Crystal Balls (38 page)

The room is pitch black and I flick the bedside lamp on to check the time.
Damn.
It’s four a.m. and I’ve been out for the count, fully clothed. The script
sheets are crumpled where I’ve rolled on to them and I gather them, putting them under the heavy mattress to straighten out. I wriggle out of my jeans and T-shirt before diving back into bed
with only two more hours of sleep before the alarm goes off.

The set is awesome today, a little too awesome really. It looks like a replica of the funeral home and I did hear that Frank Bolton played some part in its design. Metal tables
are lined up in the middle of the room with clinical white sheets draped over them. Some of the extras have been painted pale grey with blue lips and are lying partially naked beneath the thin
white cloths, the hard surfaces no doubt aiding their pained expression and as they lie there, breath held.

The camera films a shot of the empty room. The scene is shot from inside the room and the camera zooms in on the door. The sound of a key turning can be heard amidst the absolute silence of
death. The door creaks open and the camera closes in on a pair of black shoes entering mutely. As it travels north, it stops at the neck of the intruder, leaving us guessing just who it is. It
continues its journey of intrigue by capturing a shot of the person from behind. We see him remove the plastic sheet from a resting female before he begins to fondle her breasts. His other hand
disappears to crotch level and a gesticulating action is clearly evidenced, the deliberate sound effects make clear to the viewer exactly what is happening but without the graphic imagery.

My stomach is turned but good on Raymond for his performance – he’s amazing as is the poor model lying there allowing her tits to be fondled by someone earning ten times her daily
sum.

“
Cut!
”

Raymond fumbles with his fly, apologising to the actress for his cold hands.

“You’ve done that before!” I tease him.

“Not without a pulse, I haven’t!” He laughs dirtily. “Do you want to run over our next scenes?”

“Yeah, that would be good.” I rummage through my bag for the script, removing its entire contents but coming up empty-handed. I curse under my breath. “It’s under the
bed.”

“Whose bed?”

“My bed.”

“What are you on about?”

“The script is under my bed in the hotel. I slept on it last night and put it under the mattress to straighten it out.” I feel like such an amateur right now. “I forgot to get
it this morning. Can I share yours?”

“You can share my bed any time, Tina!”

Five missed calls and three voice mails.

I listen to the messages and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. Chantelle sounds more and more irate with each message and while she has apologised for ringing me when I’m on
holiday, it appears there is some sort of mistake she needs to talk to me about. Apparently we were supposed to complete on a purchase for a young couple yesterday but the bank have refused to
release the funds until all offer conditions have been fully met. It seems the title deeds, which where sent to me, have disappeared. I do recall receiving them but I swear I sent them on to the
clients’ solicitors.

I think frantically before returning her call. The name sounds familiar and I can almost, if I try hard, recall putting the deeds in an envelope and into the external post tray. I dial the
office, praying that no-one answers. I can’t lie to Chantelle usually but today I’ll have to.

“Good afternoon, Harding Homes, Chantelle speaking.”

She answered. Damn. “How are you coping?”

“Fine, Tina, thanks, apart from this hiccup.” She sounds calm which is good. “About 87 Roundhay Gardens. The vendors’ solicitors say they posted the title deeds to you.
They know this was in error and have apologised, blaming it on a trainee conveyancer but her file clearly shows they were sent for your attention two weeks ago.” She pauses. “Do you
have them?”

I rack my brains again to recall such a rare thing happening.

“I’ll be honest, Chantelle, I do recall seeing some title deeds but I could have sworn I posted them back with a compliment slip, noting the error made. But I’d be lying if I
said I could recall the full details.”

“The Barkers moved out of their flat yesterday and have had to move in with family until the bank releases the money.” She sounds empathetic if a little fraught. “I wonder how
quickly we can get another copy?”

“Get back on to the vendors’ solicitors, and get them to explain to Planning what has happened. They should be able to request duplicate copies for a fee.” I sigh heavily and
wish I was there to sort this out myself. “One thing’s for sure, the bank won’t release any mortgage funds until every single offer condition has been met.” I sigh heavily.
“Wouldn’t you think their solicitor would have realised this one condition was still outstanding?” I tut. “Plus we need that commission so I’m keen to get it wrapped
up, Chantelle.”

“Absolutely.” She sounds a little guilty. “Sorry for bothering you on holiday by the way. How is it?”

“It’s great, thanks. The usual sun, sea and sangria.” I laugh. Suddenly remembering that I’m supposed to be in Greece where they don’t drink sangria. It’s
raki or ouzo. Thankfully she doesn’t twig.

“Well, enjoy it and I’ll send you a text to let you know the outcome. Oh and sorry for all the messages. There were other problems I had to sort out but they’re done and dusted
now.”

Historically, we have made few mistakes at Harding Homes, but I can’t help but think that a few more and Chantelle might gain some much-needed experience in learning to put them right. On
her own.

Raymond and I run through our lines once more before going on set. I take my position by the corpse while he stands close behind me on a clearly marked spot. As usual I’m
dressed in loose-fitting trousers and a blue linen overall, showing nothing of the figure I’ve worked so hard to maintain. The make-up is pale and uninteresting, giving me that barely there
look. A look I detest in anybody.

“
Action.
”

Raymond as Craig removes his suit jacket and loosens his tie before opening the top button of his shirt. He looks stressed and agitated.

“What’s gotten into you, Craig?” I ask blandly in my Balmy role as I apply concealer to the corpse’s painted blue lips like it’s the most natural thing in the
world.

He looks uncomfortable and shifts nervously about the room.

“These places give me the creeps,” he tells me. “I don’t know how you can work here, Balmy.” His words quite clearly speak a different language to his body and a
look of lust is evident to all but Balmy who is engrossed in her work of art. “But I love you for it.”

His hands grasp my shoulders from behind, massaging them roughly, using his thumbs. He fumbles with the belt of his trousers, dropping them to the floor and bites my neck with sexual vigour.

“Craig!”

I try to duck away from his hungry mouth but his hands wrap themselves around my waist, pulling me close and holding me firmly in place, face down. “I’m working! Stop it!” He
clumsily grabs hold of my breasts with one hand, pulling my elasticated trousers down with the other and we simulate the act of full penetration. He thrusts rhythmically, holding onto my hips,
staring at the corpse in front of him while I remain bent over with my back to him. “What do you do to their bodies, Balmy?” he pants excitedly.

“We put – moisturiser – on them – to keeeep – their skiiin – sssoft . . .” My words break as I’m jerked forward with each intense thrust.

“Where do you put it?” he shrieks.

“Ev – ery – where!”

He yells with orgasmic pleasure.

“
Cut!
”

We’re into the eleventh hour and my knees are starting to buckle. In between breaks I’ve been checking the office is running as smoothly as can be with so few staff
and my eyes are blinking like mad as the continued fight to stay awake becomes more difficult with each passing moment. This is supposed to be fun and, while I am enjoying being on set, the fatigue
of almost twelve hours, day in day out, is beginning to take its toll. The rest of the cast look as fresh as the first day, but me, I’m slowly starting to look like I need some serious
embalming.

Every night I’ve been falling into bed, often without my usual beauty regime, which is a clear indication of my low energy levels and I’m out cold before my head hits the pillow. Up
at the crack of dawn, I shove a few spoonfuls of breakfast down with very strong coffee and bury my head in the day’s call sheet while refamiliarising myself with the lines. But it’s
getting harder with every scene and I’ve noticed a few extra takes here and there which isn’t helping. This lie really feels like a lie now, a big fat one at that and I so wish I was
sunbathing on a beach with my best friend, laughing at her childish quips and drinking ice-cold beer while planning my evening attire.

I can’t believe I’ve kept this from everyone. My mum, my sister, my best friend, my colleagues and even the man I thought I was courting. Obviously not. I’m lonely and isolated
and don’t ever remember working so hard for something I can’t even share with those I love. Living a lie is no fun and neither is living a double life. I can’t, however, regret
getting this out of my system. It must have been meant to be because, although I still feel like I belong in front of the camera, I feel more like I belong as Christina Harding, the businesswoman
and honest citizen I am, or once was. Reliable, trustworthy and family-loving.

Acting is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be and I can see why Kate speaks so harshly of it but, as she often says, she’s incapable of doing anything else so they’re
stuck with her.

Well, they’re not stuck with me. Good riddance! Almost.

The blasted phone hasn’t stopped ringing and I’m too tired to answer it after one of the hardest weeks of my life. I switch it off and thrust it deep into my
bag.

It’s the wrap party tonight and I’m determined to be the belle of the ball and show my fellow cast that beneath the baggy linen overcoat is a woman with curves in all the right
places, although less after the physicality of this week. Raymond has been a complete flirt and I’m looking forward to making a grand entrance now that it appears I might be temporarily
single. The ironic thing is that I can’t even pretend I’m overly sad about Brian although I am a little mixed up. We were doing so well together and the chemistry was there in
bucketloads. For it to have ended so abruptly, with no warning and as far as I can see with no valid reason, is a blow. I feel more cross towards him than anything else. A simple sorry would have
sufficed.

I cast my eye over the Rolex, wondering whether I should give it back.
No chance, matey!
I miss the cars, the expensive meals and the prospects of what could have been, but it’s the
what-could-have-beens that have landed me in so much trouble lately.
It should have been me. It could have been me. Maybe he’s my soul mate. Maybe it’s meant to be. Perhaps I’m
supposed to take this path . . .

I perk up as I take in the view of myself in the mirror, glamorous and sexy on the outside and absolutely wasted on the inside. My limbs ache, my head hurts and my mind would be happy not to
think of anything else for all eternity, but as usual I’m incapable of switching off. In fact, I’m surprised I even sleep at all.

The fitted black satin trousers sit just on my hips, revealing an inch of toned stomach, and the boned bodice pulls in my waist and pushes up my boobs with an impressive hoist. My hair has been
curled and then fluffed out, giving it that full-bodied but natural look. I curse that I forgot my straighteners but I left in such a hurry after working on at the office that I just had to grab my
bag and go.

As a character Balmy was great to play, a far cry from the usual roles I’ve experienced, and as for the subject matter, that’s definitely a first for my CV. The show will be pitched
as a black satirical drama and black it is. The strangest thing for me is the realisation that this is no longer what I want to do. I thought I wanted it and now I truly know that, quite simply, I
don’t. I really don’t. The lifestyle, the money, the parties, it’s all so glamorous yet at the same time it’s a complete joke. The industry is crippled with insecure wrecks
who survive by feeding off compliments or by having people rally around after them massaging their egos and providing them with an air of injected self-importance. It’s become clear to me
that so few of these people are happy, stable individuals. I know because I’ve been at both ends of it and still within reason I too can be a little self-obsessed with my external appearance
but that I doubt I’ll ever shake off. One thing I can be sure of is that I want to go home and see my family, concentrate on my business and make the most of my life by moving forward now
that this episode is almost out of the way. I will come clean once a plausible rationale has been devised and then move on with my life. And at least I can say ‘
I did it
’
whatever my motive was. Although in hindsight I’m not sure the motive was mine.

But I still did it wherever the idea came from!

Boom boom boom!

The music pounds and I shout to make myself heard.

No expense has been spared for this wrap party and anyone who’s anyone has turned up and in typical red-carpet style. I’m definitely not the belle of the ball but I’m confident
I can hold my own and Raymond hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked in.

Nick struts over to me, kissing me on both cheeks. “I didn’t recognise you, Tina.” He stands back, taking in the full view. “You look fabulous. We’ll have to give
Balmy a makeover if she survives.”

“Survives what?” I shout.

“The cruel hand of her fiancé.” Nick pulls a comedic face and pats me on the shoulder. “Thanks for your hard work, Tina.” He moves on, mingling sociably with the
other guests.

I’m desperate to dance. The DJ is playing eighties music and it’s so reminiscent of my happiest years that I yearn to let rip on the dance floor and just release the anxiety which
has been building up for some time now. It’s over and a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.