The Mirror World of Melody Black

by Gavin Extence

  I left the restaurant feeling a hot dart of irritation that my midday alcohol could not quite blunt. Still, I had no intention of letting Francesca spoil things. The afternoon was young; I didn’t have to be home for the best part of three hours. I decided to get a tattoo.

  My logic ran thus: I’d put around £900 on my credit card today; I might as well round up so that I could draw a neat line under my spending. And since I’d indulged myself – overindulged, my sister would say – I really ought to get something for Beck. Not only would it be a nice thing to do, but it would also pre-empt, and hopefully preclude, any complaints on his part.

  I already had one tattoo, a small tribal dragon curled discreetly round my right ankle. But my new tattoo would be, in some sense, even more discreet. It would be on my breast – the right-hand side of my left breast, to be precise, since that was where my heart was. Already emblazoned on my mind’s eye was the pin-sharp image of what I wanted: a butterfly, not much larger than a fifty-pence piece, its wings cherry red and half unfolded, as if it had just that moment landed, or was in the split-second process of taking flight. Delicate, feminine, romantic and sexy; replete with evocative classical symbolism. It was so perfect I wanted to cry. It would be like buying him a work of art, painted on the most intimate of canvases.

  I found a nice tattooist called El on the edge of Covent Garden, showed her my dragon so she’d know I wasn’t a novice, and not long after, she was busy sketching the butterfly to my exact specifications.

  Being tattooed on the breast, it transpired, was not significantly more painful than being tattooed on the ankle – and anyway, it was the good sort of pain, the one that sends a hot electric thrill pulsing through your flesh. Too soon I was being cleaned, salved and dressed, with strict instructions not to touch it for the next two hours, by which time the small amount of bleeding and swelling should have subsided.

  I lay on the sun-drenched grass of Victoria Embankment Gardens for the next hour and a bit, until it was time to go home; and when I got back to my feet, I felt completely intoxicated, as light and free as a feather caught on the gentlest of updraughts.

  I sensed something was off-kilter the second I stepped through the door. Beck was home. He came to meet me in the hallway as I stood confused and motionless by the coat hooks.

  ‘You’re back extremely early,’ I noted.

  ‘I took the afternoon off.’ His expression was difficult to read.

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘No one died, Abby. It’s nothing like that. Fran called me at work. She was worried about you. I’m worried about you.’

  I didn’t say anything. It was like a conversation in a dream. It made no sense. ‘Listen. Why don’t you come and sit down for a second?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I want to sit down. I think I’m perfectly happy here, thank you.’

  ‘Abby, please.’

  I shook my head petulantly.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ Beck said. ‘We’ll do this here.’

  ‘Do what here? I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Abby, you’re manic. It’s been building up for days, and now it’s getting out of hand. I’m sorry: I should have said something earlier – much earlier – but I was hoping it was just a phase. I thought if I gave you some time, things might settle down of their own accord. They haven’t. You need to see a doctor.’

  ‘God! That’s what this is about? Listen, I don’t know what Fran has been telling you, but you know what she’s like. She thinks she knows it all when really she doesn’t have the vaguest clue what’s—’

  ‘She told me she could barely get a word in edgeways.’

  I launched a laugh but he talked right over it.

  ‘Where are the curtains?’

  ‘The curtains?’

  ‘The curtains – where are they?’ He gestured towards the bedroom as if presenting for the jury Exhibit A.

  ‘Beck, the curtains are in the wheelie bin, which is precisely where they belong. New curtains will be arriving in due course.’

  ‘When did we discuss getting new curtains?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! I didn’t know we had to discuss it. It’s not like it’s a fucking . . . horse!’

  By now, I was having to wipe the tears from my eyes. The whole situation was hysterically funny, if viewed from the proper angle.

  ‘How much have you spent today?’ Beck asked.

  I put my hand to my chest and took several deep breaths to steady myself. ‘Nothing. Not a penny.’

  ‘Abby, the dress.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you pay for it or did you steal it?’

  ‘Neither. It’s all on credit. I shall pay for it next month, by which time I—’

  He cut me off again. ‘And where are your other clothes? The ones I assume you were wearing when you left the flat?’

  ‘Fine! So I binned those too. They were old and tired, and I could hardly be carrying them around with me all day. You see, I’ve been doing this experiment.’ I started to talk louder and faster to forestall his next interruption. ‘No, Beck. Be quiet for a second. I have an excellent explanation for all this, which I’m sure Francesca neglected to tell you. The dress was effectively free. You see, there’s a lot of money in fashion features right now, and you’re forgiven for not knowing that, but—’

  ‘Abby, stop. Please stop. Just listen to yourself. You’re going a mile a minute.’

  ‘I’ve costed it all out in my head, but you’re welcome to check my maths if you don’t believe me. If I can write around fifteen hundred words at, let’s say, three to four hundred pounds per five hundred words, then – fuck it! Forget the maths. I’ve got something wonderful to show you.’ I patted my breasts, wincing slightly, at which point Beck reached out and took my hands in his, so gently it was as if he thought I was made of china. I snapped my wrists back and raised my voice even higher. ‘No, stop it! This isn’t fair! You’re not listening to me!’

  ‘Abby, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to ring Dr Barbara. I want you to speak with her.’

  ‘Leave Dr Barbara out of this! She’s not going to take your side!’

  My shout had the desired effect. Beck took a step back and held up his palms. ‘Okay, okay. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. But please come and sit down. I’ll get you some water and we can talk some more. Calmly.’

  I could see this was going nowhere – no choice left but to humour him. I threw my handbag to the floor and sat down right where I was in the middle of the hallway. ‘Fine. Terrific. Get me a drink and I’ll sit here and think of five reasons you and Francesca don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

  ‘Okay. Good. Do that. Just sit here and I’ll get you some water. I love you.’

  I fixed my eyes on the carpet between my legs, a beige abomination. After a few moments, Beck nodded a couple of times, then slipped back through to the kitchen.

  The instant he was out of sight, I rose silently to my feet. I picked up my handbag, stepped out of the door, and did not look back.

  12

  BETRAYAL

  I take the stairs three at a time, dash through a screeching gap in the traffic, then cut a zigzagging path down a series of side streets, figuring this is a route unrepeatable in its tortuous complexity. My phone is already ringing in my bag, interminably, but I can’t stop to silence it, not yet, not until I’ve put plenty of distance and corners between myself and the flat. I don’t have a hope of blending into the crowd; my beautiful blue dress makes me far too visible. There are a dozen twists and turns before I come to a temporary, panting halt, plunge my hand into my bag, and find the off button without once glancing at the screen.

  I light a cigarette and keep walking down the nondescript residential street in which I find myself. Weirdly, I have no real idea where I am, and it strikes me as a fact both startling and poignant. A few minutes of alternating turns and the city has already swallowed me.
I’m no longer Abby; I’m Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole, unable to tell up from down, left from right.

  Slowly, though, I scrabble back to the surface. The nicotine clears my head and something like normality reasserts itself. It’s a Friday afternoon of dazzling summer sunlight, not long past five o’clock. The sun is pretty much straight ahead, blazing in my eyes, so I guess I’m facing west, and if I take a left and keep walking, I’ll get to the train track soon enough. But beyond that, no plan is forthcoming. The only solid notion is that I am not going home tonight. I feel too betrayed.

  And at the same time, I feel exhilarated beyond words. Because it’s not that Beck and Francesca are wrong – of course they’re not wrong! They’re bang on the money, but that no longer matters. When you’re soaring this high, there are no thoughts of returning to earth. How could there be? Right now, my only concern is that I must be allowed to go on feeling as I’m feeling, consequences be damned.

  Because there will be consequences. I know this too. This feeling can’t last for ever, and that’s part of its astonishing, shimmering beauty. The fallout will come, but it belongs to tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. It has no bearing on the present, which I’ll protect like a lioness guarding her cubs. The now is pure, ecstatic, simply sublime; and this is the real reason I cannot go home. I can’t let anyone take this feeling away from me.

  With these thoughts bursting like fireworks, I quickly comprehend the course the day must run. I can’t go home, and neither can I contact any of my family or friends, who are not to be trusted. The only sensible option is to book into a hotel – somewhere nice. Anything less than five-star is unthinkable right now.

  Eventually, I find myself at Turnham Green, where I board the eastbound District for central London. After switching to the Piccadilly at Earl’s Court, I get off at Hyde Park Corner and walk up Park Lane until I reach the Dorchester. There’s a man in a top hat and tails who opens the doors with a nod and a smile as I approach the main entrance, confirming what I already know: I look like I belong here. I return his smile but don’t slow my stride as I walk through the doors and cross the mirror-polished marble floor to the reception desk, where another immaculately pressed gentleman in a dark green blazer and waistcoat is standing straight-backed and expectant, like a courteous meerkat.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the Dorchester.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ I place my fingertips on the counter, which is as cool as ivory and edged with gold leaf. ‘I’d like a room. One night, just for me.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He doesn’t even blink – but, then, why would he? It’s not just professional poise; I expect things like this happen all the time at the Dorchester: windswept women in cocktail dresses, flouncing in from the street and making their demands. Once you reach a certain level of opulence, nothing seems odd, or even eccentric. ‘What sort of room did you have in mind?’

  ‘One with a view over the park. As high as you have available. I want to see blue sky and open space.’ My voice drips with entitlement.

  ‘I can offer you a Deluxe King on the eighth floor. It would certainly meet those requirements.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Five minutes later, I’ve signed a form, handed over my credit card details, and am being transported through a wondrous maze of softly lit corridors and antechambers. The porter reveals not a jot of curiosity regarding my lack of luggage. We ride a lift twice as large as my bathroom in conspiratorial silence, his eyes averted and his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He holds open every door along the way, addresses me as madam as he gestures for me to pass.

  My room is bright and spacious, impeccably furnished with antique furniture and a bed that could sleep a netball team. The broad window overlooks the treetops, beyond which Hyde Park shimmers like a dappled green sea. London is a spectacular city for the privileged few.

  I have nothing to unpack, of course, so the first thing I do once I’ve taken in my environment is run myself a bath. The bathroom is like an astonishing chapel of white marble, with a tub as deep as a grave. There’s light pouring through a frosted window, a spotless double sink, a wicker basket stuffed with luxury toiletries. While the water is running, I remove my phone from my handbag and wrap it in one of the spare towels. I then stow this package at the bottom of the wardrobe.

  I make coffee, then undress in front of the full-length mirror. From a couple of feet away, the slight rawness of my new tattoo is no longer discernible. It’s just perfect – so mesmerizing against the creamy softness of my breasts I want to cry. It’s a tragedy that Beck didn’t want to see it. This was a moment we were supposed to share. But it’s his loss, not mine. I gave him the chance and he didn’t want to know.

  I steep in scalding water for the next fifteen minutes, with the throbbing ache in my left breast partially and pleasantly reignited. I wash my hair, scrub a day’s worth of city grime from my skin and nails. I towel off, dry and brush my hair, reapply make-up and put in fresh contact lenses. It’s too hot for clothes, I decide – even a bathrobe – so I spend the next hour or so naked. I sit at the rosewood desk by the window and write up ‘Which Blue?’ on eight sheets of hotel notepaper. It’s a masterpiece, needless to say – less a fashion feature than a prose poem: lyrical, playful, passionate and incisive. The sort of thing Virginia Woolf might have written had she decided to quit fiction and pawn her talents to Cosmopolitan. No need for a second draft; I fold and seal the article in a complimentary envelope and pop this in the side pocket of my handbag.

  It’s now nearly eight o’clock, but the day is still as hot and bright as a hundred-watt bulb. I’m not even remotely hungry, despite not having eaten since lunchtime. I slip back into my dress and go down to the park for a cigarette, which turns into two cigarettes. Then I head back inside for a drink.

  The Dorchester Bar is all velvet upholstery and darkly polished wood, and already humming with life. Soft jazz is playing in the background, pumped in by concealed speakers. I would have liked something livelier, with a beat, but never mind. The atmosphere is elegant and moody, and for now that’s enough. A suited waiter meets me in the entranceway and tells me there aren’t any tables available, but I’m welcome to sit at the bar if I’d like. This is more than fine by me. I decide, in that split second, that I’d much prefer to sit at the bar, which is a sleekly curved work of art. The wall behind it is a tapestry of backlit spirits.

  I order a black coffee with a shot of amaretto in it and tell the barman to charge it to my room. I don’t plan on having more than a couple of drinks. Too much alcohol would dull me, and all I really want is to sit and absorb the hot pulse of the room for an hour or so. But, inevitably, this plan goes quickly astray. Before my coffee is cold, a man in an expensive-looking shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, has taken the stool adjacent to mine. I can feel the heat from his eyes, burning into my cheek like the laser-sight on a rifle. I turn, fleetingly, take him in at a glance. Dark eyes, impeccably groomed, handsome in an arrogant, narcissistic sort of way. He looks around thirty-five, forty. He looks as if he probably does something well paid and immoral for a living.

  ‘Not much fun, drinking on your own,’ he says.

  ‘How do you know I’m alone?’ I shoot back. ‘Maybe I’m waiting for someone.’

  He shakes his head and smiles a self-satisfied smile. ‘You’re not waiting for anyone. I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes.’

  I flick my eyes back to him and shrug. Three sentences in and this conversation already feels dangerous.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to join me at my table,’ he suggests.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Or perhaps I wouldn’t.’

  For most men, this would be enough, but his smile never wavers. ‘You’ll at least let me buy you another drink,’ he says. ‘Something stronger than coffee.’ And I’ve already noticed the way he formulates his questions as statements, as if all this is already a done deal.

  I should probably end this right now, but I d
on’t. The truth is, I’m enjoying it: the power play, the mind games, the cat-and-mouse. And where’s the harm in that, since I know I’m not going to take it any further?

  ‘What are you drinking?’ he asks – smugly, as if he’s about to put a down payment on a sports car.

  ‘Champagne.’

  He nods blithely. ‘Of course. I’ll get us a bottle.’

  He turns to get the barman’s attention. I figure he’s going to choose the champagne, and while it would be interesting to see what value he places on me, I won’t give him the chance of escaping lightly. I’ve already made a thorough inspection of the drinks menu, before he sat down, so it only takes me a second to find the right page and jab my finger into it like a poisoned dart. ‘The 1996 Dom Pérignon,’ I tell him.

  At £650 a bottle, it’s not the most expensive champagne on the menu – but it is the most expensive champagne that I can pronounce with absolute confidence; any slip in my French accent would ruin the effect.

  He turns quickly back, stares for a few seconds as if gauging something, then curls his lip into something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Expensive taste,’ he notes.

  ‘I know what I like.’ I give him a look that makes it clear his masculinity is at stake, and I’m sure, for a second, he’s going to fold. But after a pregnant pause, he turns back to the barman and nods. ‘A bottle of the 1996 Dom Pérignon. Two glasses.’

  ‘And a shot of pastis,’ I add sharply. ‘Straight up. Absinthe if you’ve got it, Pernod if you haven’t.’