“Mum, just point the stand in the direction of wherever you think the ball is likely to hit the skittles best.” She snorted. “And when you’re ready, just push the ball down the slope and let it roll away!”
Needless to say it worked a treat and my mother scored the highest both in terms of bowling scores and best entertainer. All the other kids were staring at her as she held the ball clumsily, blatantly refusing to take her turn unless the sides were up, no matter how much of a cheat we called her. She always maintained that it was the winning that counted and how you actually played the game was irrelevant!
Perhaps she and the competitive Mr Steen would get on after all! But perhaps it’s a little too soon to think of that right now. Still . . . it’s food for thought.
I send one final text to Brian, purely for work purposes. Seriously. “Pls don’t 4get 2 bring bldg quote need 2 org internal work asap. Thx.”
His reply comes thick and fast: “Internal wk Ms Harding! Nthg a quik lick wont fix!”
OMG! Roll on Saturday!
19
“This is Golden Aura. Who is my caller today?” Her dulcet tones drool seductively.
“Tina,” I tell her, offering no more. I refuse to give my surname or any other information which might help her quest to find my chosen path.
“Hello, Tina. Welcome to Golden Aura,” she salivates. “I hope you enjoy your reading today.” I remain tight-lipped, focusing on the art of will power and clearing my mind as blank as a sheet. “I’m going to use tarot cards to tap into your psyche today. I find the cards have an uncanny knack of allowing me to tune into you and your situation and I let the cards tell me the topics I need to discuss.” She draws breath. “As opposed to me asking you and not really feeling a connection with your chosen topics. How is that for you? “
“That’s fine as long as your cards show my love life and career path,” I retort. I’m not paying two pound a minute for her to harp on about what she can see or what suits her mood today. Beside, I’ve one thing on my mind. And only one.
“Let’s see what we can do,” she answers in smooth tones. “I’ve chosen eight cards and one by one I’m turning them face up.” The silence is unnerving. It continues.
“Well, now . . . you are an unusual one. Your aura is very yellow. There’s no doubt about that. You are very much a free spirit.” Her voice brightens with floral tones. “Your psychic energy is produced by your life force and yours is truly joyful. You’re generous and lively and a teacher of good behaviours.”
Wow. How cool is that!
“You are mentally optimistic and always seeking to learn new skills in order to gain wisdom which may be shared with others.” She pauses. “You do play your cards pretty close to your chest. You might like to consider sharing your skills with people a little more?”
I remain tight-lipped.
“I also see some specks of silver,” she goes on, “which is a sign of immense creativity. Do you have creative involvement of any sort in your life?”
“Erm.” I think at accelerated speed. Is she trying to extract information? Don’t give anything away. “I was creative but not now,” I state in neutral monotone.
“Nonsense!” she bounces back. “You are creative beyond belief although some of your silver aura has weakened a little.”
“Weakened?”
“It’s quite common. This can be down to any negative thoughts or habits. A poor diet, alcohol, drugs, etcetera.”
“I don’t do drugs!” I blurt suddenly, feeling paranoid. Oh my God, that’s one of the key symptoms of drug-takers! Paranoia. “Okay, maybe at uni I had a few spliffs. And some poppers but that was it.” I suddenly remember the speed episode but decide to keep it to myself. I discount the ecstasy tablets. They were only half a tablet each time. We couldn’t afford a whole one so that doesn’t really count.
“I’m talking about bad habits in general,” she soothes me with a hint of humour. “But anything that damages the body is also damaging for the soul. You can strengthen your aura with a healthy diet, fresh air and sunlight. Meditation is also a great way of strengthening your aura.”
Tried it. Couldn’t concentrate for long enough.
“Your key weakness is your indecisiveness, Tina. Why is this, do you think?”
“I’m not indecisive. At least, I don’t think I am.” Am I? “Hhm. I still feel this is an area which needs development and this in itself is key to your success. I feel, however, that you are struggling to maintain power in a business or personal relationship. Does this mean something?”
Cheeky cow. I’m about to open a second office and am being courted by Liverpool’s most eligible bachelor.
“Nope,” I reply, glancing at my watch. “Nothing at all. My relationships are great, thank you very much.”
“Yes, of course they are.” Her tone is subtle and easy. “But they could be better and it does no harm to seek to improve them. Always remember, Tina, that life is nothing more than a series of relationships.”
Yes! And this relationship is going to be bloody expensive if you don’t get to the point.
As if my frustrations have been felt, she does get to the point.
“Who is Richard?”
“Richard?”
“Richard,” she repeats. “I keep getting this name when I look at the Sword of Cups.”
“I’ve no idea.” I tingle with apprehension. Richard and Tina. That sounds quite nice actually.
“Well, I want you to look out for him. He’s going to come into your life soon and I see a relationship developing here . . . although I can’t see how long it will last.”
Ooh! Some news of my love life at last. Not quite the name I was looking for though.
“Go on,” I urge her.
“There is nothing more emanating from this name apart from what I’ve told you. Your paths will cross and there will be some type of relationship . . .”
“Business or personal?” I demand.
“I’m getting nothing more than what I’ve told you about this individual, but what you make of it when it happens is down to you.” Her candy softness hardens. “Everything you do in life is about choices. Just make the right ones, Tina.”
Well, I’m choosing to end this bloody call right now!
“Fine. Point taken,” I snap with gut-wrenching disappointment. “Oh and erm . . .” I whisper in embarrassment. “Can you please send me the dowsing pendulum you have on your website?”
“Pardon me?”
“The brass medium pendulum. Please add it to my bill, thank you.”
I hang up rather rudely. I do this every time yet I don’t like doing it. It seems I just get so tense and hyper before these readings, almost holding my breath with the anticipation of clarity handed on a plate. But it never seems to happen. Why? Why? Why? How bloody hard can it be? And indecisive? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. I stick by all my decisions thank you very much. Like deciding I wanted to order that pendulum the moment I saw it. I didn’t hesitate.
“Tina, what on earth is in here?” Brian lifts the bag which almost fills the impractically sized sports boot. (That’ll have to go when the kids come along.)
I squirm with embarrassment. It’s been packed and repacked over a dozen times and is at its lightest point right now.
“It serves you right, Mr Steen,” I scold him. “You wouldn’t tell me where we’re going so I’ve packed all but the kitchen sink.”
“You’re telling me!” He grins, closing the boot and opening the passenger door for me. “Top on or off?”
“What?”
He grins, pointing to the roof. “Would you like the roof top on or off, madam?”
I narrow my eyes at him for making such a deliberate double entendre but hope it looks sexy at the same time. I should ease off the pouting a little though.
“Off please. Unless it starts raining of course.”
The journey is crammed with provocative comments and suggestive remarks and at thi
s rate I’m wondering whether we’ll manage to hold out until we make it to the room or wherever it is we’re heading. It’s certainly in the opposite direction to his place which is quite a relief. I’m not in a hurry to see the orange-tinted rug.
Brian goes to speak but hesitates. It’s not typical for him to do this and it stands out like a sore thumb.
“What is it?” I look across at him holding the wheel of a car which is driving itself. His tanned arms are muscular and toned and his square jaw-line juts out with perfect symmetry. He shifts position and lowers the music slightly.
“I was just wondering how you felt about sharing a room with me this evening?”
Aaha! So it’s a hotel we’re going to? He sounds more anxious than I’ve ever heard him.
“But I’ve reserved two rooms,” he adds quickly. “Just in case you thought it a little forward of me.”
Forward? Are you for real. I’m gagging for it! Isn’t that why we’re here? Fulfilment and all that stuff? We’ve tried and failed on enough occasions that if he has to bind and gag me I’m not leaving this weekend until I’ve had a screaming multiple orgasm. And not the cocktail type. My weekend’s single aim is to finally consummate this relationship.
“It’s fine, Brian,” I reassure him. “We’ve passed first base already. More than once!” I giggle. “But thanks for asking.”
I turn away to catch a glimpse of anything which will remove the giddiness of how I feel right now. What if I had set yes to separate rooms? I should have, just to see his reaction. It would have gone down like a lead balloon. Brian and Tina in separate rooms – I think not.
‘Richard? Who is Richard?’
Not now, Tina!
‘I keep getting his name when I look at the Sword of Cups?’
Not now, I said!
“Do you, erm, have a middle name, Brian?”
“Sorry?”
“I was just wondering what your full name was, that’s all,” I say in as normal a tone as possible, shrugging my shoulders to downplay the randomness of my remarks.
“Brian Henry Steen.”
I nod, taking in his reply. “Nice. Nice name.”
As he continues to concentrate on the road ahead, I see the corners of his mouth curl up ever so slightly and his cheeks puff out with suppressed humour. I do feel a little embarrassed now but it was just a question. Don’t they say no question is a silly question?
“Did your parents ever consider calling you ‘Richard’?”
Brian hurls a puzzled look in my direction. “No. Why?”
“No reason. It’s just that ‘Richard’ is a nice name too.”
Brian looks bewildered but makes no response.
Now that the discomfort of our earlier exchange has passed, I begin to relax a little, consuming myself with lascivious thoughts of what’s to come. I check out Brian’s slightly parted legs, longing to run my hand up and down them feeling for his manliness while he sits back enjoying the scenery, suddenly wallowing in the deep-throated sucks of my warm mouth as I plunge on him in a surprise attack. My mind races as images of me straddling him come alive and I moisten immediately as I imagine how we gently rock on the verge of coming. Together. This time there will be no excuses. No distractions. Nothing. And as for that internal, I’m open. For business, of course!
The rain stays off for the remainder of our thirty-minute journey although heavy clouds are starting to gather above us with colours of concrete grey and charcoal. A typical day in the North West. Ridiculous as it sounds, I carry a shower cap around with me wherever I go. I once made the mistake of going out in a pair of jeans and a black backless top and carrying a tiny purse big enough to hold only a lipstick and money. The forecast was for a dry bright evening hence the reason my jacket remained on the comfort of its purple-scented hanger, which incidentally, faced the same way as every other hanger in the wardrobe. But during a walk between bars the heavens opened and I mean literally. The rain lashed down, beating us brutally, and my scalp was soaked to its core within a few short minutes of exposure. The make-up I could fix, but my hair, well, that had a life of its own. It dried neither straight nor curly. In fact, to say it resembled a Brillo pad would not be an exaggeration. The night was as short-lived, needless to say, as my sleek, smooth locks.
Brian notices my head tilted to the sky and glances up. He deftly pulls into the inside lane, slowing right down as the roof glides overhead, protecting us with a soundless motion.
“We’re almost there.” He glances at the clock. “Perfect timing.”
“I know we’re in Manchester.” I laugh, pointing at the blue motorway signs. “But where in Manchester are we going?” Apart from to a hotel where I’m going to bonk your brains out. Brian follows the signs for the city centre, steering away from the familiar airport route I’d usually be taking if I were headed in this direction. The airport sign fills me with anticipation of another holiday with Kate. It’s been years since we’ve been away together and a sense of nostalgia rushes through me. Just seeing the sign sends a gush of excitement through my veins. The scent of coconut sun oil, the lapping of the sea and the taste of ice-cold beer served from a chilled glass. New bikinis with matching sarongs and manicured feet. Oh and a face full of freckles thrown in for good measure. I must get back to her about dates although I do recall her mentioning she’d be in a position to tell me next week after some audition or other.
We pull up outside an impressive glass structure which I can only compare to the Sydney Opera House. Its angular dome shape juts out prominently from the more traditional lime and sandstone neighbouring buildings but for some reason it works. The old versus the new. The concierge, kitted in top and tail, opens the car door for me before assisting Brian and deftly removing the key card from the ignition. In a smooth series of events our luggage is removed from the boot by his minions and the car is driven off with immaculate control, leaving us to walk freely and lightly into the impressive open gallery. It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.
Inside, the air conditioning controls the temperature to perfection and the polished marble flooring glimmers like a pool of perfectly still water. Fully grown trees stand erect in gigantic pots, pointing towards the domed glass ceiling. The tinted sky peers through like a painting, a replica, and staring up at it I’m no longer sure if it’s the real thing or a massive kaleidoscope of blues that dazzle your eyes with beautiful confusion.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Brian joins me in looking up. “Although I wouldn’t fancy cleaning the windows here.”
“It’s incredible,” I answer, awestruck. “How do these living things survive indoors?” I point to the lush gardens packed with exotic plants and listen as the waterfall gushes in ecstasy, slapping noisily as it hits the pool below. A little piece of the Caribbean here in Manchester, who’d have thought it?
“There’s enough light coming through for the plant life to survive,” Brian explains. “The glass is anti-reflective which means it only reflects a small amount of light back outside. It sends back the excess light, but only just enough to stop the building from overheating on the inside. The same stuff is used in air-traffic control towers.”
I sense an air of passion as Brian talks about the architecture of the building. It really is quite sexy listening to him talk so technically. Most of our conversations lack depth, which suited me in the early days. But suddenly I’m keen to learn more about him – what turns him on, how his career started, past relationships. (Or maybe not the last one, given I’m not prepared to share my series of failed lovers with him.
“I can see you’re in the right trade.”
His eyes scan the reception area. “I’m not quite in this league. Not yet,” he says absently. “Give me time though.” His face is serious and it’s clear to see that he means it.
“Does that mean I’ll get free overnight stays when you build your chain of hotels?” I ask cheekily, fluttering my eyelashes alluringly. I probably look like a complete idiot with a squinting habi
t.
Brian leans forward unexpectedly, kissing me softly on the lips and taking me by complete surprise. “Only if I can stay with you.”
He kisses me again and my lips tingle with the friction. I long to throw myself at him, starting with gentle pecks, working up to full-blown tongue action, but in the reception area of a five-star hotel it’s hardly appropriate.
I suddenly feel nervous about going up to the room and frantically look around for a place to freshen up. Excusing myself, I follow the sign for the restrooms, holding on as a moving steel floor transports me to the next level. A blast of pandemonium hits me as I derail and the volume of a rowdy gathering stings my ears. Men, women and children of all ages stand in orderly lines, supervised by folk with CB radios and prominently displayed security ID tags.
I stop at the top of the escalator to take in the scene that charges me with immediate familiarity and I sense the nervous tension in the air. What’s going on? A group of teenagers burst out from the ladies’ room, heavily made up and clearly flustered as they join the back of the shortest queue before being handed stickers with boldly printed numbers. Their hands flap about excitedly and I watch as one of the girls starts taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. The others waft sheets of paper in front of her to provide air until a CB guy brings a chair over, forcing her to sit in it, placing her head between her knees. A middle-aged woman wearing a doleful expression returns her number to the nearest attendant, shaking her head at another man queuing patiently. She shrugs her shoulders at him before slumping into a chair at an empty table and downing a glass of water with trembling hands.
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