Crystal Balls (25 page)

I hang up quickly. One pound fifty a minute does seem rather steep. Tapping the desk in agitation, I shove a pile of paperwork out of the way, allowing me to think with no added distractions.
Why are you doing this,
Tina?

I wait for an answer. Nothing happens.

Why?
Why?

I’ll tell you why. Because my love life sucks and always has done, the only career I ever wanted passed me by in a flash leaving me with only what I stood up in and now the opportunity for
me to change the quality of my life has practically been handed on a plate and I damn well want to make sure I don’t stuff up like before! That’s why. That’s bloody well why!

Satisfied that my decision is purely logical and pragmatic, I redial with more confidence holding the receiver pressed between my ear and shoulder while I fumble for a credit card. I listen
impatiently to the same message before pressing option two.

“
If you wish to speak to Alexia, select Pin 1076. If
you wish to speak to Dario, select pin 1295, if you wish
t–
” I punch in the numbers of the first
option given. What’s the point of waiting? I don’t know them from Adam. “
Please key in your credit-card number followed
by the hash key.”
After what feels like
an eternity a real voice transmits through the receiver. “Hello, caller, this is Alexia, who am I speaking to?”

“Oh hi.” I feel like hanging up but it’s too late now. “I’m Tina.”

“Hello, Tina, have you had a reading by telephone before?”

“No.”
This is my first and last.

“Okay. Let me explain to you what is going to happen. You may choose two topics for me to link into and I will try to be as thorough as possible around those areas.” She sounds like
she’s reading from a script. She probably is. “You can choose from ‘Finding Love’, ‘Finding Happiness’, ‘Career and Success’, ‘Pet Psychic
Zone’ and ‘Live Astrology’
.
”

Pet Psychic Zone?

“‘Finding Love’, and ‘Career and Success’, please.” These seem the most appropriate to my situation. I don’t want anything airy-fairy. Just stick to the
key issues.

“Okay, Tina, please try not to think of anything. This will allow me to pick up psychic images from you. I will then translate those images back into psychic messages.”

I perch myself on the edge of the seat, pen poised to record every word.

“I see a relationship doomed to failure,” she begins. “Although this relationship is about to be moved to its next level, it really shouldn’t be. One person is turning
the water into wine but the other is drinking it.”

What?

“I see a ring linked to this relationship but feel that, if it goes ahead, failure is imminent.”

A ring? I’ve had a few dates with Brian and been given a Rolex but slow down with the wedding business – we haven’t even passed first base yet . . . well, that is debatable
after the skirmish in the ice-cream parlour but . . .

“Now I’m not sure if this person has even proposed yet but, regardless, this relationship should be stopped.”

What? My whirlwind romance halted in its tracks?

She goes on to talk about my career, telling me how successful and innovative I am and how I like to be in control but adds that I should cut myself a bit of slack and not be hard on myself for
not achieving perfection one hundred per cent of the time. How general is that? True admittedly, but a very generic statement. Most women are hard on themselves. We’ve created a millennium
version of ourselves which is damn hard to live up to. Sometimes I think we’re our own worst enemy and those women who choose to stay at home while the husbands go out to work have clearly
got it right, unlike the ones who try to balance everything and wonder why they’re constantly stressed and unhappy.

She carries on without waiting for any reply from me. “Your career and success are not linked, which is unusual. I feel that your career sits in isolation from what you deem to be success
but for most people they go hand in hand. Just not you.”

“What do you mean?”
I’m baffled.

“Success to most people means a good job or career with a decent income but from you I’m picking up vibes in my solar plexus that your success still awaits you and is not related to
your present career.”

I’m feeling butterflies in my stomach – maybe that’s what she’s picking up from me.
It’s called hunger.

“Your success won’t necessarily come in the form of your job or money,” she goes on. “I can’t tell you where it will come from but a link with study keeps flashing
before me. Have you been considering any studying lately?”

“No, and I haven’t the time,” I tell her flatly.

“Well, maybe it’s past studying, maybe it’s future studying, but whatever it is, it will help you.” Then she repeats, “Help you.”

I’m close to running two estate agent’s and you’re
telling me to go out and study? Get real.

“You’ve a real healing quality about you and the colours white and blue surround your aura.”
I’ve a
telephone aura now?

“White for your caring, healing side, and blue for its health implications. Now there’s nothing to worry about, but often the colour blue can represent certain conditions which need
attention, such as backache or looking after your immune system better or it can even relate to your mental health, such as looking out for obsessive or addictive behaviours.”

Oh my God, I’m an addict. I could only be an
alcoholic though. I can’t think of any other addictive
downfalls. Then again, alcoholism runs in my mother’s
side of the family.

“I sense you get a little stressed sometimes and would suggest that you carry around some stone or quartz crystals with you. These should help during tense times. I would recommend rock
crystal – this has a natural affinity with the earth and all things spiritual. Just be careful sometimes, though, as the energy these things have can be so powerful you may be prone to the
odd small electric shock.”

Laughter bursts from my mouth, belting down the phone, but I recompose myself quickly. I thought something had to be live to be electric?
Yes, I can change
a plug, thank you.

She ignores my laughter. “For healing yourself, why not try blue agate? We can arrange to send you samples of these pure rock crystals, all one-hundred-per-cent genuine, and simply charge
it to your card.” There is a silence. “Shall I arrange for these to be sent to you with notes of your reading?”

Anything for an easy life, Tina.

The reading finishes shortly after, much to my relief given the cost of the call. Maybe my relationship with Brian is doomed although one could hardly call it a relationship at these early
stages. Doomed to failure before it’s even begun. But hang on a minute, aren’t I supposed to be taming him? Isn’t he my soul mate, my destiny?

Is it any wonder I’m confused?

The hive of activity at Mum’s is frantic as we all rally around, bumping into each other, giving over-the-top apologies and other phoney niceties. In reality, it’s
a stress bomb waiting to go
bang!

Sam is sitting in her bedroom with her feet up on a small glass-topped table slurping on what appears to be her tenth cup of coffee this morning. I take it she wants to be awake to consummate
her wedding but at this rate she’ll not be sleeping her entire honeymoon.

“Come and get ready, Sam. You’ve only got an hour before the cars get here!” My voice is high-pitched. I’m starting to feel the Matron of Honour pressure.

Sam sets the cup down on the table and smiles at me with a peaceful serenity. “Tina.” She pats the empty seat next to her. “Take a load off.”

“Have you been smoking dope?” I ask her suspiciously, examining her pupils.

She just grins at me. “No, silly. But try to relax, Tina.” She tightens the belt of the towelling robe. “My hair and nails are done so all I have left to do is to put a little
makeup on and get dressed. How can that take an hour?”

“Am I still allowed to do your make-up?”

“Yes, but make me look like a Barbie doll and I’ll kill you.”

“
Au naturel
, big sis, I promise. And no offence, Sam, but a Barbie doll is something you’ll never be!”

“That’s the best compliment you’ve ever given me, Tina.” She smirks. “Although don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying to turn me into a Barbie over
the years!”

I gasp with incredulous innocence. “Me?”

“You indeed!” Sam shakes her finger at me chidingly. “Remember that time I asked you to book me in for a dry trim but when I got to the hairdresser’s they had me down for
a peroxide blonde rinse?”

I forgot about that one!

“And the other time I
let
you come when I had the personal shopper for the day and you took her to the side, telling her I was really a rock chick but too embarrassed to admit it
– and that my outfit should mirror how I felt inside!” Sam laughs with hearty ease.

“Yes, but the clothes she was picking out for you were so frumpy and middle-aged.”

“Tina.” She stares at me through freshly tinted lashes and perfectly plucked eyebrows. “I was going to a wedding!” We fall into peals of laughter and suddenly I can see
just how trying I must have been for all those years. All thirty-one of them, in fact!

But God bless Sam for never trying to change me.

“Tina, Kate’s here!” I hear my mother yell up the stairs. “Go on up, darling.”

Mum is relishing the hustle of the day and blossoming into the mother-of-the-bride role effortlessly.

Kate pops her head around the bedroom door. “Is it safe to come in?” she says, pushing the door back and slowly entering like her theatrical curtain has just risen. God, does she
look amazing!

“Wow, look at you!” I say.

“You look beautiful, Kate,” Sam agrees.

“I’m supposed to say
that
to you!” Kate laughs, taking in Sam’s head-to-toe exterior. “Although I’m not sure about the towelling dress. Perhaps
something a little more traditional might be more appropriate?”

Sam picks up a lilac satin cushion from the bed and hurls it towards Kate who ducks with impressive speed. Kate picks the cushion up and puts it back on the pillow. Kate’s fingers run
across the gold embroidered lettering
SH.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say to Kate quick as a flash.

During our first year at secondary school we attended mandatory needlework classes with a head-case of a teacher called Mrs Pringle, often referred to as Mrs Prickle. Or Mrs Pric on a really bad
day. At the start of our very first class, she gave us the option of making a rather kinky-looking nightdress or a decorative satin cushion. Given that neither Kate nor I could see the fun in doing
either, we opted for the cushion, thinking we were taking the easy option so we could finish it quickly and skive for the rest of the term’s classes. You take a piece of square material,
stick some sort of stuffing filler inside of it and then sew it together so it doesn’t fall out. Right? Well, that was the height of our experience at the age of twelve anyway. Horrified, we
discovered that each cushion had to have a specific design on its cover and the bulk of our assessment score would be judged on its decorative complexity.

Kate chose to weave a simple cross in the centre of her cushion on the basis that it would win her Brownie points. And given we were in one of the most strict Church of England schools in the
county I could understand the merits of her choice, but I decided that my cushion was to be a gift to my big sister who was in fifth year at the same school. I would often see her in the
playground, hanging around with her friends and I truly thought she was the coolest sister in the world. Every now and then she would come and check on me or give me money for sweets on the way
home and so I dedicated my cushion to her with hand-stitched
SH
gold lettering and a series of woven kisses in each of the four corners. The innocence of a twelve-year-old!

She loved it and hence has never parted with it.

While Sam escapes to the bathroom to inspect her freshly made-up face, I confide in Kate about my escapade with Brian. I’ve been conscious of a cheapness hanging over me ever since.

“I feel like a cheap old slapper, Kate,” I moan. “Fancy getting them out like that in the middle of the afternoon!”

“Stop being so bloody prudish, Tina,” she dismisses me bluntly, retouching her lip gloss in the hand-held mirror. “You’d had enough failed attempts by that stage and you
guys must have been like dogs on heat!” She tilts her head back and gives a canine yelp. “
Oow oow!
”

“Kate, you sound like that girl they called Lassie from the
Porky’s
films. Remember?”

“Maybe I could audition if they ever do a British remake?” she suggests, coming down onto all fours. “
Oow
oow oow!
”

My mother comes into the room and stares at Kate on her hands and knees, howling away. “Whatever are you doing, Kate dear?”

Very little that Kate or I do shocks my mother. In fact, I’d almost go as far as to say that she’s encouraged us to be bold, outspoken and slightly deranged individuals.

“Just practising for my next role, Roni,” she replies deadpan.

“Good, good.” My mother surveys the mess of the room before retreating. “I suppose you do have to be versatile these days.” She smiles fondly at Kate before leaving and
closing the door tightly behind her. The door reopens a millisecond later. “Sorry, girls, I knew I came up for something . . . would you like a glass of champagne?”

Kate jumps up and hugs my mother. “Yes, please, lovely Mrs Harding!”

“Just a little for me, Mum, thanks but make it a double for our Sam – it might perk her up – she’s far too chilled.”

“Just a little, Tina? What are you on?” Kate takes the piss.

Although I don’t drink too much midweek, I certainly make up for it at the weekends and I’m suddenly becoming conscious of my health for some reason. I would hate to turn into one of
those people with that obsessive-compulsive-disorder syndrome and given that alcoholism practically runs in my family, I’ve decided that these things need to be nipped in the bud before they
spiral out of control.