibrate on the floor.
I dictate my orders. “Don’t talk. Just use the scarves to tie me up.”
I feel a hot breath cloud over me and the scent of overpowering aftershave.
Crystal Balls Page 11