Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2013

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Siobháin Bunni 2013

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781991336

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the author

  Born in Baghdad, Iraq, Siobháin is one of six children born to her Irish mother and Iraqi father. She was educated at Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, and then graduated from the College of Marketing & Design in Dublin. She and husband Ross live in Malahide, County Dublin, with their three children.

  Acknowledgements

  This book, despite its considerable life cycle, has passed through very few hands, but each touch has had a profound impact on its progress and for that I have to say a few thank yous:

  To Nadia and Lara for their positive feedback on a dreadful first draft! Thanks for telling me it was great.

  To Emma Walsh, for a first professional view on a raw manuscript.

  To Mary in Village Books, Malahide, for her advice and guidance at a time when I faced a wall and found it hard to get over.

  To Susan Feldstein for her astute and constructive critique that helped me move this book to the next level.

  To Fiona Barron for her legal expertise and contributions.

  To the team at Poolbeg, in particular Paula Campbell: Thanks for reading and re-reading the various drafts of Dark Mirrors, for your suggestions and direction. Thanks for taking a risk and trusting me to deliver the finished manuscript. Thanks for saying yes and making me smile wider than I’ve done in years. And to Gaye Shortland, thanks for putting manners on my writing, for your razor-sharp instinct, attention to detail and expertise in turning this rock into a shining diamond.

  Apart from those mentioned above, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to a number of people who have advised, guided and supported me in a multitude of ways throughout this entire process:

  To Vanessa O’Loughlin at Inkwell for her recommendations: a fantastic resource for writers.

  Thanks to authors Michelle Jackson and Conor Bowman for giving me the advice I needed to avoid making a huge publishing error: glad I listened.

  To my past colleagues at Eason, who joined me on the last leg of this journey, in particular Maria Dickenson for her good counsel, Stephen Boylan for his patience in listening to me babble, and Alan Johnson for sharing his knowledge and expertise. For Cormac, Wilf, Brian and Rita, who became enthusiastic sounding boards and made this final stretch a whole lot of fun. Their goodwill and genuine faith in my abilities gave me the final push that was needed to get this book finished. Thanks also to Ruth, Lynn, Kevin, Derek, Eamonn, Sandra, Anthony, Niall, Patricia, Claire, Caoilfhionn, and the two Davids, O’R and O’C. It’s been emotional!

  To my good friend Andrina, for her unwavering positivity and personal strength, always giving, always generous, always there. She’s just fabulous!

  And Melanie, thanks for listening when I needed an ear, thanks for the advice and the laughs. Just what the doctor ordered.

  A special thanks to my parents, Nael and Anne, and my siblings, Nadia, Layth, Lara, Layla and Lydia who have been there for me throughout. A special mention, though, needs to go to Lara for her constant and persistent nagging – yes, nagging. She is one of the reasons why this piece of work was never far from my mind. So Lara, I’m delighted to say, the story is . . . it’s done. And as for my brother Layth, well, thanks a bunch, bro – you’re the best.

  To my husband Ross: thanks for your enduring patience and encouragement and for being there when it mattered. Thanks for your creative spark that helped shape and name this book.

  And to my incredible children, Daniel, Lara and Lulu: you are the guys that make me smile every day without fail. Thanks for not minding on those days and evenings when I was busy typing away instead of hanging out with you. When you’re old enough to read this, I hope it will make you as proud of me as I am of you.

  For my husband and best friend Ross, and the greatest kids a mum could ask for, Daniel, Lara & Lulu,

  not forgetting Baby James

  Chapter 1

  Her eyes opened as the weight of his body depressed their mattress. The smell of perfume and alcohol drifted into her slumber while a shaft of cold air chilled the warmth beneath the duvet. She did her best to keep her breathing steady, and inhaled deeply to catch that scent again. It was a sweet smell, slightly musky with essence of heather. Or was it lavender? She wasn’t quite sure. A sickly smell. Not his aftershave and certainly not her own perfume.

  Well, she silently acknowledged, at least he’s come home this time. And, closing her eyes, she let the familiar pictures form of her apparent rival. She assumed, despite his consistent denials, that it was another woman keeping him away from home. It seemed logical and though, as a rule, she hated to generalise, wasn’t that what normally happened when a man hit forty? Usually she would challenge him about his whereabouts, but tonight was different. Tonight she felt different. It was comical really, almost like he wanted her to catch him. Had he stopped hiding from her or had he just become sloppy? Careless even. Because she never followed through on her threats. She didn’t have the guts. Until now. The clichéd assumptions were always there: they could work through their differences, make it through the “rough patch”. And Esmée stayed with him on that basis. It never occurred to her – never, not even for a single moment – that perhaps she’d got it wrong. Lying there beside him, listening to his breathing settle into a steady rhythm, she accepted for the millionth time that she just couldn’t help herself. In spite of him, and all the shit that came with him, she did, in truth, love him. But even so, it had to stop. And it was that knowledge that made her different. Lying there beside him now, if only for a brief moment, she felt an enormous sense of relief. It was over.

  And, when at last she became drowsy and her eyes heavy, sleep eventually conquered.


  She woke what felt like seconds later to the sound of the shower running in the en suite. Her eyeballs felt like they were on fire inside sockets that were a size too small. She swallowed hard to quench the thirst that parched her mouth and, turning towards the closed bathroom door, considered the day that faced her.

  He would, she assumed, expect her to say something about his late return. He was probably in there, right now, concocting his alibi. But this morning she had no intention of asking him for an excuse. Resigned and exhausted she threw back the covers, swung her legs to the floor and steered her toes into fluffy pink slippers. Opening the window to welcome the morning sun, she stole a breath of freshness as it rushed past to fill the room. Sensitive to the suddenly silent shower, she warily anticipated his re-entry into the room, bracing herself for what would be the first deliberate task of the day: to behave as though nothing had happened. She was petrified by the fear of failure and at the same time exhilarated by the thought of possible success. Intoxicated by this blend of emotions, Esmée navigated the room blindly, collecting Philip’s carelessly discarded clothes while rejecting the urge to bring his shirt to her nose.

  Pushing her frustrations aside, for the last time she reached overhead to haul down the silver hard-shell suitcase that sat on top of the wardrobe. Placing it with a heavy bounce on the bed she turned to the various drawers, cupboards and closets to extract, bit by bit, the pieces of his travel wardrobe. She was the expert, having done this so many times before. Suits first, shirts then with matching ties and, of course, underwear, socks and comfortable shoes. When Philip emerged finally from the bathroom she was matching a tie to his striped shirt and, despite her best attempts to ignore him, couldn’t help but steal a quick glance in his direction. Even at forty, eight years her elder, he looked fantastic. Regular workouts at the gym took care of that and he was neither shy nor ashamed to admit he indulged in all sorts of body-pampering. Would she miss that body? Perhaps. Before, definitely before, she would have answered yes. But this morning she just wanted to be rid of it, his body nothing more today than a sore reminder of an intimate relationship long since gone. And missed.

  “What are you doing, Esmée?”

  His question, yanking her back to reality, was laced with impatient disdain and that condescending tone he knew she hated.

  “What does it bloody look like I’m doing?” she snapped, unable to hold back the caustic sting while continuing to place his shirts with deliberate care into the case. “I’m packing your case!”

  This chore, packing his bags, was one of the many housewifely duties she had accepted over the years. Without fail she laundered his clothes in readiness for his next trip. And recently he seemed to be travelling more often than not, at least twice a month for a week, sometimes two, and as she had stopped asking about the purpose of the trips, he had stopped trying to lie about them. Why she bothered packing for him she wasn’t entirely sure. In a way, she supposed, it was a therapeutic exercise, laying item after item carefully into the case, pressing the air out of each new layer, making way for the next. But today her actions were that little bit slower and more deliberate than usual – so conscious of her soon-to-be-estranged husband looming over her, watching her every move with his own level of emotional suspension.

  “For God’s sake, Esmée!” His whinge was more irritating than usual. “Do you have to make such a meal of it? My flight’s not till twelve. What’s the story? Have you nothing better to do?”

  “Exactly!” She tossed the tie that was in her hand over her shoulder and into the case as she turned away from the packing, pausing as she passed him to give him ‘the look’. “To be honest I’ve plenty to do, so maybe you should finish packing your own bloody case, shouldn’t you?”

  And with a raised eyebrow she turned on her pink fluffy heels to take her turn in the bathroom. Firmly, but careful not to bang it, she shut the door after her and locked it. Then she took hold of the basin, gripping its white porcelain edge till her knuckles blanched.

  “Asshole.” The word was muttered aloud, as if she wanted him to hear. Lifting her head she looked at the mess that was her own reflection. “How,” she quizzed rhetorically, “can a round mirror hang lopsidedly?” And with a sideways cock of her head she took in all that was wrong around her: the crooked shelf, the wobbly seat, the tilting roll-holder . . . When no answers came from the face that stared back, she turned the critical inspection on herself. “And when do laughter lines become wrinkles?”

  Tracing the fine lines around her blue eyes, she followed their short geography that radiated, almost symmetrically, to her cheeks and circled under her eyes. Was she imagining it or were they multiplying right there before her? Resigned to their undeniable existence, she pulled back the thick chestnut tresses that fell chaotically about her shoulders and secured them with a black velvet bobbin. As a child she had hated her hair, puzzled by the envy that the wild locks generated amongst her many girlfriends. A half smile, warmed by the ridiculous memory, helped soften the tired face that watched so analytically. Studying her cheeks, one side, then the other, she sadly conceded that she had stopped noticing or even caring about herself and wondered if it was too late to do anything about it. She rarely wore make-up any more, wore jeans instead of short skirts, and floppy T-shirts instead of tight tops – because now they were more comfortable not to mention practical.

  “That’s the problem,” she chastised her mirror image. “I’ve become satisfied with being just ordinary.”

  And with less than half-hearted enthusiasm she set about her every-other-day, apparently completely pointless, cleansing routine.

  Although never a beauty, ugly wasn’t a word to describe Esmée Myers either. Her zest for life gave her a spark, a spirit, that seemed to make her more attractive than most. It gave her skin a warm glow and her laugh an infectious edge. But there was little sign of that spirit now in the exhausted expression that looked back at her from the lopsided mirror.

  The silence on the far side of the door made her a little uneasy. She checked the handle slowly to make sure it was locked – not that Philip would come in after her, but she just wanted to be sure.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, she rested her elbows on her knees and wondered just how long she should stay there in order to achieve maximum effect. Not that he really cared one way or another, she reminded herself, as the smell of fresh coffee reliably informed her he was already downstairs.

  “Asshole,” she said again, the word slipping out far too easily. She couldn’t help it, and anyway he deserved it.

  Opening the door to sneak a safe peep out, she spied there on the bed the half-empty case, untouched, just as she had left it. Yep. He deserved it all right, and plenty more besides. Refusing the responsible urge to finish what she had started, she walked past the bed and out of visual range of the chore. Out of sight, she reckoned, out of guilt’s range. Instead she chose a much nicer task and went to wake the children.

  Her beauties were still fast asleep with the look of encapsulated, if somewhat accidental, angels all snuggled up in their cosy beds. Her pride and joy. She could quite easily watch them sleep for hours, their faces pictures of innocence. Looking about their relatively large room, she conceded, not for the first time, that no matter how often she tidied it would always be nothing more than a tangled mess and fighting the inevitable chaos was futile. Turning off the nightlight, she dragged aside the heavily patterned curtains and pushed open the window, hoping that a bit of fresh air might chase away the musty smell of stale bread, a slice of which was definitely lurking in some dark recess of the room.

  All about them were pure white walls, except for one that was festooned with a larger-than-lifesize Jungle Book mural. It was their favourite movie; Amy loved Baloo, the big lolloping bear, while Matthew preferred King Louie with his long orange orang-utan arms that swung left and right. When Matthew was four and Amy two, Esmée had focused her once-active artis
tic talent on this project. For weeks the children watched fascinated as with each new layer of paint their fairytale unfolded magically before their very eyes. The story seemed to tell itself as each day of her personal three-week commission passed and the images began to melt onto the oversized canvas. But for Esmée, her favourite part of this illustrated masterpiece was the dusky blue sky with candyfloss clouds painted overhead. She and the children would often lie on the floor and imagine they were on a deserted country hillside with a big old oak tree at its summit, its broad arms protecting them from the beating sun. And as they lay flat on the ‘pretend’ soft green grass, if they stared up long enough and concentrated hard enough, they could see the emulsion shapes glide gracefully across their dizzy sky.

  In amongst the mess she bent to pick up poor Buzz Lightyear who had lost his wing somewhere in the melange of toys strewn randomly about the floor, accidentally pressing the big red button on his chest.

  “To infinity and beyond!” he called.

  Appropriate words, she thought, while optimistically seeking out his missing appendage.

  Disturbed by the call, Amy stirred in the bottom bunk only actually waking to the whining whinge of Philip’s voice.

  “Jesus, Esmée! What the hell do you do all day?” His face was contorted with exaggerated disgust as he scanned the room from the doorway. “This place is a disaster – do you not think you should tidy it up?” His comment was thick with intended sarcasm. Without waiting for an answer or responding to his daughter’s sleepy call for her father he turned, fresh coffee in hand, and closed himself into his study next door.

  Esmée glanced at the figurine in her hand and then to the closed door and was tempted to follow him through it and place the plastic cartoon character where infinity actually had an end. Wisely deciding against it she put the toy in its basket, forcing herself to think of the children.