Mirror, Mirror

by Paula Byrne

  She will approach him today, but she must dress for the part; something translucent and billowing, and white. She looks so good in white. He won’t put up much resistance. She hears he has a taste for Hollywood stars. She sprays perfume onto her neck and wrists. Narcisse Noir, it’s such a heavenly smell.

  The Big Bluff

  There was a buzz of excitement in the lobby of the Hotel du Cap. Mars was about to collide with planet Earth. An end-of-the-world party was planned. Mother told me that the women were all agonising about a suitable dress to wear for the last night of their lives. The men took out their binoculars and spent hours discussing the exact timing of the collision. I was beside myself with excitement.

  Mrs McLean took out the famous Hope diamond from the hotel vault. It was supposed to strike down dead anyone who dared touch it, but now that the world was coming to an end, there was nothing to lose. To my surprise, Mother let me fondle it. Of course, she dismissed the whole thing as nebbish, but joined in the discussions of the red glow of Mars, which was coming nearer and nearer every second.

  Mother thought it highly amusing that the only man in the hotel most visibly affected by the coming of Armageddon was a famous philosopher called Will Durant. Looking ashen-faced, he packed up his car and drove off at high speed, according to Mother, right in the direction of Willie Maugham’s villa.

  On the fated night, there was a magnificent beach party. The men dressed in tails and the women in their finest evening gowns of satin and lace. Mother’s body was moulded in cream silk jersey, her face bright and lovely.

  Enormous crystal bowls of caviar nestled among flame-red lobsters, and pearly-grey oysters. Champagne in tall tulip-shaped Baccarat goblets sparkled in the late sunshine. The men took out cigars, and the women sipped Pink Ladies. They talked and chatted animatedly as the velvety dark descended. It was the most lovely end-of-the-world party.

  Eventually, the dawn came up over the silvery sea, indicating that the world was not going to end that day. We were all quite sorrowful to pack up and return home to the hotel. I unhooked Mother’s evening dress, cooled her shoes, and soaked the adhesive tapes binding her breasts.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the family on the beach; they were as American as apple pie. I dressed for lunch, planning my attack. Once my mother and Boni had left the table, I wolfed down my lunch and begged to go back down to the beach. For once, my governess agreed.

  The family were there. One of them, a young girl, of maybe eighteen, ran up to me: ‘Are you Miss Joan Madou’s daughter?’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Gee, do you think you might ask her for an autograph picture for my collection?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘My father used to work in Hollywood. Now he’s the American ambassador to the Court of St James. My name’s Kick. We have a villa close by, but we come to the hotel to swim in the pool.’

  The girl, so pretty, so friendly, held out her hand.

  I took it and made a curtsy, which made her laugh. I laughed too.

  Later, I told my mother, who seemed to know all about the American family. I was so relieved that she thought they were a suitable acquaintance. That summer, I got to know them all.

  The eldest was Joe, the hunky boy with an Irish smile and the bluest eyes. Then there was Jack, the handsome, skinny boy with a wicked grin, a real ladies’ man. Kick, who had asked for the autograph, seemed to be the eldest daughter, though she wasn’t. Opinionated Eunice terrified me with her sharpness. Pat was the closest to me in age, but she was slim and athletic, with not a pimple in sight. Then the little ones; Bobby, Jean, and Teddy. I worshipped them all, and would have given anything to be one of them.

  My special friend was Rosemary, who was the oldest girl, but was the damaged one, the beautiful one with those large, blue vacant eyes. We were the misfits; the shadow children. We would sit for hours on the beach holding hands and watching the calm sea.

  Wait a Bit, Joe

  Madou is as good as her word. I get the full story when she is back in her suite.

  She has made the acquaintance of the American ambassador, with the hard blue eyes, and the lean, wiry body. She calls him Papa Joe. He is angry about the war. He knows that England cannot defeat the Germans. He has told her over and over again that it’s not America’s war and they should keep the hell out of it. She knows that he is thinking of his strapping sons, who are like Greek gods, and who have been raised to fight wars. He promises her that if war breaks out, he will get them all home safely. He tells her that one day, his eldest son, Joe, will be President of the United States.

  They have become friends.

  She has told him about her fights with the studio, and he has advised her to fire her agent. He has given her the name of a man to call. Madou is grateful. She is now getting ready to show her gratitude the only way she knows how.

  I warn Madou about the ambassador. I’m not sure that he should be trusted. He looks like a scoundrel to me. And what about Boni? We must not stoop to the silliness of taking sides, but Boni is a prince among men. I fear I have gone too far this time. She stops talking to me, for a time.

  Kater, who seems to intuit so much – really, she’s 105 in a child’s body – fiddles with her doll, and pretends that she doesn’t know what’s going on with her mother and Boni. Personally, I feel that she’s far too old to play with dolls. She should put away childish things. She cares for that doll as if she’s a real person. No mother could be more attentive. She cares too for the emeralds, but I see the greedy look in her eyes, and I know that she covets those jewels. She cleans and polishes them and puts them away in their velvet beds, and then locks them in the safe, because she does not trust the maids.

  She grows and she grows, there are dimples on her thighs and upper arms. In the heat, I can see that her thighs chafe together and leave unsightly marks. She looks uncomfortable all the time. It is too absurd that Madou continues to dress her like a little girl. You can’t cheat the wings of time.

  She suddenly glances at me, as if she knows exactly what I am thinking. As if she agrees with me. How impertinent. I’ve seen the way that she looks at her devoted mother. She is giving me exactly the same look, as if she sees right through us. I’d wring her neck, if she had one.

  Man by the Roadside

  He appeared on a three-masted schooner. A gorgeous dark-haired boy with bulging tattooed biceps. There was great excitement at the Cap the morning he arrived. He waved to the crowd who had gathered to watch. He dropped the anchor and rowed ashore.

  I had never seen such a lovely schooner. She was built of the finest teak, and had a shining black hull and cream sails. She was majestic; gently bobbing in the milky depths of the Mediterranean against the hard, blue sky. Her name was Orlando. Mother was mesmerised.

  ‘Boni, do you think that boy is coming to have lunch here?’

  ‘My darling, I neither know nor care.’

  Mother glared, and turned back to her book. Our cabana was close to the American family’s. They were nowhere to be seen. Their rented villa was high in the hills, but they still took several cabanas to be close to the pool and the restaurant.

  Mother often disappeared into the ambassador’s cabana after lunch. The ambassador’s wife didn’t seem to mind. I suppose she was busy with all those children. One day she invited me to lunch. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to wear. Those children always looked so American, so relaxed.

  We had lunch around a large table, and the children were asked to discuss a topic. It was incredible. Every opinion was considered, respected. They were listened to. And they were so much fun. So noisy. Only my special friend, Rosemary, was quiet, but she listened to the chatter with a beautiful, dreamy smile. My, she was lovely.

  Jack was ever courteous. He filled my water glass and smiled across the table. Not one of the children asked me about my mother. They talked mostly about Mr Chamb
erlain and England. Bobby asked if I wanted to fish for octopus. He had a new underwater gun that he wanted to try out. They always seemed to have the latest gadgets.

  Bobby told me that Rosemary needed to take her nap after lunch, but that the rest of us should swim. Bobby made everything seem easy. I asked him if Jack would be coming, too. Bobby assured me that Jack was coming, and told me about his scheme to lure the octopus with his spearing gun. It was simply a matter of ensuring that he hit the octopus between the eyes, as quickly as possible, so it didn’t ink us all.

  Everything turned out just as Bobby had planned. For the first time in my life, I felt part of a family. I had never felt so happy. In the cold water, I felt light as air, and as slinky as an eel.

  Mrs Maxwell was giving a party. I loved her because she understood what it was like to be unattractive in the midst of the beautiful. I hated being on display, and she always made sure to sit me next to the people who were kind to me and who knew never to mention my mother.

  The American family were invited to the party, and I decided to take a deep breath and ask my mother for an evening dress. I was tired of being an eternal child. Mother and Boni were friends again. He had a new car, which he loved. He called it his grey puma. He told Mother that she mustn’t be jealous of his grey puma as he equally adored his golden puma. Mother was amused. She loved the thought of having a car as a rival.

  ‘Mutti, may I have a real evening dress for Mrs Maxwell’s party? In black silk. And evening shoes like your gold slippers, and a little embroidered purse?’

  Mother, still glowing with her renewed love for Boni, was all graciousness, all smiles: ‘What does a child want with an evening dress?’

  Boni looked at her with a tender glance and then smiled gently at me.

  ‘Well, if that’s what she wants, that’s what she will have. I will choose the dress pattern and we will have a dress made up for you. But not black. A child does not wear black.’

  There was no point in pleading any more. At least I would escape those hideous pink puff-sleeved Alice in Wonderland efforts that seemed only to draw attention to my ample proportions.

  On the night of the party Mother looked mesmerising. She was wearing a silver lamé sheath dress with diamond clips and Mo’s sapphires. My mother seemed to be the only person on the Côte d’Azur who could achieve an even suntan. The sun would not dare to burn that nose or those noble shoulders.

  My dress was hideous. It was made from white net and had a wide cummerbund encrusted with multi-coloured glass beads. I looked like a fake Christmas tree. Mother slapped calamine lotion onto my pink nose and pinned a large net bow to my head.

  Mrs Maxwell’s party was like an Aladdin’s cave. Hundreds of miniature lanterns lit the ballroom, and the air was filled with the scent of tuberoses. Mrs Maxwell assigned me a table as far away from Mother as possible. I hid behind the potted ferns, content to watch the beautiful people dancing. The band struck up ‘The Lambeth Walk’.

  And there he was. The most handsome man I had ever seen, striding across the ballroom towards me. I looked behind me. He must be looking for someone else. I could hear the sniggers, as he approached. Then he made a low bow, grinned with those gorgeous teeth, and asked me to dance. I saw Mother staring across the room in disbelief. Scarlet to my toenails, I rose and followed him onto the dancefloor. Honi soit qui mal y pense. Jack Kennedy dancing with a net tent. Whoever would have believed it!

  I remember the night that he danced with me, because when I returned to the hotel room I did something that I hadn’t done for a long time. I removed my dress and looked at myself in Mother’s full-length gilt mirror. My large, creamy breasts buffed out like proven dough. I ran my hands over my soft belly, and then down to my chunky thighs: ‘Hog, heifer, butterball, dumpy, piggly-wiggly, jigglypuff. How could he ever like you? You’re disgusting, you’re vile, you’re a mess. Why don’t you kill yourself? Nobody would care.’

  I repeated these words over and over again. Then when I was done with myself, I took a large Spanish scarf and draped it over the looking glass.

  When My Ship Comes Home

  Madou is beside herself. She is dressing for dinner, and needs the Child to bind her into her silver evening dress. All of that French food is taking its toll. Tomorrow she will start another diet. She talks non-stop, as the Child takes out the tape and the scissors.

  ‘Sweetheart, you will never guess. That boy on the schooner is a girl. She’s an English heiress – oil – and she’s obsessed with sailing. Can you imagine? We are having dinner tonight. She’s invited me onto her boat. Her real name is Bridget, but she calls herself Peta. Her stepfather is a famous surgeon who transplants monkey tissue into male scrotums: for rejuvenation, you see. Maybe that’s what Boni needs, some baboon glands. Of course, Papa Hem wouldn’t need any of that nonsense.’

  Madou is enchanted. She babbles on: ‘Peta has a friend, a doll called Lord Tod Wodley. Lord Tod has his own wardrobe, like Kater’s doll: his suits are made in Savile Row and he is given tiny handmade Italian shoes. He has his own gold Cartier cigar case and minuscule calling cards in a Cartier box. And his own monogrammed stationery. She carries him around everywhere. So charming. So English eccentric. Of course, only the English can get away with carrying dolls or teddy bears in public.’

  Madou endears herself forever with Peta: when she first sees Lord Tod, she exclaims, ‘Who is that?’ rather than, ‘What is that?’

  The affair is intoxicating and giddy. It takes place on the schooner, away from Boni’s prying eyes. Madou is sure to take me with her, she only trusts her own vanity to ensure that she is looking her best. I must confess that I rather admire the Pirate. She’s really rather charming. Simply marvellous upper arm muscles. She hails from very good stock.

  The Pirate strides up to me, fearlessly. She tucks three fingers into her breast pocket and gives a smile of satisfaction: ‘You’ll do, old chap.’

  Madou speaks: ‘You certainly will, darling. Now come to Mother for a kiss.’

  ‘Mothers are very underrated.’

  Madou lies naked in bed. A ray of light comes streaming through the window, splintering its shafts of light onto my surface. The boat rocks gently. Her mind is full of this sensuous, beguiling boy-girl. Peta tells her fabulous tales of a kingdom she has created on her tropical island.

  The island was uninhabited when she bought it. That was its charm. First she built roads, then houses for the natives, a general store, a school, and a church. Finally, she built herself a great house; planting palms, almond trees, and sea grape trees in its spacious grounds. Oleander, hibiscus, and mastic lined the outer walls.

  It took 300 men to build the house, a sturdy white Spanish villa with red roof tiles. There were five bedrooms and five bathrooms, a cold room for meats, and a large, spacious kitchen. There was a large living room with a fireplace for the cold nights, and fans on the ceilings for the warm nights. She hung copper ships’ lanterns in the rooms, and scattered Turkish rugs on its wooden floors.

  She banned alcohol and obeah – a form of voodoo. One day, she was mending a road with her workers, when a poisonous snake slithered from a rock. Peta whipped out her knife and sliced off its head. From that moment, she became the White Witch. Her people believed her to have magical powers. She encouraged their belief.

  She would drive around her island on a red motorcycle with Lord Tod Wodley on her handlebars to make inspections. She had the utmost respect of her people, and she baptised their children and supervised their schooling.

  Madou is entranced by her stories. She loves to hear the details of the parties the Pirate held in the great house for her lady friends. The accounts of derring-do, fishing in the waters, and encounters with blue sharks; surviving the hurricanes that blasted the island; native uprisings in the middle of the night. The Pirate tells her that she was never bitten by sand flies or mosquitoes as they knew she wasn’t afraid of them.<
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  Later, in her room, she taunts Boni with her latest lover.

  ‘You see, Boni, the Pirate is better than any man. She is stronger, and tougher. She is respected by the natives. An African chieftain once gave her a present of a necklace of dried human ears.’

  Boni is unimpressed and wildly jealous.

  ‘And she knows how to please a woman. She was once a lover of Dolly Wilde in Paris in the twenties.’

  Madou leaves the Pirate’s love letters lying around to torture Boni. He no longer rages about Papa Hem. He is far more fearful of his new rival. As she talks, he stares at Madou’s reflection. How the light flows over her shoulders. The Moon in her hair.

  Just one more night, this one night, once again this sleeping head on his shoulder, tomorrow one could fight, once more her breath beside him, once more in all the falling, the tender illusion, the sweet deception; don’t go, don’t go, what else have I?

  When she leaves with her weekend luggage, he approaches me and starts to cry. He looks at his face in the glass, almost enjoying it, half ironically, half genuinely, half serious and half something else. Not play-acting, more curiosity, wanting to get himself in tears, waiting for the tears and then there they are: a certain calming down and composure.

  He walks slowly to the bar and pours himself a large tumbler of golden calvados.

  The Imaginary Baron

  The Pirate disliked girl children, though he idolised little boys, so I tried to keep out of the way as much as possible. Mother’s infatuation became more intense by the day. He was Mercury to her Nike, Pan and Peter Pan rolled into one gorgeous bundle of bliss. She called him the Pirate, he called her ‘Mother’ and ‘Babe’: the only person in the world to get away with calling her that.