Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  “Pleasure? What type of a guy do you think I am, Tina?” he replies straight-faced. “I’m here in a professional capacity only.”

  Chantelle looks from Simon across to me and I know what she’s thinking. It’s not true. A mild flush sweeps over me as I relive the embarrassing memory of our single, intimate encounter.

  “I need a favour,” Simon tells me with sincerity.

  “Okay. Have you time for a coffee?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Do you say that to all the boys or am I special?”

  She’s giving me that look again.

  “You’re special alright, Simon,” I snort, ignoring Chantelle’s look of accusation. “More like a special case!”

  We take a detour through the poky kitchen where I make us a coffee and then head upstairs. I move my chair to his side of the desk so it doesn’t feel like I’m interviewing him. I do that quite a lot in fact. It can be quite intimidating sitting opposite someone as they fire question after question at you so, where possible, I try to sit on the same side as my clients to relax them more. It works every time and they never feel like they’re being sold anything. After all, we’re on the same side.

  Simon slurps the coffee, dipping his biscuit heartily and cramming it into his mouth in its entirety. My mother taught me never to dunk anything. “It’s so common, darling,” she told me as a child and as such I don’t do it. Neither a biscuit nor a bread roll goes anywhere near liquid form. I take in his demeanour. His pinstriped suit is perfectly tailored but for some reason it looks like it belongs on somebody else. Somebody more prim, more proper. Like Brian. I glance at a stain on the knee of his trousers and observe his scuffed shoes.

  “Mayonnaise.”

  “Huh?”

  “A blob of mayo fell on my trousers yesterday,” he explains. “Haven’t had a chance to put it in the dry-cleaner’s yet. Darn good sandwich though!” He licks his lips.

  A tingle runs right down my spine as I recall how that same tongue teased my feet and bathed my toes in its moist home. While I’ve made a damn good job of blocking out the sad state of affairs, every now and then I’m reminded of how good it felt and just how in control he was. He who I thought was Brian. He who I thought would be Brian today.

  I glance down at the Rolex, a reminder of a special night together. Special until I ended up in the Accident and Emergency department. Maybe he was right. Maybe I am a curse? But I never used to be. Over the past number of years I have prided myself on being in complete control of my life, both business and personal, but looking back over the last couple of months I’ve done nothing but mess up. Big time. I’m beginning to wonder where it all went wrong. But then again very soon I’ll know whether a certain turn of events is capable of fixing it.

  “Hhmm.” Simon clears his throat.

  I look up at him to see him wearing that ridiculous smile. Honestly, he looks so silly. “Welcome back,” he says.

  I smile at him with sarcasm. “What’s the favour then, Simon?” I ask, cringing, waiting for the innuendos.

  “My car is knackered,” he tells me sadly.

  His bottom lip juts out for sympathetic effect but all I can do is laugh. He looks so funny. And cute. Tina!

  “It’s nearly ready for car heaven which means I can’t pick Tim and Sam up from the airport on Wednesday. Can you do it?”

  My eyes lower with embarrassment as I think about the absolute dagger Sam gave to me when I rudely interrupted her wedding nuptials. We parted on okay terms but I’m not sure my face is the first she’ll want to see. But I have to face the music at some point. At least she didn’t tell Mum or Dad. I knew she wouldn’t.

  “Sure, it’s no problem. I’d love to, and if that’s all you want, then I’m quite relieved,” I snort.

  “What else could I want?” he asks.

  His face is a picture of innocence and, as so often with him, I’m confused. I wonder if he jests so professionally to mask his true feelings or perhaps it’s simply that he doesn’t fancy me and like a lot of things it’s all in my head. I’m never sure with him because it’s just like being around a friend. Someone you want to swing from platonically or have a pint with or watch a crap DVD with. Or just be with. Effortlessly. His hair juts out in a multitude of bizarre directions. You can tell that some type of attempt has been made to normalise it, albeit in a mad rush by the looks of things. His shirt collars have been given the once-over and I silently laugh as I imagine Simon removing his jacket to reveal a smoothly pressed front, where the material is visible to the eye, but crumpled sleeves, back and sides. What I can’t do is ask him to remove his jacket although I’d love to prove myself right. You just get a feeling for some people but the mere mention of clothing removal and I’ll be powdering my face in green compact for days to come.

  Clambering up the wonky stairwell I curse the decrepit building for its lack of elevation facilities and pant my way up to the third floor. A single door, half-glass, half-wood-panelled greets me and the words Tarotscope are boldly displayed. The floor comprises a small reception area with a single plastic chair and a tatty wicker magazine-rack housing horoscope magazines. It is tight for space and I’m glad I am alone. The single door is closed tight and I’m not sure whether to knock or simply sit tight. In fact, I’m not sure that I should even be here, but needs must. I can’t wait for the call to hear of my fate, I need to be doing something more. I need to push on with my life and come out of limbo zone and the outcome has to be accelerated in order for me to do just that. Waiting is not an option when you can short-cut.

  The door flies open and a skinny man, mid-fifties at a guess, comes out to greet me.

  Inside the small office I sit opposite him, nervous and excited. My fingers and toes are crossed for good luck and I nod, giving him permission to tape-record the reading. None of the others have taped them so I take it as a good sign that he’s not a spoof. A reliable source and a psychic obviously proud of his work. Perfect.

  He stares at me from head to toe. “Your aura can tell me your biggest secrets.” He avoids eye contact with me. “Its colours don’t lie and your aura quite clearly throws out the colours of indigo and violet. And black.” He fidgets excitedly. “Do you know what that means?”

  I shake my head.

  How would I? I thought my aura was yellow? Or silver?

  “It means you have some degree of psychic ability.”

  I shuffle closer to the desk and the chair screeches as its legs are dragged in tow.

  “You have some extrasensory perception, Tina, but you don’t know how to use it. For starters try to write down your dreams each morning and then make an attempt to interpret what they’re telling you.”

  He leans forward, flicking a button, and a whirling fan comes to life, bringing much-needed ventilation into the small, stuffy room. The smell of male perspiration increases. “By associating more with your aura and your spirituality you will be able to uncover the unknown more easily.”

  Wow! That’s exactly why I’m here.

  “How do I do that?” I implore, leaning forward in wonderment, ignoring the voice in the back of my mind telling me it’s nonsense.

  He twists the body of the fan towards him, directing the light breeze further away from me. I decide to remove my jacket before it sticks to me. With a small window and no other means of ventilation the room closes in and a feeling of claustrophobia hits me but the exhilaration of unravelling my own future is a great distraction.

  “Try to connect with the free spirit in your life.”

  His hands wave through the air gracefully as he demonstrates the physical art of opening up to the higher powers. He sways from left to right and his hands resemble a pair of trees caught in a mild storm, whose direction is ever-changing and uncertain. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply and his breathing becomes deeper and louder. As he exhales, the contents of his mouth splay out and I glance down to see splashes of saliva on my cream shirt. Wonderful! He composes himself, focusing once more on starin
g me out, quite oblivious to his extensive salivation skills.

  “Your black aura is quite strong right now which means you can be a little sensitive during certain cycles in your life, the current cycle particularly. Black also suggests negativity and doubt so try to be more positive about circumstances and allow your ebb and flow to live a little.” He sways from side to side as he goes on. “Black is the only coloured aura you can actually live without because of its negative associations.”

  I open my mouth to ask him about ebb and flow but he continues and his eyes lower to my shoulders and chest. I shift uncomfortably, wishing my jacket was now on me and not on the back of my chair.

  “You’re very tense and I sense some type of family dispute.” He makes eye contact for the first time since his initial introduction.

  I try to look normal and nonchalant, forcing the Sam scenario to leave me, perhaps a little too late.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he confirms, studying my face. “But there’s more to come, I’m afraid. I can see a storm approaching.” He pauses dramatically. “And with every storm there is damage . . . but nothing that can’t be healed in the course of time.”

  I don’t like the sound of that.

  “Your solar plexus tells me of two romances.” He smirks knowingly. “One who you will part with and the other who you will grow with, but this decision will not be yours for the making.” Hang on, I make the choices about my love life, thanks.

  Clutching his midriff, his face contorts. “How is your mother’s health?” he asks with grave concern and I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  “It’s good . . . I think.” My voice breaks with the anticipation of bad news.

  “I sense some type of stomach condition. Nothing overly serious but something that needs to be kept an eye on.” He rubs his stomach in an anti-clockwise direction.

  Next he’ll be patting his head at the same time.

  “Your mother would be best to seek medical advice. It could be irritable bowel syndrome, kidney stones or maybe even appendicitis but I definitely feel that she’ll suffer from such a condition within the next twelve months so just keep an eye on her.”

  “Okay. Definitely.” Oh God, I’ve so neglected her lately.

  “Finally . . .” He clutches his forehead with feigned exhaustion. “I’m losing my signal so I’ll be quick. Expect the unexpected, Tina.”

  “Meaning what?” I butt in, anxious that we’re running out of time and disturbed that he hasn’t answered the very question that brought me here.

  “Meaning don’t try to imagine the outcome of events too soon.”

  Okay, now that was good! He’s warming up.

  “Just sit back and let nature take its course.”

  Hang on a minute . . .

  “I thought you told me to practise uncovering the unknown or something,” I challenge him head on. I truly need to know where I stand at this rather strange juncture. It’s vital in fact. He clears his throat. “Yes, I did, but that means understanding what and why certain things are happening to you. It means taking baby steps, not trying to find a conclusion too soon or before you even have an understanding of something.” He looks satisfied and his index finger hangs over the tape-recorder keys.

  “But I have something I need to know.” I lunge forward, almost falling off the edge of the chair, closing in on him, and he sits back a little startled. “There is news I’m waiting for and I need to know if it’s a yes or a no!” My voice is raised and frustrated.

  “Tina, I can’t predict the future . . .”

  “Then what’s the bloody point in me being here? What am I paying you for?” I challenge him hysterically. The repressed emotion releases itself without edit.

  “I can tell you what I see through the psychic images shown to me but –”

  “By whom?” I ask, looking around the empty room.

  “By my guide, my spirit guide.” He stops the tape recorder. “Our work is done now.” He pulls out the tape, handing it over to me. “Fortune-tellers don’t exist, Tina, and if you think they do then you’re in for disappointment.”

  “What are you then? A con-artist?” I snap.

  “A spiritualist,” he corrects. “I get spiritual messages from those in the spirit world.”

  He stands up, offering me the door. “Use your own ability, Tina, to decide what you really want out of life but be careful what you wish for.” His face is solemn and disturbing. “Sometimes when wishes come true it teaches us that what we thought we wanted isn’t quite what we wanted after all.”

  “Yeah, like being here!” I shout, glaring at him while grabbing my jacket. I slam the door behind me. I’m angry. Angry at myself. Angry at him and pissed off that I’ve just spent thirty pounds in the space of ten minutes without a shopping bag in sight.

  I stomp out of the building, throwing my weight huffily behind every step and the noise of my heels rings around me. Stupid man. Stupid girl! Why can’t they tell it like it is? Why the skirting? Why such ambiguity?

  Why do you insist on coming to these things then, Tina?

  I’m waiting for a true reading, a glaringly honest prediction of what my life will look like.

  It looks like what you want it to look like!

  What if I don’t know what I want it to look like?

  Well, that’s what life is about. Learning, experiencing and moving away from what you don’t like and closer to what you do.

  I sit at the bottom of the stairs, not quite ready to exit and face the world, still cross at myself for another failed attempt at a crystal-clear forecast. I’m beginning to think he was right about me learning to uncover the unknown. I mean, I couldn’t be worse than him, could I? But psychic? Me?

  Surely not?

  “Chantelle, it’s just me checking for any messages.” The hands-free crackles with interference.

  “Rymer Black want you to sign a lease for the new premises so maybe you could give them a call!” Chantelle shouts to be heard over the poor signal. “Oh and we’re still missing some holding fees for the dockland apartments. You need to get some of the agents to pull their finger out and earn their commission!”

  “Okay, thanks, Chantelle, I’ll get on to those right away.”

  “Where are you?” She sounds frustrated. “It’s mad busy here and your diary is empty so I was expecting you here. I’ve had to bring Heather in to answer the phone so I can deal with the foot traffic and stuff.”

  Shit.

  “I’ve just had a meeting with Brian Steen,” I lie quickly. “To talk about starting the building work.”

  “That’s great, Tina, but next time can we make sure the office is fully manned?” she scolds me. “Did you forget I had a meeting with Hamilton Pyper Solicitors this morning?”

  “Oh Chantelle, I did, I’m so sorry.” I give myself a mental kick. “I truly did, forgive me.”

  “Mmm, bad girl,” she chides. “I’ve rescheduled for tomorrow. You’ve never done it before so I’ll let you off this time. Was it the distraction of Mr Steen that caused this short-term memory loss?”

  “No, of course not, I just double-booked. Sorry again, Mrs.”

  “Don’t worry – just come in as soon as you can – it really is heaving today.”

  It pops into my head. “Oh, Chantelle, there is one more thing. The new uniforms we were talking about, I was thinking maybe they could be indigo or violet, you know . . . erm . . . some type of purple colour?”

  “What about traditional black?” Chantelle suggests. “You can’t go wrong with that.”

  “No! No black. Absolutely not.”

  23

  The phone rings for the second time but I can’t reach it and at seventy miles per hour I’m not even going to try. My handbag vibrates with each ring and I’m desperate to answer it but the floor of the passenger seat seems so far away. To make matters worse, I have a male passenger on board and sitting in that very passenger seat, so speed or no speed I’m not bending down there unless I wa
nt to get myself arrested.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Simon asks me sarcastically, glancing down at the bag and then back to me. He kicks the bag to one side, allowing for easy reach.

  I glare at him, wondering why he hasn’t the common sense to simply pick up the bag and hand it to me or better still, retrieve the phone for me. Once more he looks down at the ringing bag, smirking like a fool. His face emits provocation.

  “Don’t even go there,” I growl, weighing up his body language. “I am not bending down there with my head inches away from your crotch! You’re lucky I let you come along for the ride.”

  “Ride? Now we’re talking.” He slaps his thigh hard. “Tina, you’re my kinda girl!” Deliberately ignoring him, I wonder what on earth possessed me to give in and bring him along. I can’t argue against the fact that they’re expecting to see him but surely the sight of me on my own wouldn’t have been too repugnant for them? I gave in on the grounds of having company for the journey but as usual all he’s done is grin his way through the past twenty miles. I scan my brain frantically, wondering if once again I’ve sent him alluring text messages or extended some sort of invitation. In error, of course. The phone shrills for the third time. Someone must really want to speak to me! Oh no! Maybe it’s my mother? Perhaps she’s ill!

  “Simon, the phone’s in my bag – answer it quick,” I order.

  He rummages through the bag, still wearing that ridiculous face.

  How I wish the wind would change!

  “Hello, this is Tina Harding’s phone,” he says politely. “Okay, just a minute, please.” He holds the phone out to me.

  What if she really is ill? He could have got his prediction wrong and she might have something more serious, like cancer! I shake my head. It’s too much for me. I can’t bear to listen.

  Simon looks back at me with a puzzled expression but merely shrugs his shoulders. “I’m sorry but she’s driving right now. Can I take a message?” He seeks affirmation from me. I nod. “Tina, he says it’s urgent and he must speak to you.” Simon looks uncomfortably compromised.