Crystal Balls (23 page)

Standing at the very back of the church, I observe Timothy rubbing shoulders with Simon as they stand close together at the top. Both men are angled side-on for the best view of the bride. The
two mothers and Major Heath Jones are sitting in the same pew. Although that won’t happen on the day. The vicar is at the front entrance, a few feet before me and bible-armed, and my dad and
Sam are safely tucked in the middle, linked arm in arm, poised and ready for action.

“Okay?” The vicar checks behind him.

Sam and my dad nod in concentration.

“
Go!
” yells the vicar and I watch as my dad practically yanks Sam’s arm from her socket, dragging her down the aisle at full speed.

A giggle escapes from my mouth, followed by a frustrated squeal by Sam. We reach the altar in what seems like a millisecond.

My dad shuffles uncomfortably. “Sorry, love.” He turns to Sam, white as a ghost. “I’m just a bit nervous. I’ll be fine on the day.”

“Don’t worry, Dad.” She leans forward to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be great on the day.”

Who’s the one getting married here!

“Dad, if you drag
me
down the aisle that fast on
my
wedding day,” I say, “I’ll make you parade the entire church!”

“Tina, you’ll be so concerned about people looking at you, poor dad will have shackles on his feet!” Sam blurts through stifled giggles.

“Hey, thanks, Sam, I never thought of that.”

We high-five each other.

The rest of the rehearsal runs smoothly and Simon manages to effortlessly relieve the tension by pretending to have forgotten the wedding rings.
Highly original.
The entire party cracks
up, grateful for the excuse to laugh and to rid themselves of that pent-up emotion only a family affair can bring. Before that, you could have cut the air with a knife.

The obligatory all-hugging all-kissing ‘
see you on the day’
farewells come to an end and Simon leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. I wait for the repercussions of our last
encounter.

“I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on,” he whispers in my ear.

Here we go!

Stunned and beetroot (at least from the chest up), I look away, mortified, but he laughs a kind and forgiving laugh so I risk making eye contact with him. It’s clear to see he is trying to
make light of the situation.

“Fancy a swift one?”

“A what one?” I stutter. Still scarlet.

“A drink? I want to talk to you about decorating the bridal suite.” His voice is low and slightly husky.

“Oh right.” I nod in slow motion, deliberately stalling my decision while I quickly think of a get out clause. “A drink?” I repeat dumbly.

“That’s right, Tina.” Simon raises his eyebrows. “Comes in a glass, you swallow it!” He roars with laughter. “Actually, that does sound rather rude,
doesn’t it?”

Shaking my head and observing his ludicrous grin and slightly impish face, I find myself laughing at his stupidity and sense of humour. Although it is alarmingly vulgar. There is something about
Simon that tells me he’ll be in student mode until his retirement.

A drink? With a proper agenda? What harm could that do?

I don’t have a problem in conceding. It’s for a good cause and let’s face it there’ll be no avoiding him now, what with the wedding taking place next week and us being
in-laws. Almost. We’ll have to walk down the aisle together at the end of the marriage ceremony and we, and our parents, have been instructed to carry out the first dance. Have you ever heard
the likes of it? Sam reckons it will take the pressure off her and Tim doing it.
Hello?
Like no-one’s going to notice the bride and groom are missing from the dance floor. For someone
so intelligent, she can be bloody dopey at times.

“Okay, just a quick one.”

Simon extends a friendly arm for me to link and we march down the aisle together, worryingly in synch and without a smidgen of rehearsal. We couldn’t have carried out the real thing with
such ease of expertise.

“A quick one, eh?” he snorts. “Never had you down as that type of girl!”

Slap!

“Ouch.”

The engine revs loudly as we pull away from the churchyard. Simon eases gently through the wrought-iron gates before joining the main road and flooring it.

“Slow down, Simon. It’s a forty zone,” I lecture, gripping the door handle tightly.

“I’m only doing forty-five – it just feels faster because you’re sitting so low down.”

I take a sneaky peek at the speed count. He’s right.

“This car is so old now but I can’t bear to get rid of her.” He strokes the leather steering wheel. “Plus the insurance has only just become affordable! Turning thirty
has some benefits, don’t you find?”

“How do you know I’m even thirty?”
Cheeky boy.

“I asked your sister.” He grins. “She told me all about you.”

“Really? What else did she tell you?”

“She told me that you’ve yet to meet your match, but when you do you won’t like it and you’ll fight it.” His grin drops momentarily. “And so you’ll
probably stuff up like you always do.”

“How dare you, Simon! You don’t even kno–”

“I’m quoting your sister. That’s what Sam said about you,” he interrupts calmly.

“Well, that’s where she’s wrong,” I snap coldly. “I’ve already met him. I know it and I like it and I’m not
stuffing up!
” I glance down at
the sparking Rolex, wondering how on earth no-one has noticed it. “I have well and truly met him.”

The rest of the evening goes reasonably well and Simon keeps me entertained by leaking the secrets of his office politics. A euphemism for who is shagging whom. I’m dying to ask about his
past or even present girlfriends while we’re on the subject but I dare not. Not directly.

“So are you bringing a guest to the wedding?” I enquire, risking it.

“Nope. You?”

I shake my head without hesitation. “You know what, Simon, this day is so important to me that I simply wouldn’t want any distractions. My role that day is to indulge my sister and
give her all the attention she deserves. Nothing less.” I mean it hand on heart. Even Brian doesn’t come close to Sam.

“You and Sam are pretty close, aren’t you?” Simon’s face turns pensive for the first time all evening. “I’d love for Tim and me to have been like that, or
even to be like that. But he was always the Goody Two Shoes while I was the rebel.” He smiles. “But with a cause!”

My gut reaction is to laugh in agreement. With his overbearing father and a wife who can’t hold her own, I understand how rebelling might have been the answer. But I don’t laugh.
They’re still someone else’s parents. Not mine thankfully, but I would hate to offend by commenting on his unfortunate biological makers.

“Your mother is pretty quiet, isn’t she?” I venture.

Simon scratches his stubbly chin. His nails are jagged and uneven unlike Brian’s perfectly manicured smooth hands. “She’s always been quiet,” he says pensively.
“She’s quite the comedian after a few drinks though.” He grins. “Usually when she has centre stage.” He pauses, stone-faced. “Which is only when my dad is not
around.”

I sense a degree of frustration around his father and can’t help but compare him to my own. My dad was a real hands-on dad who taught us to ride our bikes, put up a tent and catch tadpoles
with a home-made fishing rod made from a twig and a pair of laddered tights. Not his tights of course! He’s a man’s man, is my dad. He was and still is a warm and caring man who would
whistle while leaving for work in the morning and sing coming home at night no matter how long or tiresome his day was. It was he who paid for all my dance and drama lessons although my mother took
the credit for it and still does. My dad has never asked for even so much as a thank-you. He has no expectations whatsoever apart from that old cliché called happiness.

“What was it like growing up with your dad? He can be quite overpowering, can’t he?” I chance.

“You mean he
is
overpowering? And overbearing, obnoxious, chauvinistic and loud?” He laughs a half laugh and I wonder where the other half went to.

“Are you mad about it?” I probe him with genuine concern.

“Not for me.” He stiffens. “But for my mother. I . . .”

He stops talking.

“What is it, Simon?”

“I always thought she deserved better than him.” His body relaxes and his pale skins flushes with warmth. “She’s such a beautiful woman and I just want her to have
whatever it is that makes her happy.”

“Hey, maybe we should match my mother with your dad!” I chortle. “She’d sort him out in no time. She’s nobody’s fool.”

Simon’s face drops. “My mother is certainly no fool, Tina,” he says coolly.

“Oh God, no. Erm, I really didn’t mean it like that . . . I just mean that . . .”

Simon smirks at me from ear to ear. That same cheeky grin he wears whenever he scores a point against me. “Gotcha!”

Whatever!

“Thanks for coming, Brian,” I say sheepishly as we survey my potential new premises. “And thanks again for looking after me on Saturday.”

“Any gentleman would have done the same, Tina, although you should have called me to take you home.”

I don’t answer him. The explanation is far too obvious to leave my lips.

“What a shock we got!” he says. “You were fine one minute and on the floor the next. Poor Serge nearly had a heart attack. He thought he had poisoned you!” His hand
reaches out touching my shoulder and I shudder at his gentle touch, longing to reach up and charge into battle with his slightly parted lips.

“Nothing to the shock I got waking up in hospital! And how did you not notice? Did you not see my face . . . erm . . . changing colour as the night went on?”

“It was so dark on that veranda, I could barely see you as it was! As the night wore on, I caught the odd snippet over a flicker of candlelight but that was it.”

“Well, Mr Steen, I’d usually say aren’t you unlucky! But given my facial attack I’m quite relieved to hear that.”

“You look fine now though, Miss Harding.” He takes a step closer to me until our bodies are inches apart.
It’s awfully hot in here.
“More than fine. Delicious in
fact.”

“I feel fine . . . now . . . thanks.”
Not here, no way!

The place reeks of stale ice cream and the neglected tables, crippled with damp, look set to crumble should even a feather land on them, never mind two bodies. And besides I’m not
prepared. Not physically nor mentally.
Is my underwear even matching?
Absolutely not here! No way.

Brian’s soft lips thrust onto mine and the pressure of his lunging tongue forces me backwards step by step until I’m pressed up against the wall behind. Trapped. His manly hands grip
my waist, tickling me just below the ribcage, and I long for them to move lower down.

Oh what the hell!

I manoeuvre us into the back of the building where we can’t be seen through the filthy glass windows. Unlikely, given the state of them, but I’m taking no chances. Our feet shuffle
together clumsily as our lips remain firmly locked together, unwilling to do anything else. His grunts become louder and louder and I feel his manliness twitching away beneath his tailored trouser
suit. My hand feels for it over the expensive material, getting the bearings of where it starts and finishes and I slowly rub it from base to tip, almost sending him over the edge. I can’t
believe my actions and I do feel like some type of two-bit hooker subconsciously repaying him for the Rolex as he suggested. But it’s not that. It’s just that no matter how carefully
these romantic dates have been planned, they haven’t worked out, so I’m going to darn-well grab this opportunity while I can.

His kisses become more frantic and he pulls my hand away, grabbing my wrist and holding it firmly away from his anatomy. As I try to wrestle free he takes hold of my other wrist and pushes them
both above my head, pinning them against the wall with a single hand as his tongue continues its attack. But I don’t bother with the defence. He uses his foot to push my legs apart before
thrusting his knee up against my crotch, teasing it with tiny knee-lifts, increasing the pressure with each jolt. His free hand brushes over my nipple and I yelp with delight, feeling it harden
instantly. His hand thrusts up beneath the camisole top and he roughly lifts up my bra, pushing it up to expose both breasts, soft with throbbing blood-filled nipples. He lets go of my hands,
leaving his own free to cup both breasts before taking one of them into his mouth. He kisses it like he kissed me on the lips, flicking his tongue around, sucking it, biting it. All a little
rougher than I imagined but who’s complaining? My back arches in spasm and I pull at his trouser belt, yanking it aggressively before releasing the buckle.

Then, as my hands journey back to undo his trousers, he stops me dead.

Don’t stop!

I reach up to resume our kiss, frustrated at the interval. The only interval where I so don’t need a comfort break.

“Sshh!”

I look up at him vacantly, conscious that my breasts are hanging alone and throbbing. In fact they’re feeling rather neglected.

“Did you hear something?” he whispers.

I listen for a microsecond before throwing myself onto him once more, biting his bottom lip like a Jack Russell. There’s no escape from this grip.

Suddenly, the door slams and I freeze. I hear the sound of voices and footsteps travel across the worn flooring.

Shit shit shit. I must have booked a viewing for this time! Or Chantelle did and I didn’t check!

Frantically, I pull the bra down followed by the camisole top, straightening my skirt back to its traditional knee length while Brian speedily fixes his belt and flattens down his hair.

“What shall we do?” I whisper inaudibly

Brian coughs loudly. “This wall is a partition wall so it’s easy enough to come down.” His voice is formal and assertive. “You’ll definitely need to look at
rewiring though and refitting the kitchen upstairs is a must if you want to maximise all of the available floor space downstairs.”