Crystal Balls (16 page)

I can cope with that! I don’t even watch the news these days it’s so depressing. Reality! Who needs it?

“The Knight of Wands is a real charmer – women tend to love him but,” she looks at me seriously, “no woman can hold him down.”

Whatever! I’ve got him eating from the palm of my hand.

I try to remain emotionless as the reading goes on. It’s so difficult though. Keeping your mouth still is one thing but stopping your eyes from showing signs of life or giving away
snippets of information is so hard and, for some reason, particularly today, trying to get my right eyelid to stop quivering on its own is posing a challenge in itself. Funny, it started a few
weeks back and whenever I get excited or nervous I can feel it flickering about. I’ve never managed to look in the mirror while it’s been happening but I hope that whatever is going on
is from the inside only. I lift my hand to hold it still, pressing down on the eyelid, looking at her through just one eye.
She looks thinner. Half the size in fact.
Once again I try to
focus and unblock my mind from the usual rubbish it hoards in an effort to allow her into my psyche.

She draws my attention to a rather hideous card called The Hanged Man. It has a picture of a naked man (naked bar loincloth), shackled in a tortuous position on the face of a cliff. I shift in
the chair rather uncomfortably.

Gypsy Rose observes my horrified face and laughs aloud. “It means sacrifice,” she explains. “This card shows that you need to sacrifice something in order to acquire something
else.”

“Like what?” I interrupt, immediately regretting opening my mouth.

“The sacrifice can be one of many.” Her tone is clipped and edged with reprimand. “In the case of this card, the hanged man is tortured with an anxiety that his sacrifice might
come to nothing, but he is prepared to sit it out and suffer for his cause. But how do I see it fitting into your life . . .?” She tilts her head to one side, pushing her ample chin down so
that it practically hangs over her shoulder. “You need to adopt more of a willingness to put your trust in unseen events. Perhaps even take a more . . . you know . . . gambler’s
approach.” She talks directly at me. “Go with your gut reaction a little more and, remember, nothing ventured nothing gained.” She shrugs. “You need to learn that putting
yourself through your paces, as they say, is a small sacrifice if it opens up new doors for you.”

Put so vaguely I’m really struggling to understand what all this stuff means. To me. Tina Harding. It’s all very well her telling me the story of each card but, if she can’t
explain how this is likely to impact on me and my life, then what’s the point?

I struggle to comprehend Chantelle and the goosebumps she had when she left this woman that day. The urgency with which she dragged me to one side. The shaky pitch of her voice as she told
all.

Okay, Tina. It’s you. You’re making it difficult for her. Focus. Focus.

Gypsy Rose, lost in her own world, is scribbling down notes for me to take away. Thoughtful of her if her writing were legible, but they may as well be written in hieroglyphics from what I can
see.
I wonder if I can borrow her pen and paper?
I open my mouth to ask and then shut it firmly again as those piercing green eyes hypnotise me.

“I can’t seem to get past this card,” she frowns, tapping The Hanged Man with a tar-stained finger. “There’s a message in it for you but I can’t quite get
it.” She repositions the cigarette that has been quite settled in her mouth for some time now, lighting it without asking and dragging heavily on it. She reaches behind her, picking up an
ashtray overflowing with cigarette stubs and places it on the table to the right of her.
Overweight smoker? Does this woman not want to live for much longer?
My sympathy for her pretty face
but disproportionate body suddenly disappears.

The air carries a taste of second-hand smoke and already my clothes smell of a night on the town – the only night I’ve ever come away from sober and financially intact! Although I
haven’t paid her yet. She blows the smoke to one side, taking a long final drag before stubbing the remains out and placing the ashtray behind her once more. Her façade is more relaxed
now and her face less strained.

“This card is telling me that you have made past sacrifices . . .” She pauses. “But you gave in too quickly.” Her eyes soften as she regains confidence.
“Don’t speak but do you understand this?”

I nod in slow motion, my brain working ten to the dozen as the words translate into my own interpretation.

“You have great potential in this area and the self-doubt you carry needs to be removed.” Once again she scribbles on the paper, finishing the page and starting a new sheet of
indecipherable mush. “In summary, what I’m saying is that you gave up too soon.” She points to the card. “There is no reason to be a martyr to any cause like this guy, but
only a fool allows a single blow to keep him down.”

My heart is beating so fast it’s practically in overdrive and I’m pretty sure that, even in her current condition, her cardio-system at this very moment has to be stronger than mine.
My chest tightens as I recall that very day I chose to put closure on the only dream I ever had. Was it too soon? Surely I’d tried everything to sustain its life? But that’s the
weirdest thing, isn’t it? Even when you’ve made agonising decisions based on logic, facts and reality, you still feel torn up about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have
beens’. What more could I have done with no fixed abode, no cash, no energy and certainly no fight left in me whatsoever? Oh and no regular work coming in.

Throughout the rest of the reading, I find my mind drifting away as her inability to be specific takes its toll on my concentration. She turns over card after card, talking about cups and
pentacles and other such trivia and once again I am forced to question myself about my reasons for being here. I recall them. But things haven’t quite transpired as I had imagined.

Rose collects the cards, integrating them back into the rest of the pack. She shuffles them thoroughly like a trained croupier.

“I want you to think about a burning quest –” she coughs suddenly, her cheeks flaring with redness and her chest sounding like it’s about to explode, “–
question, hhm, sorry!” She croaks painfully, holding her ample bosom (her chest must be under there somewhere). “Keep it in your mind so I can try to answer it.”

I wonder if I can speak now? Oh God, she’ll think that’s my question. It’s not, it’s not.

“Okay – ready,” I reply, keen to show my openness to work with her.

What is my ultimate purpose in life? What is my ultimate purpose in life?
I repeat this in my head over and over again, staring her in the eyes, willing her to answer me plain and simple.
After a long pause she lights up another cigarette and begins. Her eyes blind me with determination as she stares deep into me and a feeling of sudden relaxation hypnotises me.

“You have a good heart but so far your virtuous deeds have been minimal.”

What?
I raise my eyebrows defensively.

“You are extremely gifted in terms of being creative and resourceful and I feel these skills could be put to greater use in terms of helping others.” Her cough returns once more,
bringing with it a cloud of smoke from her open mouth. Her eyes water as she holds her chest, excusing herself from the table. I hear the chink of crockery and the running of a tap, followed by
silence and then footsteps. The laminate floor vibrates beneath my chair.

“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned about her general wellbeing.

“Nothing that I don’t deserve.” She laughs a deep chesty laugh. “Thanks for asking. And, there, didn’t I tell you just how kind you were?”

My face lights up. Actually, she did. How nice it is that someone recognises a good point in you. It’s usually the negative stuff people are so quick to point out.

“Thanks,” I beam, feeling warmed up.

“Now where were we?” She frowns, settling back into the hard chair. “Oh yes, strong links with creativity and helping people are coming through. I see you undertaking some type
of charitable deed. You know, Karma is a wonderful thing and it will pay you back for your forthcoming virtue. What goes around comes around as they say.” She clears her throat roughly.
“Just remember, Tina, that you don’t always get it back off the same people you’ve given to, so don’t expect it. Life is full of surprises.”

I couldn’t agree more about trying to do the best for people when I can fit it in, but in terms of being paid back it doesn’t really work like that, does it? How naïve is she?
What about the murderer who won the lottery? What about the people who devote their entire lives to helping others only to suffer more misfortune than the rest of us put together? What about those
women so desperate to be mothers and bursting with love who are denied the joy of conception? I tut-tut aloud at the unfairness of life.

Taking in my obvious shift in attitude, Gypsy Rose hands me her pages of notes. I stuff them into my bag, thanking her, although I am desperate to flick through them given my mind went a little
AWOL for a good part of the session.

“Just remember you have a great heart, Tina, and a creative head. Once your head and your heart are synchronised, you’ll know exactly how your life is supposed to be.”

“Thank you very much,” I say awkwardly but at the same time thinking,
Hang on, isn’t that your job? You know, to tell me how my life is supposed to be?

Glancing around the tiny conservatory, I look for the door. “That was, er, great,” I mumble, before leaving and hurrying to my car, conscious of the time and mindful of a series of
valuations waiting to be done.

It all feels a bit of an anti-climax really. Why couldn’t she have just told me in no uncertain terms what to do? And why do these things have to be so vague? Something more concrete would
have been nice. But, still, there were a few real specifics.

Weren’t there?

“Hi, Tina!” A cheerful Chantelle grins up at me from the front desk, wafting a wad of forms in the air. “These have all been signed up this morning. Five new
properties in the space of half a day.”

“Well done, you, that’s incredible.” I shake my head in amazement at the difference a few hours can make. “Do they need valuations carried out?” I ask, suddenly
remembering the increased workload every new property brings with it.

“Only three of them do and they’re all local. The other two are switchers from Blenheim Jones – they’re sticking with their current valuation figures so it’s just a
case of getting some photos and getting them on display.” She separates the work pile, placing some into the ready-to-go tray and the rest into the pending tray. “Apparently Blenheim
Jones haven’t marketed these two at all. They’ve never ever been in the window! And they have the damn cheek to charge commission without actually doing anything!”

I laugh at Chantelle getting so worked up. But I love that she is so organised and reliable. In fact, if I never ask her about those properties again, I can rest assured that they’re in
the window displays, on the website and more than likely, sold. Case closed.

“What took you so long?” she asks, trying to remove a staple with her long manicured nails.

“I wasn’t aware I was out long.”

Chantelle looks up at me kindly. “I was just wondering what you were up to really. Nothing more.”

“Oh, this and that,” I reply vacantly. “Chantelle, do you remember a few months ago when that lady from the charitable trust called around?”

She nods, still picking away at the staple, well and truly immersed in a batch of papers.

“If you get a second, can you dig out her details for me and tell her it’s fine for us to display a charity box in here.”

“Ah ha!” Chantelle shouts gleefully. “Little sucker!” The staple, now successfully removed, is hurled into the bin. “Of course I will. Charity begins at home, as
they say.”

Warm-hearted, I dander upstairs to my office. Firstly to reflect on the morning and secondly to clear some work. I’m a little bit behind.

Every now and then, my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach as my thoughts trace back to Saturday night and the humiliation brought with it. Any wonder Simon never asked me about the date.
I’d already rung him and arranged it! Once more I missed out on an episode with Brian and can’t help wondering if somebody is playing a huge joker card in my life. Like in the film with
Jim Carey where his life is a series of events, pre-rehearsed and impressed for all the world to see.
The Tina Show,
that’s it, but with me for once as the leading lady.

Simon’s touch keeps coming back to me. His soft hands and warm breath. The smell of his unkempt manliness and soft, unshaven facial hair. I recall the sheer horror in his eyes as I yelled
for him to get out, and, now that I’ve had a little time to mellow, I’m fraught with guilt about how he must be feeling. Pretty soon I’ll have to face the music. The wedding
rehearsal is only a matter of weeks away. But that’s just one thing. The obligatory dance is another. Thanks, Sam
. Still, there’s nothing like the taming of a handsome man to take my
mind off things.

“Brian, it’s Tina here,” I announce sexily. “I just want to thank you personally for the flowers and also to apologise for the brief text message.”

A raucous laugh booms down the receiver.

“My office staff followed my every move that day so I couldn’t even ring you, but thank you,” I offer once more. Now enough of the niceties. “This unfinished business . .
.”

“Saturday would be good.”

“What?”

“Dinner at eight.”

“Where?”

“That’s a surprise.”

“Right . . . okay . . . great. See you then.”

This time I don’t bother with the goodbyes but hang up and pull out my diary, going straight to next Saturday’s page where I mark ‘
Dinner with BS
’. He has it all
planned, it would appear. Hopefully more efficiently than I did last weekend but at least we’ve spoken and, unless I’m going completely mad, I did ring his number and he did respond
when I called his name so things are looking up already. At least my fingers and phone are synchronised this time, if nothing else.