Crystal Balls (14 page)

She looks disappointed for a moment. “Spoilsport!” she says, before falling about with laughter, still trying to pose sexily and not realising she does it every second of every day.
Effortlessly.

Joking aside, much as I could no longer bear the travelling or the fourteen-hour days, I do mean it when I say I have more confidence now. I remember my mother always quoting “
Youth is
wasted on the young”
and I used to think she was talking rubbish, which in fact reinforces the point exactly. It is wasted on the young and if I was the same person then that I am now,
I’m pretty damn sure I would have walked those auditions. But that’s the harsh reality of life, isn’t it? You live in constant hindsight, never learning at the time but much later
on in life. You wish you could turn back the clock and that you had listened to your parents instead of thinking they were sad losers with a capital L. If only there was an easier way to live! A
way to get ahead of the game. You know, see in advance what life holds for you and simply head in that direction. Why go through the aggravation of suffering catastrophically just to write it off
as a learning curve, when you could go straight to your destination without passing go? Who the hell needs to fail first just to win second? What’s that all about? If we could just get it
right from the very beginning . . .

I grab my bag with a fierce spontaneity and swiftly polish off my drink, multi-tasking at fast-forward speed. “Oh no!” I look at my watch dramatically and then at Chantelle. “I
forgot I have an appointment.” I set the glass on the table clumsily and run out of the lobby, leaving behind a speechless Chantelle. “See you tomorrow!” I yell.

Tina, what are you doing?

Still in speedy motion, I punch the numbers into my mobile phone before I can change my mind. My breath is held as it rings.

“Oh, hi,” I pant. “I want to make an appointment, please . . . for as soon as possible.” My hands shake. “Brilliant. Thanks.”

I flip the phone shut, putting it back in my bag, flooded with guilt for leaving Chantelle behind, but delighted at the prospect of what lies ahead. But it wasn’t as if it was all planned.
Suddenly the penny just dropped. If Chantelle says that old woman knew stuff she couldn’t have known, surely that’s it? The key to my future? Why on earth would I want to keep making
mistakes and then learning from them when I can simply avoid the bloody mistakes to start with? Why all the pain when it’s the pleasure we aspire to achieve? I can’t believe the answer
has been staring me in the face all along! It’s practically genius!

If you guys want to go through life learning the hard way, then that’s your prerogative. Just leave me to take smartest shortcut and I’ll meet you there!

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?

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 for 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.