Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  A single injured leg hangs over the side of the bath, nursed by a bag of frozen peas. It’s not a bad bump but it’s a lot worse than the left which looks unscathed by comparison. It is, however, obvious enough that a change in outfit from skirt to trousers is now required. And for that alone, I’m not happy.

  I lean forward, grabbing the loofah, desperate to scrub away the goat’s pee which seems to have penetrated my skin. I scrub ferociously. My legs are red and tender but thankfully now rather sweet-smelling so who cares about a little pain? Although self-inflicted pain is much easier to swallow. Being bitten by a human and urinated on by an animal is much less forgiving in my book.

  Once again today was a Tina write-off. Why me? Why couldn’t I have been given the little girls that Chantelle had dancing and skipping around her with joy and affection? A child who would have looked up to me and decided early on that she wants to be just like me when she grows up. Instead I got the all-biting all-kicking kids from hell.

  I must ask Sam if she’s planning to start a family after she’s married. I’ve got a few parental tips for her.

  Thank goodness I’ve got this evening to look forward to. I’ve no idea where Brian is taking me which makes it all the more exciting. And alluring. He sent me a text last night to advise that he will now be picking me up and to dress smart casual. Whatever! Once more I’ll be going for the kill, starting with the underwear. The better I feel physically, the more easily I can ignore the burning red thighs, bruised shins and bite-marks on my arm, and the choice of a classy cream trouser suit will cover my limbs adequately, giving little away. Perhaps later in the evening things will be a little different. But after a few drinks and dimmed lights, all he will see is the lust in my eyes.

  “Hi, Chantelle.” I answer the phone reluctantly.

  “Tina, where did you get to?”

  She’s annoyed, I can tell.

  “Sorry but I’d had enough, Chantelle! I got bitten, kicked and pissed on in the space of a few hours and I just threw the towel in!”

  A howl of laughter vibrates through the receiver and I wait patiently for her to calm down.

  “What?” Her voice jumps up an octave. “I saw you with wet jeans but I thought someone had spilled a drink on you or something.” She snorts. “Did one of the boys pee on you?” Here we go.

  “Actually . . . it was the goat,” I reply, immediately wishing I had lied to her. “Chantelle. Are you still there?” I can hear muffled noises in the background and someone clearing their throat.

  “Yes . . . I’m erm . . . still here.” Her voice breaks. “Tina, how did you manage to phwwrr . . .”

  Once again Chantelle is off but this time there’s no stopping her. At least that clipped tone has disappeared. I hate it when she’s cross with me because I know I usually deserve it, but on this occasion I think not. I smelled worse than any of the animals there. It would have been a danger to stay any longer, I could have been jumped on or anything. You never know. Don’t some animals cover themselves with urine to attract the opposite sex? My escape was both practical and necessary. I shudder at the thought of getting launched on by a horny four-legged creature. Works for some people though! Yuk!

  I go on to tell Chantelle the whole story, omitting no detail. It seemed no-one knew exactly what had happened given the speed with which I left. Naturally the tight-lipped boys had given nothing away.

  I enquire about the little girl with the injured head and am pleased to hear it was nothing serious, just a minor scrape and a swollen forehead. I should really ask if Charlie has started to breathe yet but I’m afraid to.

  “Pat was furious when you’d gone, Tina. She said it wasn’t any wonder she’d not seen you in church and that girls like you have no staying power for anything, let alone a lifelong relationship with God!” She giggles.

  “Cheeky cow,” I say angrily. “I’ve a good mind to stop that bloody cheque.”

  “I told her you must have been ill or something but I’ll ring her to fill her in if you don’t mind. I don’t want her bad-mouthing you to my grandmother on Sunday.”

  “You tell her I said she needs a darn good seeing to!” I snap. “That’ll bring a smile to that sour old face of hers!”

  “Tina, that woman is an MBE on account of the endless charity work she does,” Chantelle retorts. “She probably hasn’t time for a love life she’s so busy putting everybody else before herself.”

  “Okay, okay, I get your point, Chantelle! But I can’t be like her. I tried and it wasn’t me. I can’t apologise for who I am, or who I’m not, more like.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to apologise, Tina.” Chantelle’s tone softens. “You’re great the way you are, just try not to knock anyone else for being the way they are.”

  “You’re right, as always. Cow!” I sigh, conceding to her insightful maturity. “I did try, though, I really did, but it went so wrong from the beginning to the end that I swear I’m jinxed. I’m serious – I have this terrible feeling hanging over me.”

  “Yes, Tina.” Her tone is nonchalant. “It’s called guilt.”

  There is a rap on the door and I take one last glimpse in the mirror. I’m not overly satisfied but I do feel pretty good. Underneath, however, is a different story. My shins are still swollen and after endless scrubbing my legs are patchy and a little raw. The once all-over golden tan has transformed into white thighs decorated with red blotches. On a positive note, the rest of my legs are still bronzed. I did consider scrubbing my entire body so the colour would be consistent but I’d sooner have two pale thighs than an all-over pasty bod.

  I grab my clutch bag and open the door nervously.

  “Good evening, Miss Harding.” Brian bows gently. “Your chariot awaits.” He holds out his arm to escort me to the car.

  Oh my God. It’s a Bentley.

  I try to feign little interest as he leads me courteously to the car, before opening the passenger door and standing back with gentlemanly effect as I climb in, thankful of the trouser choice. The door glides silently shut and, as he walks around to the driver’s seat, I take in the walnut dashboard and stroke the soft leather interior, wondering just how much this set him back.

  Brian catches my look of wonderment. “Do you like it?” he asks nonchalantly.

  “Like it? It’s amazing!” I retort ecstatically. “What speed can a car like this get up to?”

  “A GTC can do up to one hundred and ninety-eight miles per hour and nought to sixty in four point seven seconds.”

  Holy shit.

  The engine starts with quiet sophistication, purring like a thoroughbred cat. Where’s the key?

  I lean to my right a little, checking out the ignition. Wow. Keyless entry. That would be perfect for me. I’m always losing my car keys.

  Brian presses a button and I look up to see the roof folding back rather elegantly. All I need now is a headscarf and a pair of Jackie O’ sunglasses.

  “Ready, Miss Harding?”

  God, you smell good.

  “Ready, Mr Steen,” I pant, strapping my seat-belt in place, breathless with exhilaration.

  “Hold tight,” he teases.

  As we pull up on what looks to be a piece of waste land close to the sea, I glance around, wondering where the hell we are and searching for the restaurant while my stomach rumbles away. I could desperately do with a drink! I suddenly remember that I haven’t eaten all day and the sweet smell of the dusk air suddenly fuels my appetite.

  It’s just starting to get dark but the air is still warm and light with a tender, romantic breeze floating through. My stomach churns with excitement as I think of a summer filled with sex, champagne and the wind sweeping through my hair in the open-top Bentley Can life get any better?

  As we walk down a bumpy road filled with potholes and loose gravel, I curse my choice of typically impractical shoes as my ankle almost gives for the third time. I look up at Brian quizzically.

  “It’s over there.” He points towards a dimly lit building before
taking my arm once again to steady me. “Shackleton’s. Heard of it?”

  “I can’t say I have,” I reply truthfully. There’s no point lying to him to impress.

  “Thought not.” He grins.

  He takes my hand spontaneously as I stumble again.

  A small white villa oozing with Mediterranean charm comes into sight and I sigh with relief at the prospect of sitting down but simultaneously almost cry with disappointment as Brian’s soft but manly hand slips from mine.

  Inside, a tiny wooden bar filled with every drink imaginable greets us and a rotund balding man scurries around comically. Where are the other customers? The place is empty. The dwarf-sized pot-bellied man grabs Brian’s hand, shaking it vigorously, slapping him on his lower back with his other hand before reaching up to kiss him on both cheeks. Brian stoops down kindly to allow easy reach and returns the back pat, but not the kisses.

  “Tina, this is Serge.” Brian rests his hand on Serge’s shoulder. “One of the finest chefs in the country who has kindly agreed to come out of retirement for the evening.” He looks at me intently. “Just for you.”

  I’m speechless. What on earth can I say to that? I lunge forward towards Serge in an act of appreciation and kiss him on both cheeks. Manners are manners.

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes très belle!” Serge takes hold of me, pushing me away at arm’s length to cast his squinting eyes over me. His hands slide down my arms and clasp my hands once more.

  I wince with the friction as the bite wound throbs.

  “Mademoiselle, what ‘as ‘appened?” His face is a picture of genuine concern.

  Like hell I’m going to tell either of these two about my day’s events.

  “Oh nothing, I have a slight bruise on my arm, that’s all.”

  “Allow me to distract you with my culinary delights, my daahhling!” Serge laughs a deep hearty laugh more appropriate to a rugby player than a midget.

  He takes us through a set of doors onto a candlelit patio and I take in the sea view. The tide is out but the potent scent of salt and seaweed still linger heavily and the breeze dances around us, a little more up-tempo than earlier.

  A single table is set for two.

  A multitude of candles protected by colourful glass bulbs hang from timber beams. The flames shimmy energetically, taunting the wind as it tries to seek out their hiding places but to no avail. Speckles of colour flash across Brian’s face and I notice he is just staring at me. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

  “What is this place, Brian?” I whisper, bewildered by a day which is becoming more bizarre by the minute.

  “It’s his home,” he replies matter of factly “Serge had a chain of London restaurants but sold them all about ten years ago. He retired early but still cooks for a select few on demand.” He grins. “And I, Miss Harding, appear to be one of the select few!” His cockiness for once is endearing.

  “He’s probably heard of Harding Homes,” I say, tongue in cheek. “I reckon he wants to sell this place and is looking for reduced fees!”

  “Talking about work for a moment, how are you getting on with the contracts?”

  Since the first day we met I haven’t seen him look so serious. The twinkle in his aqua eyes has disappeared. Just like that.

  “Actually, Brian, that’s on my to-do list for Monday morning.” I’m not lying, honestly. “I know how those guys work and not to give them a good couple of weeks to put the feelers out would only put them under a level of pressure they’re not capable of handling.”

  That playful sparkle is back, only sexier than ever. Brian just nods and smiles at me affectionately. His prominent cheekbones are just to die for and he looks like he’s done something different to his hair this evening although I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Looks good though and by God does he smell amazing!

  My groin aches with desperation as I stare at his large manly hands with perfectly manicured nails, wondering just how they’re going to feel later on as they wander around my body, exploring every bit of it. Inside and out.

  No no no! Simon’s smooth touch floods my thoughts and I groan loudly as I recall his knee pressing up against the crotch of the silk lingerie.

  “What is it, Tina?”

  Oh, well, actually, Brian, there’s this other guy who was supposed to be you but . . . !

  “I have a bruise on my leg. I just knocked it,” I lie convincingly. I’m beginning to sound like a victim of domestic violence.

  “I’ll kiss it better for you later if you like?”

  Serge flies through the doors before I have the chance to reply which is possibly a good thing given we’re out in public. Almost. His arms are laden with brightly coloured plates and he sets them down in front of us.

  “Meze,” he points, “you like?”

  “I love.” I smile at him appreciatively. I love? I’ve only been around him five minutes! Now this is my type of food.

  He runs back and forth delivering more and more sumptuous dishes before the long-awaited wine arrives.

  Brian notices my eyes light up as I catch sight of the bottle and he casts me a cautious glance. I screw my nose up at him, trying to look cute, but at the same time letting him know that a repeat performance simply won’t happen. But God knows after the day I’ve had, I really do need a bottle of wine to calm me down.

  We tuck into the appetizers and I think back to our first date where I barely touched the meal because I was so nervous and almost too shy to eat in front of him, but tonight something feels different. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve already made a complete idiot of myself or if it’s because you can never truly recapture that first date magic. Although this is a very close call.

  My teeth plunge into a tightly wrapped stuffed vine-leaf and fragments of rice fall from my lips and bounce down on to the plate in front of me. I glance across at Brian to see if he has noticed and his face is in a fixed grin, demonstrating once again the art of perfect dentistry. He is all but laughing at me as he bites neatly on a piece of toasted pitta bread loaded with chilli-flavoured hummus. Not even a smidgen remains in the corners of his mouth. How can anyone be so perfect? Embarrassed, I delicately dab my lips with the napkin before replacing it back on my lap. Stop grinning at me.

  Shifting uncomfortably in the hard wicker chair, I look away, momentarily unsure of what to do or say right now, particularly to a man who gives so little away and is not someone I’ve fully managed to suss out. Mentally. Nor physically for that matter.

  I hear him cough gently and take this as my cue to make eye contact. But instead Brian’s eyes are glued to a small parcel in the centre of the table. I didn’t notice that before.

  “It’s for you. Open it.” He pushes it towards me, weaving it expertly between the plates laden with olives and freshly caught mussels.

  “What is it?” I finally manage, staring at the box and wondering what the hell is in there and in fact why?

  Lifting it, I pull gently on the gold satin ribbon, watching as it falls on to my plate. Pulling back the taped-down flaps, the thick gold paper tears loudly, echoing noisily in the stillness around us. A racing-green box reveals itself and I quickly remove it from the remaining paper. Oh my God! I gently lift the heavy lid, desperate to make contact with its contents, and gasp for breath on beholding the exclusive gift.

  It dazzles effortlessly. The mother-of-pearl face is surrounded by ten small diamonds and a heavy platinum bracelet secures it together. It gleams up at me, yelling expense, and I simply stare at it dumbstruck. I don’t even notice what time it says. Shaking my head, I look up at Brian, gob-smacked, and wonder if I should consider giving it back. Over my dead body! This is the stuff you dream of!

  “I don’t know what to say.” I’m speechless for once. “You really shouldn’t have. Honestly.” But am I glad you did!

  Brian gazes back at me fondly, lifting his wineglass and holding it towards mine. “I wasn’t sure if the Rolex was the right choice. I was torn between a Car
tier and that one.”

  “It’s perfect, Brian. Thank you so much.”

  Chink. His glass delicately touches off mine.

  “Don’t worry.” He winks provocatively. “You can make it up to me in other ways.”

  “You make me sound like a high-class hooker!” I retort, suddenly feeling a little cheap.

  “Here’s hoping.”

  I shudder with cold, tightly wrapping my cream jacket around me as far as it will stretch. One of my arms is stinging like hell (not the human-bite-decorated one) and I’ve spent the last hour with my hand up my sleeve scratching away violently. My head is fuzzy and flu-like and, although I’m shivering, my body feels like it’s on fire.

  Knocking back the rest of the wine I attempt to drown out this horrible feeling, determined to let nothing get in the way of this night of passion. But my body is aching, my glands feel sore and my arm is burning away.

  Brian returns from the bathroom and I stand shakily to greet him and to embrace Serge with true thanks for a wonderful evening. Not a hint of French cuisine but wonderful all the same. The floor rises to meet me and I slowly put one foot over the other as the room starts to spin around in slow motion.

  We make our way towards the door but I grab hold of the bar, steadying myself as a heavy faintness kicks in.

  “Tina, what’s wrong?”

  I can’t answer. My throat is dry and my face feels numb as I clutch onto the uneven wood before my knees give way beneath me and everything turns dark.

  “Tina!” A distant voice echoes. “Wake up, dear!”

  I try to move but my body is weak and lifeless.

  “Can you hear me, Tina?”

  My eyes flicker involuntarily, weighed down under the heavy lids hell-bent on keeping themselves closed. I feel like a sheet of lead has been laid over me, pinning me down from head to foot. But, with an overwhelming dryness in my mouth, I force myself to come to. At least I know I’m not dead. Although the lights are very bright. Even with my eyes closed I can feel them burning down on me.

  Prising my eyes apart, I squint up at the light and quickly lower my vision for comfort. That was a little too bright.