Crystal Balls (12 page)

“Excuse me, love,” he interrupts Chantelle. “Tina Harding, is she here?”

I step forward. “Yes?”

Chantelle apologises to her clients for the interruption. Making an effort not to be distracted through sheer nosiness, she continues professionally with the young lovers, both of whom are now
clearly consumed by curiosity about the flowers.

“Wow! Who are they for?” I ask, mesmerised by the size of the arrangement and desperate to tear them from his hands.

“You’re Tina Harding?”

“That’s me.”

“Here you go then.” He thrusts the flowers towards me with a gesture of relief, shaking his arms out, thankful for the release.

A flush of embarrassment sweeps over my face as Chantelle falls silent and the room comes to a standstill, blatantly waiting for news of the sender. Me too. I pull the card from its plastic
stand and rip open the envelope, anxious to know who thinks me so important to have purchased the entire florist’s.

Miss Harding, You and I have some unfinished business.

Scarlet, I shove the card back into the envelope and risk a glance at Chantelle who winks surreptitiously.

Heaving the flowers from the centre of the floor, I rest them against the wall out of the way, with the card tucked safely in my trouser pocket. The room suddenly looks like it has shrunk in
size and smells like the Chelsea Flower Show. My heart is thumping wildly as I recall his message to me and I am desperate to take him up on it sooner rather than later. God, that chemical thing,
it’s happening again.
Think of your VAT returns, Tina. Anything!

Chantelle bursts into my office. “Oh – my – God! How big were they? What have you to say for yourself then, boss?”

I really should have been prepared for the Spanish Inquisition but since my mind has been taken over by a vision of me lying naked beneath his six-pack, it’s left me little time to concoct
a plausible fob-off.

“Simon,” I say blandly. “They’re from Simon, how sweet.”

She looks at me with raised eyebrows, picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “And what have you done to deserve those? I thought you two hadn’t even officially dated yet?”

“We haven’t. In fact, the last time I saw him was the other week at our celebration bash. Perhaps he’s missing me. Come on, he’s only human!” I laugh, fluttering my
eyelashes.

“Is there something in your eye, Tina?”

“Aren’t you the funny one!”

“So what happens next with you two?” She perches herself on the end of my desk, arms folded and feet crossed. “I really think you should ring him to say thank you and arrange a
date. Don’t you?” She lifts the phone eagerly. “Call him!” she directs with a masterful glint in her eyes.

“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I can’t disturb him at work, Chantelle, he’s probably with clients or something.”

“Well, at least leave a message for him, just so he knows you’ve received the flowers.”

Give me a break.
Sometimes with Chantelle it’s like knocking to find no one is home. I love her enthusiasm for my love life but, for heavens’ sake, this time I would prefer
her to keep out. “I’ll send him a text then if it keeps you happy.” Picking up the mobile I quickly text a short message, holding the phone at an angle away from Chantelle’s
view. I send it to Brian.

“There, message sent.” I flash her the screen face as evidence. “Happy now?”

She nods approvingly. “My gran has always said that, if you’re not academic, you should use your social skills and they will get you anywhere you want to go in life. Manners are of
vital importance.” She stares at the floor pensively, her head tilted to one side, enhancing her perfect jaw-line and profile.

“What are you thinking about?” I enquire, keen to steer the conversation away from me, for once.

“I was just thinking about my mother and how she used to make me repeat a word over and over again until I was able to say it without the Liverpudlian accent.” Chantelle shakes her
head, smirking. “At the time it used to drive me mad and I thought my mother was such a snob, but the funny thing is that she was right in a way.”

“Why do you say that”

“Well, when I dropped out of my A Levels and was trying to get a job, it was so simple. I practically walked every interview I ever attended.” She snorts comically, still managing to
look angelic and ladylike. “Because I was so well-spoken everyone assumed I was far more intelligent than was the actually the case, so I stood out more.” She throws her head back in
laughter.

“How stupid were they!” I snort.

“You mean, how stupid were
you
!” she retorts.

“Oh yeah!” I screech. “Oi, you – you posh thicko, you’re fired!”

The room is awash with the sound of two laughing hyenas, braying childishly, indeed displaying no evidence of the so-called intelligence we are perceived to have. Although didn’t Chantelle
just say if you’re not academic to use your social skills?
What’s that supposed to mean?

“Well, thank heavens you didn’t take those jobs or I wouldn’t have you here now.” Gesturing to the door, I point rudely. “Now get back to work, you good for nothing
phoney!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chantelle salutes me, back straight, chin up, chest out, and marches to the door, turning to bow to me before exiting.

“Bloody hell, Chantelle, don’t do that on the sales floor – your knockers nearly fell out!

“Oops!” Chantelle fixes her top, pulling it up by about, erm, a millimetre. “Wouldn’t that be terrible for sales?” She winks sexily. “Who needs the likes of
Brian Steen when you’ve other such assets working for you.” She pouts dramatically, folding her arms, thus inflating her already ample chest.

“Much as I find you very attractive, the thought of being seduced by
you
doesn’t exactly do it for me,” I declare, “but if I ever decide to bat for the other side,
you’ll be the only girl for me!” I roar with laughter as she stares.

But I have misconstrued her reaction.

“Are you saying that you
do
want to be seduced by Brian?” Her eyes are wide with interest.

“God, er, no way!” I fake.

“Phew, for a minute there I thought you were breaking our number-one office rule.”

“Not a chance,” I answer convincingly and with relief as she stomps heavily down the stairs, ready to professionally seduce her next victim.

“Shit, the projector isn’t working.” My hands shake nervously as I fumble around with the lead, double-checking it is firmly inserted into the back of the
laptop. I could seriously do without this hassle and have just twenty minutes to go before two dozen invitees strut arrogantly through those boardroom doors – venturing out of their world of
Casting, Media and PR to hear what I have to say.

Chantelle puts down her flyers and offers assistance, deftly flicking on the switch at the back of the projector and squinting as we’re almost blinded by the laser of light piercing our
eyes.

She touches my forearm gently. “Tina, don’t be nervous.” Her dark brows almost meet in the middle as she frowns intensely. “This stuff is a walk in the park to
you.” Her eyes kind and sincere.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I usually love doing this kind of thing but today, for some unknown reason, I feel sick. Sick with nerves, sick with excitement and burdened by the
sheer amount of potential commission I can make within the next half an hour. It’s mind-blowing. And to know that my future business rests on every word that will shortly leave my lips is
making me freeze with trepidation.

Just remember that you won the tender fair and square, Tina. You did it then. You can do it now.

“
Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail,
” I repeat aloud, reminding myself that once again I have truly worked like a trooper for this event. I understand not simply my invitees but
their industry, including the types of people they are in touch with. I am also fully aware that apart from the hook of making money, the majority of my guests know little about today’s
subject matter and, as such, I have prepared a killer presentation that should have the desired effect.
Where do I sign?

The room is bright and airy, with the temperature set deliberately low to ensure that Chantelle and I aren’t pitching to a dozen sets of closed eyes. Simplicity is the key for us today. I
guess it’s a bit like singing. Stick with the melody because it’s what people know and expect and they can join in, but go off-key and bring in the harmony too early and people will get
confused with the unpredictability. Make sense?

I have selected three key points for today’s discussions: Why? What? How? And the entire delivery will revolve around the answering of those three questions.

Why should they take part?

What is in it for them?

How will we do it?

Taking a deep breath, I survey the room in satisfaction. The refreshments have been delivered to a table positioned at the rear of the room. On each chair sits a pre-printed brochure, designed
by Heather, paid for by Brian, providing key features of the apartments, prices and commission fees for the agents. My business card is stapled neatly to the face of each one.

“Tina?” Chantelle asks as she carefully slides the spare brochures into a purple folder. “Where are you hoping to open the next office?”

Good question and I have just the answer. In fact, even before I opened the High Street branch in Little Hutton, I had mapped out the exact locations of twelve Harding Homes branches spread
throughout the North West. “In Camberwell Road,” I answer promptly. “There are two key players there already which is great news, plus the national stats on census show the
surrounding areas to be among Merseyside’s most populated.” I smile assertively, glad to know that my research has paid off. “Did you know that sixty-nine per cent of households
in our region are owner-occupied?” I show off. “Which is slightly higher than the national average for England.”

Chantelle cackles like a fishwife, her hands on her hips. “There is more to you than just a pretty face, Tina Harding!” She runs her fingers through her dark locks, sweeping them
away from her brow. “I’d love to have the concentration to sit there and digest all that stuff,” she shrugs her shoulders, “but I just can’t.”

“It’s certainly not done you any harm, Chantelle – you’ve done alright for yourself.” The truth is, while our relationship is that of employer-employee, in real
terms Chantelle could buy and sell me in a flash. I know it but she doesn’t. If I can use the analogy of her physical self – hers is natural, raw and untouched – whereas mine is
man-made, lightened here, darkened there and high maintenance but with hefty dividend payments.

“I know I’ve done okay, Tina, but who is the boss here?”

Turning to face her head on, I fall onto my knees, bowing down before her, my nose hitting the floor awkwardly. “You are, oh Mighty One!”

Our laughter explodes through the room as Chantelle fakes her best dominatrix impression, producing a ridiculous sound as she pretends to crack her whip, while I cower down subserviently.
“Take that, you good for nothing wench!” she proclaims.

Ever the actress, I throw myself in the brace position with both hands protecting my head as I beg for mercy. “Stop!” I beseech. “I’ll do whatever you wish, have mercy on
me!” I lift my head pathetically, hands in prayer position and eyes wild with desperation.

“Stay on your knees where you belong, you –” She breaks off abruptly and just gapes.

“Well, well, well!” I hear behind me.

As I recoil in shock Brian Steen steps up to Chantelle. He winks playfully at her as he pretends to take the invisible whip from her hand and throw it across the room, gallantly stretching out
his hand to rescue me, practically lifting me from the ground with the strength of a single bicep. “My lady!” He preens. “I am here to rescue you from a terrible fate.”

Okay, Tina, you can let go of his hand now.

“Brian Steen.” He offers his now freed-up hand to Chantelle who shakes it firmly but shyly, looking up at him as though butter wouldn’t melt, with dark eyes portraying
innocence and naivety. “Chantelle Hungerford. Delighted to meet you, Mr Steen.”

Brian fires me a risqué glance as his eyes quickly scroll up and down my body, telepathically undressing me, leaving me stripped and vulnerable.

Control yourself, Tina.

He leans forward, pretending to kiss me on the cheek, muttering into my ear, “On your knees? Interesting.”

“What are you, er, doing here, Brian?” I ask, feigning lack of interest, albeit most unsuccessfully.

“I thought I’d wish you luck.”

He stands casually with his hands buried deep in his linen trouser pockets. His matching jacket has a
Miami Vice
look and the open-necked shirt leaks strands of chest hair, dark and lush.
What I wouldn’t do to run my fingers over his six-pack and knead his firm torso roughly, slowing down the pace and aggression as I reach . . .

“Besides,” he grins cockily, “it’s in my best interests to ensure all goes well.” His mouth remains in a fixed position but his eyes are wicked and laughing from
the inside out.

I sense a déjà vu which somehow winds me up. It’s not fair, I should be focusing on the task in hand.

“Oh, back to that intimidation thing, are we, Mr Steen?” I purse my lips determinedly, ignoring Chantelle’s startled look.

“Miss Harding, any attempts to intimidate you are merely a figment of your imagination.”

Don’t think you can win this one, buster! I’d sooner spend five grand on a new rug than back down now. How dare you sidetrack me at such an important time. That’s just damn
cruel. And deliberate!

“Really, Mr Steen. Tell me, what do you know of my imagination?” I confront him, narrowing my eyes, mad at him for turning up five minutes before the curtain rises and throwing me
out of character.

“Well . . .” He rubs his chin with a bronzed hand and holds still, mimicking the statue of the thinking man, only a six-foot-tall version. “Actually, Miss Harding, not as much
as I’d like to know.” He casually walks toward the door, then stops dead and turns in my direction. “But when you’re ready to share it with me, you know where I
am.”