Crystal Balls (37 page)

You have to do it, Tina, or you’ll be axed on your first day. It’s all in the name of art, remember.

But I can’t breathe, never mind make up a stiff!

Put it down to research and get on with it!

I bolt upright as the potent scent hits me and I taste its odour in my mouth as it travels through my open airways. I scan the room for a reminder of where I am and what
I’m doing lying flat on this brightly coloured carpet.
Oh Jesus!
Then the penny drops and the reality hits me once more. I saw it. Him. A dead person lying there. Cold and stiff. I
don’t remember much after that.

“Smelling salts.” Frank shows me the sachet which brought me around so abruptly.

He bends down to assist me to stand up but I can’t bear for him nor anyone associated with this place to touch me.

My bare hands are in contact with the carpet and I draw them up in a flash. Who knows its previous occupants? It might well have provided a temporary resting place while the steel beds were
being prepared. I try to get up touching nothing or no-one but my legs don’t have the strength to act with such muscular isolation and I’m beginning to feel faint once more. I attempt
to repress the feeling of retching by grabbing the salts from his hand, trying to avoid any direct contact with his skin, and I shove them under my nose for distraction.
Stay calm. Breathe. No!
Don’t breathe!
I don’t know whether to hold my breath and pass out again, putting a temporary end to this nightmare, or take enough of a breath to lend me time to escape from this
hellhole. I’m an actress and am all for research but this is totally crazy and unnecessary – they’re dead, for Christ’s sake – what use are they to any of us?

Frank and my fellow cast members stand around, peering down at me doing nothing and saying nothing.
Bloody idiots. Help me up or something.
I stretch out a shaky hand to Raymond, inviting
him to pull me up, I only hope that he hasn’t been near it while I’ve been in La La Land. He pulls me up, placing his arm around my waist while I steady myself, perhaps a little too
tightly but I can’t tell him to ease off unless I open my mouth and that just isn’t going to happen and neither do I have the co-ordination to slap him.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His other arm sweeps across my stomach sitting high on my ribcage where it stays firmly put and I’m propped safely from both sides.

Pervert.

“Would you like to try again, Miss?” Frank asks awkwardly. “Perhaps you could watch your colleagues and take on a more, erm, observing role?”

“Hhmm.” My head moves from side to side in a ‘no’ action although the muffled sound comes across as more of a yes.

“I’m sorry, Miss, was that a yes or a no?”

That’s it. There’s nothing for it but to run as fast as my legs will take me. I can no longer spend another second sharing this toxic and polluted air. My legs sprint with Olympic
speed towards the exit and I imagine I’m being chased by a poltergeist to spur me on – I could be for all I know. It can happen to people with psychic abilities.

Bolting through the corridor, past the reception area and straight out of the front door, I dart through the busy streets oblivious to the strange looks, yelling apologies to those I bump into
like an out-of-control dodgem. I run and run until the oxygen supply is cut off from my legs and I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath and panting uncontrollably. Of all the situations to be
faced with, of all the parts to land it had to include a bloody trip to a funeral parlour! My worst nightmare.

I shudder as I relive the moment where the body was unveiled, its blue protective blanket pulled back to expose a man that once was. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not without my sympathy
for him and his family but there is something not quite right about associating with people once they’re dead.

I’ll tell you one thing for certain, I am never going to one of those places again.
Not even when I’m dead!

“Silence on set, please!” Nicks yells. “Roll camera . . . and sound!”

The clapper-board slams together.

“Take three . . . Action!”

Raymond as Craig goes down on bended knee, pulling a box from his pocket. His made-up face is menacing and dark circles are painted beneath his eyes but his smart work attire steers you away
from thinking he’s anything more than menacing.

“Balmy . . .” He looks up at me innocently. “I love you . . . will you marry me?” He opens the box, displaying its contents in the rehearsed direction of the camera,
angled for a head-on view. I gasp with amazement and hold the position, trying not to blink or show any indicative emotion. The viewing public must have no idea what the answer is as we end episode
one with this magnificent cliffhanger.

“Cut!” Nick claps his hands. “Well done, you guys. Only three takes.”

I pull Raymond to his feet, grateful to him for not grassing me up to Nick. Neither Hattie nor Cyril have mentioned my little episode and fingers crossed that all three of them will continue on
their silent journey.

Raymond and I wander across to the green room which is laid out with catering-sized flasks of tea, coffee and calorific snacks galore. In fact, every production I have ever worked on has had
catering facilities which go for overkill – it’s a wonder that any actors are slim. I cast my eyes over the pastries, wondering whether to risk it. Just one perhaps? Although if
I’m not careful I could very well end up massive by the end of our shoot. Balmy could transform from being dowdy and frumpy, to dowdy, frumpy and fat.

“Where are you staying then, Tina?” Raymond piles his plate with an assortment of biscuits.

“The Anchor.” I squirm with embarrassment. “It’s the pits.”

“Poor you!” He tuts with genuine concern, dunking a biscuit into his tea.

How common.

“Most of us are at the Ambassador – why don’t you join us?”

I suppose I could. I barely slept a wink last night fighting off mattress coil after mattress coil and even after a long shower I feel like I’m still wearing the mattress and carrying its
plague on my skin. “How much is it?” I chance a plain biscuit, nibbling at it to make it last.

“Sixty quid including breakfast – it’s a concessionary rate for the cast and crew and it’s within walking distance of here and staggering distance of the pub!” He
wipes his mouth with his sleeve to remove the damp crumbs and I watch as they splay on to the studio floor.

“That’s not too bad actually. I’m paying forty to be in Fawlty Towers.”

My hand hovers over the machine as I wait to punch in the pin code. It sounds four high-pitched bleeps as I hit the keys.

Packed and eager to leave, I sit with my holdall at my feet and I drift into a daydream of lying in a hot soapy bath, ridding my skin of its filthy tarnish, bathing the coil marks with a
moisturising glove of steaming water.

“Sorry, love, but this card has been declined.”

“Pardon?”

“This says declined – do you have another card?”

Her hair is greasy and scraped back from her face in a style much too young for a woman of her ageing years and heavy facial lines. Her eyes narrow with an uncomfortable tightness.

“Can you please try again? I’m nowhere near my credit limit.”

These machines are so temperamental.
I keep the credit limit fairly low to avoid the temptation of going spend-happy, but generally I’m pretty constrained. I got my fingers burnt
with credit-card debt as a student and I’ve managed to avoid a repeat scenario since. As a matter of course, I carry only a single credit card at any one time. It’s safer that way.

I take a seat and wait patiently while she tries the card once more.

She shakes her head. “Same again.”

Huffing with a tiredness made worse by this twelve-hour day, I part with what cash I have in my purse, dialling the credit-card company as I turn to leave.

Some holiday this is turning out to be. Day one and I’m wrecked!

The streets are littered and dirty with gangs of teenagers hanging from street corners, hooded and armed with attitude. With no remaining cash for a cab, I’ve been forced
to walked to the Ambassador. My back is aching from the weight of the holdall and my shoulder is bruised from yesterday’s passing-out episode (a familiar occurrence at the funeral parlour, it
seems).

My hair is frizzy and dry, suffering from alienation and the damp north-west air.

I spot an off-licence and cross over to the other side of the road, desperate for a drink. With less than a fiver to spend, I opt for a cheap bottle of German white with a screw cap and the
temptation not to swig it on the journey is killing me, especially after the news I’ve just had. I’m still in a state of shock. I had a three-thousand-pound limit on that card. I
can’t understand it. The adviser was extremely pleasant as she read out to me the list of transactions and I swear I detected a degree of humour in her voice. Okay, so I went to see those
guys a couple of times and had one or two telephone readings, from memory, but I never expected the bills to add up to this. Twenty minutes here, half an hour there and you’re talking
hundreds. And hundreds. And more.

I squeeze the wine bottle into the holdall, giving myself a mental bollocking as I relay the list of items read out to me. Crystals, sleep-inducing water, tarot cards, a library of books, the
medium pendulum, daily horoscope text messages, a crystal ball . . . oh and calls charged at one pound fifty a minute! Stupid, stupid cow.

This is not turning out how I imagined. None of it is.

I battle with myself for the remainder of the journey, something I haven’t done for years – apart from of late. There are so many things to deliberate, the business which is starting
to become extremely successful, my love life which appears to have taken a nosedive and my absolute inability to be me, like I used to be. I miss myself.

Message after message has been left for Brian and not once has he returned my calls or texts. Good enough, he’s kept to his word and one of his men is carrying out the building work for
the new shop as we speak, but in terms of contact with him, it’s non-existent and for the first time I’m beginning to wonder whether in fact he isn’t my soul mate after all. Maybe
she was right in that “
no woman can tame him
”
?
I certainly don’t appear to have succeeded. Or maybe she was wrong? Wrong in her vocation, wrong in her message and
wrong for telling me something she couldn’t possibly have known without knowing me? Although what feels right is as clear as mud these days and once again I feel compelled to ask for some
help. But it’s those very words that provide the clarity I need to remind myself just how the debts ran so high.
I need help!
Every time I’ve been required to make any type of
decision, no matter how small, I’ve called one of them, whatever they answer to – psychic, fortune-teller, clairvoyant, spiritualist – but I’ve ended up more confused than
ever. I’m no longer capable of making choices or sticking with a simple decision and I’m stuck in a strange zone from which I can’t escape. It’s almost like being an addict.
Just one more,
I tell myself.
Okay but this will definitely be the last.
But it never is.

I frantically scroll through my phone’s address book, speed-dialling the number while grabbing my purse for my bank card.

“Look, I’m in a desperate hurry and I need help fast.” The words sprint from my mouth.

This one is definitely the last. I really mean it.

“What else have you been in then, Tina?” Craig enquires, knocking back the remainder of his drink. At the rate he’s downing Jack Daniels there’s going
to be a sore head amongst us tomorrow.

“I haven’t been in anything for years,” I tell him, slightly embarrassed. “I left acting a while back to set up my own business.”

“Cool. What do you do?” He rattles the ice around, swigging back any watery remnants.

“I’m an estate agent,” I tell him proudly. “I’m just about to open my second office.”

He looks suitably impressed. “Wow. How are you managing to juggle the business and
Stiffs
without a nervous breakdown?”

“I have the most amazing office manager,” I gloat. “She’ll have the place ticking over nicely.”

“I’ve always fancied being my own boss, you know, when I get bored of this stuff.” He gestures to the waiter for more drinks. “Maybe owning a restaurant or a bar or
something.”

“That’s what my best friend wants to do, open a restaurant but serving fat-free food.” I giggle. “Kate is as thin as they come but she won’t eat more than twenty
grams of fat per day as she says the camera puts too much weight on her.” I wince as another glass of white wine is placed in front of me. I’m exhausted.

“Kate,” he repeats. “She’s in the business then?”

“Kate Symms,” I boast. “She’s my best friend.”

He grins at me, chinking his glass against mine. “Every man’s perfect pin-up.”

“Yes, she’d be mine too!” I think out loud.

He looks dramatically shocked and raises an eyebrow. “Are you two . . .?”

“God, no!” I squeal. “We’re way past that stuff now!”

I wobble to my feet, thanking Raymond for his kindness and promising to pay him back tomorrow night. Despite the insistent offers, I decide to call it a night and decline to
join the others on their quest for absolute drunkenness. I hardly know my lines for tomorrow’s scenes. For those folk who do only this for a living it’s easier, but for me, trying to
run a business between burying my head in pages of scripts, it isn’t easy.

Thankfully Balmy is more of a thinker than a talker but she says enough, and it’s what she doesn’t say that makes those scenes all the more difficult. In addition, I need to know
most of Raymond’s lines so I know what I have to do or say once he’s finished, and the timing has to be to absolute precision. Do something too fast or too slow and the entire scene has
to be reshot, stand an inch too far to the left or right and you’re out of range. What looks so natural on television is about as natural as an albino with a sun tan. There’s so much to
remember but all I can think about right now is getting a good night’s sleep.