Crystal Balls (40 page)

The contents of my stomach explodes through my mouth and splatters across the room. The nausea cripples me and I continue vomiting until there is nothing left but bile. The back of my throat
feels like sandpaper and as I swallow a burning liquid acid trickles down into an empty stomach with eroded lining.

I don’t understand it. I’m on holiday. I’m not a missing person. How has it come to this? Chantelle knows I’m not missing, I only spoke to her the other day. I spoke to
Kate at midnight and she didn’t mention it . . . I’ve only been gone a week.

What have I done?

Perhaps it might be better for everyone if I was missing.

Down on all fours, I scrub the carpet with the complimentary facecloth, removing the bulk of the mess which unfortunately does very little to alleviate the hellish stench.
Every now and then I have to run to the window and hang out to avoid a repeat performance, and even the dirty Manchester air is better than the putrid smell of this hotel room.

With the facecloth in the bin, I scrub my hands and splash ice-cold water on my face, not even caring that it’s gone in my hair and will frizz up by the time I’ve counted to ten. On
a scale of what’s happening in my life right now, I don’t think I’ll ever care about my personal appearance again. Besides, nobody will see me in Siberia which is where I belong,
on my own where I can’t fuck things up. I can’t understand how they think I’m missing. I’m in Crete.

Desperate to know what’s happened but not quite ready to speak to my family yet even though I know their agony is prolonged with each extended moment, I stare at the phone wondering who
the hell to call first. The police? My sister? Kate? My mum?
Definitely not Kate!
I wonder why Kate never said anything to me? Perhaps she doesn’t know, or perhaps she’s too
preoccupied with correcting her own life right now? Maybe she is happy for me to stay missing?

Bang bang bang bang!
A continued knocking on the hotel door lifts me from my soporific state and I grab the holdall, weak with exertion.

“I’m leaving now!” I call out, conscious that my checkout is an hour overdue. My voice is hoarse and strained. The banging continues and I shuffle to the door wearily, pulling
it open, my body shaking with the strain.

I rub my eyes with utter disbelief. I must be seeing things.

“Hello, Tina,” he says calmly.

Okay, it speaks. I’m definitely not dreaming.

“Can I come in?”

I nod, speechless, stepping back to let him past me as he takes the holdall from my quivering hand. My lips purse and hard as I try, I can’t stop the tears from falling.

“Simon.”

I fall into his open arms, oblivious to the smell of my breath and pale grey face, so thankful to see someone I know. “What are you doing here?” I hiccup. “How did you know
where to find me?”

Simon holds me tightly. His arm is wrapped around my shoulder and he pulls me towards him where I rest my head on him. The fatigue of it all is starting to kick in and I’ve only enough
energy left to breathe. My body is burnt out and my head is awash with disturbing images of an unpleasant future, one that I should have seen coming.
They
should have seen this coming.

He shakes his head solemnly. “You’re in a bit of a mess, I see,” he says with grave concern and I nod pathetically. “As soon as I heard you were missing I had a fair idea
of what you were up to.”

“But how?”

“I could hardly forget a title like
Stiffs,
could I ?” The corners of his mouth turn up a fraction. “I kept trying to remember the conversation you had on the hands-free
the other week even though I wasn’t listening,” He grins half-heartedly. “I remembered the guy who rang was called Gerry so I contacted every casting agent in the North West until
I found him and he told me where you were staying.” He releases his hold but continues to talk. “When the hotel told me you’d checked out of there I guessed you’d still be
local so I made a list of all Manchester hotels and called them until I found you.”

“Does my mother know?” I keep my fingers crossed behind my back and sigh with relief when he gestures not.

“No-one knows I’m here, Tina, but I think we need to make contact with your family immediately.” He takes the phone. “Have you any idea how worried they’ve
been?”

I turn away in embarrassment. I’m too much of a idiot to even look him in the eye. “Please don’t shout at me,” I whisper. “It was never my intention for this to
happen. I thought I could get away with being on holiday and keep the whole thing secret until I was ready to tell them.” I pause with sad reflection. “Obviously not.”

“I’m not here to shout at you.” He touches my face softly. “I’m here to help you.”

I can’t believe Simon has come to my aid. Again. ‘Touched’ isn’t the word, I’m suddenly in complete awe of him and his ability to fix things, like me. I hang my
head in shame.

“I don’t deserve rescuing,” I sob. “But there’s something else, Simon, something that’s going to ruin me.”

“Worse than your family thinking you’re dead?”

“I might be better off dead.”

“Tina, don’t be so dramatic!” he scolds me, harsh in tone. “Your acting days are over now.”

“Actually.” I pause flatly. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

I grimace at the costly sight of it all. Every last item has been put into a black bin-liner and will be removed from my life forever. I had no idea I was surrounded by so much
stuff but, if I’m honest, most of it was kept hidden apart from the odd swing of the dowsing here and a scattering of crystals there. I tear up pages of handwritten notes, desperate to read
them again to see if they make sense.

“Just throw them away, Tina, it’s all nonsense.”

Most of the writing is mine. I made regular notes concerning the content of my dreams and then tried to pick out key messages from them, I scoured my dream dictionary until I found the
interpretation which best suited my mood that day, and each time I congratulated myself for my developing psychic skills.

Simon stands in front of me, a dominating sight I thought I’d never see. “All of it,” he orders, pointing to some ridiculous pieces of art work I drew after a bottle of wine.
The more I drank the more convinced I was that I could draw after all – I am creative, I told myself.

Not any more you’re not!

“Go through your phone and delete the numbers, Tina.” He hands me the phone, with a facial expression not be messed with. I obey a man who isn’t my father for once in my life.
I’ve always had a problem with guys telling me what to do but in this instance I both need it and deserve it and Simon has been a breath of fresh air from the moment he arrived at my hotel
room.

He lifts the bag and throws it into the back of his car.
BMW 5 series. Nice!

“What happened to your old Porsche?”

He slams the boot closed. “It died on me – it was old and clapped out.”

Sounds a bit like how I feel.

“Come on, Tina. It’s time.”

The drive to my parents’ house feels like forever. The events of the past few months create so much noise in my head that I shut my eyes and try to focus on something else but it’s
impossible. I am consumed with emotional bedlam and still in a state of stupor from the clear-out. The stuff I threw away was really quite remarkable – horoscope and destiny magazines,
stones, gems, crystals, tarot cards, a mini crystal ball. The list goes on and on. So determined was I to bring my psychic powers to the surface, I purchased the crystal ball from a web site and
spent hours staring into it trying to capture images and turn them into predictions. The only vision I ever had was of the wine bottle reflecting back at me, or on a good day I would see, well,
just what it was I wanted to see. Nothing that my mind’s eye couldn’t have shown me and nothing that couldn’t have been planned if I really wanted to achieve it. Alone and through
sheer grit and determination.

I plan what I’m going to say to them, having talked it over with Simon first. We decided that no-one needs to know about the psychic stuff – the less they have to worry about the
better.

Simon tells me about the press coverage and my parents’ appeal for my safe return but after a while I tell him to stop, I can’t bear to listen any more.

I really thought I had it in the bag and for something as drastic as this to come out of what started off being a little white lie could only happen to me. The only person I’ve been lying
to is myself. But I really did put closure on my failed acting career all those years back and it was only when I kept hearing ‘
you gave in too soon’
and all the other crap I
swallowed naively that I chose to put one and one together to make three. I took out of each reading just what I wanted it to mean, I put together real-life scenarios off the back of bogus
predictions and a bunch of spoofs supposedly reading my future. I can’t believe I fell for it all, hook, line and sinker but by God has it cost me. I may well have lost everything: my
business, my family, my best friend, but come what may I’m going to fight to regain my life and get back in the driving seat.

I sit dutifully at the long table in between my mum and dad. The room is packed full of ravenous journalists and camera crew. There’s no escaping them. The press officer
talked me through some of the questions I was likely to be asked. We pre-rehearsed the answers and she even told me who was going to ask them and explained their background, which allowed me to
feel a little more prepared.

My mum and dad have a tight grip of each of my hands, rested on the table for all to see, as advised. Happy families.

I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face as I walked through the door and into her living room. She went to stand but couldn’t. I’m not sure she quite believed it
was really me and she hasn’t let go of me since. I had really done it for her. I wanted to make her proud. I wanted her to be able to affirm to her friends that I merely had been taking time
out. I wanted to relive the dream for her more than me.

“Tina, how does it feel to be home?”

I pause calmly to consider my reply. “Amazing.” My eyes well and I squeeze my mother’s hand. “But I didn’t actually know I’d been reported as
missing.”

“Where were you?” the same journalist asks inquisitively.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” I tell him solemnly. “My lawyer has forbidden me to discuss it for the moment.” This is true.

I told Simon about the other two series, making it abundantly clear that I didn’t want to star in them and needed a get-out clause. As soon as he was confident I wouldn’t change my
mind, again, he told me to leave it with him but to keep my lips firmly sealed in order to buy him time for our defence. I always knew Simon was a lawyer but I never realised he was a corporate
lawyer. I suppose I never asked him or showed any interest. I paid more attention to his creased wardrobe and general slovenliness and never sought to ascertain facts beyond his external
appearance. Kate told me I was shallow but I never believed it. I do now.

“Were you in any danger?”

I suppress a giggle at the ambiguity of this question. “No, I wasn’t, but I can say no more about what I was doing until I meet with my lawyer.”

“What’s next for you then, Tina?” a heftily built woman calls to me.

That’s an easy one.

“Firstly I have some things to put right with my family and explain why I did what I did. Secondly I want to continue to build my business, Harding Homes, my estate
agent’s.”

The PR guru clears her throat to capture my attention but I ignore her. Any publicity is good publicity and when else am I likely to get the chance to plug this? I need all the help I can get
for it to succeed while I play on with the role of fiancé to the most evil man in Britain.

“It’s on High Street but I’m opening a second shop in Camberwell Road shortly,” I say quickly, seeing the PR woman move closer.

She steps up to the raised platform, holding her hand up to the room.

“No more questions, thank you.”

She throws me a look of annoyance.

Sorry but it was there for the taking! I’m not going out without a fight. Welcome back, Tina Harding!

Simon waits patiently in the reception area equipped with pinstriped suit and obligatory briefcase. His defence is a little risky but it’s a risk he is prepared to take,
he told me off the record, and it’s quite contrary to his usual pertinent approach of drowning in stacks of corroborative paperwork.

He grips the burgundy leather briefcase, a tool for intimidation. I giggled earlier as he showed me its content of empty sweet wrappers and chewed pens. Simon explained that he has a proposition
to put to Nick, one which sits outside of the law he has practised for so long and one which requires no text-book analysis, just a pair of steel balls.

“He’s free to see you now.” The receptionist points in the direction of the room. “Second door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Simon glides through the building with convincing arrogance, me trooping behind trying to put up an equal show of confidence. He throws open the door and we enter.

Simon seizes the hand of the gentleman and shakes. I do likewise.

“Nick Hand.”

Nick sits down, gesturing for Simon to do the same. “Good handshake,” he says to Simon, wincing.

“Simon Heath-Jones, lawyer for Christina Harding.” Simon talks sternly and purposefully. He goes straight for the jugular. “We need to talk, Mr Hand.”

Simon places the paper in front of Nick. “It’s all clearly documented. We will fulfil our side of the deal once you’ve signed, giving permission for the
release of Miss Harding. Naturally, there is a clause banning you from discussing this private arrangement with anyone.” He stares him out with elfish green eyes. “Anyone at
all.”

We stands to leave.

“I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, Mr Hand,” says Simon.

We exit via the stairway, taking the steps two by two. Simon literally jumps through the door, loosening his tie and mopping sweat from his forehead. His hands shake as he runs them through his
damp sandy hair and his mouth is dry and tight.