Crystal Balls (2 page)

Needless to say, I headhunted her from Goldsmith Kings which was easy given she hated it – well, hated the owner really, and for all the same reasons I had done. Her reputation promised
her to be worthy of recruitment and, once the word on the street was out – that the chauvinistic pig’s success was practically off the back of Chantelle – I made her an offer I
knew she couldn’t refuse and, after her obligatory notice was served, she was all mine. And I certainly didn’t intend to lose her. I love her, the punters love her, the wives and
girlfriends are taken in by her natural charm and flattery, and Chantelle graces her way through each day with the ease and simplicity of a woman who works purely for the passion of it, never
asking for anything but always giving. She has been and still is indispensable.

“Earth calling Tina!” she teases.

“Sorry, Chantelle, I’m in a world of my own.” I roll my eyes at her. I don’t want to keep telling her how valued she is, knowing how uncomfortable it makes her.

“Penny for them?” She smiles at me affectionately. “Oh my goodness, talk about food for thought!” Bright-eyed, Chantelle suddenly jumps up, digging her hand deep into her
jacket pocket and pulling out a newspaper cutting. Leaning over the desk, she quickly unfolds it, holds it in front of me, positioning it far too close to read. She dances around impatiently,
hopping from one leg to the next.

“Please say you’ll come, Tina, please!” she blurts out, looking down at me with big dark-brown eyes set firmly in you-cannot-say-no mode. Although, to see those eyes, you have
to look past her ample chest first.

“Will you give me a chance to read it, for heaven’s sake? I don’t even know what it is!”

I scan my eyes quickly over the article while Chantelle childishly bounces around, twitching like she has heavily overdosed on speed.

She is clearly desperate to speak again and, seeing my eyes lower towards the remaining lines, she bursts out uncontrollably: “Will you come with me, please, Tina? I’ve always wanted
to see one of those guys but I’d be too afraid to go on my own. Honestly, Tina, this means so much to me I can’t tell you. Please come with me!” She takes in my reluctant face.
“Pretty, please?”

“Chantelle, breathe,” I tell her. “Just take deep breaths.” I stare at her like she is a woman possessed. “I’ve never seen you like this before –
you’re usually so collected.”

I flick through the article once more. My gut reaction is a no, but her excitement and near-desperation have stirred something in me. She opens her mouth to speak again but I silence her with my
finger to my lips like a kindergarten teacher. It works beautifully. Why have I never tried it before?

“Hang on a minute. Just let me read it again. And will you keep still? You’re making me feel sea-sick.”

I digest the article for the third time, reading it slowly and mulling it over in my head, but I begin to feel quite uncomfortable at the prospect of it. It’s fine for Chantelle but not
for me. I’m not the lost little girl who needs to find herself. That was in the past where it will firmly remain and this is the here and now and, from where I’m sitting, it’s
looking pretty damn good. I know exactly who I am and where I’m heading and I simply don’t see the point of paying thirty quid for some deranged spoof to impart a pack of lies. I can
understand Chantelle’s interest, however, and in her shoes I might well share her sentiment.

The article, a full-page spread, is promoting Liverpool’s first Psychic Fayre where it aims to demonstrate communication and contact with the spirit world, through mediumship and
clairvoyance. Fine if you’re into that sort of thing, I guess, but the idea of it all fills me with ambivalence. I really don’t like it. What if they ask you questions? Personal
questions? What if the next thing you know is that some crook has stolen your identity, cleared out your bank account and eradicated you from your own existence? You are not really you any more.
Someone else is you.

Shaking my head, I quickly attempt to figure a get-out clause.

“You know what, Chantelle, I really don’t feel comfortable going if I’m honest. It’s a complete waste of money and probably run by a group of phoneys.” I hate doing
this to her but in a way I’m also trying to protect her. “I mean, think about it logically, it can’t be authentic, honest gov.”

Chantelle leans across the desk, practically lying on it face down. “Please, Tina, oh please!” she begs. “I really need someone with me and you’re just the person to keep
me grounded. I can’t go with Colin because he doesn’t believe in that stuff and my nan would kill me if she knew what I was up to.” She laughs. “My nan says it’s the
devil’s work, not that I believe that but . . .” her black-olive eyes widen with innocence, “but I can be a little naïve sometimes.” The corners of her mouth turn
upwards and her thick lashes flutter prettily. “I get so taken in by it all. I really do need to have someone there with me.”

What a performance, Chantelle! Move over, Hollywood.

“Look, I’m not really the right person to go with you,” I point out adamantly. “I’m a cynic who is in control of her life because she made it happen. I am where I
am because of sheer hard work and this time around I ain’t gonna fail!” My voice breaks a little as I recall that very phone call to Mother asking to be rescued. “It’s up to
you, Chantelle. You have to create your own destiny and make your own luck in this life.” I feel a sudden stab of pain. The fight to turn my life around came at a price but, still, I live to
tell the tale and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or so they say.

I watch her despondent face and mellow slightly. I step down from my invisible soapbox. “It’s about action and about doing, Chantelle.” I look around me. “Blood, sweat
and tears has been injected into this business. At one point I only had the clothes on my back.” I shake my head at her, conscious that I may have been a bit heavy. “A crystal ball
can’t map your life out, Chantelle. All it will do is make your pocket lighter.” I take in her obvious disappointment. She’s as transparent as they come, and wears her heart on
her sleeve. I find her simplistic approach rather endearing. I endeavour to make light of the situation by grabbing her hand. With my index finger I trace the contour of her palm, holding the hand
firmly as she tries to wriggle it away. My manicured nail trails slowly along her jagged lifeline, deliberately tickling it to torment her.

“You have a long life in front of you, my dear,” I begin in jest, my voice quaking for dramatic effect. “You will live way into your nineties but your faculties will have left
you long before.” I stifle a giggle. “Your chest will go south and your pelvic floor will join it after having nine children . . .”

“Ouch!” Chantelle’s eyes begin to water at the prospect.

“You will come into money, a lot of it, but you will always remain faithful to your employer!”

She snorts at me wickedly.

“Oh, and all nine of your children will have different fathers!” I put her hand down. “That will be fifty pounds, please!”

We both laugh as Chantelle examines her chest, thankful of its northerly position. Her face screws up and she pants heavily. “I’m about to drop another one!” She stoops down,
holding the small of her back. “Get the towels, quick!”

I grab the cutting, crushing it into a ball, and hurl it towards her. “You’re sick, Chantelle! And close your legs, will you? I can nearly see your kidneys!”

“Hang on a minute?” She regains her perfect posture. “
I’m
sick? Pot and kettle come to mind.” She chortles. “I’m not the one who slept with a
fifty-year-old!”

Bitch!
“He said he was forty!” I retort. “My God, don’t remind me of that, you big horror! I was only twenty-three at the time!”

“Which makes it even worse!” She tuts. “Slapper!”

My shoulders shudder with nausea. We were in the throes of foreplay when he asked me if I was ready? I replied yes but what was the question? After he noisily climaxed, alone, the cheeky bugger
turned and said, “I thought you were ready? You’ve got a lot to learn, sweetheart.” He got out of bed, still semi-erect, leaving me there naked and humiliated and not knowing
whether to slap him or try again. I told Chantelle that story after a few too many!

Chantelle retrieves the crumpled cutting from the floor and throws it in the bin across the other side of the room. It lands perfectly. She smirks, turning back to face me. An impish devilry
decorates her exquisite face – she truly has no idea how beautiful she is.

Every piece of displayed flesh shines with a dark-gold hue. Her thick black eyelashes protect eyes so dark a shade of brown they can be mistaken for black from a distance. Her dainty nose, a
Hungerford inheritance, portrays an air of aristocratic exquisiteness and dark red lips in a permanent yet unaffected pout add the penultimate finish to perfection. The finale, however, is a heart
so pure and full of virtue that humility would serve her well if it bowed down. As is expected, Chantelle is unaware of the degree of influence and control she possesses and, what she uses, she
uses in jest. With her charm, ravishing appearance and a bit of Machiavellian practice, she could actually be quite dangerous.

“It ain’t worked, Ms Harding!” She shakes her finger at me. “Stick to what you know about, girl, cos palm-reading and comedy just ain’t your thing.” She
struts about the room in gangster fashion. Terrible American accent – piercing to the ears in fact. At least my gypsy voice was believable even if the content wasn’t! “Seriously
though, Tina, how about I just get a reading done and you can wait outside? At least then you’re not wasting money and I get someone to go with?”

When you put it like that!
I suppose I could consider it. Conceding, I mean. What harm can it do really? It can’t be that bad if they’re using the Royal Fort. People use that
hotel for weddings and conferences. In fact, it’s a pretty good endorsement for their business, using such a prestigious location. Perhaps that’s part of the master plan? I’m not
interested in having a reading but I guess there are no reasons why I can’t support my own staff in doing so and it’s very rare for Chantelle to ask for anything.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go with you,” I give in reluctantly. “But only book yourself in, Chantelle, seriously, and don’t try to convince me otherwise. Anything to get you
out of my office. Some of us have got work to do.”

A jubilant Chantelle runs around the desk, bending forward to hug me. She’s practically sitting on my knee!

“Thanks, Tina!” she grins. “You’re the best. I can’t wait!”

Skipping heavily to the door, she turns serious for a moment. “Oh yeah, Tina, Brian Steen’s PA rang earlier to remind you about the meeting.” Her eyes twinkle.
“Don’t worry – I told her you’ve been looking forward to it all week.” With a cheeky smirk, she closes the door behind her and seconds later the floor vibrates with
the thud of her descent.

What is it with that girl and how, once again, have I managed to succumb to her charm?

I thought I was the boss around here?

The prospect of the meeting with Brian Steen fills me with nervous energy. He is a familiar name to those in the trade. A ruthless property developer, with the Council heads
and bank managers in his back pockets. Never refused planning permission or any amount of finance. And yet, even with his slightly fearful reputation, we all flocked with tenders in tow to sell our
agency services.

Steen and his team of builders have recently started working on executive apartments in Liverpool’s docklands. The land remained derelict until his construction plans were approved,
ironically in the same week another’s were declined. Rumour has it that the competitors have applied for a judicial appeal, but they haven’t a leg to stand on and they know it.

The two apartment blocks will each contain fifteen split-level, two and three-bedroom apartments, fully equipped with mod cons including integrated sound systems, a communal gym, underground
parking, twenty-four-hour security. The list goes on. And on. And at a starting price of six-hundred thousand pounds, these state-of-the-art premises clearly aren’t for the average Joe.

In truth, I couldn’t have prepared more for the meeting had I tried. Many an evening has been spent curled up on the sofa, with the compulsory glass of wine, studying the apartment
specifications and exploring the impressive yet fairly short history of Steen Developments Ltd. For a man in his early forties he certainly has some balls and, with what appears to be flawless
business-planning and decision-making, I’d say they must be made from crystal.

To say I have drifted off into a fantasy world once or twice is an understatement. What are the chances of me owning one of these luxury dwellings? I could have an L1 docklands postcode. If I
thought I was someone now, forget it; I truly would be someone living there. No more queues for the treadmill at Fat Busters with the mandatory fifteen-minute maximum workout. No more purple veins
in the water telling tales of vile imbeciles urinating in the pool. No more packing and unpacking of the gym bag with the wet towels and dripping swimsuit all crammed together in an impatient
attempt to make them fit in. Sound familiar? Imagine arriving at the gym in sixty seconds. Unstressed and with light hand-luggage containing lip-gloss, hair-bobble and MP3 player. Workout complete,
welcome to the power showers of the century. Lather yourself into a frenzy under waterfalls of free-flowing hot water beating down on your body with all the sensations of a sports massage, before
getting lost in heated, soft, velvety bathrobes. Next, cleanse, tone and moisturise with complimentary Molton Brown products, leading to the finale: a generous application of whipped body
soufflé slathered onto your soft glistening skin. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it? Well, after the workout it does anyway.

My sporadic gym visits consist of leaving with soaking wet hair, venturing into the cold climate of this wonderful country while fumbling for the car keys. Shivering all the way home, you will
the dilapidated heater to kick in before you reach your front door and hypothermia sets in. But no need for any of that here if you have wads of cash. Basking in your continuously healthy glow,
simply press a button for the lift to be chauffeured back to your door. A smooth, seamless ride to even more luxury. One can dream and, by God, I truly have.