They leave the store and cross a road in silence, only broken by Eva at the top of a narrow street. ‘Most counsellors wouldn’t do this.’
‘I guess you’re not like most counsellors.’
‘More stupid, I suspect.’
To Eva’s relief the coffee shop is empty.
Agnes insists on paying. ‘I’m in your debt – this is the least I can do.’
They carry their drinks to a secluded back room. Eva sits down, forcing herself to admit that, now she has slipped away from a professional persona, she is glad to be here. But she will not show it. Not yet.
‘I was going to phone for a chat, says Agnes. It’s like, well, when Rhona told me on Monday about her latest guy, she didn’t mention his name, but back at work on Wednesday afternoon I had to pay a bill from the business cheque book – it’s one of my jobs when she’s away. And I was a few stubs into the book and there it was in her writing: Luke Brewer – needlework. I knew exactly where the shop was, since I usually drive through Cantisham on my way to work, but I’d never been inside. So with Rhona away, I left work at four-thirty, hoping to discover what this new man in her life looked like. Inquisitive, I admit, but with Rhona it does help to keep an eye on the details of her emotional games. However, when I reached the market place, much to my annoyance the mirror shop was closed. But I was sitting in my car saying, “Serve you right for being a nosey bitch,” when this man appears. And a second later you dash up to meet him and give him a kiss. Well, I’m like open-mouthed as the two of you go into the shop, reappear a minute later, walk off to the baker’s, then disappear arm in arm down a side street.’
Eva winces as the blade, now ice cold, turns again.
Agnes continues in a hushed voice. ‘I thought you were distracted during our session on Wednesday morning. Now I know why. I didn’t realise I’d dropped a bombshell.’
Eva’s eyes fall to the table while her hand involuntarily moves her cup round in its saucer but does not lift it. Neither woman speaks until Eva looks up.
‘I am really sorry for you,’ says Agnes. ‘You’ve helped me so much, you don’t deserve this.’ Nervous, she gulps her coffee.
Eva places her elbows on the table, rests her head in her hands and sways from side to side, aware that part of her life is slipping away, until she feels a hand on her wrist, stroking it. After a few moments the hand grips her tightly. ‘I would like to help you,’ Agnes says gently, followed by a firm, ‘Now, drink that up.’
Without thinking, Eva obeys. ‘I thought, I hoped,’ she says that there might have been some mistake, a confusion. I thought . . .’
‘I’ve been there. No end of times. You cannot, don’t want to accept the hell-awful truth.’
‘But Luke? Why?’
‘You’ve not met Rhona.’
Eva wants to cry. ‘This place is claustrophobic. Let’s go somewhere else,’ she says, getting up and pushing her chair aside. It falls over. She leaves it. Agnes follows. At the café door Eva is lost. The city has become a foreign place. She stares up and down the road. The sunshine is oppressive. Agnes takes her arm and guides her, steering her along a narrow street. Eva does not know where she is or where they are going, only that it is a hill, quieter than the road behind them. All she can see is a replay of Wednesday night at her house. She feels sick.
At the top of the hill she is aware of a church tower, parked cars, a moving taxi. There are shops nearby and a few pedestrians. She does not recognise the street.
Agnes leads her round a corner. ‘In here.’ She leads Eva through an open churchyard gate. ‘It should be open. And empty.’
Eva allows herself to be guided along the stone path and through the church porch to the door. The interior is spacious, darker and cooler. She shivers. Agnes pulls a black cardigan from her bag and hanging it over Eva’s shoulders leads her to an aisle, ushering her into a pew.
Secure now, Eva sees that, thanks to a stone pillar, she is invisible from the main door. And it is safe enough to cry.
When she can speak, she says, ‘I have needed to do this for two days. I was on the point of tears when I talked to my supervisor yesterday morning but . . .’
‘Counselling room tears can’t beat the real thing. I should know – I’m the bloody expert.’
Eva looks up and sees a strength in Agnes unnoticed until now. She notices that on the middle finger of Agnes’s left hand is a ring set with a red stone. Eva stares at it, Agnes follows her eyes.
‘Garnet, my birthstone,’ Agnes says. ‘I’m an Aries. What are you?’
‘Taurus. I’ve an emerald ring Luke gave me.’
For a minute Agnes holds her hand. ‘Are you practical, like Taureans are supposed to be?’
‘I am in the garden.’
‘I’d love to see it. Is Luke a gardener?’
‘Yes, but we don’t live together. We’ve been with each other for almost twenty years, but have always had our own homes.’
‘Does that make all this easier?’
‘Right now, no.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Yesterday I thought that if he did have an affair I would do nothing. Today I want to kick open his shop door and tell him to go to hell.’
Agnes takes her by the arm. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about you and Luke, but I do know about Rhona, and I guarantee that the affair – and that’s what it is – won’t last. No way. I’ve seen it so many times. God, it’s because of the last one that I got tied up with Alden. For a time I was sure their marriage was dead in the water. He thought so too. But oh no, back they came together again, brimming with forgiveness for each other.’ Agnes pauses. Somewhere to the front of the church a door opens, followed by the sound of voices.
‘Never mind them,’ says Eva.
‘You see the whole point of their affairs is that they persuade themselves they really have found that perfect other person. But it never happens. She’s always saying, ‘Alden’s one hundred per cent actor, even if bad actor.’ But the truth is, Rhona is also an actor, only she’s better at it. This Luke thing won’t last. I guarantee it.’
‘You sound very certain.’
‘Listen, if you’ve been with him for years, you’d be a fool to allow Rhona of all people to split you up. And you’re in a stronger position than any of the partners of Rhona’s other men.’
‘Why?’
‘Because doubt and uncertainty are the real killers if you think you’re being cheated on – worse than betrayal in my experience. They set fire to the imagination and you torture yourself.’
‘I’ve started that already.’
‘But you don’t need to. I shall be able to tell you exactly what is going on between them. Times, dates, places, if anything is happening. You’ll still be hurt, but you won’t be helpless. We can phone, we can meet. And I can tell you now, I bet my life that they won’t be together at Christmas.’
There are more voices at the east end of the church. Eva says, ‘Perhaps you should speak to Luke and warn him off.’
‘I’ve tried that once or twice with Rhona’s other guys. It’s always too late. My advice is to tell yourself Luke has an illness, not fatal, but with a maximum duration of six months.’
Eva opens her mouth to reply but a soprano voice from the chancel fills the church. It is not an interruption. She looks at Agnes and sees that she too finds the voice curiously comforting. They listen until the first soprano is joined by a second. But the rehearsal soon breaks off to allow a discussion between the singers.
Agnes says, ‘If you don’t wait for Luke, you will have let Rhona ruin both your lives. You can prevent that.’
The singing begins again, this time without a break.
‘This is wonderful,’ whispers Agnes.
Eva closes her eyes, focused only on the music.
Luke sits in his van outside the shop. Behind him the mirror, well-wrapped and covered in a blanket, is securely tied to the bulkhead. Russ lingers by the open shop door as Luke plugs in hi
s iPod, searches for a song to match his elation and settles on Sylvie Vartan’s Irrésistiblement. He turns up the volume and sees Russ grimace as he lowers the windows.
For the first few miles of his drive to Saffold Farm, he is at one with the music, singing along with the chorus. But the peace of the country lanes, the rich greenness of the hedgerows, a backdrop to swathes of bending seed-heads, induce reflection and he turns it off. He must gather his thoughts, become at one with this idyllic morning.
But the perfect weather cannot prevent a rising apprehension. Sunday was so perfect, can it ever be repeated? Of course, if conversation becomes uneasy there is always the mirror to discuss, to move, to hold in position above the mantelpiece. Its presence behind him in the van gives confidence. On arriving at Ulford church he pulls into the layby opposite. A superstition dictates that since waiting here for a few minutes on Sunday was the precursor of a perfect afternoon, good luck will follow if he waits here again. He looks across to the church. The view is unchanged since Sunday, except for a poster on the noticeboard, advertising a fete. Three sparrows fly down from the roof of the church porch. It is a good omen: he once restored a mirror which showed Aphrodite descending to earth on a throne drawn by sparrows. He checks his watch. Noon exactly. Before he restarts the engine he tells himself, I will remember every detail of this afternoon, not only what she is wearing and every word she says, but every stress, every pause, every gentle change of tone. Instinct tells him that however wonderful the first visit, this visit will surpass it. But a minute later, as he pulls into the yard at Saffold Farm and parks exactly where he parked on Sunday, he sees Alden in long khaki shorts and red T-shirt striding towards him.
Alden glad-hands him. ‘God, I could do with a vehicle like this on Corsica. It reminds me of the old camper van some friends and I bought to go bumming round Europe when we were twenty. I can still remember the punctures: one on the Simplon Pass and one in a sunflower field a hundred miles west of Istanbul. Now, is it a yes for the play?’
‘It’s a double yes, but I’m not sure about Eva.’ He takes a step towards the front door, hoping to see Rhona appear.
Alden slaps a hand on Luke’s back. ‘That’s terrific. Let’s talk about it in the garden before my beautiful wife appears.’
Luke is pleased to detect some irony in Alden’s last three words.
As they enter the house Alden says, ‘She had to spend an extra night in The Smoke and didn’t get back until an hour ago, so she’s soaking off London in the bath. I’m under orders to apologise on her behalf and find you a drink.’
In the kitchen Alden pulls two bottles from the fridge. ‘Beer OK?’
‘Great,’ says Luke, the hope gone of a quiet glass of wine with Rhona. He thinks he can hear footsteps upstairs and the sound of running water.
With the speed of a bartender Alden opens the bottles, using a device hidden below a gleaming work surface. ‘Don’t need glasses, do we?’
Before Luke can say he hates drinking from bottles, Alden leads him to the passage in the centre of the house and out through the front door into the formal rose garden. In one partially shaded corner near the hedge are two old garden chairs with stencilled cushions. As he sits, Luke is uneasy, a feeling worsened when Alden pulls up his chair so they are face to face.
‘Here’s to the play,’ announces Alden, lifting his bottle.
‘The play,’ echoes Luke with less enthusiasm.
‘Have you ever seen a production?’
‘Only the Disney version. I read some of the play online the other night.’
‘Good. There’s some advantage in coming fresh to it. You don’t have preconceived ideas. Of course, it is a children’s play, but there’s a load of stuff beneath the text which goes much deeper.’
‘So your job as director is to bring out all the levels.’
‘No, the trick is loyalty to the text. It’s all there in the words.’
And perhaps the silence between words, thinks Luke, looking up to the first floor of the house and wondering if the bathroom is on this side of the building. Since the sounds from upstairs which he heard on entering seemed immediately above the kitchen, he doubts it.
‘Tell me,’ says Alden bending forward, ‘as someone fresh to it, what struck you about the play?’
Luke hesitates. It is like being back at school. ‘I found the stage directions rather long.’
‘Some dramatists love that. Bernard Shaw was the worst of course. Banging the socialist drum with those interminable introductions. The great pity of it is . . .’
Thinking he can see a movement in one of the first floor rooms immediately above the front door, Luke lifts his beer and slowly drinks so he can sneak a second look up to a small window whose curtains have a ’50s oak leaf design in black. Bedroom or dressing room? he wonders.
‘. . . so why not shut up and give us the play? Now, what do you think is really going on in Peter Pan?’
‘I suppose it’s all about a power struggle,’ suggests Luke, aware that he hasn’t yet finished reading the prescribed text.
‘Yes, but whose struggle?’
‘Over who rules the island – Peter Pan or the Pirates.’
‘Yes, but isn’t it much more. Have Peter and the Lost Boys power enough to survive without grown-ups? Where did Peter get his magic powers from? And deep down . . .’
Luke sees another movement at the upper window.
‘. . . what happens in the play itself?’ demands Alden.
‘The pirates get their comeuppance. A hint of a love interest between Peter and Wendy.’ He takes a swig of beer and another furtive look towards the window.
Alden waves an arm. ‘All well and good, but what’s the real message of the play?’
Luke looks towards the hedge by the lane for inspiration, the afternoon sinking into discomfort.
‘Alden, stop bullying Luke,’ comes a voice from the front door. ‘I could hear you from the bedroom.’
Luke turns round to see Rhona walking towards him in a red dress, shaking wet hair in the sunlight. Ignoring Alden, she gives Luke a hug and with the hand away from Alden’s vision gives Luke a gentle, double pinch on the back.
Rhona turns to Alden. ‘You should have been a prosecuting barrister, not a probate solicitor.’
Alden ignores her. ‘The essence of the play is that . . .’
‘Oh do shut it,’ says Rhona. ‘Luke has come about a mirror. You can bang on about your theories another time.’
‘More later,’ says Alden to Luke, rising from his chair. ‘Anyhow, I have to go and see a mechanic now.’ He places a hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘Great to have you on board.’ With an insouciant, ‘See you,’ in Rhona’s direction he stalks off.
‘I’m sorry about him giving you the third degree about this bloody play,’ she says, looking at Luke’s almost full bottle. ‘We’ll give him five minutes to get his leathers on and disappear, so I can see your mirror in peace.’ Sitting down in Alden’s chair, she crosses her legs, lounges back and takes a deep, contented breath.
‘I’ve had two days of hell in London,’ she says. ‘Successful from a business point of view, but the only thing which has kept me going is the thought of you, your mirror, this chair and this garden. And now I know you’re coming to Santa Marta, that will make it seem like a holiday not an Alden drama trip.’ She shuts her eyes.
In the silence Luke tries to relax, but Rhona’s wordless proximity is almost unbearable. He is glad when they are disturbed by birdsong from the hedge.
‘That’s a greenfinch, isn’t it?’ says Rhona.
‘Very good,’ says Luke. ‘I can see there’s a country girl hiding under the London business woman.’
Rhona opens her eyes. ‘Not really. I’ve a CD of birdsong I play occasionally. It has an accompanying leaflet saying which bird is which.’ She runs her fingers through her drying hair. ‘But I suppose you know your willow warblers from your yellow hammers.’
In St. Giles’s church the rehearsal
continues to the pleasure of its audience of two. When it is over Eva and Agnes listen as the echoes of the voices resound in the Gothic interior. After some moments of silence, the noise of conversation elsewhere in the church allows them to speak.
‘I don’t want to talk any more about Luke and Rhona,’ says Eva. ‘The singing has somehow reduced their importance.’
‘Shall we move on to a pub?’
‘I’d love to know what that music was.’
‘Let’s ask the singers.’
They go to the front of the church, but the singers have gone. On their way out, however, Agnes points to a notice in the porch: Monteverdi’s Vespers and the Salve Regina for two sopranos, Sunday 9th August.
Eva says, ‘I might come back and hear them.’
‘I’d join you,’ says Agnes, ‘but I’m looking at a house to rent. How about the Micawber Tavern?’
At the foot of the hill near the pub Eva stops, looks up and down the road, frowns and turns to Agnes. ‘I don’t remember walking up here.’
‘You were pretty spaced out. I must have given you a hell of shock by the clothes rail.’
‘You did and it took a few minutes to hit home.’
‘You look better now.’
At the bar Eva buys a G & T for herself and a lager for Agnes. The background chatter of a dozen other people in the pub provides a security which Eva welcomes. ‘Cheers and thanks,’ she says. ‘But I’m not sure I’m happy about you becoming my spy on someone I love.’
‘Oh, I shan’t be spying. I’ll simply be keeping my eyes open in the general run of things. And if you want to meet up with me for a chat, that’s fine.’
Eva looks around the pub – its painted black beams, its line of real ale beer pumps, the guest beers blackboard, a city clientele – knowing she has never before been here; she also realises that she has entered a world very different from the one where she is comfortable.
‘Of course,’ says Agnes, if you want to take scissors to Luke’s suits or scratch Rhona’s eyes out, feel free, but don’t kill her or I’ll be out of a job.’
The Mirrror Shop Page 13