Crystal Balls (18 page)

The rest of the interview goes smoothly for Kate but not as well, it would appear, for Anna, who seems to find herself a little embarrassed at Kate’s openness about girl-on-girl
action.

My thoughts drift back to one particular night. Skint as usual but glammed up to the nines, Kate and I came up with a plan as to how we could get trashed on the guts of a fiver each, and as
usual this plan revolved around us flirting outrageously in front of whichever guys looked the most cash-rich. We would play it coy as though we’d never done it before but, for a free round
of drinks, perhaps we could try a little kiss . . . but only because they’d put the idea into our heads. We would literally down our drinks, the more expensive the content the better, and
give each other a soft kiss on the lips, lingering just a little too long for it to be platonic but not long enough so they got their money’s worth.
Perhaps another drink might help us
loosen up? You’re buying? Great!

Anyway, one night we were out celebrating our mate Lauren’s twentieth birthday. After being plied with alcohol from a group of pompous barristers in the Courthouse bar, Lauren came
staggering towards us doped off her head and whinging that we always left her out. Given it was her birthday she too wanted a piece of the action. The next thing I recall was the three of us
fighting over tongues, eating the faces off each other as the entire bar came to a stand-still. You could almost hear the conflicting opinions of our fellow-drinkers. The blokes loved it but their
girlfriends detested us for manipulating the attention. Rightly or wrongly. It was one of those surreal moments where I knew we’d overstepped the line, but I was so pissed that I didn’t
actually care what I did. I do remember feeling a little awkward though when Kate and Lauren’s mouths were glued together. I felt redundant, but not giving up I tried to make room for a third
mouth, squeezing my head in between theirs, gate-crashing their private party. The only thing I remember after that is drinking pink champagne and making up stories about my sex life with Kate
simply to keep the bubbles free-flowing! Naturally, that was in the days where Kate wasn’t a recognisable face. If we ever fall out, which is highly unlikely, but if it did happen I could
seriously make a small fortune by selling stories to the
Sun
and other such newspapers. I doubt I’d ever have to work again!
Now there’s a thought.

An offering of spring has arrived, bringing with it the lingering scent of freshly cut grass. But still the air carries a mild chill and I silently pray that the temperature
will lift in time for Sam’s wedding. Unlike your typical Monday morning, where it pours down and you arrive at work just to find your hair-straighteners have disappeared, this morning the air
is perfectly crisp and scented with apples. A sheet of silky blue floats high with not a cloud in sight.

I pull up directly outside the office, removing the orange traffic cone placed there deliberately. The rates are high enough so why shouldn’t I get my own space? Shoving the key into the
front door, I twist it twice to the right and once back to the left, pulling it out roughly before using my hip to force the door open. That’s another item for my to-do list.
Fix front
door.
There is a pile of post and junk mail lying messily on the floor and I gently move some of it with my foot so that the door can close behind me.

I love coming into work this early and having the office to myself. There are no phones ringing, no clients dropping by, no solicitors asking where the damn house keys are. It’s quiet and
tranquil which contagiously affects my mood as I fly through the pending tray, making an impressive dent in the pile.

Chantelle will be delighted with the removal of this time-consuming work and it will certainly free up time for her to do just what it is she’s best at: selling.

Collecting the post from the grey carpet-tiled floor, I scan through it quickly, sorting the more official-looking letters from the less important items, like promotional flyers, endless
stationery catalogues and the Makro Mail which seems to arrive on a daily basis. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of it, but there are only so many toilet-roll deals a girl can cope
with.

I tear open a letter marked for my attention. “
Private and Confidential.
” At long last.
Yippee!
It’s the contract from Brian Steen. I make a note to ask Sam to
cast her eyes over it before I sign it. I’m not one for signing anything unless every clause has been explained and clarified. I know she has a lot on her plate right now, not to mention her
future in-laws but she won’t let me down and, apart from Simon (the less said on him the better) she is the only lawyer I know outside of my usual conveyancing contacts.

This contract is like gold dust. I’m reluctant to put it down in case it gets damaged or I lose it. How many other opportunities am I ever likely to get where I can earn so much money in
one transaction? Probably none. It’s practically been handed to me on a plate and, while it is true that I worked hard for the pitch, it was immensely enjoyable so it really didn’t feel
too much like work. Play is a far better description for Mr Steen. But on a more serious note, the transactional value of this is truly overwhelming and is a life-changing sum of money which, spent
wisely, could fulfil all my short-term business ambitions.

“Morning, Tina! How was your weekend?” Chantelle bounces through the front door balancing a wad of files on her arm. She smiles at me as brightly as she does at
five o’clock on a sunny Friday afternoon.

I decide to say nothing about Gypsy Rose or my ridiculous stint at the art college.

“Great, thanks, Chantelle. Pretty quiet really but so relaxing,” I lie, thankful for the ease with which it comes, but guilty as hell for doing it. “And yours?”

“Wild! You wouldn’t believe how drunk Colin was on Saturday night.” She throws the files on her desk, shaking her arms out with relief. “He doesn’t even remember
getting home!”

“Were you at a party?”

“My aunt’s seventieth!” She screeches with laughter. “I feel awful saying it but it was just so dull that we stayed at the bar all night.”

She takes out a mirror and examines her eyes, pushing down gently on their slight puffiness with perfectly polished nails. Flipping the cover shut, she shakes her head, wincing. “Never
again! I really do mean it this time.”

“Yeah, right!” I laugh. “Oh, great stuff, Chantelle, you’ve just reminded me I have to do something.”

“What’s that then?” She dabs a crème of some sort beneath her dark alluring eyes.

“I need to set up a direct debit for Age Concern.” I notice how she is looking at me suspiciously. “No, really, Chantelle. Do you know how hard it is for these people to manage
on the measly state pension this country gives? So many die every year from hypothermia just because they can’t afford to put the heating on in the winter. It’s an absolute disgrace and
unless members of the general public like you and I do something to help, they’ll continue to suffer in silence.”
Crikey, where did that come from?
I stand down from my
soapbox.

Chantelle looks chastened. “I’m sorry, Tina, you’re so right, forgive me.” She bends down under her desk, picks up her handbag again, removing her purse and pulling out a
folded note. Chantelle pushes the note into the charity box and looks at me gratefully. “Thanks for reminding me, Tina. It really is a privilege to work for someone so caring and
honest.” She grabs me in a tight embrace.

Well, one out of two isn’t bad.

“Kate, it’s me!” I yell in the direction of the hands-free kit. “I saw you this morning – you were brilliant!” The line crackles rudely.

“Hello, you!” Kate echoes back. “How are things?”

“Oh you know, same old, same old. Trying to bag the sexiest man I’ve seen in years, possibly opening a second office, chief bridesmaid duties in a few weeks.” I beam at the
phone proudly. “Usual stuff, Kate.”

“As busy as ever then.” Kate raises her voice over the interference which seems to have become louder. These hands-free kits are a nightmare but still it’s better than three
points on your licence. “I meant to call you about this morning,” Kate shouts. “But it was such short notice. Stewart Heart was supposed to be on the show but he got the flu last
minute so they asked me to stand in for him. Great or what?” She snorts. “Apart from dealing with that Anna woman, bloody great plank of wood!”

I screech with laughter at Kate’s honesty. And perception.

“You were great but she was totally shite. Why the hell is she still hosting that show?”

“Rumour has it that she’s shagging the director Sam Jenkins.” A retching sounds booms down through the speaker. “He is so gross she must be desperate! Here, Tina,
I’ve got a few weeks at the end of next month. Fancy getting away somewhere? I was thinking we could go back to Crete. You know, old times’ sake and all that stuff?”

“Oh definitely, Kate, I so need a break!” I call back excitedly.

During our second year at Uni, Kate and I spent the entire summer travelling around Crete, stopping to work at various resorts when we’d run out of money, throwing back ouzo like it was
going out of fashion and learning just about every Greek speciality possible – if you know what I mean. Okay, at the time we didn’t realise half the men teaching us these local
specialities were married but, looking back, we were a little naïve. Any wonder we were so popular.

Kate and I chose Crete as we’d spent a week holidaying there the year before and we’d got to know the place quite well. We needed somewhere with endless bars and night life to ensure
that we’d have no issues getting work. Plus we made great friends with many a bar-owner who promised us jobs if we returned the following season. They didn’t let us down although we
learned very quickly that they always wanted some kind of favour in return.

“Tina, I have to go now,” Kate whispers. “I’ve just been chased out of the green room to go on set. Call you later about the holiday. Bye.” She blows kisses down
the phone before the line goes dead and my car radio kicks back in.

A holiday is just what I could do with. Lying on a deserted beach allowing the calmness of the sea to send me into a deep state of relaxation, Piña Colada in one hand, Marian Keyes in the
other. Well, not Ms Keyes herself naturally although I am a big fan of hers. Just not in that way.

At least for now I’ve got my date with Mr Steen to look forward to. Who needs to wait for sex on the beach when it’s already in the diary for Saturday night? Without the sand, of
course, but that’s definitely a plus – that stuff gets everywhere.

“
A man in motion always seeking new challenges.”

By the time I’ve finished with you, Mr Steen, motion sickness will be the only challenge you’ll be facing.

“Damn!”

Someone has parked in my space right in front of the shop. I glare at the car as if that’s going to help matters and notice that, a few cars up, someone is pulling away. The lines are
double yellow but I’m only popping in to collect messages and check the office is still intact. I quickly reverse into the space, thankful of rear parking-sensors and wondering what the hell
I ever did without them. A few months ago, however, I did reverse into a bollard. There was no damage done apart from a small scratch to the silver A6 bumper. But when I told my dad he roared with
laughter. “Tina! You’re the only person I know who can ignore as loud a warning as that bloody car sensor of yours!” I guess I must have been reversing a little too quickly
because before I knew it I heard a high-pitched bleeping noise followed directly by a bang. And then a four-letter expletive.

Glancing up and down the street now, it appears safe enough. There are no obvious signs of traffic wardens so I abandon the car and run towards the office, popping my head around the door. The
office is dead. No foot traffic in sight. I guess that’s what a sunny day does for you.

“Any messages for me, Chantelle?”

Her head appears from behind the flat-screened monitor and she smiles at me, removing her black-framed glasses which make her look damned intelligent and even more sexy than usual.

“Hi, Tina.” A radiant smile lights up her face and her eyes twinkle responsively. “Nothing urgent for a Monday and certainly nothing I couldn’t take care off.” She
stands up, pushing her skirt down, ironing out the creases, and flicks her dark shiny hair over to one side.

“I can’t stop,” I rattle quickly. “Some cheeky sod is in my parking space and I can’t afford to get another ticket.”

“Okay but I want to run something by you so I’ll come outside with you.”

She steps out of the office and perches herself on the white-painted windowsill, squinting as the sun practically blinds her.

She looks preoccupied for a moment and I feel my heart pounding, preparing for the worst.
Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

“What you said this morning, Tina, is so right and I can’t believe I’ve been so neglectful towards those less fortunate than myself.” She shakes her head in disgust.
“My mother would be turning in her grave . . . It’s just that sometimes . . .” She pauses sadly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve had my own fair share of bad luck and yet
I’ve had no choice but to get on with it. But you made me realise this morning that there are always people worse off.” She grabs my hand tightly. “And for that I am truly
grateful.”

I feel so bad I could cry for her. I have no idea where that soap-box lecture came from but I sure as hell didn’t mean for Chantelle to be at the receiving end of it.

“Don’t be so stupid, Chantelle!” I perch myself next to her, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Take no notice of me! God knows what I was on this morning, honest gov. You
know me – Queen of Crap!” I laugh, trying to win her over.

She turns to face me, beaming away. “It’s okay though because guess what I’m doing on Saturday?”

“What?”

“I’m going to help supervise a group of disadvantaged kids,” she declares joyously. “St Stephen’s Church are taking them to an open farm for the day so I’ve
put myself forward as a volunteer.”