Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  Virgil took a deep breath and slid out the question he had been dying to ask. ‘Mira, I realise this sounds intrusive, but it is only because I need to do my job fully. I want you to be straight with me about these letters from Broadmoor. Do you know who this guy is?’

  ‘No Virgil, I have no idea. I’ve told you before, there are thousands of people who think they know me because my face is familiar. They project their own fantasies, destiny, desires and dreams onto me, that’s all it is.’

  ‘Okay, well I hope you don’t mind if I try to get to the bottom of it. I’ve already asked Broadmoor to stop the letters.’

  ‘Whatever you want, Virgil. But I’d really prefer if you concentrated on protecting me from Lawrence Wall. That really is your job.’

  ‘I can do both, I assure you.’ Virgil had already made a start. Kelly had let slip that there had been previous cards from Broadmoor, months ago, though she couldn’t recall how many. Only the birthday card and today’s dove card had ever been forwarded to Mira. The rest, Kelly said, would have been sent off to the East London warehouse where fan mail and gifts were archived. That might shed more light on what the connection was between a dangerous mental patient and Mira.

  Chapter Fifteen

  EIGHTY-THREE DAYS

  It was pouring with rain when Kelly and Virgil got off the Central Line tube at East Ham. The warehouse was a few minutes’ walk away, but despite running they were soaked by the time they arrived. Shaking the water off their clothes, they were shown into the hangar-like building. The middle-aged Asian woman managing the facility gave them coffee, and explained the set-up for Virgil’s benefit. Stardust Brands had leased half the space in the building, and Mira’s fan mail alone was nearly three quarters of that. A team of three dealt with indexing each sack of mail that was sent to her dedicated PO Box. It was opened, senders listed on a database, and signed photos or other merchandise sent out as required. Letters were dumped in cardboard boxes, sorted by date of receipt and cross-referenced by sender, while gifts – which included everything from shoes and clothing to bicycles and stuffed animals – were inventoried and after a period of six months sold for charity. Every few months Mira would be photographed standing in front of an assortment of newer gifts, and copies would be posted on Instagram and sent to directly to donors, to prove that she cared about her fans. Every day, a random selection of letters were forwarded directly to Kelly.

  The manager reckoned they had more than fifteen million items of mail for Mira in the last eighteen months. ‘And here as requested are the letters sent from Broadmoor Hospital over that period,’ she said. ‘Just two of them.’

  Virgil picked up the identical West London Mental Health Trust envelopes and opened them. Like the previous ones they were beautiful cards, hand painted, inscribed in Latin and addressed to Mira by her real name. The first one was sent more than a year ago. Kelly used her iPad to translate the message:

  Congratulations, Lydia. The world has only now discovered what I always knew was there. But as you reach for the stars, I do hope you haven’t forgotten me, or our pact. Only 442 days to go!

  The second, a few months later, was shorter and harsher.

  Lydia, I am bitterly disappointed you have ignored me. I will not be denied. In 298 days, remember, I will have what is mine.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Kelly, biting her lip. ‘It could still just be a lunatic. I’ve seen so much of this stuff from others. It may be more artistic but is it more real?’

  Only then did Virgil mention the cutting he had seen at Mira’s apartment. ‘She may be denying being anxious over this, but whether she knows the guy or not, she still went to the trouble of getting this clipping. If she can connect him to this court case, she definitely knows something we don’t.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Kelly shrugged and looked out at the pouring rain. ‘I’m really not enthusiastic about going out in that again.’

  ‘Then let me buy you some food,’ said Virgil. There was a pub across the road whose rain-soaked blackboard board boasted chicken and ham pie, mash and mushy peas for less than a tenner. ‘That sounds good to me,’ he said.

  ‘I just hope they’ve got the fire lit,’ Kelly said, wrapping her coat tightly around her.

  While they were still thinking about the rain, the manager called them back. ‘There is this, as well. I don’t know whether it counts.’ She had in her arms a large white box, and laid it down on the counter. It had a London designer’s label and had been hand-delivered. Virgil lifted the lid off. Inside was a pure white dress.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Kelly, picking it out of the box. ‘Look at that!’ She held it against her and did a little twirl, and then inspected the label. ‘An A-line natural-waisted chiffon wedding dress with lace-up bodice and train. Simple and elegant.’

  ‘This surely can’t have come from Broadmoor,’ said Virgil.

  The manager handed him the card from in the box. There, in exactly the same handwriting they had seen before, was a greeting.

  Can’t wait to see you wear it! It was designed specially for Hooksworth.

  ‘Well, now I know what the countdown is for,’ said Virgil.

  ‘A wedding? You must be joking,’ Kelly said. ‘He might be convinced he’s going to marry her, but I doubt she’ll see it that way!’

  ‘I wonder what Hooksworth is?’ she said. ‘It’s not a couture house I’ve heard of. There’s nothing on the label. I’d like to take it to the office and look it up.’

  They packed the dress back up in its box then braved the elements. Virgil hooked his coat over Kelly’s head while they waited for the pedestrian lights. Finally, soaked by splashes from passing traffic, they squelched into the pub, where they found a quiet corner by the fireplace. Kelly ordered a white wine, and Virgil a half of Guinness, which for some reason Kelly found hilarious.

  ‘Are you topping up your pigment then?’

  Virgil grinned. ‘Let’s hope that’s not how it works, or you’ll have jaundice.’ He clinked her glass. She slipped off her jacket and put it to dry by the fire, leaving her white blouse, clinging and translucent from the rain. There was plenty to see, but Virgil tried his best not to look. Instead he told her what the West London Mental Health Trust had said in response to his e-mail.

  ‘They said that because the letter was being sent to a fan mail address the recipient was therefore “not cited under section 134 of the 2003 Health and Social Care Act”, and they didn’t need to vet the contents. However they did cite patient confidentiality for refusing to disclose who the sender was. They would only disclose that if the actual intended recipient made a formal request, which would have to be Mira herself.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she won’t,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Fine. But they have agreed to remove Stardust Brands from the list of allowed destinations for this patient’s letters. We’ll certainly hear no more from this guy.’

  The food came quickly, the homemade pies crammed with white chicken, sauce and a mound of flaky pastry on top. The mushy peas filled a crater within a fluffy volcano of mash. It was delicious.

  Virgil hadn’t had the chance to update Kelly on the Qaegfest visit or the trip to see Mira’s mother, and they both giggled at the craziness that seemed to get worse the whole time.

  ‘You know,’ said Virgil. ‘I told a couple of mates that I was going to be working in the beauty industry, and they killed themselves laughing. They thought it was so soft. But of course they were jealous too.’

  Kelly gave a small smile, and looked out of the window. ‘Everyone wants to work with a beauty like Mira, right?’

  ‘She’s not the only gorgeous woman I work with.’

  Kelly turned her gaze on him. Deep blue eyes assessed him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh I didn’t mean you,’ he laughed. ‘I was referring to Portia.’

  She dipped her fingers in his drink and flicked it in his face, laughing. ‘Bit of a comedian aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, wiping
the droplets from his forehead with a napkin. ‘So, do you like Shakespeare?’

  Kelly suddenly started giggling. ‘Do I like Shakespeare? Never met him, who does he play for?’

  Virgil was bemused, unsure what to say. Kelly was still giggling, and pulled in her chin, adopted a mock-serious expression and imitated Virgil’s deep voice: ‘ “Do you like Shakespeare, my dear? My father went to school with him you know. A fine fellow, actually”.’

  ‘You like to make things easy, don’t you?’ Virgil shrugged. ‘They are showing Othello at the National next week. I was wondering if you’d like to come along.’

  ‘On a date, you mean? Knowing that I already have a boyfriend?’ She batted her long eyelashes at him.

  ‘Yes, particularly because I know you have a boyfriend.’

  Kelly stretched her face up to Virgil’s ear and whispered. ‘Then, I’d better not tell him I’m going, had I?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Virgil, trying not to crack the huge grin that was bursting out inside him.

  * * *

  EIGHTY DAYS

  Being seen in the right places with the right people was seen as vital to consolidate Mira’s celebrity brand. Portia always looked over the invitations and guest lists to decide which parties were essential. Mira didn’t require Virgil’s presence at the smaller and more intimate soirées, but the big industry bashes were something else. Several times a month he found himself in some high-end hotel, nightclub or palatial apartment, watching the beautiful people pretending to adore each other.

  The Golob Advertising mid-winter bash was one never to be missed. The guest list boasted a dozen of the world’s top models, plus the Clooneys, Brad and Angelina, and various luminaries of TV and sport, though in practice only a small proportion of the big names ever showed up. It took over the main hall at the Science Museum, and included roller-skating white-clad waiters, artificial snow, jugglers, and acrobats descending from the roof on streamers. Virgil squired Mira from one knot of small talk to another, watching the air-kissing and the glad-handing and trying to sense from her body language where and with whom she was comfortable. One dull bald businessman made a beeline for her. Virgil didn’t catch his name, but he was something stratospheric in banking technology and liked the sound of his own voice. Mira and Virgil had cooked up a code – hooking her hair behind her right ear – which triggered a subtle intervention. Always beginning with ‘excuse me’ he would say ‘Mr Kleinfeld has asked to speak to you’, and offer her his phone. While Mira escaped to speak to the mythical Kleinfeld, Virgil would comfort the disappointed interlocutor with the whisper ‘Hollywood producer,’ and tap his nose knowingly.

  Until tonight, nothing more interventionist had been required. But after the main party broke up, Mira and thirty others were invited back to the private apartments of Josh Golob, owner of the eponymous company. His place was on Holland Park, a wedding-cake palace with twenty-foot-ceilings, and was already full of champagne-drenched guests who no one at Stardust had vetted. To protect themselves from packs of what Virgil guessed were Golob’s clients, Mira teamed up with a couple of models she knew, an androgynous stick insect called Izz Blockley, and a Sudanese beauty called Zoula whose dress seemed to be held up by willpower alone. Virgil clocked Izz for a cokehead immediately, based on her radiant expression each time she emerged from a bathroom trip. Zoula was more down-to-earth and savvy. The daughter of refugees, she’d worked in nail bars, massage parlours and call centres before her big break, and had witty tales of each. It was this distraction that meant Virgil missed Mira being cornered on her own way back from the bathroom. The culprit was a squat fifty-something with luxuriant white hair to match his tuxedo. Virgil abandoned Zoula to make his way over. As he did so, mop-head tried to kiss Mira on the cheek. She squirmed away, and Virgil grabbed his shoulder. The man, a foot shorter than Virgil, turned to him. ‘Can I help you, young man?’ His public school voice projected authority and confidence.

  ‘You’re making Ms Roskova uncomfortable, Sir,’ Virgil said. ‘Now, please, give her some space.’

  ‘Piffle. It’s you who is making us all uncomfortable,’ he brayed.

  Virgil leaned a little closer: ‘I suspect you have had a little more to drink than you realise. Leave it now, and you won’t have anything to be embarrassed about tomorrow, will you?’

  The man harrumphed, saw someone else he knew, bellowed a greeting and waddled off.

  ‘He had his bloody hand on my arse!’ Mira hissed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see that.’

  ‘Well what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘He’s dealt with. If I mention it, he’ll only deny it.’

  Mira looked at him angrily. She looked less than sober, but grabbed another champagne flute as the tray came past.

  Virgil assumed the issue was over, but at 2am when they were finally leaving the party, they saw the same man outside, swaying gently by a rather nice 1970s Rover and trying to get his key into the lock.

  ‘Hey you,’ Mira called, walking up to him. ‘You should keep your hands to yourself.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Dim Soviet hag,’ he slurred.

  ‘Mira, I don’t think this is a good…’ Virgil said. He saw her punch coming, and restrained her arm. He pulled her away. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Only wanted a peck on the cheek, don’t go all Chernobyl about it.’ The man was still struggling with the keys.

  She turned to Virgil. ‘Hit him. Beat him up,’ she hissed. ‘It’s your job.’

  ‘It is not my job to flatten harmless old drunks,’ he whispered. ‘And it’s bad PR too.’

  ‘Fuck the PR. Would you prefer to be fired? I mean it.’

  Virgil sighed. He strode over to the man, who turned and raised his fists, and started to shuffle his feet about. ‘I’m warning you, my uncle was an SAS colonel,’ he said.

  Virgil hit him once in the solar plexus, not too hard, and he folded neatly like a deckchair. Virgil opened the car door, bundled the groaning lump in, and tossed him his car keys. ‘Sorry about that. Do get someone to drive you home.’

  A minute later the Rover engine roared, and it crept out darkly onto the road. ‘Lights!’ yelled Virgil, to no effect. Once it was gone, Virgil turned to Mira. ‘Don’t you ever ask me to do that again,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe next time I’ll do it myself. At least it would be done properly.’

  Virgil glanced sideways at her as he guided her to their car. The huge green eyes, unfathomable but magnetic. The slight but infectious smile. She caught his look and shot him a cheeky grin. ‘Poor Virgil, always struggling to do the right thing.’ She kissed the tip of her slender fingers and touched them to the end of his nose. That tiny benediction gave him a little magic zing, and he heard himself laughing with her, his face seemingly hers to command. But a protective part of him, the charred component that crawled through wadis, survived IEDs and RPGs, was warning him: She’ll get you killed one day.

  * * *

  SEVENTY-SEVEN DAYS

  Virgil had never heard of lawyers being involved to negotiate a dinner date. But here he was, sitting in a Stardust Brands meeting room, while Thad, Jonesy and a specialist celebrity lawyer called Brinsley Coad had a conference call with an equivalent team at Lawrence Wall’s agents at Sports Management Ltd. The only subject on the agenda was exactly when, where and how Mira Roskova and Lawrence Wall would meet. Mira wanted her personal property, clothing and keys returned to her, including the Porsche. Wall wanted some time alone with her, to explain his feelings, according to his agent Steve Gilpin. He then introduced Sports Management’s PR man, Harvey Cohen, and their lawyer, an American called Clayton Ferrall, whose voice sounded like a quarry truck unloading.

  ‘People, I just want to be clear that for the duration of this meeting, any accusation of violence against my client will result in today’s contract for return of property being voided,’ Ferrall rumbled.

  ‘This allegation stands,’ said Brinsley Coad. ‘We reserve
the right in the future to initiate legal action over it, or publicise it. However, we agree that it is not the subject of this meeting.’

  Once the terms of conduct were agreed, Thad opened the door and called Mira in. She was in ripped jeans and a tight white T-shirt bearing the slogan End violence against women. She draped herself over a typist’s chair at the back, legs over the arm. Thad quietly briefed her on what had been said so far. She didn’t look happy. ‘I’ve already said I will have a quick drink with him. I don’t want a meal,’ she whispered.

  Thad conveyed that message to the other side. It brought a quick response.

  ‘Hi. Steve Gilpin here. We understand Ms Roskova’s wishes. But Mr Wall would like the privacy and the seclusion that comes with a meal. He’s got a lot to say to her, and I think it might be advantageous for her to hear it.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard it all,’ murmured Mira, too softly to be heard on the speakerphone, as she swung her chair left and right, swinging her legs out, examining the crimson varnish on her perfect toes.

  ‘Thad here, Steve. Look, I think we might be able to find a middle way. What about tapas?’ He raised his eyebrows towards Mira, who looked heavenwards and swung her chair in a complete circle. After a full minute of an entire room full of mostly-suited men watching a young woman spin on a chair, she finally gave a nod.

  ‘People, we’ve got a yes to tapas,’ Thad said.

  ‘I think Mr Wall would be okay with that too,’ Steve said. ‘Now, location. We sent you a list earlier of venues, though I guess few do tapas.’