The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  Back in the study, each in an armchair, she says. ‘After tomorrow evening we have nine nights apart and the next day you’ll be on your way to join me. I shall be beside myself waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m dying to see the village.’

  ‘It is so beautiful. What I love is a dawn drive to the river for a swim before the sun gets hot. I’m usually the only one awake that early. You’ll have to join me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a strong swimmer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased. Nor am I. I can’t stand people who power off freestyle towards the horizon while I’m still splashing in the shallows. Alden, of course, was in the university swimming team.’

  When she leaves she offers to give Luke back his sweater.

  ‘Keep it,’ he tells her. ‘I feel it’s yours now.’

  ‘I shall treasure it. A reminder of a perfect evening. And a perfect beginning.’

  14

  On Wednesday afternoon at the Riverside Counselling Centre, Eva leaves a partners’ meeting and goes to her room, reflecting that the business discussed during the last hour had been routine, uncontroversial, so different from equivalent meetings in London shortly after Luke had ceased to be a client and became her lover. She watches an old woman on the riverbank throw breadcrumbs to a growing rabble of mallards, and smiles, remembering that one of her most vehement critics had, within the last twelve years, married and divorced, while she and Luke were still together. A seagull muscles its way among the mallards. The woman tries with varying success to throw only to the ducks. Eva looks up to the city roofs and feels a new strength: Rhona was not going to come between them.

  Looking out from her room, she relishes the thought that she will have no more clients until late autumn. In the distance the crane is motionless. To its left she makes out part of the tower of St. Giles. Only last Friday, she thinks, I was there, cowering behind a pillar, distraught, Agnes beside me. Hearing, across the rooftops the sonorous bell of the City Hall clock, followed by a higher pitched bell from near the cathedral, she feels the need for reflection; the Counselling Centre is not the place in which to do it.

  Making her way down to the river, she crosses Bishop’s Bridge. There is a welcome peace here on the edge of the cathedral precincts. She looks to her left at a row of neat Victorian terraced houses. She has often imagined living here, if she were forced to move from the country. Today, for the first time the fantasy is replaced by the practical question, and why not, in a few years’ time, why not? Where Luke might fit into this possibility she is not certain.

  She passes alongside the high wall opposite the medieval Great Hospital, turns the corner near the law courts and walks up towards the city centre. Passing the Erpingham gate with its view of the west end of the cathedral, she is reminded of childhood walks in her home city, while a little further on, the bust of Edith Cavell makes her recall the statue of Elgar looking down to the Worcester porcelain museum. Why, she asks herself, has the past resurfaced so much these last two weeks? She walks to a nearby restaurant, finds a secluded corner seat, orders a sandwich and a lager, and returns to thoughts about Luke and Rhona. Intuition tells her a crisis is imminent. Instinct tells her that she must buy a new dress for this evening’s dinner.

  At 7.30pm as Eva wraps mauve tissue paper around a dozen dark red echinaceas cut from her garden, she sees Luke’s van appear in the lane outside her house. Throwing a shawl round her shoulders, she lingers for a final look at herself in the hall mirror.

  ‘That’s one hell of a little black number,’ says Luke when he appears at the kitchen door.

  ‘And a hell of a big number on the price tag.’

  ‘Didn’t you manage to knock them down?’

  ‘Always the dealer.’ She hands Luke her car keys. ‘You can be my chauffeur,’ she says.

  ‘Shoes new too?’ he asks, looking at her shiny black high heels.

  ‘Almost as expensive,’ she says, feeling she can face anything the evening throws at her.

  In the car, she relaxes and looks at Luke. An old green linen suit and well-worn tan loafers do not indicate any special effort to dress for tonight. It seems impossible that he might be involved with some other woman, let alone the one she is about to meet. ‘What’s this Rhona like?’

  ‘She’s bought a couple of things from the shop, so she must be alright.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Not a stunner.’ He looks at the dress again. ‘Certainly not a knock-out.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  At Saffold Farm Luke pulls into the yard where Russ’s old Rover is parked in a corner. He climbs out and opens the door for Eva. Standing on the gravel, she surveys the back of the house, admiring the roses.

  Eva looks towards the converted barn. ‘I wonder if that’s her studio.’

  ‘Probably.’

  They walk to the door, Eva absorbing as much of the side of the house as she can. Luke, resisting an impulse to open the door and walk in, extends a slow hand to the knocker and gives it two tentative strikes. From inside comes the noise of raised voices. Russ’s distinctive laugh can be heard above them.

  Eva looks at Luke. ‘Sounds like he’s a glass or two ahead of us already. Knock louder.’

  Luke obeys, glad to seem unfamiliar with the house and its ways. The door is opened by an elfin, fair-haired girl of about twenty, wearing a gypsy dress with raggedy hem. My God, thinks Eva, if this is Rhona . . .

  ‘Hi, I’m Louise,’ she drawls. ‘They all call me Lou. They put me on door duty. You must be Eva and Luke. The others are in the parlour. Come in, but watch the low beam.’

  They follow her into the house. In the passageway Luke sees Rhona coming towards them, wearing a simple grey dress, her hair is tied up in a knot. His immediate impression is that she would pass for a Victorian governess were it not for a French jet necklace and matching earrings.

  ‘Eva, Luke, how lovely of you to join us.’

  Eva gives her the flowers. ‘From my garden.’

  ‘They’re beautiful. How clever you are. My fingers are so ungreen you wouldn’t believe.’ She kisses Eva. ‘I love that dress. Tell me all about it later.’ Turning to Luke she gives him the most formal of kisses, holding the flowers between their bodies.

  ‘I’m going to find these a vase immediately. Lou, darling, show these guys into the parlour.’

  They follow the gypsy dress into the front room. Before Eva can give a second thought to Rhona she finds her hand being wrenched by Alden.

  ‘Great of you both to come,’ he says. ‘You’ve met Lou – Tinkerbell – and you know Russ better than I do.’ He points to Russ, in alpaca jacket, white shirt and paisley tie, who gives a shoulder height wave to Luke and Eva. ‘And these are Josh and Felix,’ says Alden, pointing to the occupants of armchairs by a wall, both in jeans and T-shirts. ‘An English Peter Pan and an African-American Hook, both violent in their different ways. Typecasting I suppose.’

  Josh and Felix say, ‘Hi.’

  ‘And I’m Cassie – Wendy,’ says a red-haired American girl who is sitting on one of the arms of Josh’s chair.

  ‘Feistier than the original,’ says Alden. ‘We may need to . . .’

  ‘It’s the modern way of playing her,’ says Cassie.

  Luke looks uneasily around the parlour, disliking the way the furniture has been moved since his first visit – a violation of his memories of that afternoon. He checks that the mirror is still exactly as he hung it and that the pottery figures on the mantelpiece are in place.

  ‘Bubbly OK?’ asks Alden, going to the table by the window where three bottles are in ice buckets. He lifts one up. ‘Veuve Cliquot. Lynton’s favourite. And mine.’ He fills two glasses.

  ‘Who’s Lynton?’ Eva asks Luke.

  ‘The old boy whose place we’ll be staying at.’

  Alden overhears. ‘Old boy? He may be almost ninety but he was half wondering whether he shouldn’t take a part in the play himself.’ He
gives Eva and Luke flutes of champagne, and seeing Louise has no glass says, ‘Are you sure you won’t have just a small one?’

  Louise shakes her head. ‘Dancers tend to drink less than actors: our profession has to be more disciplined.’

  ‘Not that you can compare ballet and drama,’ says Alden. ‘Dance doesn’t have to be text-based.’

  Louise stares hard at him. ‘Dance is more about feelings than words, Alden, which makes it closer to the truth. If truth counts.’

  ‘Truth to the text matters.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad I haven’t a speaking part.’

  ‘Which is why you’ll be the most wonderful Tinkerbell: your dancing will say more than any of us can express in our lines.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so smarmy, Alden. I much prefer you when you’re being argumentative.’

  ‘For an anti-words woman you use them very well. I’m off to inspect the meat. At least that doesn’t insult me.’ Alden heads for the door, pausing to give Louise a placatory kiss. She responds with such excessive distaste that Eva decides they are almost certainly having an affair.

  ‘I’m kinda glad I’m a painter and I’ll be spending most of my time up at the school,’ says Cassie. ‘Winding up Alden is fun, but like exhausting.’

  ‘He enjoys it really,’ says Felix.

  ‘The only trouble is,’ laughs Cassie, ‘we all enjoy it a lot more. And he may bang on about the text, but he’s as good as rewritten the whole work.’

  Rhona enters, looking around at the hilarity. ‘I bet all this is at Alden’s expense. I’m ashamed of you.’ A frown changes to a smile. ‘You should know by now that mocking him is strictly my domain.’ She walks over to Eva. ‘Please come and join us in Corsica. The boys will so outnumber us girls you would be doing me a huge favour.’

  ‘I’m giving a paper in Birmingham in ten days’ time.’

  ‘Can’t you send it to them?’

  ‘Sadly, they’ll want to see me in the flesh, ask questions and drag me into a seminar before they tear me apart.’

  ‘Then I insist you come out another time. We usually go for a few days in the autumn.’ Rhona looks across the room. ‘Felix,’ she calls out, ‘could you find my glass and hand round the nibblies?’

  In a softer voice Rhona says to Eva, ‘They’re all very nice but so young. You have to tell them to do everything. I shall feel like a summer camp organiser. Now, on the couple of occasions I’ve been to the mirror shop I’ve only seen Luke or Russ, so I guess you’re not involved in the business.’

  ‘No, I’m a counsellor.’

  ‘Really? You’d be ideal for Santa Marta. All those egos knocking against each other. You’d have a full-time job. Are you certain you can’t join us?’

  Eva shakes her head, trying to square the amiable, level-headed woman next to her, with Agnes’s scheming vamp: if it is all a pretence, it is far more successful than the Alden-Louise act. But maybe after she has had a few drinks . . .

  ‘Now where did you find this fantastic dress?’ Rhona lifts one of the ties and runs the fabric between a thumb and forefinger.

  Eva looks at Rhona’s eyes, suspecting that in this tactile proximity there is far more than talk about fashion.

  Releasing the tie, Rhona steps back. ‘I bet it’s not English. German?’

  ‘Well guessed.’

  ‘Not at all – it’s my business.’

  ‘And do you work from here?’

  ‘We converted the barn into a studio. Would you like a look?’

  Two high-pitched laughs fill the room. Eva sees that Russ and Louise are sharing a joke. She also notices that Luke, boredom on his face, is listening to Felix.

  ‘Yes I’d love to,’ Eva says, wondering for a moment if she should suggest that Luke join them; it might be instructive to see them together – the kiss when they arrived revealed nothing. But the ploy is too obvious. Wait and observe must be the policy.

  Luke notices Eva and Rhona move towards the door and panics, but as Rhona ushers Eva through the door, she looks towards him with a fear-allaying smile which, he is certain, no-one else in the room has noticed.

  Rhona strides across the yard to the studio and opens the door, but waits until Eva is on the threshold before switching on the lights.

  Eva blinks at the textile mayhem in front of her. ‘It’s like entering a kaleidoscope.’

  ‘This is where I try to make a living.’

  Eva picks up a strip of printed cotton from the floor.

  ‘The remains of a ’30s dress. I’ve been reusing the design for a top.’

  ‘It’s all so . . .’

  ‘Untidy? That’s what people always say when they come here.’

  ‘I was going to say exciting. Has Luke seen this?’

  ‘I tend not to bring men in here. They find it boring.’

  ‘It’s very different from his own workshop. Now that is tidy.’

  ‘Come and see these children’s clothes I’ve been working on.’

  Rhona leads Eva to a corner where half-finished Russian costumes are spread out on a workbench.

  Eva holds up an embroidered shirt. ‘I love this.’

  ‘I’ve tried to combine traditional and modern. It’s for a Moscow boutique. Let me show you a girl’s outfit.’ Rhona whisks through a rail of half-finished garments.

  Eva watches her nimble fingers and wonders if a matching deceit is at work in her head.

  Rhona finds a girl’s outfit and places it on the worktop. Eva examines the headdress. ‘Do you have children?’ she asks.

  ‘One daughter, but she’s far too old for this.’

  ‘Does she take after you or Luke?’

  ‘Me a little. Not Luke. Helen was from a previous relationship. Does this headdress have a special name?’

  ‘A Russian word I can never remember. My team’s always reminding me, but it’s no good: languages were never my strong point.’

  Eva walks over to the rail. ‘Do you have any finished garments?’

  ‘Almost none. We simply produce ideas for other people to manufacture. Occasionally I’m sent a finished product as a present.’

  ‘So you don’t see the fruits of your labours?’

  ‘Not often. Unless in a magazine. The real results are in the bank balance.’

  Eva runs her eyes over the workbenches. ‘How many people do you have working for you?’

  ‘Five.’ Rhona points to a photo on a wall. ‘There we all are.’

  Eva walks up to the photo and sees Rhona and four women, arms round each other’s shoulders, standing outside the studio door. Agnes is not among them.

  ‘It was taken the day we moved here by my right-hand girl, Agnes.’

  Eva has a disturbing feeling that Rhona is reading her mind. In the glass of the frame she catches Rhona’s eyes and turns round. ‘Did you always want to be in fashion?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I originally wanted to paint. In fact it was my painting which got me into art school.’

  ‘I would love to see some.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I have any here. Unless there’s a scrap or two in the plan chest.’

  Rhona leads Eva to the far corner of the studio, crouches down and pulls out the bottom drawer of a plan chest. Eva looks down at the dark hair in front of her, assessing how far it would fall if its ivory clip were released. And has Luke touched that hair? Or the nape below with that small mole an inch above the top of her dress?

  ‘Here’re a few.’ Rhona stands up, clears a space on top of the chest and spreads out six drawings of figures. ‘They were all copied from Dutch old masters.’

  ‘They’re exquisite, especially the folds in the clothing. You ought to frame them.’

  ‘It took me ages to realise that my interest was in the garments not the people.’

  ‘But the figures are beautifully drawn.’

  ‘No, I can see hundreds of mistakes. Look, that arm is all over the place.’

  ‘I still like it.’

  ‘You’re very kind. Plea
se take it. Does Luke do framing?’

  ‘I think I can persuade him.’

  ‘Shall I find you a cardboard tube?’ asks Rhona. ‘If you leave it on a table in the house, one of the gang is bound to spill wine on it.’ Rhona takes the drawing from Eva and goes to a low cupboard below a window. Eva, following her, looks out into the orchard where she counts a dozen rabbits feeding beneath the trees.

  ‘Too many of the little creatures, I’m afraid,’ says Rhona, standing. ‘I’m told I shouldn’t be sentimental about them.’ She places a cardboard tube on the nearest workbench, neatly rolls up the drawing, slots it in and hands it to Eva.

  ‘There’re a lot of potential suppers out there,’ says Eva.

  ‘That’s what Alden says. He’s longing to make paella from his own rabbits, but I won’t let him.’

  ‘How did you meet Alden?’

  Rhona indicates two rush-seated chairs by the window. Eva places the tube on top of the cupboard and sits down. As Rhona moves her chair so they are facing each other, Eva wonders what Agnes would make of this studio tête-à-tête.

  ‘After I left art school, before I started my business, I took any bit job I could find, art evening classes included. One September Alden turned up to learn to paint. Having met Lynton a few weeks earlier, he returned to England with the idea that he too could be an artist. Ridiculous or what?’

  ‘Not completely. I’ve had several clients who’ve had projected ambitions. They meet someone who impresses them and they want to be like them. And it’s quite common for a client towards the end of their counselling to become convinced that to be a counsellor is their true vocation. Sometimes it can be. Usually it isn’t.’

  ‘With Alden it definitely wasn’t. Of course, on Alden’s next visit to Corsica, Lynton was very kind about his efforts, and gently suggested that he should spend more time drawing. But true to form Alden wanted to get stuck in with the palette knife as quickly as possible. The message sunk in eventually, and now Alden satisfies his artistic urges with writing and producing.’

  ‘Does he help with the business?’