Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

The engine revs loudly as we pull away from the churchyard. Simon eases gently through the wrought-iron gates before joining the main road and flooring it.

  “Slow down, Simon. It’s a forty zone,” I lecture, gripping the door handle tightly.

  “I’m only doing forty-five – it just feels faster because you’re sitting so low down.”

  I take a sneaky peek at the speed count. He’s right.

  “This car is so old now but I can’t bear to get rid of her.” He strokes the leather steering wheel. “Plus the insurance has only just become affordable! Turning thirty has some benefits, don’t you find?”

  “How do you know I’m even thirty?” Cheeky boy.

  “I asked your sister.” He grins. “She told me all about you.”

  “Really? What else did she tell you?”

  “She told me that you’ve yet to meet your match, but when you do you won’t like it and you’ll fight it.” His grin drops momentarily. “And so you’ll probably stuff up like you always do.”

  “How dare you, Simon! You don’t even kno–”

  “I’m quoting your sister. That’s what Sam said about you,” he interrupts calmly.

  “Well, that’s where she’s wrong,” I snap coldly. “I’ve already met him. I know it and I like it and I’m not stuffing up!” I glance down at the sparking Rolex, wondering how on earth no-one has noticed it. “I have well and truly met him.”

  The rest of the evening goes reasonably well and Simon keeps me entertained by leaking the secrets of his office politics. A euphemism for who is shagging whom. I’m dying to ask about his past or even present girlfriends while we’re on the subject but I dare not. Not directly.

  “So are you bringing a guest to the wedding?” I enquire, risking it.

  “Nope. You?”

  I shake my head without hesitation. “You know what, Simon, this day is so important to me that I simply wouldn’t want any distractions. My role that day is to indulge my sister and give her all the attention she deserves. Nothing less.” I mean it hand on heart. Even Brian doesn’t come close to Sam.

  “You and Sam are pretty close, aren’t you?” Simon’s face turns pensive for the first time all evening. “I’d love for Tim and me to have been like that, or even to be like that. But he was always the Goody Two Shoes while I was the rebel.” He smiles. “But with a cause!”

  My gut reaction is to laugh in agreement. With his overbearing father and a wife who can’t hold her own, I understand how rebelling might have been the answer. But I don’t laugh. They’re still someone else’s parents. Not mine thankfully, but I would hate to offend by commenting on his unfortunate biological makers.

  “Your mother is pretty quiet, isn’t she?” I venture.

  Simon scratches his stubbly chin. His nails are jagged and uneven unlike Brian’s perfectly manicured smooth hands. “She’s always been quiet,” he says pensively. “She’s quite the comedian after a few drinks though.” He grins. “Usually when she has centre stage.” He pauses, stone-faced. “Which is only when my dad is not around.”

  I sense a degree of frustration around his father and can’t help but compare him to my own. My dad was a real hands-on dad who taught us to ride our bikes, put up a tent and catch tadpoles with a home-made fishing rod made from a twig and a pair of laddered tights. Not his tights of course! He’s a man’s man, is my dad. He was and still is a warm and caring man who would whistle while leaving for work in the morning and sing coming home at night no matter how long or tiresome his day was. It was he who paid for all my dance and drama lessons although my mother took the credit for it and still does. My dad has never asked for even so much as a thank-you. He has no expectations whatsoever apart from that old cliché called happiness.

  “What was it like growing up with your dad? He can be quite overpowering, can’t he?” I chance.

  “You mean he is overpowering? And overbearing, obnoxious, chauvinistic and loud?” He laughs a half laugh and I wonder where the other half went to.

  “Are you mad about it?” I probe him with genuine concern.

  “Not for me.” He stiffens. “But for my mother. I . . .”

  He stops talking.

  “What is it, Simon?”

  “I always thought she deserved better than him.” His body relaxes and his pale skins flushes with warmth. “She’s such a beautiful woman and I just want her to have whatever it is that makes her happy.”

  “Hey, maybe we should match my mother with your dad!” I chortle. “She’d sort him out in no time. She’s nobody’s fool.”

  Simon’s face drops. “My mother is certainly no fool, Tina,” he says coolly.

  “Oh God, no. Erm, I really didn’t mean it like that . . . I just mean that . . .”

  Simon smirks at me from ear to ear. That same cheeky grin he wears whenever he scores a point against me. “Gotcha!”

  Whatever!

  “Thanks for coming, Brian,” I say sheepishly as we survey my potential new premises. “And thanks again for looking after me on Saturday.”

  “Any gentleman would have done the same, Tina, although you should have called me to take you home.”

  I don’t answer him. The explanation is far too obvious to leave my lips.

  “What a shock we got!” he says. “You were fine one minute and on the floor the next. Poor Serge nearly had a heart attack. He thought he had poisoned you!” His hand reaches out touching my shoulder and I shudder at his gentle touch, longing to reach up and charge into battle with his slightly parted lips.

  “Nothing to the shock I got waking up in hospital! And how did you not notice? Did you not see my face . . . erm . . . changing colour as the night went on?”

  “It was so dark on that veranda, I could barely see you as it was! As the night wore on, I caught the odd snippet over a flicker of candlelight but that was it.”

  “Well, Mr Steen, I’d usually say aren’t you unlucky! But given my facial attack I’m quite relieved to hear that.”

  “You look fine now though, Miss Harding.” He takes a step closer to me until our bodies are inches apart. It’s awfully hot in here. “More than fine. Delicious in fact.”

  “I feel fine . . . now . . . thanks.” Not here, no way!

  The place reeks of stale ice cream and the neglected tables, crippled with damp, look set to crumble should even a feather land on them, never mind two bodies. And besides I’m not prepared. Not physically nor mentally. Is my underwear even matching? Absolutely not here! No way.

  Brian’s soft lips thrust onto mine and the pressure of his lunging tongue forces me backwards step by step until I’m pressed up against the wall behind. Trapped. His manly hands grip my waist, tickling me just below the ribcage, and I long for them to move lower down.

  Oh what the hell!

  I manoeuvre us into the back of the building where we can’t be seen through the filthy glass windows. Unlikely, given the state of them, but I’m taking no chances. Our feet shuffle together clumsily as our lips remain firmly locked together, unwilling to do anything else. His grunts become louder and louder and I feel his manliness twitching away beneath his tailored trouser suit. My hand feels for it over the expensive material, getting the bearings of where it starts and finishes and I slowly rub it from base to tip, almost sending him over the edge. I can’t believe my actions and I do feel like some type of two-bit hooker subconsciously repaying him for the Rolex as he suggested. But it’s not that. It’s just that no matter how carefully these romantic dates have been planned, they haven’t worked out, so I’m going to darn-well grab this opportunity while I can.

  His kisses become more frantic and he pulls my hand away, grabbing my wrist and holding it firmly away from his anatomy. As I try to wrestle free he takes hold of my other wrist and pushes them both above my head, pinning them against the wall with a single hand as his tongue continues its attack. But I don’t bother with the defence. He uses his foot to push my legs apart before thrusting his knee up against my crotch, teasing it
with tiny knee-lifts, increasing the pressure with each jolt. His free hand brushes over my nipple and I yelp with delight, feeling it harden instantly. His hand thrusts up beneath the camisole top and he roughly lifts up my bra, pushing it up to expose both breasts, soft with throbbing blood-filled nipples. He lets go of my hands, leaving his own free to cup both breasts before taking one of them into his mouth. He kisses it like he kissed me on the lips, flicking his tongue around, sucking it, biting it. All a little rougher than I imagined but who’s complaining? My back arches in spasm and I pull at his trouser belt, yanking it aggressively before releasing the buckle.

  Then, as my hands journey back to undo his trousers, he stops me dead.

  Don’t stop!

  I reach up to resume our kiss, frustrated at the interval. The only interval where I so don’t need a comfort break.

  “Sshh!”

  I look up at him vacantly, conscious that my breasts are hanging alone and throbbing. In fact they’re feeling rather neglected.

  “Did you hear something?” he whispers.

  I listen for a microsecond before throwing myself onto him once more, biting his bottom lip like a Jack Russell. There’s no escape from this grip.

  Suddenly, the door slams and I freeze. I hear the sound of voices and footsteps travel across the worn flooring.

  Shit shit shit. I must have booked a viewing for this time! Or Chantelle did and I didn’t check!

  Frantically, I pull the bra down followed by the camisole top, straightening my skirt back to its traditional knee length while Brian speedily fixes his belt and flattens down his hair.

  “What shall we do?” I whisper inaudibly

  Brian coughs loudly. “This wall is a partition wall so it’s easy enough to come down.” His voice is formal and assertive. “You’ll definitely need to look at rewiring though and refitting the kitchen upstairs is a must if you want to maximise all of the available floor space downstairs.”

  I join in the game with utter reluctance but the situation calls for it. “Right. Right.” I nod, catching sight of two people out of the corner of my eye. “Can I leave you to come back to me with quotes for the work, please? As soon as possible if you don’t mind.”

  “Consider it done,” he replies before turning to leave. “Hello!” He gestures to the suited guys standing in the way of our exit. “We’ve got company, it appears.” His voice is wooden and unconvincing.

  “Hello there!” I chirp. “We’ve finished the viewing now, it’s all yours.”

  We brush past the guys with our sharp exit.

  Outside, Brian lets out a frustrated moan while I stifle giggles at his pathetic attempts at acting.

  “Tina, come back with me,” he groans.

  “To where?”

  “My place.”

  I hesitate for a moment but shake my head reluctantly.

  “Brian, I can’t. I really can’t.” My diary has scheduled valuations on the hour for the rest of the afternoon. Unlike him, I can’t afford to pay someone else to do the job, not yet anyway, so it’s all hands on deck.

  He throws his jacket across his arm, pulling his car keys from his trouser pocket. “You know something, Miss Harding?” he protests. “If I didn’t know better I’d think we were jinxed!”

  He shakes his keys, clearly agitated and dispirited. “You don’t have some sort of bad curse hanging over me, do you?”

  “Not over you!” I answer brusquely. “But I’m bloody well beginning to wonder if there’s a curse over me!”

  16

  Chink!

  Our glasses slam together as we toast the bride once more.

  “To Sam!” we cheer.

  “To the girl we thought was still a virgin!” Jessie squeals.

  Sam rolls her eyes, as reluctant as ever to be dragged into any conversation concerning her personal life. “Just because I didn’t put myself about, Jess!” she retorts boldly.

  “You didn’t put yourself anywhere, Sam, apart from in a bloody library!”

  We laugh in chorus.

  “Now, now, children.” I step in to protect my sister even though I know Jess is right. “Look at Kate and me – we put out with everyone going in our student days but our Sam is the only non-singleton amongst us. She must be doing something right.” I pat her hand patronisingly “Exactly what are we doing wrong, Sam?” I ask, only half-joking. She’s one step closer to passing Go than I am. Funny, after all these years when I always thought Sam was the complete nerd who would be stuck on the shelf while I would be married to some handsome tycoon, carrying our beautiful children on my slender hips while handing out autographs. It never dawned on me that she would have the high-flying career, retro apartment and be married first. The fact that she’s carrying a little extra weight and has no fashion sense hardly seems relevant now. Life has a funny way of working out.

  “Your problem, Tina, is that you expect too much,” she replies, slightly slurred in speech. She’s only had three drinks.

  It was a rhetorical question actually, Sam.

  “You want the fairytale and it doesn’t exist.”

  Will someone please steer the conversation away from my love life and quick?

  “Pretty Woman was a film,” she continues. “That crap doesn’t happen in real life!” She takes a gulp of wine, placing the glass clumsily on the wooden floor. Crack! The stem breaks in two and the glass falls on its side with the red content spilling out across the beech-laminate flooring. “Oops!” she hiccups.

  “Don’t move.” Jess uses her long nails to collect the large pieces of glass followed by the smaller fragments while I run into the kitchen to grab the kitchen roll and duster-buster. These wet and dry things are a godsend. How did our parents cope with such a lack of appliances and gadgets? And Rabbits?

  Kate follows me in. “How much has she had?” she says under her breath.

  “Not enough, Kate! It’s her hen night and if she remembers it then we’ve let her down!”

  Kate claps her hands together with spiteful glee. She can be such a bitch sometimes. “Oh, you’re so mean!” she says, sending the blame back to me with a boomerang effect. “But I’ve never seen Sam drunk before so I’m in for it!” We high-five each other before returning to the lounge to clean up the mess.

  I’m so glad Kate has made it. She has always been a major part of my life, and Sam’s, that it would seem strange giving my sister a send-off without my side-kick next to me. When we were nearing sixteen Mum and Dad let us go out into town one night with Sam. I remember it like it was yesterday. She took us to a bar where you had to be twenty-one to enter. But in we walked with Sam and Jason, one of her past dorky boyfriends. We couldn’t believe it, the bouncers just let us glide right past them. Inside, Kate and I stood there feeling so grown-up, gulping cider and black until our pocket money had dissipated. We were plastered in Constance Carroll make-up, with hair six feet high permeated with a full can of Insette hair spray. I swear it was us who damaged the ozone layer. Shortly after the gap in the ozone was announced, the hairspray was reinvented with a CFC-friendly logo on it. It never worked as well. How strange. Looking back we must have been a hilarious sight with our theatrical make-up and granny boots. But that was the fashion in the eighties and like all teenagers, experimenting is all a part of growing up. Sam just let us get on with it and no matter what we got up to, or who we got off with more like, she never said anything to our parents and she kept everything we did top secret. We thought she was the coolest big sister in the universe. In some ways, I still do.

  “I know, let’s play Fuzzy Duck!” Kate suddenly screams, jumping up from the floor, giving us a flash of her underwear from beneath a skirt that barely covers her bottom. She grabs two more bottles from the kitchen and quickly returns and refills our glasses to the brim.

  “How do you play that?” Sam asks.

  She really is clueless.

  Kate explains the rules of the game where we each take turns to say ‘Fuzzy Duck’ until someone stuffs up an
d gets it wrong. But it’s clear to see that Sam can’t quite see the humour in its simple repetition; not in theory anyway.

  “Sam, stop asking questions and just play, will you?” Kate chides, never one to mince her words. “Just remember that when someone says ‘Does he?’ the game reverses and you have to say ‘ducky fuzz’, which is the reverse to ‘fuzzy duck’. Get it?” She snorts loudly, winking at me. She and I are experts at this game – we learned it on our first Club Eighteen to Thirty holiday. We were just eighteen and it was our first holiday away together. We made a pact that when we had graduated we would return to become holiday reps. That way we could party day and night and get paid for it. Perfect!

  “You start, Tina,” Kate orders.

  “Fuzzy duck,” I say, looking to Jess.

  “Fuzzy duck!” Jess belts out, clapping with excitement.

  “Fuzzy duck,” Sam joins in with monotone boredom.

  A wickedness breaks across Kate’s face.

  “Does he?” she says, and turns back to Sam.

  Sam looks at Kate. “Does he fuck,” she says deadpan.

  We keel over with laughter, screaming and pointing at her drink while she sits there oblivious and we wait for the penny to drop. This makes the situation all the more comical as she hasn’t a bloody clue that she’s said it wrong. But that’s the beauty of such a stupidly simple game. “In one – in one – in one!” we cry, thrusting her wineglass at her.

  “Oh no!” Sam’s hands clasp her face as the realisation of what she said becomes clear. “I got it wrong! I said ‘does he fuck’ instead of ‘fuck he does’ . . . oh God . . . what is it again?”

  “Now do you see the humour in the game, you great big square?” Jess ridicules.

  Unable to answer, Sam’s wineglass covers her face as she knocks back the Rioja in one impressive swoop, leaving a red moustache decorating her mouth.

  “This game’s brilliant. Let’s play again,” she slurs. “I’ll start.” She clears her throat and musters up some concentration. “Fucky duck!”

  Sam rushes to the toilet for the third time as Mark waits impatiently, brush in one hand, hair dryer in the other, ready to create the trial hairdos.