Crystal Balls (29 page)

“Tina, what on earth is in here?” Brian lifts the bag which almost fills the impractically sized sports boot. (That’ll have to go when the kids come
along.)

I squirm with embarrassment. It’s been packed and repacked over a dozen times and is at its lightest point right now.

“It serves you right, Mr Steen,” I scold him. “You wouldn’t tell me where we’re going so I’ve packed all but the kitchen sink.”

“You’re telling me!” He grins, closing the boot and opening the passenger door for me. “Top on or off?”

“What?”

He grins, pointing to the roof. “Would you like the roof top on or off, madam?”

I narrow my eyes at him for making such a deliberate
double entendre
but hope it looks sexy at the same time. I should ease off the pouting a little though.

“Off please. Unless it starts raining of course.”

The journey is crammed with provocative comments and suggestive remarks and at this rate I’m wondering whether we’ll manage to hold out until we make it to the room or wherever it is
we’re heading. It’s certainly in the opposite direction to his place which is quite a relief. I’m not in a hurry to see the orange-tinted rug.

Brian goes to speak but hesitates. It’s not typical for him to do this and it stands out like a sore thumb.

“What is it?” I look across at him holding the wheel of a car which is driving itself. His tanned arms are muscular and toned and his square jaw-line juts out with perfect symmetry.
He shifts position and lowers the music slightly.

“I was just wondering how you felt about sharing a room with me this evening?”

Aaha! So it’s a hotel we’re going to? He sounds more anxious than I’ve ever heard him.

“But I’ve reserved two rooms,” he adds quickly. “Just in case you thought it a little forward of me.”

Forward? Are you for real. I’m gagging for it!
Isn’t that why we’re here? Fulfilment and all that stuff? We’ve tried and failed on enough occasions that if he has
to bind and gag me I’m not leaving this weekend until I’ve had a screaming multiple orgasm. And not the cocktail type. My weekend’s single aim is to finally consummate this
relationship.

“It’s fine, Brian,” I reassure him. “We’ve passed first base already. More than once!” I giggle. “But thanks for asking.”

I turn away to catch a glimpse of anything which will remove the giddiness of how I feel right now. What if I had set
yes
to separate rooms? I should have, just to see his reaction. It
would have gone down like a lead balloon. Brian and Tina in separate rooms – I think not.

‘
Richard? Who is Richard?’

Not now, Tina!

‘
I keep getting his name when I look at the Sword of
Cups?’

Not now, I said!

“Do you, erm, have a middle name, Brian?”

“Sorry?”

“I was just wondering what your full name was, that’s all,” I say in as normal a tone as possible, shrugging my shoulders to downplay the randomness of my remarks.

“Brian Henry Steen.”

I nod, taking in his reply. “Nice. Nice name.”

As he continues to concentrate on the road ahead, I see the corners of his mouth curl up ever so slightly and his cheeks puff out with suppressed humour. I do feel a little embarrassed now but
it was just a question. Don’t they say no question is a silly question?

“Did your parents ever consider calling you ‘Richard’?”

Brian hurls a puzzled look in my direction. “No. Why?”

“No reason. It’s just that ‘Richard’ is a nice name too.”

Brian looks bewildered but makes no response.

Now that the discomfort of our earlier exchange has passed, I begin to relax a little, consuming myself with lascivious thoughts of what’s to come. I check out
Brian’s slightly parted legs, longing to run my hand up and down them feeling for his manliness while he sits back enjoying the scenery, suddenly wallowing in the deep-throated sucks of my
warm mouth as I plunge on him in a surprise attack. My mind races as images of me straddling him come alive and I moisten immediately as I imagine how we gently rock on the verge of coming.
Together. This time there will be no excuses. No distractions. Nothing.
And as for that internal, I’m open.
For business, of course!

The rain stays off for the remainder of our thirty-minute journey although heavy clouds are starting to gather above us with colours of concrete grey and charcoal. A typical day in the North
West. Ridiculous as it sounds, I carry a shower cap around with me wherever I go. I once made the mistake of going out in a pair of jeans and a black backless top and carrying a tiny purse big
enough to hold only a lipstick and money. The forecast was for a dry bright evening hence the reason my jacket remained on the comfort of its purple-scented hanger, which incidentally, faced the
same way as every other hanger in the wardrobe. But during a walk between bars the heavens opened and I mean literally. The rain lashed down, beating us brutally, and my scalp was soaked to its
core within a few short minutes of exposure. The make-up I could fix, but my hair, well, that had a life of its own. It dried neither straight nor curly. In fact, to say it resembled a Brillo pad
would not be an exaggeration. The night was as short-lived, needless to say, as my sleek, smooth locks.

Brian notices my head tilted to the sky and glances up. He deftly pulls into the inside lane, slowing right down as the roof glides overhead, protecting us with a soundless motion.

“We’re almost there.” He glances at the clock. “Perfect timing.”

“I know we’re in Manchester.” I laugh, pointing at the blue motorway signs. “But where in Manchester are we going?”
Apart from to a hotel where I’m going
to
bonk your brains out.
Brian follows the signs for the city centre, steering away from the familiar airport route I’d usually be taking if I were headed in this direction. The
airport sign fills me with anticipation of another holiday with Kate. It’s been years since we’ve been away together and a sense of nostalgia rushes through me. Just seeing the sign
sends a gush of excitement through my veins. The scent of coconut sun oil, the lapping of the sea and the taste of ice-cold beer served from a chilled glass. New bikinis with matching sarongs and
manicured feet. Oh and a face full of freckles thrown in for good measure. I must get back to her about dates although I do recall her mentioning she’d be in a position to tell me next week
after some audition or other.

We pull up outside an impressive glass structure which I can only compare to the Sydney Opera House. Its angular dome shape juts out prominently from the more traditional lime and sandstone
neighbouring buildings but for some reason it works. The old versus the new. The concierge, kitted in top and tail, opens the car door for me before assisting Brian and deftly removing the key card
from the ignition. In a smooth series of events our luggage is removed from the boot by his minions and the car is driven off with immaculate control, leaving us to walk freely and lightly into the
impressive open gallery. It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

Inside, the air conditioning controls the temperature to perfection and the polished marble flooring glimmers like a pool of perfectly still water. Fully grown trees stand erect in gigantic
pots, pointing towards the domed glass ceiling. The tinted sky peers through like a painting, a replica, and staring up at it I’m no longer sure if it’s the real thing or a massive
kaleidoscope of blues that dazzle your eyes with beautiful confusion.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Brian joins me in looking up. “Although I wouldn’t fancy cleaning the windows here.”

“It’s incredible,” I answer, awestruck. “How do these living things survive indoors?” I point to the lush gardens packed with exotic plants and listen as the
waterfall gushes in ecstasy, slapping noisily as it hits the pool below. A little piece of the Caribbean here in Manchester, who’d have thought it?

“There’s enough light coming through for the plant life to survive,” Brian explains. “The glass is anti-reflective which means it only reflects a small amount of light
back outside. It sends back the excess light, but only just enough to stop the building from overheating on the inside. The same stuff is used in air-traffic control towers.”

I sense an air of passion as Brian talks about the architecture of the building. It really is quite sexy listening to him talk so technically. Most of our conversations lack depth, which suited
me in the early days. But suddenly I’m keen to learn more about him – what turns him on, how his career started, past relationships. (
Or maybe not the last one, given I’m
not
prepared to share my series of failed lovers with him.

“I can see you’re in the right trade.”

His eyes scan the reception area. “I’m not quite in this league. Not yet,” he says absently. “Give me time though.” His face is serious and it’s clear to see
that he means it.

“Does that mean I’ll get free overnight stays when you build your chain of hotels?” I ask cheekily, fluttering my eyelashes alluringly.
I probably look like a complete
idiot with a squinting habit.

Brian leans forward unexpectedly, kissing me softly on the lips and taking me by complete surprise. “Only if I can stay with you.”

He kisses me again and my lips tingle with the friction. I long to throw myself at him, starting with gentle pecks, working up to full-blown tongue action, but in the reception area of a
five-star hotel it’s hardly appropriate.

I suddenly feel nervous about going up to the room and frantically look around for a place to freshen up. Excusing myself, I follow the sign for the restrooms, holding on as a moving steel floor
transports me to the next level. A blast of pandemonium hits me as I derail and the volume of a rowdy gathering stings my ears. Men, women and children of all ages stand in orderly lines,
supervised by folk with CB radios and prominently displayed security ID tags.

I stop at the top of the escalator to take in the scene that charges me with immediate familiarity and I sense the nervous tension in the air.
What’s going on?
A group of teenagers
burst out from the ladies’ room, heavily made up and clearly flustered as they join the back of the shortest queue before being handed stickers with boldly printed numbers. Their hands flap
about excitedly and I watch as one of the girls starts taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. The others waft sheets of paper in front of her to provide air until a CB guy brings a
chair over, forcing her to sit in it, placing her head between her knees. A middle-aged woman wearing a doleful expression returns her number to the nearest attendant, shaking her head at another
man queuing patiently. She shrugs her shoulders at him before slumping into a chair at an empty table and downing a glass of water with trembling hands.

“Next!” a young woman shouts, clipboard in hand.

No way. This is all too familiar.

I rush over to one of the attendants, fixing my hair on the way. “Excuse me, what’s happening here?” I ask politely. You never know just who you’re speaking to.

“We’re casting for
Stiffs,
” he answers without looking at me. “Move along, move along, please!” he calls to the queue. His sharp tone works and the shuffling
sound of trembling feet seems to satisfy him.

“Who do you–” I begin.

He points to a woman with wild wiry hair sitting at a large table and chewing the end of a pen. Without allowing time for logic, I dash to her table, smiling graciously.

“Am I too late to register?”
Tina
, w
hat are you doing?

She looks back at me warmly and points to the three long queues which don’t seem to be going down. “Not at all, hon.” She pushes a pen and paper towards me. “The wait is
about an hour I’d say. Fill in this sheet for me, love.” I take the pre-printed sheet to a quiet table and stare down at it.

You don’t even know what you’re casting for!

Does it matter?

But why when you’ve a business to run? Practically
two!

It’s just harmless fun.

It’s dangerous.

Shut up!

The multi-tasking continues as I complete the ever-so-familiar paperwork in between arguments with myself over the what, whys and hows of it all. Glancing at my watch, I hand the form to the
lady, explaining that I’ll be back soon.

“No problem, babe.” She chews heavily on her gum.

The escalator down to reception seems to take forever. I spot Brian, a porter and our luggage already loaded onto the brass trolley.

“I’m so sorry, Brian,” I pant. “I bumped into a girl I used to go to school with and couldn’t get away!”

He looks at the porter with a raised eyebrow. “Women!”

We follow the porter in silence as he leads the way to our room. Brian casts me the occasional lustful smirk which amuses me. While his behaviour is generally unpredictable, although certainly
not erratic, it is kept very much under wraps. But right now he is as transparent as they come and his eyes are fuelled with a dangerous desire. His hands twitch nervously in his pockets as he
plays around with the loose change, jangling it tunefully like a xylophone being lightly tapped.

“Who was she then?” he asks as the elevator moves upwards.

The porter remains focused and faced away from us as we stand at the back of the lift with our backs to the immaculately polished mirrors.

“Who was who?”

“The girl you went to school with?”

I catch him taking a sneaky peek at his side profile in the mirrored reflection.

“I wonder if she’d like to join us later?” he whispers in my ear, tickling me with the flow of his breath.

“Oh, erm, just a girl I went to school with.”
Think of a name. Quick!
“Hazel. Hazel Topping,” I add a second later. “Yep, that’s it. Slipped my mind
for a moment.” Brian throws his head back, laughing hysterically until his eyes glaze over with tears.

“Hazel Topping! She definitely sounds good enough to eat. Did you get her room number?”