The Mirror's Tale

III

The next morning I reprimanded myself for considering my wardrobe yet again from his point of view, as I had become accustomed to doing of late. New habits, it seems, die hard too. I forced myself to put on the old brown felted sweater that it had been a dubious pleasure to own, even from the very beginning. It was awful. Where, and even more importantly, why, had I bought it? Cheap, no doubt, in a sale somewhere. It would do for school I had probably thought – and indeed it would, and it had. It didn’t really go with the other brown of the skirt. I put it on anyway, and that this was such an awful combination made it even better for my new ‘no-nonsense’ mood. However, as I reached the point of where his and my paths usually crossed, I was glad that my big black coat covered this horrendous lapse in taste. He clearly had a good aesthetic sense, and I would be so ashamed to be seen to be lacking in that respect.

But… today, there was no sign of him. Was it Friday like the other time he was missing? No.

‘Good’, I grafted firmly over my sense of disappointment, ‘It’s better this way’. But as the days following proved to be equally empty of his presence, the graft began to slough off. Had he given up so easily? Couldn’t have been that interested then. Slightly adjusted theme poem of the day at this time was….

‘As I was going down the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there,

He wasn’t there again today,

I wish that man would go away,

As I was going down the stair,

I met a man who…’

And so on and so on.

After a week of just such uneventful mornings, I could stand it no longer. The weakness was too strong! I hatched a plan. Half term was coming up and, I thought, I could go to the café again one morning without having to have an excuse, and hopefully rewrite the end of the scene. It became, in my head, a potential romantic meeting, though I could never get very far with the fantasy before the shutter came down on it. It just didn’t seem credible. No matter, I thought, what have you got to lose?

Holidays were generally dull affairs anyway, now that I was alone, so it would give me something to plan for, like all the other teachers at school, who constantly seemed to be going to exotic places and doing scintillating things. My turn this time then, maybe.

As half term approached I became more and more nervous and was wracked with doubts about whether it was a good idea. However, as I had not told anyone about any of this, I thought that whatever happened no-one need know the outcome. I daydreamed about what to wear, and constantly changed my mind, as all the clothes that ran past my internal screen seemed to have their drawbacks. I decided that what he would probably like would be smart classic, being Italian, but then that really wasn’t me. I admired it on other people but I didn’t seem able to do it successfully. On me it just looked nothing.

However, I thought, I would smarten up a bit. I made an appointment at a hairdresser. Not the corner shop one I usually frequented, who always did my hair the same sensible way, but a much more up market one that I knew to be somewhat out of my normal league, price-wise. No matter, I hardly spent any money on myself these days and, whatever happened with the Italian Project as I now considered it, it would do me good to have a bit of a makeover. God knows I had seen enough T.V. programmes on the subject. I would, perhaps, buy something extravagant to wear, instead of the usual, practical, run of the mill stuff I was prone to fall for these days.

The statement making that had been my earlier trademark, and which I had to admit to myself had fallen by the wayside, must be revived. Once I had thought this thought, the craving to do it was immense. I had been punishing myself it seemed, for my failing relationships with husband, daughter, friends. Well, time to forgive and make up with myself. The quest was on.

I went shopping and bought myself a sexy pair of black velvet trousers that were what could only be described as figure hugging. For someone whose figure had not been hugged for a good while this was a bold move, and took me a great deal of courage. I bought a quirky leather jacket, which had interesting but subtle textured panels. It was definitely unusual, but probably did not look anything like as expensive as its outrageous price tag. No matter, in for a penny in for a pound; in fact very many of them.

I needed a polo neck sweater to wear underneath it. This would hide my wrinkled neck, which was the worst effect of my aging processes as far as I was concerned - well of the parts I showed to the outside world anyway. What if things were so successful that I was expected to take my clothes off! Oh, horrors. Forget Bridget Jones - She would look relatively alluring compared to my ancient Marks & Sparks interlocks -the awful image of me having to undress revealing these drab rags. It didn’t bear thinking about! Must invest in a new set of underclothes.

Which style? Sexy or trendy? I thought moderately sexy but expensive looking - not only ‘expensive looking’ I thought. This was starting to be a very expensive project, and my sensible streak was beginning to shout louder and louder. However, my adventurous part shouted back. ‘This could very well be your last chance. You will never forgive yourself if you don’t try. You need to rethink yourself, anyway, before the dust settling on you becomes fossilized’.

The sensible part huffed mightily but slunk off into the shadows…

The quest it seemed was on again.

IV

I busied myself with all the improvement plans that had to be done in the short time I had left before the holiday. It was quite a challenge to fit it all in while working full time, as usual. In fact, I was not behaving as the person I normally would; the overly conscientious, work-centred being, that I had become, since I had lost my previous status as a married woman and mother. I was cutting corners like an Italian racing driver. (Appropriate! I thought.) It worried me that it might be noticed – and - let’s face it – if it wasn’t, it said a lot about peoples’ awareness of me and my work.

I no longer arrived much earlier than necessary to make sure everything was perfect, so that the day would run like clockwork. Instead of the carefully prepared sandwiches and salads I made daily to take for my lunch that I proudly consumed in front of the other staff, I resorted to bought, plastic-wrapped offerings that I would previously have despised. But the final horror was when I found myself queuing with the kids in the school canteen as, having failed to make the sandwiches, and having been in too much of a hurry even to buy something on the way, it was the only option still open to me – apart from starving.

My whole daily structure was dissolving. One or two of the women on the staff commented that I seemed unusually stressed and even enquired, somewhat half-heartedly if anything was the matter, to which I could more-or-less honestly reply that there wasn’t a problem.

I had decided not to tell anyone about my scheme; chances were that it would come to nothing anyway. Besides, keeping it a secret gave it a certain frisson. Perhaps I was somewhat concerned that at least one of the people I mixed with, would destroy the dream - tell me not to be so stupid.

One Friday evening, with only another week to go before school would break up for half term I was reviewing the progress of ‘the Big Plan’. I had decided it was going quite well, and I was happy about the new clothes I had amassed - it hadn’t been limited to one outfit but, since once the purse strings were loosened, once the chequebook was unfurled, the credit-card flashed a few times, there was no stopping me.

I had bought some unusual, interesting things that I knew demonstrated my character, carried my signature. It felt good to find myself again and I knew that whatever the outcome of this little adventure I was planning, it was not a wasted effort.

As I was separating myself from the need for this plan to be successful, I went into my small, now slightly neglected kitchen, to make myself a coffee. I usually kept it spotless, but let’s face it, when you have nothing else to do and nowhere to go, housework fills in time. When I was still married and had a kid at home I was anything but the model housekeeper; but my solitary existence had caused many habits of mine to change: Funny how circumstances can cause such radical alterations to one’s way of living.

Now things had changed again. I had returned to smoking: The excitement called for it and it belonged to my younger self with which I was now becoming reacquainted.

A coffee and cigarette would go nicely with my slightly heady mood. As I filled water from the tap into my much-used filter coffee maker, I glanced out of the window onto the darkening street. For a second I caught a glimpse of someone on the pavement opposite who was looking up at my window and who quickly slid behind the large plane tree that grew on the other side of the road.

Isn’t this just the sort of incident that every woman who lives alone fears? I had not seen enough of the person to get much idea of who it might be, but I had a strong impression that it was a man. Yes, I was certain it was a man.

After looking out for several seconds I put the coffee jug down and went out of my flat to the stairwell. The automatic lights that belonged to the shared areas of the house had not yet come on but they would at any moment.

I wanted to look out of the hallway window to see if I could spot this man again before he left. If I could do this in the dark he wouldn’t be able to see me, I thought. As I waited, the figure behind the tree moved along the pavement, trying to see into my flat from a different angle. It was him. I was almost sure it was him. I moved rapidly away from the window as the lights burst on. I had backed away just in time. Returning to my flat I avoided going near any of my windows and sat down heavily on the sofa. My mind was in turmoil. Was it him, or was I being fanciful?

I wasn’t sure which would be preferable, that it was him - a semi-known quantity, or a totally unknown quantity. Then I realised I knew nothing about this man except that he liked good coffee and read Italian newspapers.

I returned to the moment in hand, turning off the light and returning to the window. All that was to be seen was a car leaving its parking space below my window. It was a dark blue Alpha Romeo. I could see it quite clearly in the streetlights. So what. There are thousands of those out there. Doesn’t mean a thing. But it would have meant less if it had been a Honda or a Ford.

I lit another cigarette.

Let’s face it, no-one knows much about anyone when they first meet them do they? But if it was him, how had he found out where I lived and why was he being so sneaky about it? Why hadn’t he just started talking to me as people usually do when they fancy someone? I had to admit I found it somewhat disquieting. Don’t be daft, you can’t even be sure it was him. That left the other possibility…. I poured myself a large glass of red wine to steady my nerves. It would help me sleep I reasoned.

Eventually, once I had emptied the bottle, I forced myself to go to bed. I dozed off almost immediately but, as often happened when I had drunk too much, I woke up about an hour later. I was immediately alert as I remembered the happenings of the previous evening. I wanted to get up but I still felt uneasy about putting the light on.

I didn’t think whoever it was would still be out there, but I was still feeling nervously disturbed and I lay there in the dark wondering whether I should scratch the whole plan. But it would be such a disappointment and, I decided, if I didn’t like the way things were going I could always pull out later - if indeed anything happened at all. Which was probably not at all likely, was it?

Although this was not what I had been planning and working towards all these weeks, the idea of absolutely nothing happening, calmed me somewhat, enough to send me back finally into a restless, disturbed, dream-laden sleep.

The following morning when our paths crossed he was ostentatiously looking at his diary or some notebook and deliberately avoided eye contact. ‘Hmm!’ I thought, ‘that probably points to the fact that it had been him outside the previous night. Though wouldn’t he be more likely to act normal if he thought I suspected.’ I couldn’t come to any decision on this. But, after weeks of always giving me a nod of recognition as we passed each morning in the station, wasn’t this a bit odd.

There was no part of me that thought it wasn’t, and I came down on the side of believing it had definitely been him. So what did I make of that? I really didn’t know what to think.

So, I put it away. It wasn’t in the script I had been writing for the approaching adventure. No, it didn’t fit at all. Looking back I don’t know how I could have ignored anything as significant as this… but I did.

V

I don’t think he came back again before my holiday began. I can’t be sure, but if he did, I never saw him. Granted, I never looked out of the windows during the twilight hours and found myself pulling down the blinds substantially earlier than usual. Always, as I did so a ripple of fear would run through me, which I would work to suppress. I was not enjoying the preparations for the up and coming operation anymore, but I carried on with it as if nothing had happened. My conscientious, ‘I’ve started this. so I’ll finish’. ‘Good girl’ up-bringing kicked in.

Finally, it was the last day before the holiday. He had resumed the perfunctory nod routine after the one day of avoiding eye contact and that final Friday was no different. O.K. I thought, everything is ready and come Monday, I will try my luck.

Over the weekend I became very nervous and knew I would have to do a lot of self-convincing to go through with it. This was not an uncommon feeling for me. I always had to push myself to do new things. I guess everyone has some reluctance to tackle the unknown but I had become very cautious as I got older - and I hated myself for it.

As I woke that Monday morning I forbad myself to allow knowledge of what I was about to do to surface in its entirety. Only a blurred sense of the plan was allowed through to my consciousness, enough to make me get up, dress and go through all the physical necessities to get the show on the road. It was very like the way I felt when preparing for an important job interview, or before going into hospital for an operation.

However, I dressed myself with meticulous care, donning the beautiful cream lace matching underwear that had cost more than some Indian families had to live on for a year. No matter, at present my guilt glands were not working and, as I looked in the mirror, I felt a sense of pride at the results of my restoration programme.

I looked heaps better and I felt a surge of confidence as I viewed myself critically from all angles. Eat your heart out Trinny and Susannah, you would never have achieved such a classy image. Today I would not need to take my worn out apology of a handbag with me as I wasn’t going to school. I could take one of my beautiful leather bags, that rarely saw the light of day. I took out a black, Italian one. It seemed just right, and once dusted, it made me look like another sort of woman: A ‘Woman of The World’ who knew where she was going. I happily joined in with the deception. Even the contents of the bag were carefully considered, with an expensive pen, perfume spray, and a gold pillbox. Then I took a beautiful long silk scarf that had been one of my final purchases, and a final squirt of my new perfume to complete the feeling of being in another world where the senses were fed with wonderful things and all things were possible.

As I waited on the small platform for the local train that would take me to town, it was clear that people were aware of me in a way that was no longer a part of my everyday experience. It stirred memories of feeling like a central part of society.

It was very evident to me that I had slowly faded into insignificance. I had to admit that the woman on the radio programme was right about that! And, although my recent self-makeover had managed to reverse the situation, I was aware that the efforts involved were great, and would become ever greater, if I was to keep up this standard. No matter! Let’s live for the day. Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May - Tomorrow Ye May Go To Seed. This had been the message on a birthday card I had received in my early twenties. It came back to me now. – But now it wasn’t funny…

As the train pulled into the terminal in town my stomach reacted like we had just passed over a hump-backed bridge, and I needed to revert to my semi-conscious state in order to carry on.

I was unaware of the walk to the café and felt like I was on tranquillizers – which, in fact, I was. I had fished them out of the medical box that contained virtually the whole history of my medical treatments for years, and even some of my ex-husband’s. Some understanding doctor had given them to me during the acute time of crisis when my marriage disintegrated. They were long past their expiry date – I empathised with them! But, like me, they still carried a bit of a punch.

I had timed my entrance into the café carefully. I did not want to be there before him. It would be much easier to choose a seat close to his if he was already there, than to move if he decided to sit elsewhere. – I was not quite that emancipated! I was already overstepping my usually boundaries of boldness by miles.

I pushed open the heavy glass door to the famous cafe after taking a deep breath and purposefully strode into the warmly lit interior where many of the local well-heeled business people were treating themselves to Earl Grey or Cappuccino, whichever suited their image. Many were creating work for the vacuum cleaner as they sprinkled crumbs from their crispy croissants or slices of hot-buttered toast, in fallout circles around the small tables. There was little conversation and the general hum of noise was created by the constant rustle of newspapers combined with the coffee machine’s friendly roar as it stoked up to churn out yet another Cappuccino. Was he there? I tried to weigh up all the customers simultaneously without being too obvious about it. I felt a slight flutter of panic on the first scan, as I didn’t see him. It would be so disappointing.

Then I saw him lower his newspaper and look directly at me. Inwardly, I gulped. Outwardly, I blazed a flashing smile at him and approached his table as if we had arranged the meeting. He looked terribly stunned, pulled himself visibly together, and asked with a definite continental splutter ‘ Would you like to join me?’ and then cleared his throat. Several expressions on his face were fighting for supremacy, and amongst them I detected alarm.

I sat down next to him covering my own nervousness by busying myself with removing the large silk scarf, and arranging it carefully over my handbag. The waitress came to my rescue as she skillfully wangled her substantial backside between the small round tables. ‘What can I bring you?’ she asked giving the table a perfunctory wipe though it appeared to be spotless anyway. ‘Er, I think I’ll have a Cappuccino, today’ I said, acting like a regular, which I wasn’t. She hurried away leaving me alone with him and I nervously retrieved my handbag from under the scarf and took out my cigarettes. (In those days one was still allowed to smoke in restaurants and cafes). I had intended not to do this, as I knew smoking divided people along tribal lines and could cause the whole operation to flounder before it had even begun. But I was too nervous to resist and anyway, if this was to go anywhere he would have to know I was a sinner sooner or later. I asked him if it would bother him and he rather too quickly replied, ‘No, no, you go ahead. I smoke myself sometimes, but not this early in the day’.

There was a prolonged pause as both of us tossed various possibilities of continued conversation through our minds before I banaly said, regretting it even whilst I said it, ‘I really like this café. I don’t often have the time to come in here in the mornings. I always have a train to catch.’

‘Yes’, he said in a kindly manner, ‘you always look like you are in a terrible hurry. Where do you go to?’ I named the area where my school was, and added that I taught art at a school there. He looked relieved to have a diversion to talk about.

‘Ah, Art. That is a wonderful subject for a woman to teach,’

This struck me as awfully old-fashioned and sexist, but I put it down to his Italian origins and forgave him for it. Well, almost.

Then, as an afterthought he added, ‘That accounts for your elegance and style. Not many English women have this ability.’ My ego expanded so quickly I almost forgot to breathe. He had noticed! What to say? What to say? I was not so un-British as to be able to take a compliment and accept it gracefully.

‘Oh, normally I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards’, I muttered in embarrassment, ‘But today, because I have a holiday, I had more time…’ My words trailed off as I ran out of energy. ‘But I see you most mornings, and you always look wonderful’, he responded.

‘No doubt about it, this man is Italian through-and-through’, my sensible bit warned, ‘This is nothing. Dismiss it. He would say this to any woman.’ But Little Miss Teenager in me was not about to have such a feast of ego food stolen from her. This was all going even better than I had dared to hope… but where to? ‘Nice of you to say so, but my job means I can’t dress as I’d like most of the time. I always get covered in charcoal and paint and acrylic paint is a bugger to get off’, I added, rather daringly. He chuckled, recognising my courage but reassuring me that he didn’t mind. Some men could be so puritanical about women, I thought, and he had already struck me as old-fashioned, with his gallantry and sexism.

At this point the waitress turned up with my drink and I paid her then, not wanting to be trapped waiting for the bill if things got tricky.

‘What do you do?’ I asked him being even bolder and seizing the initiative. ‘I am also a teacher, I teach Italian at the University here. You must have noticed that I am not English.’

My turn to chuckle.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Though you have a very soft accent.’ I decided it was expedient not to mention the Italian attitude to women, or the Italian newspapers I had spied him with.

‘How many years have you been in this country?’

He took a while to respond and then looking inward, he said ‘Oh, just a few, not many’.

Suddenly his face looked guarded, and I thought maybe he had suffered some kind of emotional trauma connected with this. Probably he had been married too, maybe still was. I decided not to go down that road for the time being.

I became aware that the tranquillizer was wearing off. ‘Time for Cinderella to leave the ball before she turns into a pumpkin’, I thought, jollying myself along on the momentum I had built up, but aware of the buried nervousness burrowing its way upwards. I did the obvious and looked at my watch though I didn’t actually register what time it said, as it wasn’t of any real importance to me for once.

‘I must be going’, I said nonchalantly ‘I’ve got lots to do’, I added as a justification, and began collecting my things together and replacing my scarf. I was a bit worried that nothing was going to come of this after all when he, obviously feeling the same, said ‘Can we do this again sometime, or is that impossible whilst you are working’.

‘It would be difficult for me… I wouldn’t have much time...’

‘Would you be able to meet for a drink or dinner in the evening then…?’ I was feeling a bit flustered. Now it was happening I felt very on edge and wanted to get out of there.

‘I expect I could… Though I don’t generally go out that much in the week.’ I said, at the same time realizing this sounded like the stuffy middle-aged woman I had been trying to eradicate, and to save the situation quickly added,

‘But yes. It would be nice. I’ll give you my phone number.’

He ignored this last remark and said in a soft voice.

‘How about Friday?’

Completely taken aback, and not knowing how else to respond I said ‘O.K. Right.’ Then added ‘Do you mean this Friday?’ somewhat incredulously.

‘Yes, I think we should make it soon. I’ll come and pick you up… if you give me your address’, he quickly added.

I told him my address. Significantly, he didn’t seem to need to write it down.

‘Oh, and what’s your name?’ He called after me.

‘Angela’, I muttered reluctantly as I fled for the door.

* * * * *

Later, when I had pulled myself more-or-less together I tried to work out what was going on. I was not sure what had happened to my plan, and how I had suddenly lost control of the situation. Neither was I at all sure whether I was pleased or not with the outcome. Things were certainly moving faster than I had anticipated and now he was coming to my place on Friday evening to pick me up and take me out to dinner. Help! A complete stranger. – What’s more I was still perturbed by the fact that, although he had asked me for my address, I was pretty damn sure that he knew where I lived.

I also realised that all I knew was that his first name was Enzo, that much he had told me, and that he worked at the University. Paranoid as I tended to be, I wasn’t sure I trusted this information. What’s more, there was no way I could contact him if I decided I didn’t want to go, or for that matter, if I was ill. So, it seemed, I was going out on my first date for about 25 years on Friday! Gulp.

In the intervening days, I was in a very strange place. I worked on my attitude to try to feel positive about it. After all I had achieved my aim and more…. the ‘more’ being the problem. It was going too fast for me. I wasn’t even sure if I had wanted more than the achievement of gaining someone’s interest, but now I was stuck with dealing with the follow-up.

* * * * *

By Friday morning however, I had managed to achieve the brainwashing to a certain extent, and was almost happy about the evening’s arrangements. After all, as teenagers we go out with all sorts of people we don’t really know, …. don’t we?

Goodness knows, I had taken some horrendous risks myself at that age, even ending up in a den for auctioning stolen goods and drug dealing one sleepy Sunday afternoon in my hometown…and… hadn’t I ridden off into the night on the pillion of a 1000 c.c. motorbike with a young man I had never previously clapped eyes on, and lived to tell the tale? Got myself involved with some seriously delinquent gang leaders with nick names like ‘Winkle’ and ‘Dog’ who even terrorized the local police and were frequently featured in the local papers; hair-raising to think about now.

Unless my guardian angel had retired from the job I should be O.K. I reasoned. …or, maybe like cats we have a certain number of risks we can take before our luck runs out… No. Stick with the positive. Choose your superstitions carefully. After all the odds were, Friday evening would arrive, come what may.

Never-the-less, during that Friday afternoon I vacillated between fear that he, after all, would not turn up, and the hope that indeed he wouldn’t, thus letting me off the hook and circumventing the need to quell the butterflies I was suffering. As twilight descended I began to ready myself, again with meticulous care. Into the shower using my best-perfumed shower gel, then slipping sensuously into the beautiful underwear and the black velvet, knock ‘em dead trousers with a discreetly sexy black lace top. Somewhere I had a chunky stylish gold bracelet that I hadn’t worn for years. Must find that! That, and my ‘for best’ gold watch would make me look really classy I thought, and finally I managed to unearth them, after a frantic rummage through many boxes that I hadn’t even opened since moving here from the family home.

The final job was to get my hair right and this was usually a real battle as, hormonal changes had wreaked havoc with its texture. Previously I had had a glorious healthy mane of dark brown wavy hair, but the grey had crept in and the ends had a tendency to emulate Brillo pads if I didn’t have it cut and coloured regularly and take the time to condition it, which I found a real chore. Life became more and more a full time servicing job, to stem the tide of the degenerating state of one’s body, I thought sadly.

However, the trip to the seriously tarty hairdresser now paid off. My hair was still looking pretty good even after my amateur messing with it, probably because the cut was certainly much better than I had ever had before, and the colour had a more subtle, more expensive tone.

I looked around me after all my self-pampering efforts I felt deliriously self-confident, but then it struck me that the flat looked like that of an average teenager. Clothes, make-up, boxes and bags strewn around everywhere. Regression was now total, I thought. But, unlike your usual adolescent I began to tidy up whilst wondering whether I should invite him in for an aperitif?

Did one do that? Where were we going, and had he booked a table? I decided not to invite him in at this stage, which meant I had to be totally ready to run downstairs as soon as the bell went…if he came. Ten minutes to go ‘til the time agreed. I lit a cigarette. I couldn’t think of more to do to myself and the flat was now looking very respectable. Wish I’d bought flowers, though. This was all in case I changed my mind about inviting him in for that aperitif or… perhaps… maybe… dare I? A nightcap afterwards? What a tentative, untrusting person I had become, I thought. I waited.