Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  Isabella noticed her interest. “This bed,” she said, unable to disguise the pride in her tone, “is the wedding bed of my grandmother’s parents. It is very old. My great-grandfather made it.”

  It was indeed beautiful, Esmée agreed, admiring the delicate craftsmanship of the hand-carved headboard but hoping that the mattress wasn’t an original part of the heirloom – she avoided the rude temptation to press down on it. Her hostess left the room, placing the key on the bedside table as she left.

  Alone finally, catching her breath for the first time that day, Esmée walked to the window, feeling the threat of tears bite painfully behind her eyes. She was tired, utterly bewildered, and more than a little bit scared. With only a vague idea of where she was, she cursed herself for not listening to her brother. She sat into the window seat, pulled her knees to her chin and stared out at the beautiful but intimidating valley that stretched out shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  If it was Philip who summonsed her here, he would probably know by now that she had arrived. And, it would appear, would be joining her for dinner.

  It was hot and she was sticky, the impending storm adding to the tension.

  She stepped into the shower and let the water wash away the salty remnants of the journey, cooling her down and freshening her up. Throwing her bag onto the bed, taking the opportunity then to test its age and constitution, she pulled out a skirt with matching top and flat sandals. That should see her through, the fabric comfortably light against her skin. She checked the time – it was still early and the jitters in her legs and uneasy thoughts chasing through her head were telling her that she couldn’t sit there all afternoon, no matter how hot it was outside. She had to get out or she’d go nuts, and in search of real distraction decided to explore.

  Isabella was right: it was blistering outside. The heat was arid, forming a sheath around her as she strolled through the rise and fall of the narrow undulating streets, doing her best to remain in the shade wherever possible. The place was buzzing; even mid-siesta it felt like a fiesta. She watched people scurry like late mad March hares while others ambled aimlessly, taking in the sights just like her. Some were laden down with bags of groceries, while others seemed happy to stand and chat despite the heat of the sun. The contrast was charming. It just seemed so alive, so upbeat. For a moment she wanted to be part of it, wanted to communicate demonstratively, laugh loudly and chatter wildly and belong to a place so beautiful perched high in the mountains. She wanted to forget her trepidation and melt into the surroundings, to forget the real reason why she was there and imagine another.

  Every now and then she would stop to look. Using the chaotic shop windows as a pretext she would browse and then cast her eyes back the way she had come. But no one stood out, she saw no one person twice. Safe in the knowledge that she didn’t appear to be followed, she wandered up to the old city to discover the ruined ramparts. In its time it had obviously been a grand castle, central to a rich and important rural community, and had stood, like a lion at the gate, protecting its subjects from harm. Much of its structure was still intact with a flurry of businesses supporting it. There were gift shops ablaze with a tussle of pleats and plumes, flamenco dresses and sombreros, donkeys and prettily painted pottery, ice-cream shops, flower stalls and cafés. She was enamoured of it all – the smells, the colours, the people, the place: it was electrifying.

  She chose a spot in a small-canopied café to sit, watch and just think. Alcohol, although tempting, was dangerous so she selected instead a safe but equally satisfying alternative. Her café con helado arrived in an espresso cup accompanied by a tall glass filled with ice; the woody aroma of the coffee mixed with the warm smell of the street was intense. And as the heat of the dense liquid swallowed the ice, like a body into quicksand, she sank deeper with it. Gone. Suddenly the beauty of her surroundings served only to amplify her feelings of desolation and abandonment. She hadn’t felt like this . . . well, not since her dad died. Self-pity took all flavour from the now tasteless coffee that she sipped, practising silently what she had to ask and say to Philip, if he showed up. She remained static, watching everything else move on without her.

  Chapter 22

  A church bell rang in the half hour with a single heavy chime. Her afternoon sheltering from the heat of the Spanish sun was over. It was time to go. A chill wind had begun to blow and the sun began to weaken as the clouds drew nearer. She settled her bill with the handsome waiter who smelt like lemon zest, claimed the last sip of her drink and took herself back to the streets. She was in no hurry with at least two hours before her rendezvous.

  Making her way back to the hotel the afternoon heat seemed less oppressive, the breeze a welcome coolant. She planned as she walked, visualising what she would wear and what her first question would be. Somewhere in the back of her head the theory that it might not be Philip at all raised itself again and Brady’s grinning features came to mind. But instinctively she knew that wasn’t the case and spent the short journey back telling herself not to lose her head.

  Thankfully there was no sign of her hostess when she opened the door of the hotel. She wasn’t in the mood for idle chat and managed to find her way with great stealth to the top floor room uninterrupted. Under the spray of the shower she rinsed the salt from her body and let the refreshing jets cool her down. The pulse of the drops hit deep into her skin, opening up the channels to relieve her tension and stress.

  You’re here now, Esmée, she told herself. Now stand up and be strong.

  She knew she couldn’t let him manipulate her any more. She had to stand up to him. She had questions that needed answers so the attitude of an insecure weakling was not the one she needed to adopt.

  She had thought long and hard about what to bring to wear and standing in her underwear surveying the outfit she was glad of her choice. Philip was supposed to be dead, and she was supposed to be his grieving widow and that is exactly who she needed to be.

  She brushed her long hair till it was silky smooth, letting its natural shape create soft swirls at the ends. It fell heavy over her shoulders in layers like rich chocolate, its colour catching the light as she moved. Outside her open window the sky was dark and the rumblings of thunder created an empathetic air of anticipation: like something big was about to kick off.

  A black lace shirt, tied demurely at the neck in a bow, her knee-length black skirt, black-patent stilettos and black lightweight mac together delivered a sombre but sophisticated look. She stared back at her alien reflection with butterflies in her stomach: this was it. The humidity was too high for make-up but she finished off with a scarlet lipstick – he hated that colour. She was ready to go.

  Downstairs, she couldn’t help but notice the curious look her outfit received from the ever-beautiful Isabella, but no matter. She intended to play by her own rules.

  Pedro had no English and communicated through smiles and exaggerated gestures along their fifteen-minute walk through the almost familiar narrow streets. The rain was beginning to fall and streetlights were already flickering in the unusually dark summer evening. Every now and then he pointed at something that he assumed should be of special interest to her, rattling on spontaneously in his native tongue, and even though she had no idea what he was saying Esmée returned his grins and impossible words with an encouraging nod and the occasional “Ahh!” and “Ohh” and “Yes, I see – beautiful!”

  The restaurant revealed itself as they rounded a corner and entered a small flagstoned square. Framed on two sides by the high walls of buildings, there were cafés and shops buried deep in its arches, with tables diffusing into the square. Esmée’s destination was marked on the opposite side by a bright red awning that stretched out into the square to protect the customers from the sun and now the rain. Waiters busily placed candles on the tables, creating a tempting ambience that shimmered in the descending moist evening light.

  Pedro left her at the edge of the square and, waving her onwards, yapped a succession of indecipher
able words, then left with a cheery “Adiós!” Quiet but impassioned guitar chords mixed with garlic aromas wafted persuasively across the square. She stood for a while just to look, bracing herself for whatever was about to come. Slowly she made her way towards the pretty tables, her footsteps echoing loudly in her ears. Was he already there? Was he watching her now? The butterflies in her stomach danced with nervous excitement and dread and her knees trembled slightly. There was no one sitting outside and, as she approached the door, she saw only a few groups at tables across the dark air-conditioned interior. A waiter approached her to offer her a table. Her mind raced as she weighed up her options. Inside or out? Corner or mid-floor? Hide or be seen? Sensing her indecision, he took the lead and showed her to a corner table outside with a good vantage point of the square.

  “The best table in the house!” he exclaimed proudly in perfect English, the sweet intimacy of the setting somewhat wasted in the context of her “meeting”.

  It was early to eat by Spanish standards but she was glad of the solitude and ordered a bottle of the house red. She watched the handsome waiter pour the ruby liquid into her glass, its aroma promising fruity delights as she inhaled deeply before sipping it. Dutch courage, she promised herself as she touched the glass to her lips again and this time took a generous sip, feeling its effect almost immediately: calming her nerves as she waited patiently for something to happen.

  Chapter 23

  She checked her watch. He was late. Had she come all this way for him not to even bother to turn up? Typically, her impatience prolonged the agony. Promising herself the limit of the time contained in a single glass of wine, she sat on, sipping her drink.

  She was preparing to leave when she heard him, heard his familiar step, the slight drag of his left heel and heavy fall of his right as lazily he strolled towards the restaurant. She knew if she looked up she would see him but was frozen in fearful anticipation, unable to move, unable to breathe. By the sound of it he was in no hurry. She could feel his gaze burn into her as he approached. Her eyes closed in apprehension and behind the lids she could imagine his face, the same face that pushed her out of her house, the same face that sneered as she grappled with the ground. Her legs shook visibly when his footsteps came to a stop. He was standing in front of her. She placed a firm hand on her knee to halt its movement, unable to bring herself to look up, afraid of what was coming next. Without trying she could see his torso and legs. He wore sandals and no socks, with light linen trousers. His toes were tanned and manicured.

  She waited for him to speak and when he didn’t she took a hold of the stem of her glass and raised it to her mouth. Lifting her head she caught his gaze and took a grown-up taste of her wine.

  For a dead man he looked remarkably good: tanned and lean.

  “Hello, Esmée.”

  She forced herself to swallow without gagging on the tannic liquid then placed the glass deliberately on the table, hoping the shake in her hand wouldn’t give her away. She didn’t reply to his greeting but held his gaze dispassionately, she hoped. Controlled. In control.

  He glistened from the raindrops that settled on his slicked-back hair. There was no denying he looked good in his longer-style haircut and open-collar shirt. It suited him, she thought as she observed him; it matched the look of his bronzed face and nonchalant stance. But he didn’t look like a man who was hurting. He didn’t appear to be uneasy at all. She had expected to see him somewhat agitated, edgy even. There were plenty of things he needed to be concerned about and Esmée wondered which should worry him most: the lies, manipulation, bigamy, fraud, theft? Or was it the truth that he should be most intimidated by? Funny how his spurious disappearance had fast become the least offensive of his misdemeanours.

  But the man smiling seductively down at her was quite relaxed, showing no apparent signs of the stress or fatigue that guilt should bring. No! He was just fine, and actually seemed pleased to see her.

  She prickled as he moved towards her, around the table and to her side. He knelt down beside her and took her face in his hands, exploring her like he was seeing her for the first time. His fingers trailed a path from her nose out across her cheeks to gently sweep across her mouth before he bent in and replaced his fingers with his lips. She didn’t pull away, but sat impassively as he kissed her, his tongue viper-like invading her while his thumbs pressed gently on her cheeks.

  “You look fantastic,” he whispered in her ear, taking in deep breaths of her. Still she didn’t speak, astounded by his audacity and sickened by his touch. She felt relief in his kiss: relief that she felt nothing for him. His kiss always had the ability to disarm her. He used it so often when it suited him to say sorry. But this evening, as the rain fell and the thunder rumbled, she felt no hunger to respond. Sensing her despondency he stood up and stepped back, adopting a childish look of rejection. A triumphant ray of sun broke through the clouds to momentarily fill the square in an opalescent glow of glorious golden light. His outline, darkened by the dazzling backdrop, became the silhouette of a man she had dreamt about, a man she had assumed to be dead, swallowed by the sea. Yet here he stood, very much alive, the silhouette of a stranger looking to be welcomed back into her life. This was the occasion she had been waiting for: her moment of interrogation. She had wished for this opportunity, dreamt about it, role-played and practised the conversation, but with it now in her grasp she was an empty vessel, but without the noise.

  “Come on, Es,” he nursed, his tone soft and encouraging, so different to their last conversation. “Speak to me. Say something!”

  Sitting down opposite, he reached to take her hand across the divide of the table. But she pulled away abruptly, almost knocking the glass with her sharp recoil. She thrilled to see that he appeared visibly unnerved by her reaction, sitting back to shake his head. Was this real, she asked herself? Was he real? His reactions seeming almost delusional. Inside her head she counted to ten, hoping the steady rhythm would placate her jumbled thoughts.

  “Come on, Es,” he implored. “Please talk to me.”

  Baby steps, she cautioned inside, filtering the many wrongs and asking herself which should she address first? There were so many: her own, their children’s, his job and work colleagues, not to mention Jim Brady’s.

  “How are you?” she asked, finishing off with his true name: “Robert.”

  “Ahhh,” Philip smiled. “So you figured it out.”

  “Julie says hello. Harry too,” she replied, choosing to ignore his patronising intention.

  He nodded, smiling faintly, and looked away from her across the square.

  “And your daughter is beautiful. Beth. She looks just like Julie.”

  Philip turned to her, his face a picture of his thoughts, but there was no regret there.

  Infuriated, Esmée went on. “And as for Harry, my God, what a stunner! He’s a young man now. Doing his finals, I hear.”

  “Before you judge me, Esmée, you need to understand what was happening at the time. I was in trouble. Real trouble. I had no option.”

  “Ahh, yes!” Esmée laughed, gaining confidence. “I know all about your trouble,” she sneered. “He says to say hi too.” The sarcastic smile dropped from her face. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I was sick. Out of control.” He shrugged.

  “And how do you know I haven’t told him where you are. How do you know he’s not here waiting for you to show up?”

  “I know you, Es. It’s not your style. You’re not that cruel. I knew you’d want to see me alone. I’ll bet you didn’t even go to the police, did you?”

  What a shit!

  He smiled, knowing his assumption to be true.

  “And Julie, what about her? You used her, just like you’ve used me. Why, Philip? Why?”

  “I had to. There was no other way.”

  “There is always another way. Always.”

  The waiter’s approach muted their conversation, but his swift departure after filling Philip’s glass w
as a telling sign that while the words may have stopped, the cactus-like atmosphere remained.

  Philip lifted the bulbous goblet to his nose, pompously swirling the liquid round to coat its inside. Like he knew what he was doing.

  “You were different,” he answered, savouring the flavours while drawing in their scent.

  He’d known when he left she was bound to find out about his past. It was inevitable. She might not put it together herself, but others would, and she would be told. He wasn’t quite sure if she knew the full story, but she knew enough. He was prepared for this encounter, he wouldn’t have brought her here otherwise, and he assumed, if it sounded like the truth she’d be fine. This was Esmée after all: all she needed was a few tragically romantic scenarios and he’d win her over. He’d done it before; he could do it again.

  He let the silent suspense build before repeating, “You were different,” then looked up at her coyly. “From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were part of my future. We were meant to be together.”

  “Are you serious?” she choked. “How on earth could that be possible? You gave up your little boy and your unborn child, not to mention your wife. You gave up your entire family and you expect me to believe that I could replace that? You were there when my father died – you were there! How could that be right?”

  “Fate,” he justified simply. “Fate had in some bizarre way brought us together. I never meant it to happen that way. I thought I had lost everything and then there was you . . .” He let his sentence trail off.

  “You are off your head!” she spat. “You ambushed me. You tracked me down and pursued me like some defenceless animal. You tricked me into loving you.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Philip, you were living in South Africa. You had a new life. But you came back. You found me and then you married me knowing you were still married to Julie. Why? What the hell were you thinking? What part of our story seems right to you? It’s wrong, Philip. All wrong!”