Crystal Balls (22 page)

Prising my eyes apart, I squint up at the light and quickly lower my vision for comfort. That was a little too bright.

A pale blue curtain separates me from the rest of the world and through a small gap I take in another bed opposite mine with another body. Lying still. Little else appears to be happening until
a woman looking to be well past retirement age leans over me, smiling reassuringly.

“Hello, Tina.”

“Where am I?” I croak. “Who are you?”

God, do I need water!

“I am Sister Hayes. You’re in the Royal Hospital, dear, but you’re alright.” She pats my hand sympathetically. “You’ve had quite a nasty reaction to an insect
bite though,” she explains, picking up the case notes hanging over the end of the bed.

I lift my head up to observe the seriousness of the situation and glance down at my arm. It’s swollen and covered in blisters with some form of revolting liquid seeping from them. A needle
is in my hand, taped down with a transparent plaster. I trace the plastic tubing to an IV drip and gape up at the drip chamber, wondering what the hell it’s administering.

I shriek hysterically.

“It’s not as bad as it appears, dear,” she soothes. “We’ve covered your arm in an antiseptic cream called Crotamiton and the drip in your hand is dosing you with a
mixture of antihistamine and steroids which will get you well in no time.”

What?

My head slumps back, hitting the pillow hard, and my cheeks warm as wet tears slide down them running behind my ears, nesting in the nape of my neck.
This can’t be happening to
me.

“My sister gets married in a week,” I begin to sob. “How long will it take for these things to go away?”

Sister Hayes thrusts a wad of tissues in my hand before patting it in a motherly fashion. “They should be gone in a couple of weeks providing you keep using the cream and take the full
course of antibiotics.” She leans closer to me, examining my face, just inches away. “The rash on your face should be gone within a few days though.” She beams. “Lucky we
got you here in time, otherwise you would have looked much worse.”

Please, God, not my face! Oh no! Please!

“D-do you have a mirror, p-p-please?” My voice breaks with terror as I prepare to take a magnified look at myself. “
Aaahh!
”

The taxi pulls up outside the family home late the following afternoon and a familiar comfort relaxes me to the point of tears. Again.

I hand over the cash drearily and prise myself out of the seat, slowly walking down the gravelled driveway, swaying from side to side. The front door flings open and my dad rushes out.

“Tina, love, you should have called me to get you.” He puts his fatherly arm around my shoulder and helps me into the house.

I shrug weakly. “I’m fine, Dad,” I lie.

He steadies me as we cross the threshold.

Mum appears and stares in horror.

“Tina!” she exclaims. “Your face!”

She rushes over to me for closer inspection. “But the wedding is next week! Will it be gone by then?”

“Veronica!” Dad snaps angrily as he leads me into the living room. “Don’t you think she feels bad enough without you adding to it?” He shakes his head at her as he
sits me down and fixes cushions behind my back. “Why does everything you bloody-well say or do revolve around appearance?”

My mum is shocked. As am I. Dad rarely flips but sadly he speaks the truth. My mother is the primary reason for my obsessiveness about my own façade. Not that she’s ever made me
feel like I needed to make such efforts but she has always maintained that looking good on the outside is the key to feeling good on the inside. Any well-balanced person, however, will tell you
it’s the other way around.

Chastised and forlorn, Mum brings in a tray of tea and toast – comfort food. I gratefully tuck in.

“What happened to your date, darling?” Mum asks sweetly after a long pause.

I slurp the tea noisily, staring into a corner of the room, feeling extremely tired. And sore. And itchy. “I told the nurses to send him home. There was no way I was going to let him see
me like that, Mum,” I answer her nonchalantly.

“But Christie, darling, hadn’t he already seen you by that stage?” she questions me gently.

I ignore her. I don’t want to think about that.

“Don’t you think that was a little mean?” she persists. “I’m sure he was rather worried about you?”

Suddenly, the enormity of the situation grabs me and my head sinks into my hands as long-drawn-out sobs come out. I think about the ridiculousness of this hateful day. I was only trying to help
people – you know, put a little back into the community but look what it’s damned well got me. A human bite, smelly abuse from a goat and a gruesome insect attack. Plus a second bloody
ruined night with Brian. How many times can a man like that wait? He’s a human being, for God’s sake.

“Why me, Mum?” I wail, sinking my head onto her shoulder as she pulls me towards her tenderly, stroking my hair. “I – won’t – even – be – ab
– le – to – go – to Sam’s – w-wedding now!” I cry relentlessly as Mum and Dad continue to pass positive comments in soothing tones best kept for babies.
Right now I want to be babied and held tight and secure.

“Nonsense, love!” Dad chirps positively. “Look on the bright side – you’ll have that lovely Simon bloke to look after you.”

Then he just stares at me open-mouthed as the wails reach maximum decibels.

“Was it something I said, dear?”

“Tina! Tina!” Chantelle screeches loudly as the stairs thunder with her ascent.

I’m spending the day tucked away in the upstairs office until my leprosy disfigurement has died down and I’m so not in the mood for small talk. The door is unusually closed today,
given how I feel about having an open-door management policy, but Chantelle flies through it at breakneck speed, sending it crashing into the wall behind.

“Calm down, Chantelle,” I say abruptly. “Otherwise you’ll be the next one in hospital.” I don’t actually mean for that to sound so threatening! She stands in
the middle of the floor, panting and waving a collection of papers in her hand.

“They’re in!” she cries. “They’ve come in, Tina!”

“What are you on about?”

I push myself out of the chair and go over to her, placing my hand on her forehead. She is a bit warm.

“The contracts!” she screams, thrusting the letters in my face. Literally.

“What?” I snatch them from her before they suffocate me. My eyes scan them one by one and suddenly the tears slowly run down my face. I can only put it down to a mixture of sheer
fatigue and anxiety, but of late crying seems to have become a normal part of everyday life. I don’t know what’s been happening to me these days but I can’t seem to put a foot
right.

I reread the letters and then pass them to Chantelle to read again. And again. Just to make sure.

“Tina, do you realise that’s eight of the fifteen apartments sold?” She holds out her hand with the palm faced up, pretending to use it as a calculator, and presses invisible
buttons. “Erm, yes,” she taps away, “that’s erm . . . loads of money! Huge amounts of money!” She squeals, running around to the other side of the desk, throwing her
tiny frame down heavily in the black leather chair, using her feet to spin herself around and around.

I feel sick just watching her.

“God, Chantelle, that’s so weird. I had this on my to-do list today. I was going to phone every agent from the contact list just this morning as it happens. Spooky.”

Chantelle stops spinning and slumps further down into the chair, looking a little green. “Well, isn’t it a good job I beat you to it?” she boasts, tongue in cheek. “You
seem to have been a bit preoccupied lately, Tina, so when you were out last week viewing the new premises I thought I’d take some pressure off you and do it myself.
Et voila
!”
She gestures to the post once more, grinning proudly.

I rush over to her and fling my face and body on hers, squeezing her tightly. Partly with relief and partly with pure adoration.

“I so don’t know what I’d do without you, Chantelle,” I tell her earnestly.

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Take you’re scabby face off mine,” she says seriously. “This face has seven more apartments to sell and if the pair of us look like lepers we might as well just shut up
shop now!”

Things are starting to come together and my mood lifts like a balloon, light and floaty but still a little vulnerable. I leave Chantelle in charge of contacting the remaining agents with a
deliberate hook of advising them that, in just a matter of weeks, more than half of these prestigious homes have been sold. They snooze, they lose! Okay, so no deposits have been paid yet but eight
of the signed contracts are in from the agents and accompanying each of these is the specific name of the person they already have lined up to make the purchase.

Steen Developments’ reputation has certainly made light work for us and coupled with the docklands location, only two out of the eight buyers actually want to bother with viewings. The
rest of them have simply turned the pages of the rich, glossy brochure, sighted the location and turnkey specifics and hey presto, case closed.
Sold.

The only drawback now is that I need to ring Brian to both thank him and apologise for Saturday night, again, and to ask for his advice about the new office given we’re well on our way to
affording it now. I certainly don’t want to lose it. The rent is reasonable, location perfect and the floor space is double what we’re used to.

Once again I’m racked with guilt about my treatment of Brian. Never in my entire life have I treated a guy so sought-after so badly. But then again, never have I puked over a guy on one
occasion and passed out on him the next and, if I didn’t know better, I’d be questioning just how destined we were to be together. I’ve heard of someone ‘
constantly
seeking new challenges’
but this has to take the biscuit.

Pulling up into the church car park my stomach sinks down into my feet and I drag them heavily from the car, sluggishly walking towards the entrance. A host of other cars
including my parents’ are already parked up and I glance at my watch to check I’m not late. I guess everyone else is just early.

The church where the wedding will take place is St Martin’s, the oldest church in Liverpool. Built in 1856 of red sandstone, its huge stone pillars dominate the entrance like a wide-open
mouth sitting, ready to devour you. I shudder as I pass through, expecting a set of teeth to come gnashing down on me, shouting ‘
Heathen!’.
Weddings, funerals, christenings,
that’s about all I seem to manage when it comes to religion although in years gone by I was an avid churchgoer, but found that hangovers and Sunday mornings simply weren’t that
harmonious.

Inside the church it is breathtakingly beautiful and the fourteenth-century Gothic design feels both eerie and yet calming at the same time. The aisle elongates itself into an Oscar-winning red
carpet leading up to an altar overshadowed by a thirty-foot stained-glass window. Flickers of rainbow-coloured light shadow the stone walls and the font water glows with a still florescent joy. The
intricately carved pulpit stands at the passage to the choir vestry where rows of solid pews sit in silent symmetry. On the opposite side, the church organ boldly commands its position, armoured
with endless brass pipes extending into orbit.

I stop dead as I see both families sitting in the first few rows, chatting away. Bravely putting one foot in front of the other, I slowly walk towards them, wondering what the hell to say to
Simon when he arrives. The walk seems to go on forever and for the first time I can truly empathise with nervous brides. It looks so easy when someone else does it but keeping your poise, balance
and getting the speed right is more tricky than it looks. Not that I’m practising of course. My snail’s pace is down to sheer reluctance, nothing more.

“Tina!” A radiant Sam rushes over to me, hugging me tightly. Her bright eyes sparkle and her happy soul oozes a hypnotic charm.

“You look wonderful, Sam,” I tell her with sincerity.

“Mum’s only just told me about you, Tina.” She frowns. “Why didn’t you ring me?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Didn’t think, to be honest. I just wanted out of there, Sam, and the less people that saw me in that state the better.”

She inspects me closely. “Your face looks okay. Let’s have a look at your arm.” I roll my sleeve up to show her the burst blisters, lifting the stretchy bandage so she can peek
underneath. She shudders.

“What are you like!” she laughs softly. “That type of thing normally happens to me.” Her face suddenly turns serious and she steps back. “Is it
contagious?”

“Very,” I smirk, lurching towards her, pulling monster-like faces, pretending to smite her.

“Suits you,” a voice murmurs in my ear.

Oh God, he’s arrived.

Sam belts out a raucous laugh before kissing Simon on the cheek. She links him tenderly, leading him up to where it’s all happening as I follow gingerly two paces behind, frantically
waiting for the lobster face to die down.

Why is my timing always so very wrong?

“Okay,
go!
” the vicar shouts excitedly.

He extends his right leg, followed inevitably by his left, and marches down the aisle comically, looking like John Cleese on a bad day. He glances behind him to check we are in tow but then
stops abruptly. Sam and Dad’s close proximity to him almost causes a pile-up.

“No, no, no!” he tuts, throwing his arms around. He gestures for the organist to stop playing. “It’s step together, step together.” He gives a six-foot-four lanky
demonstration of his expectations. “Sam, if you walk that fast you’ll not give anyone the chance to see what you look like. This is your day to relish in the attention – so take
as long as you want.”

“You know you want to, Sam,” I say.

“Whatever,” she retorts giddily.

Manhandled into position, we go back to the very basics of mastering this simple yet seemingly complicated part of the ceremony. The walk.