The Man In The Mirror

by Georgia Le Carre

  “It’s in Madam’s room. She keeps a framed picture of him hidden in her dresser.”

  My mouth opened in comprehension. “Ah …”

  Carrie nodded meaningfully. “It makes me think sometimes that maybe she still loves him, and her messing around is all an act, but I don't know what to think when it comes to this household.”

  “Will you show me the photo?”

  She looked doubtful. “I don’t know I’d have to smuggle it out and …”

  “Where is her room?”

  “She used to be in the big room next to Zackary’s, but she moved to the East wing last year since she kept waking the boy up with all her noise.”

  “Why not just take me there now?”

  Carrie glanced at her watch. “Now might not be a good time …”

  “She just went out an hour ago. It’ll be ages before she gets back,” I said hopefully.

  “True, but what if she comes back?”

  “It’ll only be for a second and we can hear the car come up the road anyway,” I coaxed persuasively. “We’ll be out in no time.”

  With a sigh, she made a gesture with her hand to indicate I should follow her. We hurried up the staircase. Mrs. King’s room was every bit as grand as I had expected. It was decorated in white from her curtains to her beddings, and then with accents of a deep red in the vase of roses that sat by the corner and the settee by the window.

  “See that pure white bedspread,” Carrie said as we hurried over to a French style dresser on the other side of the room.

  I looked over to the bed. It was covered in white fur. “Yeah?”

  “It’s made from the white bellies of little squirrels. Hundreds of them.”

  “Ugh.”

  “It’s in here,” Carrie said, as she dug through one of the bottom drawers, and produced a small framed photo of a man with thick dark hair and gray eyes.

  I felt my breathing stop.

  I stared at it, unable to speak, and didn’t even know that I had taken the picture from Carrie and was holding it in my hand. In the photo he was laughing, a drink in one hand, and the other across the top of the bench he was sitting on. I wondered where it was taken and just how much of this man his accident had killed?

  “He’s a handsome devil, isn't he?”

  “Are you sure this is him and not one of her lovers?” I asked, raising my head to look at her.

  Carrie pulled a face. “Hmm … I never thought about that. Oh well, maybe it’s not him then.”

  With one last look at one of the most intensely handsome men I had ever seen in my life, I gave the picture to back to her and watched as she quickly returned it to the drawer.

  For some reason I found tears in my eyes and before Carrie could notice them I turned away. But the voice did indeed fit perfectly with the man: calm, and seemingly larger than life. At least that part of him had remained.

  “We need to leave now,” Carrie said. I nodded in agreement.

  We exited the room and parted ways. I returned to my room. The room was filled with beautiful blue light from the moon. I love moonlight so without switching on the lights I put the baby monitor on my bedside table, took off my glasses, and released my hair from its tight bun. Lost in thought I walked to the bathroom. Unzipping my unglamorous dress, I dropped it into the wash basket.

  Then, I switched on the bathroom light and ran the bath. I came back into my room in my underwear to get my book. I picked it up from the bedside table and was suddenly aware of a movement by the window.

  I couldn’t stop the startled scream that jumped out of my throat. The curtains moved and Mrs. King took a step forward. There was something menacing about her. Something mad. This woman was dangerous.

  “I …What—,” I began. I was shocked to find her in my room.

  “Lose the stuttering,” she said calmly to me.

  Her calmness had a strange effect on me. I was suddenly keenly aware and completely calm too. I was at a disadvantage in my underwear, but I was not afraid of her. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking what you were doing in mine?”

  I felt the first frisson of fear. She must have seen us come out of the room, or more likely go into it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would mind. I was just making sure I knew where it was in case I needed to get there in an emergency.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Did you want something from me, Madam?”

  She stepped closer and the light from the bathroom fell on her face. I was convinced then, that she was truly dangerous. “You’re quite the telecaster, aren't you?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Are you trying to drive a wedge between me and my husband, little fat girl?”

  My mouth opened in shock, but before I could say a thing, she interrupted me.

  “Save it,” she snarled. “From now on you can take Zackary out to play, but only after his tutoring sessions. Thereafter you must wash him down meticulously and ensure that he is spotless. Make sure his fingernails are clean. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I responded automatically. Being caught off guard in my underwear had robbed me of my confidence. I just wanted her out of my room.

  “You better keep your eye on him and immediately report any scrapes or accidents. If he gets sick you'll have to answer to me.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Remember,” she took a step closer to me.

  She was so malignant I had to resist the instinctive human impulse to step back from danger.

  “One false move and you’re out of here.” Throwing a last triumphant look at me she sauntered out of the room. The door closed. I could still hear the water running in the bathtub. Soon it would be full.

  I knew I should go and turn the taps off, but I just stood there shaking with a combination of shock and fury. I knew I had fat thighs, but … Shit. What a bitch. No one had ever spoken to me like that in my life. If anyone had dared I would have fought back, and told them to fuck off.

  I should have fought back. I’d always been a fighter, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t. I was no coward. I should pack my bags and get the hell out of that mad-house. I knew I should. I had unknowingly stepped into a viper’s nest. It wouldn’t be quitting if I did. Anyone could see the best thing to do in this situation was to get the hell out as soon as possible. It was a lost cause. If I told April she would send her husband’s helicopter to come get me, but I couldn’t.

  I just couldn’t.

  I walked to the door and locked it. After that I headed towards the bathroom. Turning off the taps, I took the rest of my clothes off and got into the warm water. Silky water swirled around my thighs. I stroked them slowly as if they had feelings and she had hurt them. My mind was blank. I didn’t understand why I had allowed her to get away with talking to me like that. Why it was so important for me to stay. Was it because of the boy, the father, or because I knew she had declared war? She had deliberately come into my room and acted like she was a mad and dangerous foe to frighten the living daylights out of me. She expected me to leave after this.

  But not so fast, Madam. I don’t scare that easily. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet, anyway.

  I got out of the tub, and naked, walked over to the window. Clouds had obscured the moon, but there were a great many twinkling stars in the sky, but my eyes looked for only one thing in the darkness. The lights in the room facing me were turned off, and I wished more than anything that he would appear in the window just like I had been certain he had on my first night here.

  There was no sight of him and no call on the intercom either so I got into my pajamas and slipped into bed. The last thing I thought of before falling asleep was not the way Mrs. King had humiliated me, or how pathetic she had made me feel, but of a mysterious man with gray eyes, and how his beautiful eyes had remained passionate and intense, even though he was caught in a moment of laughter.

  Chapter 15

  Charlotte


  I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose. I had a job to do. I was going to do it to the best of my ability. As stipulated by his mother in the memorandum of his care, I primped Zackary to perfection. One day soon I was going to stop this nonsense and teach him to dress himself. It was ridiculous that a child his age couldn’t dress himself.

  His little socks matching his tie and his blond hair combed back neatly, we went to breakfast. I watched as he solemnly ate up Tuesday’s breakfast (scrambled eggs and homemade sausages), and was quite struck at the lack of resemblance between him and his father.

  He was wearing a ridiculous stark white dress shirt which I couldn’t help but secretly hope he would ruin by the end of the day, and a pair of dark slacks that I was sure had had more care given to its tailoring and fit than even my most precious outfit.

  He looked stiff and uncomfortable, even as he ate, his gaze restlessly moving and watching the transfer of food between his plate and lips. Poor kid was on lookout for stains on his clothes.

  Before I could stop myself, I reached out and ruffled his hair. He looked up at me, surprised and questioning. I grinned at him. He didn’t return the grin. Placing his fork down, he smoothed his stubby fingers through his hair and sleeked it all back in place. Then he reached for the napkin on his lap, wiped his hands, and continued with his meal without ceremony.

  I caught Mrs. Blackmore’s gaze and she shrugged and gave me a glum look.

  “Zackary, we’ll be going out to play today,” I said to him. “Are you excited? I think you’ll have an amazing time.”

  “I’m not allowed to play outside,” he responded.

  “But we played outside yesterday. Didn’t you enjoy it?”

  “It upset Mummy.” He shook his head before lifting his glass of freshly squeezed organic orange juice for a sip. “I don’t want to anymore. I’ll get dirty and there are creepy crawlies in the grass.”

  “Mummy said you could,” I quickly clarified before he ruined such a prospective day for me. “She visited my room last night and said I could take you out for a little while.”

  The way he watched me was too controlled for a five-year old. “She did?”

  “Yes, Master Zackary.” I whipped out the most matron-ish voice I had. “She absolutely did. And as for creepy-crawlies. Do you know what I used to do to them when I was your age?”

  “What?” he asked, big eyed.

  “We used to catch them in matchboxes and feed them to my pet bird.”

  “What kind of bird was it?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

  “A baby sparrow. It had fallen out of its nest and my friend and I rescued it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Of course, it was dead. Nearly twenty years had passed since I fed Billy Face with worms and insects I had caught. “I don’t know. One day when it had grown bigger and stronger it flew away.”

  “Do you think we might find a baby sparrow too?” he asked hopefully.

  I smiled. “Maybe, but we have to be out and about to do that.”

  “Okay.” He smiled shyly back at me and I felt a surge of happiness. What a beautiful, but careful soul he was. My goal from then on became to unwind him as much as I could before my time as his nanny came to an end. I knew without doubt that I had very little time left too.

  He returned his attention to his meal, while I discreetly pulled away a blade of his hair to lessen the polish that I had taken such pain to attend to earlier in the morning.

  “Where do you plan on taking him?” Mrs. Blackmore asked me.

  “Today we’ll spend it in the grounds,” I replied. “Maybe next time we will visit the park again.”

  “The grounds are empty,” she reminded me. “Are you both just going to play with the grass?”

  I grinned at her snappy question. “No. I’ll run out to the store for some makeshift supplies until he gets his proper playground installed.”

  “Oh, he’s getting a playground, is he?”

  “That’s what his dad said.” I turned to look at Zackary, but once again he had lost interest and was concentrating on eating without soiling his clothes.

  “Are you taking the little one with you?” Mrs. Blackmore asked.

  “Of course. He can help me choose the stuff he wants.”

  “That’s a good idea, love. He’s never been to one before. There’s a big new American style store a few minutes away.”

  “Yes, I know. I googled it this morning.”

  In half-an-hour we were in Bright Buy. I chose a huge cart despite not needing much so that he could ride in it, but when I asked if he wanted to ride inside he had looked at me as though I were out of my mind. When I glanced behind I met the carefully blank look from the suit and tie bodyguard/chauffer Henry.

  I shrugged. You couldn’t say I didn’t try.

  On my way to the crafts aisle I passed by the toys area to see what he would be drawn to, but he just walked passed everything with a look of great disdain. As if toys were beneath him.

  As we made our way through the aisles we came across other kids sitting amongst produce in the carts and being pushed around by their parents, and one little girl who was writhing in tears on the floor obviously to protest her mother’s behavior. That was the good and bad of child behavior, but the child beside me watched them as though they were all nothing but uncivilized lesser mortals.

  Our roles almost switched when we arrived at the arts and crafts aisle. I found quite a few things that I wanted to check out and Zackary kept up his disinterested attitude. I didn’t let it bother me. As I picked this and that, I could see his interest slowly peaking. When I put two bundles of string into the cart, he could no longer hold his curiosity.

  “What are you going to make, Miss Conrad?”

  “Not me. We are making a kite,” I said.

  Chapter 16

  Charlotte

  With my supplies stashed away in the boot, I took on a crash course on how to build a kite on You Tube on the way home.

  When we got in I scattered the materials on the floor of the great hall and began opening all the packages. I had the sticks in hand and was ready to begin when I met Zackary just watching me, a frown on his face. I felt a bit guilty then as though I was the one sourcing the most entertainment from this.

  “You have to help me make the kite,” I said to him.

  “It’s dirty on the floor,” he said.

  “It’s not. Frances just cleaned it this morning.”

  He looked at me doubtfully and I wondered how long it would be before I got him to act like a child, less concerned with dirt than play.

  “I tell you what. If we get our hands and clothes a little dirty, we’ll just quickly go upstairs and have a bath before lunch."

  “What if Mummy sees me?”

  “She’s out. She sent me a text that she will be back after lunch.”

  Before he could think about it too hard, I jumped up and pulled him down beside me. And so we began our first project together. Zackary helped out as I instructed him to and the time went by like a dream. A little while later, our simple kite was done and stood crooked and gloriously frail against the ancient walls.

  But Zackary was not ashamed of the messy contraption we had made. His smile stretched into a full grin and his eyes shone with pride and appreciation. For a moment he looked the way a little boy should again. I just prayed it would fly, even if for only a few seconds.

  Zackary turned to me excitedly. “Do we fly it now?”

  “Uh, not yet,” I replied, drawing the remaining bag of supplies towards me. I retrieved some paint and brushes, and laid them all out before him. “You have to make it pretty first.”

  “Why?” he asked genuinely clueless. Now he was sounding more and more like a little boy.

  “We have to paint the kite and take a picture for your parents. They won’t be very impressed with such a plain kite.”

  I laid out some colors for him on the palette and then handed him the brush.


  “What do I paint?” he asked, his forehead crinkling with a new anxiety.

  “Hey?” I said, placing my hand upon his. “Are you nervous?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  He turned to gaze at the blank kite. “I want my mummy to like it.”

  “Ah,” I understood then.

  “This is your kite, so paint whatever you wish on it.”

  But that only served to paralyze him more. It was clear how desperately he needed his mother’s approval.

  I knew I had to do something to break the impasse. Perhaps if I stimulated his over-developed need not to act like a child. I reached forward and whispered in his ear, “Should we just splatter paint all over it? Maybe just dip your hands in paint and plop it all over —”

  “Finger painting is for babies,’ he said scornfully.

  I held both of my hands up in defeat. “Yes, Sir.”

  I laid the kite on the ground and watched as he lowered his head and got to work. I paid close attention and a little while later could see the picture as it began to form in a corner. At first was the sun. A bright yellow circle with precise strokes coming out of it, then green blades of grass which he meticulously and carefully filled half the kite with. On the second half of the still blank space he painted a small round face with a stick body.

  He gave himself a swirl of yellow hair, and then moved on to his mother. She was also a stick figure but for her legs, he thought in the last moment to dot with a blob of red representing her shoes. He did the same to her lips while her blonde hair received the same yellow swirls as his had done.

  I thought he would stop there but then some distance apart he began to draw an even taller figure. My heartbeat slowed down as I watched silently. He painted two black blobs for his shoes, but then he kept going with the brush and painted his father’s face black.

  “Why?” I turned to him. “Why did you paint his face black? I can’t even see his lips.”

  “It’s a mask,” he stated quietly, as he dipped his brush in white paint. With it he marked a smile across the black face. He made a startled sound when the paint smudged and looked up at me in confusion.