Crystal Balls (36 page)

“What is it?” I ask her cheekily.

“It’s a fertility pendant. I got it in one of the markets in Bali,” she snorts. “Couldn’t resist it, sorry!”

“Why?”

“It’s supposed to help you become more fertile the longer you wear it. I thought it might help with your sex life!” She belts out hoydenish laughter and Tim looks a little
embarrassed by the content of our conversation.

“What sex life?”

“Exactly!”

I pick up the cushion and belt her over the head with it, laughing too. She never used to be this funny. I guess it’s that euphoric happiness that she’s found with Tim.

“Just because you’re getting some, at long last, doesn’t mean you can be so cheeky!” I point my finger at her scoldingly. “You were the oldest virgin I ever knew
of, Sam!”

“
Tina!
” She glares at me and this time Tim chortles, stopping dead as Sam slaps him hard on the arm. He winces playfully.

“Not any more, my love!” he proudly declares.

“
Tim!
”

Let them think I’ve got no sex life. Little do they know of the handsome tycoon. My best-kept secret.

Sam changes the subject rapidly. “Do you need a lift to the airport, Tina?”

I stand up, collecting the coffee cups, banging them together noisily. “It’s all sorted, Sam, thanks.” I hate lying to Sam but needs must. I leave the room and busy myself
rinsing the cups in the kitchen sink. Anything to avoid looking at her with barefaced lies.

“Why don’t you put those in the dishwasher, Tina?” Sam is standing at the kitchen door leaning against the frame, looking cool and casual and slimmer if I’m not mistaken.
Must be all that honeymoon exercise. I’m beginning to feel like the ugly sister by comparison.

“I’m saving energy.”
It’s the first thing that comes to mind. ‘I’m keeping busy to avoid lying to you, Sam!
’

“Not your own obviously,” she laughs. She screws up her lightly freckled nose (something she has done since we were kids), her small flat button nose now peeling from too much sun
exposure.

Tim’s hands appear from behind her, grabbing her waist, and she jumps, letting out a startled scream. She twists around to face him head-on, rubbing her nose against his with Eskimo
affection.

“Guys!” I hold a glass of cold water in their direction. “Am I going to have to use this?”

I read through the script once more, almost retching. It truly is abhorrent. My character, Balmy
,
is dating a necrophiliac but doesn’t know it. She works as an
embalmer for a local funeral home and her fiancé, Craig, who has only recently proposed, has done so to ensure continued access to the corpses, hence the title. It appears his journey begins
with pure fantasy but progresses rapidly to regular necrophilia as the series develops. As his behaviour becomes more sinister he resorts to necrophiliac homicide, that is, murder to obtain a
corpse. Little does Balmy know that her mounting work pressures are the vile result of her very own fiancé’s behaviour and she continues her relationship with him, innocent and loved
up.

I shudder at the real-life prospect of it. This type of thing actually goes on, I hear. I spoke with the director, Larry, who told me of cases where gravediggers and other such folk with access
to stiffs have embarked on bizarre journeys of repulsive sexual pleasure, often starting by touching the bodies and then pleasuring themselves, but very quickly moving towards the act of full
violation. Unsurprisingly, the majority of these psychos are men but I was told of one case where a woman devised some sort of pump, putting it under the skin of the corpse’s penis so she
could pleasure herself with full penetrative sex. Thanks for that, Larry! I’ve yet to meet the writer, but I’ll have a few questions when I do.
Sick!

The room is sparse with no window and poor lighting, and looking around I wonder if it’s deliberate – that way I can’t see the flea-invested shithole for what
it really is. I asked my agent to arrange clean but basic accommodation not too far from the filming location and, after nearly breaking my neck on the stairs and tripping over on the worn carpet,
I’d say that ‘basic’ is a massive understatement.

Throwing the holdall on the floor, I flop on to the bed as the tiredness takes over. Staring at the stained ceiling I wonder if I missed any last-minute office jobs before I locked up. I
intended to set off just after seven so I could arrive here chilled and mentally unwound but instead I found a plethora of jobs to do, jobs I actually thought I’d done, but thank heavens I
found them all before Chantelle did. I’m not in her good books lately. She told me I’ve appeared a bit lost recently and for once I couldn’t deny it. I used to be so efficient,
too efficient it was once said, and when it came to having a clear desk policy, mine was literally that, clear and orderly and completely organised behind the scenes. As of late I keep finding bits
and pieces of work that I swear I’ve already done or messages on bits of paper that I meant to give to Chantelle or Heather, but didn’t.

Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve had a business to run and lines to learn.

That’s why I’m glad of this break. I need time away from the office and am so determined to enjoy this experience like no other. After all, it will be my last. A few episodes and it
will all be over and at least I can say I did it! I lived the dream that so many others allow to fizzle out.
Not me.

“How are you feeling, Tina? It’s been a long time.” Gerry kisses me on both cheeks and I relax immediately. A friendly face. I’m so glad he’s met
me here, given I know no-one else. I feel like the new girl joining school mid-term when everyone else is in their cliques with already established friendships while she stands back praying someone
will invite her to join their gang. Usually the nerds. No-one picks a freckled face to be in the coolest gang. At least they never did.

“Like a wet rag, Gerry.” I arch my back with discomfort.

I spent the night fidgeting and shifting around to avoid being impaled by a ferocious mattress spring. My body feels tender and delicate and my head feels like it’s taken a blow. It has,
from a rock-hard pillow.

“Do you have the call sheet for this week?” I enquire.

“I want to introduce you to the assistant director first. He’s organised a read-through for this morning and then some of you will be going off-site to do some practical
training.” Gerry scans the room, waving across at a tall, stocky guy who waves back.

Sounds exciting!

“What sort of practical training?”

“I’m not sure, Tina. But you can ask him yourself.”

He leads me over to the AD and introduces me.

“Nice to meet you, Tina.” Nick Hand smiles warmly. “Sorry I didn’t get to meet you at the casting. I must have just missed you.”

He seems to be a decent enough guy and not at all intimidating like some directors can be. “Yes, I nearly never made it,” I explain earnestly.

“Well, I’m glad you did,” he replies absently, striding off with those long legs of his.

“Oh.” I watch him disappear. “I’ll ask him about the practical stuff later.”

“The contract, Tina, I need you to sign it.” Gerry removes a plastic wallet from his briefcase and pulls out two typed contracts. “I’ve checked it over and there’s
nothing too onerous in there but you might want to fax it to your lawyer for the once-over.”

My imaginary lawyer on my imaginary holiday. Erm . . . no, thanks.

“It’s okay, thanks, Gerry, I trust you!” I laugh, eyeing him suspiciously. My instinct tells me this is not a good move and normally this contract would be scrutinised with a
fine eye but what choice do I have? He’s never let me down before and right now I don’t have anyone I can ask to check this over. This entire project needs to remain top secret until I
find the right moment to announce it, preferably before it’s aired. In fact, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d never tell a soul. This is about me, achieving my dreams and
putting closure on them.

Before the read-through I take time out to digest the characteristics of Balmy. I must have looked rough on the day of the audition because they’ve cast me as a dowdy, frumpy,
late-twenties weirdo whose wardrobe consists of charity-shop cast-offs and freebies. Her outlook on life is pretty disturbed for a relatively young woman – she refuses to spend money on
clothes or luxuries and her motto is ‘
You go out the way you came in
’. With nothing! I can see her point entirely but surely witnessing just how short life is she’d want to
make the most of it, and of herself. That’s one thing we don’t have in common. I’ve come to terms with the necrophiliac theme (to a degree), and now the more I read the more
excited I become at the prospect of playing Balmy. It’s a total challenge for me, plus I get to practise applying make-up to dummies and reliving my Girl’s World ‘Styling
Head’ days. How fantastic is that?

“Okay, everyone, can I have your attention, please!” Nick shouts assertively. “Tina, Raymond, Hattie and Cyril, your car is outside waiting to take you to the funeral
home.”

What?
“What?” It leaves my lips in horror.

“It’s part of the practical.” Nick shrugs. “How can you learn to embalm without firsthand experience?”

The hairs on my arms stand on end and a shiver runs down my spine.

Raymond, my onscreen fiancé, whispers in my ear. “It’s in the contract.”

I glare at him, cursing inwardly that I’ve actually got to kiss him.
Nobody likes a know-it-all.

The reception is bright and airy with pale wooden flooring and bright red walls. It bears no resemblance to my perception of a funeral home: black, dark and foul-smelling.
Vases of fresh flowers emit a tingling scent and mellow pipe music plays soothingly in the background. Walled art hangs here and there, with marked prices displayed beneath each picture – the
work is truly beautiful and as I move in to take a closer look it becomes apparent that the artists are deceased. Their names and dates of death are clearly marked below, leaving only a legacy of
talent, a reflection of their thoughts captured in a montage of colour. I swallow hard. I’m no good with death. In fact, I think I’d go so far as to say I have a phobia about it. So
often I’ll lie awake at night wondering how I’ll cope if any of my family or Kate dies and countless times I have cried myself to sleep with morose fatigue. On the rare occasions I have
lost somebody, like my grandma, I didn’t sleep for fear she might pay me a visit. Much as I loved her, I wouldn’t want to see her as a ghost or anything other than what she was when she
was alive and well. I’ve lost aunts, uncles and grandparents on both sides and on every occasion I swear a picture has moved or a piece of jewellery I’d lost suddenly turns up.

Hattie and Cyril play the directors of the funeral parlour and, like their characters, they’re both in their early sixties and extremely pleasant to talk to.

“How come you guys are so calm?” I ask them, nervously shuffling from one leg to the other as we wait for the real business owner to introduce himself.

Hattie sweeps back her dark brown hair, lifting it away from her face to reveal silvery white roots. “You get hardened to it.” She shrugs. “By the time you reach our ages
you’ve lost relatives, friends, friends of friends and neighbours.” She gives a half-smile. “Besides, death is the only thing in life that really is inevitable.”

Thanks for that depressing note.

A door in the back wall opens and a grey-haired gentleman rushes towards us with his hand extended. “Frank Bolton. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologises before
shaking our hands one by one. Except for mine.

I pull back and stare at his hand, refusing to shake it. I’m sorry but I just can’t.

“Has it . . . you know . . . touched one of them?”

Thankfully he’s not offended and simply nods. His face is kind and sincere, almost sympathetic.

“Well, yes, it has, but I’ve washed my hands thoroughly.” He offers them for close inspection.

“Don’t be offended if I don’t, will you?” I look up at him through my long eyelashes trying to win him over, ensuring he knows not to take it personally.

“In this game you learn not to be easily offended, Miss.” He opens the door to take us through to the back where it all happens. “But if you won’t touch my hand, Miss, I
do wonder how are you going to cope as the day progresses.”

“I’m going to kill you, Gerry,” I mutter under my breath as I step cautiously through the door.
“Nothing onerous”? Bloody idiot.

Frank Bolton carves the path and we follow him down a corridor with doors leading off it to each side. For some reason I’m holding my breath but I’m not sure how long I can sustain
it. He turns around. “Are you okay, Miss?”

I refuse to breathe out in case I get possessed when I breathe in again. I’ve seen it happen in horror films. The dead bodies manifest themselves into apparitions and find a way to draw
strength by possessing any living human and sapping away their energies.

“Mmm,” I nod, but my head feels light and my chest tightens.
Breathe, Tina, breathe!
I exhale what little air I have left and, in a microsecond, draw a short breath of new
air.

We stop outside a white door which Frank opens with a key from his pocket and my legs turn to jelly at the thought of my worst nightmare realising itself. I feel physically ill.

“Is there . . . anyone . . . in there?” I ask trembling.

Frank turns to answer, half in and half out of the doorway, keeping it ajar with his foot. “There is someone resting in here, Miss.”

He pushes the door wide open and the others make their way inside. He waits like a gentleman for me to pass by him but I freeze, incapable of moving, and the art of putting one foot in front of
the other seems to have been deleted from my motor skills.

“I’m sorry, Miss but I’m simply doing what I have been briefed to do with you all.” He looks a little uncomfortable.

I nod. I know, and that’s all very well if you don’t mind being around dead people but it’s not exactly natural. Who would want to be in a place like this? They’re dead,
discoloured and damn scary and much as I love the thrill of Touche Éclait and Urban Decay, applying them to a bunch of stiffs is not quite what I had in mind – it’s sacrilege,
never mind totally sick.