Crystal Balls Read online

  You couldn’t have worked any harder on your preparation, Tina. It’s now or never. Wing it!

  Smiling confidently but quaking inside, I nod to Brian, giving permission to commence the interview, although I am tempted to return his wink to see if, like me, he finds it patronising yet arousing at the same time. Conscious that I have tucked and untucked my hair from behind my ear twice in the last ten seconds, I place my hands on my lap, neither aggressively nor defensively. Just in a comfortable and relaxed position, allowing my sweaty palms to feel the benefit of the air conditioning.

  Brian rests his arm on the table, leaning into its low level and slouching awkwardly.

  He’s trying to relax me with his body language. I’ve got you well sussed out, Mr Steen.

  “Tina, your firm has been short-listed for this development,” he begins with an assertive seriousness. “Nonetheless the competition is fierce and you’re only one of the many agents I’m considering.”

  “Naturally,” I respond.

  “Let’s not waste time here, Tina. What can Harding Homes provide that no-one else can in terms of marketing these properties?”

  Tina off. Actress on. And action!

  “Well, Brian, people buy people before they buy into anything else. Both myself and my staff understand the importance of this basic rule and as such the reputation of Harding Homes has gone from strength to strength, simply as a result of our behaviour. An integral part of doing business is building relationships and you and I know this doesn’t happen overnight.” I watch him nod with interest. “It takes time, you have to sow your seed, nurture it and watch it grow.” I’m on a roll. “My relationships with local business-owners has gifted me a plethora of opportunity to not only promote my own practice over the years, but to ensure that these advocates can be called upon as and when the need arises.”

  Brian lifts his glass, pointing towards my barely touched water and with a shaking hand I take a few ladylike sips, basking in its ability to release my tongue from the roof of my mouth and proudly observing the lack of lipstick marks on the glass as I set it down. Every girl should invest in a Magistick.

  “These contacts you’ve built, Tina, how exactly can they help you to help me?” Brian questions bluntly.

  “I was just coming to that bit,” I reply, feeling much more relaxed and in control now. “Brian, common sense has it that the potential purchasers of these upmarket apartments must be extremely high earners with possible occupations of business-owners or those working within the media or sporting industry and looking for primary or secondary accommodation here.” I lean forward with the excitement of my new-found confidence, eager to continue. “My network of contacts includes the best casting and PR agencies in the North West.”

  Brian, now mirroring my body language, leans towards me nodding.

  “I currently have an arrangement, which will be legalised when required, with the majority of these leading agents,” my voice breaks with exhilaration, “who have agreed to actively promote the apartments to their A-list celebrities.” It’s in the bag. “I will in return ensure generation of a procuration fee, debited naturally to my own commission.”

  Brian sits up, arching his back uncomfortably but still nodding. “Well, Tina, of all the pitches I’ve heard, yours is the first to consider using external contacts. Outsourcing. Impressive.” He nods, looking somewhat amused.

  I am glowing from the inside out. Slightly sweaty of course but that’s only natural in a woollen suit. I ought to have taken my cue from Brian and removed my jacket earlier but never mind. Rosy cheeks and a shiny brow can’t stop me now. I wonder if he has bought into it? I guess he must have to some extent already, otherwise I wouldn’t have been short-listed. As they say, once you’ve come this far the only thing you can do is fuck it up! Let’s hope I haven’t.

  His face gives no indication of what he is thinking although he still has that playful glint in his eyes. Is it my imagination or is he flirting with me?

  “How do you know these agents, Tina?” he asks after a lengthy pause.

  Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask this question. Here I am trying to sell my services as a professional estate agent and would much sooner avoid the failed-actress scenario. That part of me died a long time ago although I did just manage to pull off one last Bafta-winning performance! Professional in content, perfect in delivery. Should I prepare my acceptance speech?

  “I used to do the odd bit of acting and modelling,” I answer coyly, then continue matter-of-factly, “I never lost touch with my agent and it’s not about what you know, it’s who you know in this life. The rest is history.”

  “I can’t argue with that statement.” Brian raises his eyes, taking in the stainless-steel wall clock ahead of him. “Tina, forgive me, but I didn’t realise it was that time.” He stands abruptly. “I have another appointment to go to. These things are literally back to back.” He smiles down at me, looking incredibly sexy. “It truly was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Did I just catch you looking at my chest?

  Hurriedly he throws on his jacket, puts his coat over his arm and extends a hand. “Thanks very much for your time and interesting pitch.” He smirks. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Taken aback at the speed of closure, I too stand up – but far too quickly, sending my stool crashing to the floor behind me. Ignoring it coolly but inwardly cringing, I stretch out my hand to meet with Brian’s monster grip. He grabs it, bending down to pick up the stool with his other hand.

  I wonder if he knows his hair is thinning on top? Best let someone else tell him.

  “Thank you, Brian,” I say, with a nod in recognition of his gentlemanly skills. “Who said chivalry is dead!”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Harding.” His voice is soft and alluring and he lets go of my hand after what seems to be a lingering grip. Turning on his heel, he walks to the door where he stops half in, half out, and glances back at me. “Tina, what type of modelling did you do then?”

  Flustered, I glance down momentarily to collect myself. Don’t tell him whatever you do. You were young and inexperienced.

  I look up to find he has disappeared.

  Shit! Nice one, Tina!

  3

  “Get your monthly horoscope here!” he hollers in an effort to make himself heard over the racket. “See what the coming year has in store for you! Twenty-five pounds is all it’ll set you back, people!” He summons a group of young girls standing and watching him in awe. “Come on, ladies! You know you want to.”

  Holler Man inhabits the very first stand at the exhibition. A prime spot and an advantage if everyone is like me, that is, inclined to hover close to the entrance thus making him appear popular as the crowds gather around the mouth of the room. Although little attention is actually being paid to him. It’s more of a meeting place and a chance to stand back and take in the events, before being swallowed up and strangled in its umbilical grip.

  I make a mental note to reconsider my positioning for the overseas property exhibition. I’d hate to lose out on prospective buyers. Well spotted, Tina.

  A group of giddy students stampedes us and I watch as they huddle together, toe-treading and hand-holding and pointing excitedly at the goings-on. The whiff of stale body-odour hangs heavy, but thankfully follows after them as they embark on their flight to revolutionise their final student years through predictive babble. A party of pensioners hobbles through the double doors, released and freed for the day. I observe their more strategic approach as they trudge at a snail’s pace into the nucleus of it all, stopping there to take in its outer core and to consider a more utilitarian approach.

  I can’t help but be amused. You should see them! They’re barking mad. All of them. I can’t believe I’m actually here rubbing shoulders with these people! Holler Man looks kind of normal which surprises me. Well, if you class a purple velvet Dickensian jacket buttoned up to the neck with long greasy grey hair scraped back into a bird’s-nest-cum-ponytail as normal. It’s har
dly this season’s fashion, is it? I can’t see his bottom half and have no desire to either. The upper torso is repelling enough and if the view is as gross as it is from the waist up, then no thank you – besides, these days I can’t seem look below any man’s waistline without getting caught.

  I am prepared to spare him some credit for his stand though. Even without his rather vocal pitch it’s obvious that his field is Astrology and his stand is impressively decorated with a massive collage of zodiac signs. I spot mine. The twins of Gemini. Tacky key-rings of rats and snakes and other vulgar creatures dangle from metal spinning racks. A line of papier-mâché balls clipped on by washing-pegs spans the length of his stall, each one hand-painted in earthy colours. A celestial feel certainly exudes from it even if his own façade is not in keeping, and a true cosmic sense fills the atmosphere.

  “You okay, Miss? You’re looking a bit lost.” Holler Man stares right at me.

  “I’m just waiting for my friend, thanks,” I say, adding hastily, “I’m here for her.” Definitely not my cup of tea, Mr Dickens!

  He picks up a scroll held together with an elastic band and, walking away from his stand, hands it to me personally. “Have this with my compliments. You’re a good soul. I can tell.” He mimes a gentlemanly bow.

  Flattery works wonders and a mild flush sweeps across my face. Partly because he actually does smell of horrendous body odour and partly at my ignorance toward him simply because of his staged attire and unsightly hair – oh and just for being here.

  “That’s very kind, thank you.” I unravel the paper to see it is a calendar with a picture of a snake on its cover. Nice.

  Holler Man, now back behind his stand, witnesses my expression and his thunderous laughter causes me to make reluctant eye contact. “It’s the Chinese calendar, Miss. Folklore. They use animals to represent cycles. There are twelve in total.”

  I nod, feigning interest. Where is the nearest bin?

  “I’d offer to tell you what sign you are and what it means, but I could never ask a lady’s age.”

  “Why do you need my age?” I ask, forgetting my rule of engaging with no-one. “Don’t you just need to know the month I was born in?”

  He looks encouraged by my interest. “Well, the Chinese use a cyclic system featuring twelve animals,” he explains. “Each year is represented by an animal. The animals all have different personalities and as such it is believed that as a person you mirror the animal of your year and actually copy its traits and characteristics.” He grabs a plastic pig from its stand. “Look at this and tell me what comes to mind?”

  I stare at the cheap miniature, wondering what on earth to say. Where the heck is Chantelle?

  “Erm . . . fat?” I begin to feel under the spotlight as his clever tactics begin to draw attention to us. “Smelly,” I add.

  “A pigsty!” a voice calls from behind me.

  Holler Man grins knowingly. His act is perfectly staged and he is playing the protagonist beautifully. “Contrary to popular belief the pig is kind to a fault and with impeccable manners.” He strokes the back of the plastic mould. “He is highly intelligent and in constant need of a challenge.” He beams down at it lovingly and thrusts it into my hand. “If you were born in his cycle it means you’re likely to be a loyal friend, a loving person and have a heart of gold. Remember, people, things aren’t always as they seem.” He delivers the last line with a sinister edge to his voice, penetrating the crowd with a ‘mystical’ gaze. “Dare to come closer?” he teases dramatically, striding back to his stall and standing tall as its intriguing figurehead.

  A low hum of activity echoes as people move closer and a sea of hands grabs at various merchandise before Holler Man is flooded with an ocean of questions.

  I stuff the freebie into my Radley bag, standing back to let in the more enthusiastic buyers.

  Hurry up, Chantelle, for goodness’ sake.

  I have attended today with no intention whatsoever of handing over my hard-earned cash. Certainly not to hear some spoof impart news of Mars meeting my anus. Let me tell you what my forecast is. Pay the shop rent and utilities. Pay the bank, the staff and then keep whatever is left over for me divided up between necessities and luxuries. It really is that simple. I haven’t always been so matter of fact about things. It’s only since I’ve matured, both in years and in approach, that I’ve become more practical and pragmatic about life. As an actress it was all about being someone else. Taking on their persona, their characteristics and completely losing yourself in them. It was wonderful at the time but it does tend to leave you a little confused about who you really are.

  But the strangest thing is that being here today makes me feel strong and focused and well . . . Christina Harding.

  Conscious that my attitude has been a little ungracious, I make a determined effort not to write off the day and firmly remind myself that I am here for Chantelle, a loyal friend to whom I owe a plethora of favours. I also make a mental note not to write off most of the participants or exhibitors. Who knows what type of lives these people have had? It is perfectly understandable for an individual of perhaps a lower level of self-esteem to want to be enlightened with news of a windfall or a blooming romance or the job of their dreams. You have to take an empathetic approach and, let’s face it, we’ve all been there. How often have you scoured the out-of-date magazines in your hair salon, reading horoscopes from months before just to see if any of the events have actually transpired? Apparently it’s bad luck reading them if they’re out of date but sometimes you can’t stop yourself. It’s the sheer intrigue that grips you. It’s the what-ifs and maybes that keep us going through most of our lives. Having said that, reading a magazine is harmless and it costs next to nothing. Spending six times the minimum hourly wage on some so-called astrologer or psychotic psychic isn’t quite the same as prising open the wrinkled pages of Hello magazine while dried-up locks collect in your lap, is it?

  I try to shift my attitude into positive mode and think only of good things. It’s going to be a long day if I clock-watch and I could certainly do without the negative energy blocking my chakra.

  There aren’t as many new-age hippy guys as I expected. In fact, to my surprise, most of the exhibitors appear so run-of-the-mill that it’s almost disappointing.

  See, that wasn’t hard, Tina. Be nice.

  But where are the theatrics? Where are the flamboyant costumes, the teacups and the gimmicks? Most of these guys are managing to avoid the age-old perception of looking like caricatures – you know, headscarf, hooped earrings – and it’s kind of disappointing. Seriously though, they must think we came in on the slow boat if plain clothes are supposed to enhance their normality and have us buy into them as the gifted professionals they’re purporting to be. Well, that lasted long.

  An overpowering aroma hits me and tickles my nostrils before hitting the back of my throat. The scent of joss sticks. And not one either, but a variety of scents travelling from all directions, working inharmoniously and thwarting what could have been a wonderful nasal experience. But there it is again. No communication between the exhibitors. No ‘Let’s work together’ or ‘What are you using? Right, I’ll do something different then’. It comes down to the same thing. No business skills. These guys are so clearly not business people. Their expertise consists of conning techniques and imagination on demand. Their living is based on one-hit wonders and quick wins and a sea of palms crossed with silver. I almost feel sorry for them.

  Feigning interest in the Fayre, I wonder how on God’s earth Chantelle is going to make her selection from this lot? We have a Top to Toe tarot reader claiming to be an international psychic and clairvoyant. Yeah, right. An aural photographer offering information about your aural field. Whatever! And the centre for harmonious living. Like that’s ever going to happen. Unable to control my amazement at this complete and utter bollocks, my giddiness turns into snuffles and I just stand in The Great Hall sniggering hysterically at the pantomime of events surrounding me. What�
��s even more hilarious is the seriousness of the rest of the visitors. This is brilliant. It get better and better. We have Soul Rescue, Site Planning, Psychic Attack, Colour Therapy, Animal Healing and Spiritual Surgery. Spiritual Surgery? Whoever would have thought a ghostly apparition capable of the removal of one’s appendix? Fascinating or what?

  I have to say, I am really starting to enjoy myself now and you’ve got to hand it to them, they’re good, bloody good. If only I had their creative skills. Maybe I could learn a thing or two here. But what strikes me as I watch these pathetic folk hand over their money is the complete lack of regulation. I mean, globally this must be a multi-million-pound industry, at least, operating with no authority or governing body like most industries do. Who do you complain to if you get a dud reading? Merlin, Russell Grant, Mystic Meg? Also, how could you prove that the events prophesied didn’t actually happen? Their defence is likely to be that while you are of this world, there is still time for these events to present themselves. How can you argue with that? Perhaps on your deathbed with a professional medical assessment of only a few remaining hours you may have a case, but by that stage the collection of a refund less interest is hardly a priority. Still, you could always get your revenge post mortem by rattling a few chains in the middle of the night, assuming of course they don’t hit back at you with psychic-presence-clearing or exorcism rituals.

  The visit is almost worthwhile simply to be in The Great Hall. Having frequented this place on numerous occasions it occurs to me that I have overlooked its splendour and ambience. Although during those attractions, alcohol has been the star of the show, not the décor. The Royal Fort is distinctive in that part of its structure is early 19th century, a former stately home which suffered a series of bomb attacks during WWII. The property stood as a ruin for decades until a wealthy investor made an application to purchase the land with the intent of demolishing its remains and building a modern hotel in its place. And with the enticement of job creation and a boost to the local economy, permission was granted, providing what was left of the Great Hall was salvaged and made structurally sound with its original fittings preserved. Little else was in a recoverable condition. The Great Hall, given its sheer grandeur, has over the years become the venue to host weddings, seminars and any other type of formal engagement. I can easily see why.