Luke looks at the back panel standing to one side on the floor. It can be screwed on when the blocks are dry, a task no doubt Russ will carry out first thing in the morning. Not that it matters. The main work is done. Rhona can be phoned tomorrow morning and the mirror can be shown to her whenever she wishes.
Averting eye contact with Agnes, Eva looks up to the painting whose brushstrokes are moving uncontrolled about the canvas.
Mirror dealer. Luke? An affair? Surely not? But how many mirror dealers can there be? I must move the conversation on elsewhere. Luke? Can’t believe it. Find out more from Agnes. No – Professionalism. Conflict of interests. Ignore, ignore. Twenty minutes left. The anglers are staring at me. Put this on hold. Agnes is not aware of anything. Yes, put on hold. And move on. Luke? No, impossible. Change direction. Too late – Agnes is talking . . .
‘. . . to my surprise Rhona insisted on giving me the full details on Monday morning. She dragged me into the orchard during our coffee break, sat me down on a deck chair and bared her soul. Like she’s using me as her in-house counsellor. For most of the time I sat there in silence and let her warble on.’ Agnes laughs, ‘Do you know, in the last few weeks I think I must have picked up some of your listening skills.’
How many mirror dealers do I know? Only one, but in a twenty, forty mile radius there must be others.
Eva hears herself say, ‘The effects of counselling are bound to impinge on your inter-personal relationships.’
Where did I get that word ‘impinge’ from? I never use it. Must regain control.
Agnes says, ‘My first reaction was to tell her I’ve heard it all before. Last time it was the happily-married schoolteacher. The time before it was the clarinettist. Then there was the orthopaedic surgeon. Before that the Polish art student. Loads of others. Now we have the mirror dealer from up the road. But I yawned and looked through the branches and up at the sky and listened to the old, familiar story. She’s rather pleased that this one’s not married.’
Up the road, up the road. Which road? In a previous session I’m sure I noted that her workplace is not far from Cantisham. Can’t remember precisely where. In the country somewhere, yes. But where? Can’t remember the name of the village. Will it be in my notes? And Luke is not married. Take a deep breath. Stabbing. My stomach.
Eva says, ‘Do you feel that this role as Rhona’s confidante will impede your own progress?’ The knife stabs again.
Agnes looks away in thought.
How long has it been going on? Or has it just started? Agnes is speaking again.
‘. . . and there was a time I might have been unduly influenced by her. Not now though. Not any longer. I remember once when we were in London . . .’
Can’t continue with her as a client. Recommend another counsellor. But up the road? Up the road? I need to know. Agnes has stopped speaking. Has she asked a question? Or have I missed some vital point relating to Rhona and Luke. Must find out more. Find out where Rhona’s work is. Not directly.
Eva says, ‘I’m not sure how helpful it is looking back at Rhona’s various entanglements. It may be that you are lucky living here in the city and not closer to her.’
Agnes looks puzzled. ‘I was sort of thinking of renting a cottage nearer work. Are you saying that I shouldn’t?’
‘No, all I suggested,’ says Eva, ‘is that you may like to think about how near you want to live to an employer who might be very demanding on your emotional resources. Sometimes physical distance is important.’
In silence Agnes reflects on the comment.
Eva feels sick – sick about the possibility of Luke having an affair with Rhona, sick that she is steering the conversation towards an answer to the important question of where exactly Rhona lives. Sick that she has ceased to be a counsellor and is now in forbidden territory. A voice from many years ago is talking of client abuse.
‘I needn’t live in Ulford itself. There are several nearby villages where I could rent or buy a property.’
Eva recoils. Ulford. Ulford, up the road from Cantisham. The blade in her stomach twists again. It must be Luke. Can’t continue with this client.
‘Agnes, you are really sounding so much more positive about things compared with two weeks ago. Now we had planned two more sessions and if necessary, resuming when I return from my break. However, I feel so much progress has made, we should perhaps have just one more session next week. How do you feel about that?’
Without apparent thought Agnes says, ‘I’m in your hands. A couple of weeks ago I almost walked out and you helped me to see that I should stay. Now, if you think we’ve reached the point when only one more session is needed, that’s fine. I trust your judgement.’
Eva wonders whether there isn’t a hint of glibness in Agnes’s tone. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘Let’s look towards next week as a final session. Of course, if at any time some issue arises which means you want to resume our meetings, all you have to do is phone the Centre. I’m officially having a break in two weeks’ time until the end of October but I only plan to be away from home for a few days, so I could always find time to see you. Or, if needs be, you could make an appointment with one of my colleagues. How does that sound?’
Agnes cocks her head to one side, rests a finger on her chin and thinks for a moment. ‘Fine,’ she says.
‘Next week we can explore how you think you’ve progressed since your counselling began. Also, how you will feel about not coming here on Wednesday mornings. Some clients . . .’
‘I know how I’ll feel. I shall miss seeing you.’ Agnes scans her surroundings. ‘And I shall miss this room too.’ She looks at the fishermen. ‘Especially that picture.’
Alone, waiting for her next client, Eva looks again at the oil sketch. The colours are now motionless and the angler no longer stares at her. She wishes that in her bag there was a packet of Gitanes, given up for twenty years, often missed and now craved. Or a drink. A large gin. Scotch. Anything. To hell with the discipline of making some notes about the last hour. ‘Planning an affair . . . apparently he’s a mirror dealer.’ Those are all the notes which matter and they’re not likely to be forgotten. But Luke? Surely not.
Eva stands and paces the room. I must be rational, she thinks. What has been suggested is a planned affair. Rhona is clearly a schemer whose marriage survives despite or because of infidelity. Perhaps what she told Agnes is a fantasy, a dream, a half-baked plan which will have no chance of success. Luke is too sensible. He would never fall for such a game. But if the affair has started, would she know? She has been a counsellor long enough to know the answer to that. And what can she do about it? She and Luke aren’t married. They don’t live together . . . but hasn’t she always accepted that they were as close – closer – than many couples who did and certainly closer than a friends-with-benefits arrangement. No, she can’t believe it. She goes to the window and looks down on the street below. A few cars pass, a woman is taking an obese alsatian for a reluctant walk, two swans drift by on the river. On the horizon the boom of the crane moves very slowly, then stops, like a clockwork toy winding down. No, she must not be disturbed by some comments from a client. Her trust in Luke could never be that fragile. She must prepare herself for her next client.
Eva turns back into the room. I shall do nothing but note Agnes’s comments, she tells herself. I shall certainly not confront Luke or start spying on him, like some of the jealous women I have seen over the years. I shall mention this to Stella of course – she is sure to have some wisdom to share. Apart from that, life continues as normal.
She hears footsteps in the corridor outside. As her next client settles in the armchair, Eva realises that in the next hour Luke is of far greater concern to her.
Luke sits at his desk turning the pages of the local paper. But now even the sea fishing reports hold little interest. He is restless, aware of a new energy. He wishes there was more practical, humdrum work to be done in the shop to absorb the hours. A customer would be welcome, even a timewaster. No
ne appears. At 1pm he flips the shop sign round to closed and with no intention of opening again today, sets out for the allotments. It is lunchtime but he has no appetite.
Beyond the allotment gate he is at ease; the old walls are more than a physical protection. He walks to Alf’s hut and to his relief Alf is not there. Nor does there seem to be any other allotment holder at work this afternoon.
Having changed into his gardening boots, he inspects his onions and lifts them all, laying them on the soil to dry. Glad of the opportunity to be alone, he examines, one by one, the other allotments, making comparisons with his own vegetables before returning to his own plot. Here he ties the latest growth on his sweet peas, hoes the carrots, tracks down and disposes of a snail near his courgettes and gives everything a thorough watering. The allotment, exuding a smell of wet soil, seems to thank him. When all is in order, he goes to one of the hothouses and sits back on a kitchen chair, his feet resting on an old earthenware celery forcer. Warm and comfortable, the air heavy with the fragrance of tomato plants, it is silent here, apart from the sound of a bee searching the glass roof for an escape hole. Closing his eyes, he wonders what Rhona is doing this afternoon, what she is wearing. For some minutes he is next to her in the parlour, talking of butterflies and mirrors but enjoying a deeper conversation beneath the spoken words. He feels so close to her here. Such feelings could never be enjoyed in the shop, but this walled world has its own laws of time and space which make all things possible.
The bee is no longer buzzing. Perhaps it has found an escape. He does not open his eyes, but begins to reflect on his life, reviewing the years one by one. Falling asleep he slips back to schooldays, travelling in an army truck on the way to Bisley for shooting practice. He drifts to another rifle range close to a lake. Wandering off during the afternoon’s programme, he finds himself at the water’s edge, watching the sun play on the surface. Close to the bank, almost at his feet, a sluggish carp swims among water lilies while gunfire echoes in the distance.
As soon as her client has left, the pain in Eva’s stomach returns, not a stab, but a prolonged ache. She stares out of the window and over the Norwich rooftops as if looking for some sign of encouragement. It would be so good to see Stella today. Perhaps she should phone. An emergency appointment? No, that would be desperation stakes. But she is desperate. ‘Must talk to someone,’ she says aloud. ‘But who?’ She turns away from the window and walks into the centre of the room and stares at the Jack Yeats painting. ‘Annie. Yes, garden fanatic Annie,’ she says to the fishermen. She drops into the client’s armchair relieved to have made a decision.
Within fifteen minutes of a phone call to her friend, Eva is driving out of the city. As north-west Norwich gives way to fields and woodland her earlier panic subsides enough to allow her to see that it is a perfect summer’s afternoon. But the realisation is immediately followed by a sense of unreality. Can this be happening to me? Am I really about to visit a friend to discuss the possibility of my partner’s infidelity? Luke and this designer woman? It’s impossible. No, Agnes must be mistaken. And didn’t Agnes say that Rhona had bought a needlework? Does Luke deal in needleworks? I’ve never seen one in the shop. By the time she has turned off the A140 she is convinced that there has been some misunderstanding which has left her or Agnes or both with a false impression. Driving along the narrow road, the verges a mass of thistledown, it is hard to imagine any disturbance in her well-ordered world.
She pulls up outside the smallholding to be greeted by Annie’s Jack Russell. On leaving the car she bends down to pat the dog but finds she has no enthusiasm for pleasantries. Seeing Annie, all smiles, coming out of the house, Eva realises that this is not going to be an easy visit.
‘Drinks outside?’ Annie suggests. ‘Village shop white – I think I live on it.’
Eva follows her to the garden at the rear of the house where a narrow lawn overlooks a gentle slope laid out in terraces, alternating flowers and vegetables. At the side of the lawn is a small summer house with open double doors. Inside are two chairs and a table where a bottle and glasses are waiting. While Annie eases out the cork and fills the glasses, Eva admires the ordered and weed-free terraces.
‘How is it that all your plants are further ahead than mine?’ Eva asks.
‘The south-facing slope helps.’ Annie takes a deep drink. ‘Eva, is everything OK? When you phoned earlier, I thought I detected an uneasy tone . . . not like you?’
‘I had a client this morning who totally unnerved me.’
‘Threatened you?’
‘Not physically or even verbally – nothing like that. It was what she said.’
‘Isn’t that an occupational hazard in your line of work?’
‘It can be. Sometimes a comment throws you into self-doubt, undermines your confidence.’ Eva finds herself struggling to be open.
‘I couldn’t have your job. How’s the peach tree I gave you?’
‘Despite the peach curl, I had a great crop.’
‘It’s not Luke, is it?’
‘Luke’s fine. I think.’
‘You only think Luke’s alright?’
‘This client of mine, a woman, was going on about infidelities.’ Eva pauses and plays with the stem of her glass. No, she can’t bring herself to tell Annie everything. At least, not yet. ‘And I began wondering about Luke . . .’ She downs some wine.
Puzzled, Annie looks at her. Suddenly she jumps to her feet. ‘Eva, you’ve obviously been upset by whatever nutty cow you’ve been trying to help. I’m certain you and Luke are the same couple you always have been. At least you see more of him than I see of Phil and you don’t even live in the same house. Now come and look at this new variety of chard I’ve been growing and forget whatever’s bugging you.’
They walk down the path between the terraced beds, arm in arm, glasses in hand.
‘What do you call it,’ Annie continues, ‘when one of your clients starts unloading their stuff on you and odd things happen? Trans-something?’
‘Transference and countertransference,’ mumbles Eva, hoping to avoid a discussion on the dynamics of counselling.
‘Well, I bet that’s the answer. Nothing wine or gardening can’t cure.’ She bends down at the end of a row of deep green leaves on blood red stems and picks two. ‘Have a bite of this.’
Eva chews on the chard, nodding in appreciation. Annie looks at her knowingly. ‘Listen, Phil’s often away for weeks on end in developing countries. Of course I used to wonder exactly what he gets up to in his spare time where sex is cheap and readily on offer. And I still occasionally wonder. But what is the point dwelling on it?’ She laughs, ‘And to date there have been no STDs. More to my worry is when he volunteers to help in the garden. Try this other variety.’ She points to another row of chard, a paler shade of green. ‘I asked him to weed out an infestation of green alkanet earlier in the year and he goes and digs up all the young foxgloves on my semi-wild bed. You’d think an agronomist would know the difference.’
‘I definitely prefer the other variety,’ says Eva mid-mouthful.
‘Whatever your misguided fears about Luke, at least he would know his digitalis from his pentaglottis.’
‘I always let a few alkanets remain at the end of the garden. The bees seem to like them.’
‘Have you any evidence Luke is having an affair?’
Eva is taken back by Annie’s bluntness. They have reached the bottom of the slope where a semi-wild bed covers the whole width of the garden. ‘No, not really,’ she says, knowing she is being elusive.
Annie touches her arm, ‘Come inside and have some lunch.’
Eva points to a group of plants at the rear of the bed. ‘Look, you still have a few foxgloves left,’ she says.
‘There you are: men are sometimes not total disasters.’
As they turn back Eva feels miffed that Annie’s world appears so trouble-free. They walk up the slope, pausing at the dwarf beans, the celeriac and a row of lettuces, one of which Annie pul
ls up.
By the time they have retrieved the bottle from the summer house Eva is determined to say no more about Luke. It is Stella she needs to speak to and as soon as possible. After lunch she makes an excuse and leaves.
‘Keep in touch and don’t worry,’ Annie shouts as Eva starts the car.
‘Thanks,’ Eva shouts back, longing for the first quiet field entrance where she can stop and make a phone-call. A mile down the road she turns onto a concrete sugar beet pad and phones Stella. After a few rings she hears Stella’s recorded message. Frustrated, she ends the call, stares across the field and listens to an invisible skylark. A mistake to have visited Annie, she thinks, but at least the visit has shown how important it is to see Stella. She rings the number again and again hears the message. This time she leaves her own. ‘Stella, it’s Eva. Can you phone please? I’d like to see you. Soon, if possible. It’s urgent. It’s about . . . if you could phone today I’d be grateful. Thanks.’ She ends the call and the pain in her stomach subsides. As soon as she is back home she changes into gardening clothes and forces herself to do some weeding, her mobile and landline phones on a stool beside her.
After half an hour she gives way to the afternoon sun and lies down on a blanket in the shade of the laurel. She would welcome sleep but Agnes’s voice replays itself again and again, ‘Apparently he’s some mirror dealer.’ She opens her eyes and looks up at the canopy of leaves where the ten syllables seem to echo among the mesh of branches. Without thinking, she grabs her mobile and phones the shop. After six rings, she hears, ‘This is Luke Brewer Mirrors. We are sorry no-one can take your call. Please leave . . .’ She rings off and phones his house. Another recorded message. She tries the shop again, but hears the same message. Is he busy with a customer? she wonders. Often he leaves the phone for Russ to answer, but with Russ away has he really let it ring? Or is he in the back room searching for some long lost frame? She dials his mobile but is told the number is unavailable. In a mind heavy with suspicion she forms a vivid picture of Rhona from the details supplied by Agnes, only now she pictures Luke with her. No, I’m not going there, she counsels herself and falls back on the blanket.
The Mirrror Shop Page 10
