Shadows on the Mirror

by Frances Fyfield

  Her movements had become frenetic. She had not bargained for being hunted. First there had been the initial embarrassment, probably worse for them she hoped, of encountering so many of the men from her past and present. Men whom she met alone, now firmly attached to other women, the men who had paid for the dress she wore. There they all were, in various combinations, glimpsed or met with partners on arms and Sarah introduced as a new acquaintance. There was Judge Albemarle, eyebrows in sky with a look of discomfited, amused surprise. ‘How do you do, Miss Fortune? Have we met before?’ ‘No, I don’t think I have the privilege of Your Honour’s acquaintance . . .’ Sarah’s reply. ‘And how do you do, Mrs Albemarle?’ facing a grim smile from that lady who was eyeing the drink in her husband’s hand with weary and puritan distaste. Then there was Michael the Mole, only recently persuaded towards better things, but still sporting not a wife, but a mother, strange man in his choice of persecutions. Then James, grinning from ear to ear, winking uncontrollably, nervous with laughter but masking it, just. How nice to see you all, how very nice. Yes, the lights and the band, and everything are, is wonderful. I’m very well, thank you. See you next week. We have a conference, I think, said Henry.

  Surprising how accurate each description was. She could always picture the partners and there they were. Maybe it was the facility of lawyers to talk so well. By the time she had found herself shaking hands with Leo the Lemon after Hugo Hyperactive, serenity was becoming difficult in the face of the constant threat of a serious fit of giggles, and her only gratitude was for the size of the crowd and the anonymity of it all. Sarah Fortune’s entire legal cabal on parade, all in their Sunday best, the one funny aspect which appealed beneath the respectable glitter, the badges of honour, the judges’ sashes and the general celebration of sublimely respectable status quo, none of it quite as it seemed, like a picture without focus. And then when she had absorbed the cynicism of this into a sense of its own joke and straightened out her face, ready for the next onslaught on self-control, she had felt, rather than seen, the presence of Charles Tysall, like unseemly fungus on a pair of shoes.

  Difficult to fly through a press of people. She was not running as such, not in an evening dress, although that was the instinct, but merely sliding away gracefully round the edge of the lawns, out through the side gate used by the gardener, into a narrow lane of parked cars, all of them silent and cold even in the close sound of music and crowds. Thumping through the trees, the band began to play a persistent Latin American beat, overtones of flamenco, a kind of tango for those of an age to reminisce, catchy and carefree. Sarah hummed in the darkness, ‘Da da da Da’ (kick) ‘da da da da’ (turn) ‘da da Da, da da Did . . . and then he hid . . .’ cantered a few exaggerated steps, twirled and turned by herself. Nothing to lose, but I dare not go on that dance floor, Simeon will be worried, and all this is very silly indeed, but I am frightened, and I have always despised my cowardice. The presence of it, the heat of it among the cool shadows of this avenue, made her want to suppress a laughter which was half fear, half scorn.

  She walked the length of the cars, calming her mind with observation. Old cars, new cars, small, large, shiny or dirty, looking abandoned. Passing them slowly she wondered which belonged to whom, equating the grandest with the least likely, the worst with the prudent rich, until she saw the battered Volkswagen. Not a memorable car, except for the fact of there being a dog half-way out of the back window, a puppy of a dog with a lolling tongue, announcing delight at the sight of a human face with one quick bark of welcome. The dog had become stuck in the window in a frantic effort to reach her, beginning the effort as soon as she strolled into sight. Sarah laughed in delight, the hunt momentarily forgotten.

  ‘Fine watchdog you are,’ she said, stroking the head which pushed itself into her hand. ‘Even if you weren’t stuck with trying to get out, you’d let anyone steal anything, wouldn’t you? There now, what’s the matter? No, you can’t come out. You wouldn’t like it, I promise you, they’re all as mad as hatters. Are you thirsty?’

  She had noticed an empty enamel dish on the back seat. Dog had been supplied with water, and had finished it in a spate of anxiety. Sarah leaned through the window, opened the door, retrieved the dish, walked back a few steps to the tap at the gardener’s gate, replenished the water and returned. She held the dish at chest height while the dog lapped with careless enthusiasm, eyeing her throughout, splashing the purple dress. ‘Clumsy,’ said Sarah. ‘Never mind.’ Then she put the empty dish back on the seat, noticing how careful the owner had been to provide comfort in the form of rug and bowl, his only fault being the failure to notice how easily the back window could be pushed by a creature of such agility. ‘Can’t stay long,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Only two more hours of hell to go. Now go to sleep. No more trying to get out. You’ll be lost. All right?’

  She wound the window up further to leave room for air but not for exit, shut the door and left reluctantly. Dog remained silent, remarkably responsive to reassurance, turned on the seat and settled. Sarah braced herself for a return to the fray, wishing that men were more like animals.

  Charles had waited and watched, and like cat with mouse, caught her as soon as she emerged into the throng. It was only to be endured with calm. Wherever she turned in whatever company, there he was within yards, smiling his urbane smile, ignoring whatever partner or party, forcing an introduction into Simeon’s group which, flushed with its own success, welcomed him with open arms. She could not refuse his choice to avoid the separate twitching of the disco for the closeness of the waltz. ‘There, Sarah my dear, was that so painful?’ His lazy question into her ear, holding her close with the ease of expertise while she responded to his fluid steps automatically, putting into her feet the irritation, the fear and the beating heart, all stopped in an effort of politeness which overcame distaste. Guiding her away from the floor with a light grip on her arm as effective as a vice, he had led her into the wide gravel of the walks, strolling by force towards the garish lights of the miniature fairground. A pair of romantic walkers, two of many careless, enraptured souls.

  ‘Fancy! There’s our Sarah Fortune,’ remarked Penelope to her son, as they ambled themselves in the same direction, with Mother unaware of his distraction. Malcolm was silent, his eyes fixed on one graceful, retreating back, struggling with the impulse to run the few steps forward. ‘Ernest will be disappointed to have missed her finery,’ continued Mama artlessly. ‘But just wait till I tell him . . .’

  ‘Tell him what?’ asked Malcolm, striving for control. ‘Oh no, dear.’ She patted his arm. ‘Of course you don’t know. Well, that girl up there, the one with the red hair? That’s Ernest’s Sarah, the girl in his office I told you about. And, would you believe it, she’s with one of Ernest’s oldest clients. Not old himself of course, but he’s rich enough to have been a client of Ernest’s since he was a boy. Charming man, came to dinner once. Charles Tysall.’

  She stopped herself in sudden concern, reminded by the name of Ernest’s strange preoccupation. Penelope usually saved words, but now was as good a time as any, and after today, her son would go back to avoiding her bullying again. She pulled him to face her, forcing him to tear his gaze from the scene beyond.

  ‘Malcolm . . . I wouldn’t want to spoil the evening for you by saying this, but you must come and see your father. He isn’t just worried by the things you said, it’s more than that. Seeing Charles Tysall reminded me. It’s something to do with Charles, but I don’t know what. You know him and his conscience with clients. He keeps their secrets, but wants to burst sometimes. Will you come? Say you will, or I shan’t move a step further.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Malcolm. ‘Of course I shall.’ He kept his eyes on Penelope’s earnest face, lit yellow from the trees, until her nod allowed him to look back for Sarah. Looking between others, he thought he saw her pull her arm from Charles Tysall’s, make a mock curtsey and hurry into the middle of a crowd flanking the paths, darting away in relief. Without the strong arm of a
needy mother in his own he could have pursued, but his thoughts, more than his obligations, rooted him to the spot. Charles Tysall, Sarah Fortune, Ernest: all enmeshed somehow, an explosive formula for his ill-prepared mind. He watched the tall man, wondered why Ryan had failed to stress his extraordinary good looks, saw him moving now, unhurriedly but purposefully, in the direction of Sarah’s flight, and could not listen to his mother’s words, or any words. In his own eyes the glittering, ever-moving crowds of Gray’s Inn, the richest and fairest of London’s legal society, resembled clown-like children amidst the glowing lights and fairground noises which gave them all the horror of painted and poisoned creatures. Beneath the gaiety, the dignity, the high spirits and the now flushed faces, the lawyers entertained in style such strange corruptions of themselves. He hated them for their stupidity as much as he suddenly despised Sarah Fortune for the nature of the company she deigned to keep. He would never find her in time. On the way down, she had said. More than half-way down to be the glittering consort of a wealthy, dignified thief. Malcolm placed his mama in the gentle care of her friends and made his polite excuses.

  At home, the image of her softened. Damn them all for fools, but not Sarah, please not Sarah. Let him find her now he knew how, but he was no longer sure if he should look. He had so small a right to intrude upon a life, whatever he had seen of it, simply because it had intruded so dramatically upon his own. Perhaps he had only needed the search. Malcolm felt entirely powerless.

  Dog had greeted him with the usual affection, calmer than he expected, but in his car was a strange, sweetly familiar smell, like a distant memory. There was no pretence in Dog’s contentment: to her, the scent was no new experience, nor the height and colours of what she had seen. From the windows of Malcolm’s flat, Dog had seen what he had failed to see, the red-haired vision of a former mistress, and had poised herself for adoration. Dog had found her after two long years of distracted searching, and was happy in the discovery.

  In the hall of Gray’s Inn, amid the Elizabethan splendour festooned with the judges’ portraits, the crowd swayed to the alternative band of defiant reggae music. Points Dextrous and his troupe held them in thrall, even the older crowd on the minstrels’ gallery, jigging surreptitiously in the dark, while below their faces cigarette smoke caught the floodlights in a haze of brilliant blue like a magician’s flare. ‘D’ya love me, honey?’ yelled the band, ‘d’ya love me?’ while Charles skirted the crowd in mounting anger, stood on the gallery, the only immobile figure in that vast room, looking for a familiar swathe of colour and a familiar red head. Elisabeth, Porphyria, I shall find you.

  Outside, at the back of the hall, servants’ entrance for the use of, Sarah sat in the van which had brought Points Dextrous, his crew and all their electronics this evening. She sat on an upturned box, playing cards with Winston the driver, a bottle of wine between them. She had seen the open door, and found the only place to hide.

  ‘Give us a break. Let me sit in here for a bit. Please.’

  ‘What for? What you want, lady? Leave me alone. I’m sleeping.’

  ‘Big man after me.’

  ‘Very big man?’

  ‘Well, very tall.’

  Winston had chuckled. ‘No surprise, lady. Come in. What you got there?’

  ‘Bottle of wine.’

  ‘Welcome, lady. You play brag?’

  ‘Surely. Not as well as you.’

  ‘We’ll see. Close that door. No, not all the way. We needs the light.’

  In the same uncertain vehicle, wedged between amplifiers and noisy conversation, Sarah had arrived home without question.

  ‘I owe you a fiver, Winston. As well as a taxi fare.’

  ‘You’ll find me, honey. You’ll find me. My pleasure. But you’re needing more practice when it comes to cards . . .’

  Dawn again. Another dawn with the same characteristic effect on flagged spirits. There was damp dew on cool grass, that peculiar and complete silence of the inner city. Pausing on the grass in the joy of being home, she thought what a nice man was Winston, how nice were they all, how lucky to find them. It had always been her only criterion, whatever the rest: they had to be nice, with the description ‘nice’ used in its least insulting sense. Decent, intelligent, kindly men, otherwise it would never have worked, she would never have got herself on the boil for the whole enterprise. And that brought about the whole vexed problem and the only source of guilt: how to cope when she actually, genuinely liked them all, wanted them to pay, but all the same could never give a bad deal, always wanting the best for each and every one of them. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, and no, she had been neither. Good value Sarah, with high value fellows and plenty of laughter. No reason why not, she had never seen why not. Respectable wives charged higher for services far more basic, not even dignified by the business arrangement it was. Not that she ever justified herself by this, or any other comparison.

  Her mind turned to the clients, oddly comforted by them. All found by accident and design, in the very respectable corners of her own profession, discovered in barristers’ chambers, court room foyers, meetings, even on the phone, by Temple Lawns and High Court annexes, her daily places and theirs. The more distinguished the face, the more the features could show the pressure, the greater was the need focused there, and sympathy was no less mutual whether or not it carried her own particular price tag. They found her without asking; she was simply there. For a lawyer, a lawyer mistress was a godsend, so discreet. A peculiar bonus if she made you laugh, so genuinely good at listening to worries. As far as she knew, she trampled on no one else’s territory. This was not theft, it was simply an abundance of need and a dearth of companionship, paid for in familiar coin, dignified by affection.

  Kicking the grass, smelling the air, she wondered if they all knew their nicknames. Probably. She had never hidden them, never hidden anything, except for all the things they quite deliberately failed to ask, such as, are there others apart from me? Better not to know, although they must silently have guessed. None of them were stupid; she could never have stood a stupid man. Even Hurried Hugo, workaholic with the ever-absent wife. Simeon, of course, known as Smoke, anxious widower. Georgie Albemarle, known as the dawn-raider for calling at six a.m., completing the inevitable within minutes, talking for an hour and a half (What sentence would you give this one, Sarah? Oh, as little as possible, I think. Be kind today. Good, I’m glad you agree . . .), all before departing with the wig and gown left by the door. It was the talking which seemed to matter most with all of them, the listening rather, and she never knew for what comfort they paid, had certainly never thought of sex and law as any kind of erotic combination. Which it was, even to James, Tax barrister, known fondly as Ticker because of a bad heart and the habit of counting in his sleep, and Henry Hypochondria, who knew hugging was good for his health. So far, she was committed to two mornings, two lunchtimes and three evenings a week. Her bank balance was healthy, there was the beginning of an escape route from the hatred of work, and even if her sense of humour and her energy was under strain, life was still tenable. As long as they were what they were, kindly, normal, needy men, quite rightly greeted with affection, lost with calm regret, and frequently as the result of her own advice. Go, young old man, don’t bother paying me, I enjoyed you. You have better things to conquer, now you know how. She was not good at collecting fees, tended to forget them. Fun and money, never mind law, sex and secrecy, all made for different, attractive combinations, suitable for an outsider who had ceased to care.

  ‘I’m a tart,’ she told the moon. ‘Tart with heart. And that means I have to get Winston to drive me home. I’m so rich with uncollected fees I come home by van. Think I can take it?’

  What the hell. She threw the evening bag in the air, caught it and ran indoors.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The summer was glorious, but it had been a long hard year, almost beyond curing. Ryan felt the lassitude of the heat, dogged by the slower pace of life he had come to adop
t so easily on his country holiday, felt his brain was dulled, leaving only enthusiasm without energy, questions without answers. Besides, he had fallen in love with his own wife, embarrassing to say the least, dulling all memories, all other instincts. On his return he did not seek out Malcolm Cook with his slender store of fresh knowledge which all looked so insignificant against the grime of London, only spoke on the phone, sat in his stuffy office, his back to the small view of the sky, thinking of the sun and his wife in her blue bikini. Bailey had found him there.

  ‘You look well. How was it?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous. Great to be back. What’s the news?’

  The irony of the tone, accompanied by the rueful grin, made Bailey pleased to see him.

  ‘I see a man with contentment oozing out of every pore, and what do you mean, news? It’s all in your in-tray, the alarming size of which I have come to discuss. Any developments on Tysall? Either before you left, or since? You’ll notice I was patient enough not to ask sooner.’

  ‘Nope. Nothing doing, then or now. I found out that the Tysall wife threw away her credit cards in Norfolk. I think she’s probably dead up there.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing else, in three months?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Gone to ground. He plays at home and keeps his nose clean. No rumours, no reports, nothing.’

  Bailey sat down, heavy with disappointment. ‘Nothing. Only a civil action against the Commissioner listed for hearing in the autumn. Expensive claims for loss of profit and harassment. Perhaps that’s why he’s quiet. Certainly a reason, so I’m warned, why we should be the same. Anyway, enough’s enough. Until we can say someone’s in danger, we have to call it a day. Even unofficially.’

  Ryan thought of his garden with sudden longing, irritated to miss the tranquillity of knowing where his wife was and what she was doing.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do. Stop, I mean. Funny, I don’t really mind. Maybe I’ll mind when the weather’s cooler. For now, and for once, I want a quiet life.’