Dark Mirrors (3 page)

“What ya doing, Fin?” little Amy enquired with great curiosity as she watched her adopted aunt pull box after box from Daisy’s boot.

“Helping your mummy, pet,” Fin replied, throwing a knowing glance at Esmée.

With her curiosity unfulfilled, Amy turned instead to her mother. “Mummy, what’s Auntie Fin doing with all those big boxes?” she asked, picking up the largest of the lot, almost twice her tiny size. “This can be my house,” she declared decisively as it swallowed her up from her teeny head to weenie toes, only for her to trip over the threshold, propelling the box across the hall and her face onto the step, whacking her nose on it.

With the small blood-spill from her nose mopped up and the novelty of Fin’s arrival, along with the mystery of the curious pile of empty boxes well and truly dissipated, the children quietly retreated to the den where the prospect of watching Scooby Doo seemed far more interesting than listening to Fin and their mother chat about adult stuff.

Esmée cast a final motherly glance at the now captivated children, gently closed the adjoining doors to the kitchen and leaned against them to breathe deep and then release the captive volume of air slowly through her pouted lips.

“So tell me,” she enquired, pushing herself away from the doors to cross the tiled floor and collect two mugs from the cupboard while Fin filled the kettle, “what could possibly have ‘sidetracked’ you on today of all days?”

And so began yet another tale of Fin’s great nocturnal adventures that Esmée, as always, lapped up and enjoyed. For over half an hour Fin recounted her saga while Esmée listened and laughed at what was, as always, a drama. And when the performance was over and her tale finally told, Fin let the laughter die out fully before broaching the subject of what was this day’s production.

“So. Are you ready for this?”

The comment thrust Esmée back into her own sense of reality with a reluctant thud.

“I think so,” came her sober response.

“And how’s your head?”

“Fine. I think.” Esmée paused for a moment, looking up to the ceiling, contemplating the lie she had just told before changing her mind. “Actually, I’m scared witless, terrified in fact.” Putting her mug down carefully on the table, she stood and moved to look through the windows of the timber doors that led to her small back garden: the little green space that she had tended and planted with brightly blooming flowers and shrubs, her own personal therapy. The garden that after years of attention looked mature and all grown-up, a bit like herself really, she thought ironically.

“Deep down, here,” she said, placing her hand over her breast, her breath clouding the glass, “I know I’m doing the right thing, for me anyway. But it’s not only me, is it?” She turned back to look for a possible answer, not really expecting or indeed wanting one. “What about Matthew and Amy? Am I doing the right thing for them?” Her heart through her eyes interrogated her friend. “The thing is, it’s not just the affairs, Fin, and Christ I could kill him for each of them!” Her head moved from side to side with an air of certainty. “It’s what has happened to me. I don’t like who or what I have become.” Taking a sustained breath, her eyes vacantly scanned the space in front of her. This wasn’t the first time she’d had this realisation but having yet to find a satisfying answer she, like an unsettled spirit, kept coming back to haunt it. “I have spent the recent years of my life with a man I promised to love, honour and respect, but he’s taken a selfish view of those oaths, expecting me to love him without him loving me back, to honour him while he disrespects me – when all I have ever asked of him is affection and trust and he can’t even give me that.”

Her words were quiet, considered and controlled as she attempted to reaffirm the reasons why and so answer all her questions and satisfy the part of her that hated anything other than the ‘safe’ option.

The atmosphere in the comfortable kitchen changed in a mere few sentences from playful to desperate. Sitting back into her chair at the table, Esmée took her head in her hands and, gripping it firmly as if it would explode if she let go, spat out, “Ahhh fuck!”

And Fin simply listened, patiently, affording her friend the opportunity to reason and, hopefully, realise the answers for herself. This was not the first time they had sat and talked like this, or rather that she had listened and Esmée talked. Fin was Esmée’s sounding-board and was careful not to influence her decisions, despite her own bad feelings about Philip. She had supported Esmée at every juncture and critical moment throughout her uniquely individual decision-making process. Fin was glad to be there for her friend, proud to be helping, satisfied that she was making a difference.

“Look at me!” Esmée’s hands motioned to herself from her head to her feet, to the room around her. “I’m only thirty-two for Christ’s sake and already I’m on my own!”

The absolute desperation in her voice scared Fin a little, touching her very core, and taking Esmée’s hands in her own she let her friend cry without interruption. They sat motionless, in the kitchen, waiting for the tears to stop. When they eventually did, Fin bent down and picked up her oversized bag and rummaged for a while before eventually extracting a set of keys and, placing them on the table, pushed them towards Esmée.

“It’s ready,” she said.

Esmée fingered the bunch lightly without picking them up, knowing that to do so was in a way a final commitment to see her plan through.

“Christ, Fin, I don’t know . . .” A sense of last-minute panic took over, tears forgotten as she wiped their remnants with her sleeve. “He’s a swine, but he’s still their father.”

“Look, Esmée, I can’t really help you here,” Fin said firmly, circling the table to kneel by her friend. “You have to believe in yourself and know that you’re making the right move. And, believe me, I will support you no matter what decision you make.” Massaging the trembling hands she squeezed them tight, her voice filled with such intense emotion that it shook. “What I will say is that when I first met you over twelve years ago you were a wonderful, bright, sparky and passionate girl but for the past four years, probably since before Amy was born I suppose, your spirit has broken. Your spark has gone, your passion is missing. Your belief in yourself as an individual has somehow been beaten from you and, for the first time in ages, I have seen a whisper of that same amazing woman trying to escape from this mundane world that Philip has pushed you into. You have come so far, don’t turn back now.”

The door from the den opened slowly and Matthew’s innocent little face peeped through to the kitchen, calling a halt to Fin’s impassioned monologue.

“Are you okay, Mom? Why are you crying?”

His sad eyes peered round at her, protecting himself with the door, afraid of what he might hear or see. He hated when his mummy cried and she was doing it a lot lately. He could hear her at night after she tucked him in and kissed him goodnight. She always smiled at him, ruffled his hair and kissed his crown but he knew different. He would wait for her to go downstairs and then listen hard. He was happy when, by the time he drifted off to sleep, there were no more sounds of his mummy’s tears. Daddy was never home when she cried. He liked when Daddy came home because then Mummy wouldn’t cry.

The two women looked at each other, the impact of the boy’s questions enormous.

“It’s my fault,” Fin answered quickly, getting to her feet. “I just told Mummy a sad story, that’s all.”

Esmée went to her son and pulled him from behind the safety of the door into a smothering hug.

“Look!” she said, holding his face tenderly close to her own, putting on the biggest and most sincere smile she could muster. “Mummy’s not sad, just a little silly, that’s all.”

Matthew returned his mother’s stare and she watched as his own equally unconvincing smile built, cementing itself firmly on his little flushed face.

“Now! How about you get your sister and put your shoes on. Fin . . .” she took on the tone of a thrilling movie trailer, “is taking you on an adventure!” She threw a glance over her shoulder at Fin to signal that things were back on track.

Acknowledging this next step, Fin picked up the keys from the table and threw them to Esmée who, like a baseball catcher, instinctively raised her hand overhead and caught them firmly in her fist.

Chapter 3

Esmée was leaving. She had two days in which to pack and move on. By the time Philip returned from Paris she and the children would be gone. With her resolve firmly back in place, there was no turning back. Not now.

She waved the children and Fin off on their day trip, leaving her a good few hours to get started. She hadn’t yet quite decided how to tell him, but that would come. She considered leaving him a note – lying, perhaps, on the kitchen table? She also thought about just calling him on his mobile and telling him over the phone before he arrived home.

Originally, she had thought it best not to say anything at all, to just let him come home, see they had left and punish him that way. But even she knew that that was nothing short of sadistic and discounted it as an option. She accepted that it was based on an unrealistic wish for him to frantically seek her out and beg her forgiveness like a repentant love-crazed fiend, sorry for his misdemeanours. In this particular fantasy he would promise never to hurt her again, to be faithful and to love her till his dying day – a flight of her active imagination for sure and not very likely. She wondered, as she picked up two of the empty boxes and climbed the stairs with a heavy heart but renewed sense of determination, how long it would actually take him to notice they were gone. Surveying the children’s room with the empty boxes at her feet, she parked that question.

“One thing at a time, Esmée,” she reminded herself aloud and began to sort through and collect the toys and books that she would take for the kids, resisting the urge to reminisce as she went.

After half an hour, both boxes were full. She was careful to pack only the things that she knew they would miss – their favourite teddies, the sleepy story books, jigsaws, games – she sifted through them all, taking some and leaving others. They would, after all, still have to come back here – at weekends probably, she thought, as she closed over the boxes – he was still their father after all. He’ll probably see more of them once we’re separated, she thought, the ironic realisation driving a searing stake of guilt through her heart, rocking her conscience to its core. And with little else to do except stop or keep pushing forward, she took the first box downstairs to close and seal it. The first was the worst, she mentally rambled, doing her level best to distract herself. The milestone. And after this one the rest should be a doddle. She re-climbed the stairs to get the others. Every other weekend, that’s when he could see them, and Wednesday afternoons, she supposed – wasn’t that the norm with separated parents?

Bullshit! She kicked back, refusing to give in, defiantly challenging her morbid torturous mood. As it stood, with all his travel they were lucky to spend a full day with him anyway, never mind a whole weekend. Well, he’d have to sort that out for starters. With more than a hint of frustrated malice, she closed over the second box with a firm slap.

Three hours later and the hall was full. The more she packed the more she thought. The more she thought, the angrier she became so that, by the time the boxes and black bags were bursting with clothes, toys and books, she was consumed with furious fathoms of rage, enough to drive the much-needed determination that would carry her further forward. Piling as much as she could into the boot and back seat of her car, while leaving just enough room for herself, she turned the ignition and with one final push on the throttle reversed out of the driveway and turned her back on the house that had for so long been their settled, comfortable suburban home.

Ten minutes and four long miles later through the bustling village she pulled up and parked outside a whole new world.

How is it, she asked herself as she stared at the quaint two-up, two-down terraced cottage with its canary-yellow door, how is it that bricks and mortar can mean so much and make such a difference?

Pushing the key into the latch of Number 6, Brook Lane, she entered their new home. The smell of fresh paint hit her hard as she walked into the living room.

Wow, she thought, casting a glance around her new surroundings. Walking slowly, taking everything in, she toured the open-plan living space and ventured cautiously into the compact but more than adequate kitchen.

The place had, at her cautious request, been freshly decorated and furnished. Although expecting to see a difference she wasn’t prepared for how good it felt. An overwhelming sense of achievement and pride filled her as she wandered from room to room. The hard negotiating, to-ing and fro-ing, as she searched for a house to rent, had been worth every secret minute of it. She felt the weight of the whole ordeal lift – and it had been just that, an ordeal. She had never had to parley in her life, well, not seriously anyway, and it had taken every ounce of steel she had within her to stand her ground. With no one beside her supporting and driving her, Esmée had no way of measuring if she had gone too far or if there was more rope to pull. And this was the result. All thoughts of whether or not she’d done the right thing, got the best place, secured the best deal, were abandoned as she turned on the spot, breathing deep the penetrating turpentine whiff, as if it were the scent of a fresh summer’s day. It had seemed so much smaller the last time she had stood here but now, freshly painted, it appeared brighter and certainly bigger than she remembered. Finished exactly as she’d asked, with white walls with just a hint of honey mixed in to bring a subtle warmth and highlight the shadows of the simple cornice overhead. She stood in the middle and turned to take in the original features of her new habitat: the cast-iron fireplace with burgundy-and-yellow floral inset tiles, the granite black grate just itching to be lit, tempted by the small turf pile laid out in its hearth. And what about the deep-pile burgundy rug on the polished pine floor or the rotund lamps that sat like two fat ladies topped with wide-brimmed cream hats on either side of the chimneybreast, each casting a warm golden hue into the old room? She could go on and on – about the heavy golden curtains framing the sash windows or the FH painting that hung over the mantel . . . now there was a surprise! A little too much perhaps? Definitely not. It was perfect. And as if to contradict the rooms’ humble origins, in the furthest corner sat a flat-screen television complete with DVD and video player.