Crystal Balls (15 page)

Pen-pusher!

“Jolly glad to hear it.” He nods earnestly, eyes intense with concentration and much more green than I remembered.

“How are you keeping?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer me. He just sits and stares. And stares.

“Excellent,” he beams after an uncomfortably long delay. “Never been better in fact!”

The waiter suddenly appears to my right, pad positioned, pen poised.
Cute.
I have a terrible penchant for Italian waiters. Sam and I have always had a thing for waiters ever since we were
teenagers and our hormones had kicked in. Waiters of any nationality generally, but Italian ones more so. Maybe it’s the combination of their olive skin with the mouth-watering aroma from the
kitchens, but whatever it is or was, it gets to me every time. Sam and I would usually fall into fits of giggles, spilling out our order between childish snuffles and attempting to flirt
competitively. But today, I watch as Sam chats merrily with her future in-laws, paying no attention to the waiter as she delivers her order like a grown-up. A happy sadness consumes me once more.
My parents used to get embarrassed by our behaviour. But right now, Sam looks and sounds like Sam, but her memories appear to have been deleted. How can she behave this strangely in an Italian
restaurant? We’ve never been sensible around waiters. It’s always been the same for us. Flirting, flattery and free drinks. Well, if love denies us our past, then I’m not sure I
want it.

I observe Tim making the occasional shy one-liner and then retreating back to silence, even in the company of his own family. How strange. Quite a contrast from his weirdo brother sitting in
front of me and still ogling playfully like a maniac who’s been let out for the day.

“So, Tina,” a voice bellows from the other end of the table, “when are you going to make wife material? Find a man to take care of?”

It’s Major Heath-Jones and my mother joins in on cue. Dad gives me a wink, knowing full well what I’m likely to be thinking.
It ends in ‘off.
This guy really rattles my
cage and I can see why Tim is so quiet. I’ll bet he was never allowed to voice his own opinion.

“Actually,” I challenge obstinately, “I was rather looking for a millennium man who might look after
me
.”

I watch as his grin fades away and the penny slowly drops that I am deadly serious. Well, not fully, but I’m damn well not going to let him know that.

“Yes,” I continue, “I need a man who can cook, clean, iron and know his place in the home.” Okay, perhaps I’ve taken it a bit too far but, seeing Simon’s
crumpled face, I am forced to break into a grin and suddenly the two of us snort with laughter as we watch the rest of the table, open-mouthed and deadly silent. Sam keeps her head down, intent on
not getting involved even though I can clearly see she is desperate to laugh.

That ends that conversation.

Simon points to his tufts of messy hair and creased-up clothes. “Well, I can cook!” he declares jovially. “One out of four is a start! And as for making the bed – I
simply don’t see the point, Tina.” He winks. “Do you?”

He really is quite funny but sometimes I don’t know whether to feel flattered or plainly insulted by his quips. There is nothing complicated about him from what I can see –
he’s just Simon, although actually not simple. Someone quick-witted and sincere. Someone who can laugh at himself and take life in its stride. It seems. I make a mental note not to be mean to
him anymore. He doesn’t deserve it.

His fair skin is flushed by the struggling winter sun breaking through the window, illuminating his face. He carries an aura of youthfulness about him, perhaps more in attitude than anything
else but isn’t that what counts? I’m still slightly concerned that he is the only member of his family with pale skin and green eyes, but thankful that he is unlikely to end up as
arrogant and chauvinistic as his father.
Although why do I care?

Quite surprisingly, he hasn’t asked me about our date yet which is pretty endearing of him. Perhaps he doesn’t want to embarrass me which is very gentlemanly.

What he’s not, however, is Brian Steen!

Stepping out of the shower I shiver as the warm drops of water turn cold on exit and watch as goose-bumps garnish my torso. Quickly wrapping myself in a towel, I take off the
shower cap, checking my hair hasn’t frizzed with the steam.

My clothes, if you could call them that, are carefully positioned on the bed, outlining the shape of a woman’s body and placed in accordance with the order of dressing.

The music is romantic and scented candles are dotted prettily around the room well away from the curtains and with drip trays underneath. I’ve made those mistakes before, setting the
curtains on fire and scalding the furniture with dripping hot wax.

I look deep into the heart of the full-length mirror.
Wow.
Earlier I had a bellyful of pasta but these wonder-knickers make me look amazingly slender with their high-cut sides elongating
my legs. The black seamed stocking are doing their best to hide my scattered freckles and they stop just high enough to expose a few inches of tanned thigh. The push-up bra exposes just enough to
tease, with the party piece hidden beneath soft padding.

It’s eight o’clock. I look out the window. No sign of him yet.

I take a huge swig of wine followed by a smaller sip, conscious of the need not to relive the late embarrassing episode but too anxious and too excited to be stone-cold sober.

I check my teeth for gloss-marks and feel so grateful towards the cosmetic dentistry sector. How the hell did we survive without it?

I glance out the window again.
Shit, a car! It must be him. Time for another seductive performance! Perhaps this one might even reach third base.

Once more I stare at the sexy woman staring back at me. The black bra hoists up my chest like two firm, ripe grapefruits. The briefs cover very little as is the point and the home waxing kit has
worked a treat. Removing the hair from my buttocks was a little tricky and I’m not sure I would recommend the home Brazilian kit.
Great if you’re a contortionist, mind.
My new
black lace suspender-belt sits on my hips and the hooks cling tenderly to the lace-topped stockings. Finally my killer black-patent-leather heels allow me to stand tall and dominant.

The bell chimes again and, barely clad, I strut sexily through the candle-lit hall, ruffling my hair.

Standing there exposed in full erotic regalia, I fling open the door as a shadowy figure approaches it, then immediately spin around to expose my pert buttocks as I strut sexily towards the
bedroom where I slip on a lacy black eye-mask and lie on the bed in a well-rehearsed pose.

“Close the door behind you!” I call out provocatively as manly footsteps vibrate on the floor.

I dictate my orders. “Don’t talk. Just use the scarves to tie me up.”

I feel a hot breath cloud over me and the scent of overpowering aftershave.

In silence, my hand is lifted gently over my head and I wince with lust as the silk fabric tickles my wrist, tying it firmly to the bedpost. Taking the other hand, he leans over me – his
face brushes mine and I long to snatch at his soft lips. I shudder as my legs are pushed apart, sliding gracefully over the satin sheets, and he gently kisses my ankle before wrapping another
scarf, a little too tightly. His teasing fingers run up and down my stomach and I breathe in, arching my back, groaning with pleasure.

I feel my foot being held and listen to the sound of the buckle unclasp, the shoe hitting the floor with a thud as it separates itself from the orgy. Soft lips wrap around my toes and a tongue
attempts to penetrate through the stocking fabric, both hitting and missing touch points but driving me wild with restriction. I relish the prospect of the removal of the stockings, imagining my
toes being sucked vigorously and wallowing in his eager wet mouth.

“Come up here,” I pant, desperate to take in this moment of pent-up longing, well overdue, and yearning to thrust my mouth onto his. I take on his tongue in battle.

Our mouths lock magnetically as his lips bully mine and, for once, I am happy to be bullied. I taste the remnants of beer and note its bitter aftertaste.

My heart stops.

Brian doesn’t ever drink beer!

I tear off my blindfold.

“Simon!”
I screech, my mouth as wide as the Mersey Tunnel. “How the – what the –
get out! Get out now!”

Simon has leapt to his feet. He just stands there looking bewildered as I struggle to free myself.

“B-but what have I done wrong?” he stutters, apparently as shocked as I am.

Well, not quite.

“Get me out of these things! And don’t you
dare
look!” I snap through gritted teeth as he fumbles nervously with my wrists, loosening the fabric.

I break free like a caged animal. Grabbing my dressing gown I frantically wrap it around my body, tying the belt so tightly that I can hardly breathe. Sitting on the end of the bed, not knowing
what to do, I just freeze.

“Tina, talk to me, please,” Simon says softly, keeping his distance.

I can’t. I can’t move.

“Tina, you invited me . . . you set all this up . . .”

I continue to stare deep into a corner of the room, deafened to his pleas and oblivious to all but the sound of my chest thumping.

With no response, he moves towards the bedroom door, picking up his jacket from the floor. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” he whispers sadly, “but I’m so
sorry.”

I can’t do this any more. I’ve made such a fool of myself, again, that I might even have to tell Sam I can’t go to her wedding. The tears roll down my face with shame.
What
happened?
I grab my phone, scrolling down the directory until I reach the name
Steen
and, shaking my head in disbelief, I see the name
Simon,
sitting before it, as clear as
day.

Shit, Tina. Why can’t you be like Sam and get things right? Why do you ruin everything?

I knock back the rest of the wine. Grabbing a replacement bottle from the fridge and turning up the music, I slam the bedroom door angrily before clambering into bed. I tear off the outfit from
beneath the sheets and throw it across the room, never wanting to see it again. I curse it. I curse me and my inability to succeed in love and most other simple things. Apart from my business.

Downing the second glass in a matter of minutes, a warm fuzziness mellows me and a glimmer of hope appears in my mind’s eye.
Well, not for much longer!

The prospect of my appointment aids my bruised ego. I never need to be degraded again like I was this evening. I’ll have someone looking out for me, telling me what to do, pointing me in
the right direction.

Bring it on!

“Pick five cards and place them face down on the table,” she says, shuffling the pack before handing them over.

Pick five good ones, Tina.

Closing my eyes, I will myself to choose wealth, success and anti-ageing cards if they exist. I try to focus on those cards, which appear to be calling out to me, choosing those either sticking
out or those almost hiding as if deliberately. I focus on the Law of Attraction, putting out clear signals of the things I want most in life, using my energy to send out the right frequency. I read
about this stuff years ago:
The Power of Positive Thinking.
Apparently what you think about, you put out into the universe, causing the universe to transmit it back to you. It’s
supposed to be practised daily but, sometimes, well, on most days actually, I forget.

I spread the cards out, face down as instructed, and scanning my eyes across the back of them, I wait for my future to be revealed.

Gypsy Rose, close up, looks to be no older than I am although I guess she must be, on the assumption that the young girl Chantelle dealt with at the exhibition is her daughter. She looks
different from when I last saw her, but perhaps I’m the one looking differently at her? And maybe with increased anticipation. But today she is simply stunning. Facially, that is. The rest of
her lets itself down (without being too blunt about it). What a tragic shame to be so facially attractive but let the rest of you go! Well and truly. I’m sure she’ll use childbirth as
an excuse like most women I hear venting about excess weight. “
I was a size zero before I had the kids!”
Yeah. Whatever. Although perhaps I should refrain from judging until
I’ve actually been there.
Ouch!

She attaches an unlit cigarette to the corner of her mouth and, making minimal eye contact with me, turns the cards over one by one, placing them in the pre-marked squares on the black cloth.
Some of the cards are placed on top of others but at a different angle so you can still see the images that lie beneath. The cloth clearly dictates where and how each card should lie, providing
pre-marked squares and presenting an Idiot’s Guide to Tarot. Even I could manage this bit.

Each card is decorated with amazing images and vibrant colours, and an air of mystery and adventure leaps from them. Their façade bears no immediate indication as to their underlying
message and a well of confusion overcomes me until my muddled thoughts are interrupted.

“It is important that you don’t talk until this part of the reading is over,” she says.

I nod.

“It’s best that I don’t hear your voice and that you pass no comment on what I say to you until I’ve read every card and tried to explain how it fits into your
life.”

Once more I nod vigorously, anxious for her to simply get on with it.

She looks up at me smiling and gestures to the first card. “You’ll like this one.” Her finger touches the card delicately, never losing contact. “This one reveals an
exuberant, flamboyant man. A man always in motion and constantly seeking new challenges.”

My skin tingles with goose-bumps as thoughts of Brian flood my head.
He’s determined and certainly seeking new challenges. Me for instance!

“This card is the Knight of Wands and it shows us that a male person, who is around you already, craves adventure.” She hesitates. “Although he can be a little divorced from
reality.”