Online story creation

Title change!

Mon, 04 May 2009 03:13:55 GMT

Yeah, well I thought 'Mirror, Mirror' was a bit passe. And then it came to me as I was sitting in a work meeting. Well you don't expect me to concentrate on what I'm paid to do, do you?

So, henceforth it's... 'A Mirror, Darkly'.

K

Just when you thought it was safe...

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 08:17:28 GMT

Yes there's another draft in the works. I'm working more conventionally now in a word file. It's not a big change so I won't be posting the whole thing again (my LJ 'friends' breathe a sigh of relief). While the relationship stuff is more cohesive from draft 1, I need to work more on the weirdness and make the mirror more of a personality in the piece and build the menace more. Should be fun.

If the thing ever gets finished and - even more ludicrous - published, I'll certainly tell you...

Keith

2nd 'verse... (part 1)

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 06:17:29 GMT

Well it's been a while, but that's okay. This is draft two - a little bit of fiddling with what was there, although much of the first half was pretty clean, some filling in gaps, given the episodic way that this thing was written, and a major rethink on how we get to the ending. I feel like it's nearly ready to send out. It just needs a few days to percolate in my brain before a final trim. So thanks for coming along for the ride. Hope it's been of use.

Keith

Mirror Mirror (still not entirely sold on the title) version 2

She’d found the mirror – or was it the other way around? – years before, when she and Nick were still together. It had been abandoned, covering a bad crack in the wall of the single room they’d let together in Tamarama. It was the only view of the water she’d ever called her own. Whether some other renter had left it behind or the agent had placed it strategically to suck them into signing the condition report that said ‘walls: sound with minor scuffing’ she didn’t know.

It wasn’t the most attractive of mirrors. The silvering had a pinkish tinge to it that gave way to liver-spotting of a sort across the bottom third, and a leaden grey opacity seemed to be depending from the top eadge to join the discoloration like some cancerous stalactite so much of the usable surface reflected the surroundings in a vague and undefined manner.

Nick was all for tossing it, but she’d said no, joking, ‘Seven years bad luck’. So they stored it under the double bed.

Sparing the mirror hadn’t helped though. She’d become just as abandoned. Nick left and no-one replaced him. So she trawled the mirror behind her from share-house to share-house and always it nested beneath a threadbare blanket under her bed. She never stopped to wonder why. There was no rational reason and she was – on the surface at least, and who dared dig deeper than that – a rational person. But if she’d been really honest. If she’d really been able to question herself about it, she’d admit she was waiting for it to come good. She’d spared it. It was in her debt. It owed her.

It was only when she found the movers had broken her vanity during her next move to Erskineville – and after she’d cursed herself for waiving insurance – that she remembered the unconscious and oft-repeated act of shoving the wrapped mirror under her bed, in its usual place beside the box of glass Christmas ornaments and the backpack she bought when she thought she’d spend her twenties travelling the world.

It was true, the move had been tiring. Setting up her desk under the window and filling her bookcases had taken ages. But she bent to the task. One final effort to make everything perfect, to finish her nest and shut the door on the outside world again. There was a good spot for it too, against the wall at the end of her bed, between that and the dark wood dresser her aunt had found. She unwrapped the blanket and rested the mirror against the plaster, tilting it so it wouldn’t topple. An orange scarf from the dresser drawer draped across the top edge hid the missing corner. Standing in front of it, she could see the deco lamp fitting hanging from the pressed tin ceiling and the dark picture rail cutting a swathe across the mushroom coloured wall. It wasn’t as opaque as she’d remembered. Certainly there was the spotted discolouration at the bottom and a grey line running down the centre, that bulged into a lumpy diamond shape near the middle, but the rest of it was okay. And its aged appearance seemed to fit the era of the room. She smiled at her reflection, pleased with herself, and – secretly – with it. Finally done.

Her latest housemate, Noeleen, was out for the night, staying at her boyfriend’s place – half her luck. So she made a quick broth and noodles on the electric hob and brought it back to her room, shutting the door at last. The sun was going down and the last golden rays struck off the mirror, fanning across the wall, and brought out the pattern in the ceiling. She smiled again, with genuine pleasure, and ate her soup, watching the colours through the window change to crimson and purple. Winton Marsalis lulled her on the CD player. The room grew dark and slightly chilly until she pulled the doona up and read until her eyes drooped.

She woke to an empty bed in the early morning light. Her cheeks were wet and she felt dead inside. ‘Get a grip, Isobel.’ she said aloud, pulling the doona around her. But her voice sounded hoarse and shaky to her ears.

When she felt the loneliness pressing in on her, she threw herself into her work. Even at its most annoying, it engaged her completely, and she was good at what she did. Her clients knew it too. But she’d already spent way too much time working on this particular website. She was going back and forth with a client who couldn’t decide on the colour palette let alone stick to an hard and fast decision about how the content should be arranged. The mirror made her workstation a lot brighter, casting light from the window back onto her reading material, which was a good thing. But after yet another webpage iteration her eyes were tired and sore. Tireder than she imagined, because as she leant back in her office chair she thought she caught movement in the mirror. She looked towards the door, which was open, to see if Noeleen or her boyfriend had come in unheard. But there was no-one. Back in the mirror her room was a perfect, motionless reflection. She shook her head, got up and made a cup of tea in the kitchen.

Later that day, as she was emailing the latest screenshots to her client, she heard a buzzing sort of insect noise. Very faint. She looked around but couldn’t see anything, and the window was shut. She glanced at the mirror and saw movement. Nothing obvious. The clear part of the mirror reflected her and the room perfectly but the grayish diamond down the middle seemed to be moving. Or something was moving behind it. Good God. Hopefully there wasn’t some odd bug worked up behind the silver. She didn’t do bugs very well. There was a rippling behind the dull pewter marking, like thin milk with a darkness behind.

She stood, pushing the chair back and carefully removing the scarf from along the top of the mirror. No slug-like trails or anything else obvious along the lip. Steeling herself, she prised the mirror slowly off the wall and peeked tentatively behind it, expecting some horrible larval moth thing to fly up into her face. Nothing. She pulled the mirror out further. Just the brick red reverse of whatever the backing was with a line of numbers printed across it.

She lay the mirror back against the wall and hunkered down beside it, looking more closely into the dark and milky stain. There was the noise again. And movement. What the hell was it? If she squinted it looked a little like a figure sitting on a chair or stool. But we always anthropomorphise shapes, she thought, don’t we?

The ‘figure’ seemed to lean forward, bringing an ‘arm’ up. Then she heard a voice, tiny and tinny. ‘Samantha? Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a surprise —’

She shot back so quickly she fell almost flat out on the floor, hitting her head sharply on the chair arm. ‘Fuck!’ She rubbed at the sore spot. When she sat up again, the movement in the mirror was gone. Nothing but pewter grey in the middle and room reflected in the rest. Her brow was furrowed and she consciously smoothed it out. She’d turned thirty last year and didn’t feel the need to hasten what she felt was becoming an ever more obvious ageing process.

She could hear Noeleen in the lounge watching TV. Luckily she hadn’t heard her cry out. She didn’t want her to think she was crazy. Perhaps she was. But she felt spooked now and took to propping the door open so – although she didn’t voice the thought – she could make a quick getaway if she had to. Maybe she should throw the mirror out. But that would involve breaking it, no matter how far at a remove the action might be. The alternative was to give it to a friend. But that didn’t seem right either.

Besides, in that part of her mind she never visited the thought occurred that - maybe – this was the mirror starting to repay her.

Out in the pale winter sunlight and on her way up to the veggie shop, which had a good range but was staffed by a group of unreconstructed Macedonian misogynists, she got a little perspective. Whatever it was she thought she heard or saw obviously hadn’t happened. She might have fallen asleep in her chair, dreamt it all and then woken when she fell to the floor after dozing too deeply. That seemed far more likely than people living in her mirror.

And so it went for almost a week with life returning to quiet and slightly lonely normality and no more odd occurrences. Until it happened again.

She’d not quite consciously been ignoring the mirror for most of that time, not game to push things. And work was hotting up, with two more clients booked in on what were quick turnaround jobs. So when she finally broke off from a marathon session at the pc, her eyes wandered and she noticed that stain on the mirror was fading. The grayish diamond had faded, although there was still a faint milk stain where it had been. It didn’t seem likely the mirror could be repairing itself – perhaps the sunshine was ‘drying it out’ after being stuck under her bed for so long, although the blanket was never damp.

As she focused on the surface she caught a movement again but didn’t draw back. Even though she’d dismissed the whole earlier incident, she’d been half-expecting something else to happen in a doubethink sort of way. And as she watched the last of the milky cloudiness disappeared and there was the figure again, but much clearer this time. He was sitting in an armchair, holding an old-style phone to his ear.

‘Samantha?’ he said again, and his voice was clearer too. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a surprise. No. Don’t hang up.’ The man grimaced.

He was, to Isobel’s way of thinking, in his mid-thirties dressed in a brown skivvy and flared pants. And, with his long hair and sideburns, she thought he was a refugee from the seventies. ‘Look,’ he continued. ‘I want to see you, again. Just to talk. Please?’ There was such a look of concentration on his face. This conversation meant a lot, she could see that. The creases on his brow smoothed and he smiled. A nice smile. ‘Great. Thanks, Sam. Meet you at the usual? Eight o’clock?’ He nodded and placed the receiver down. It was one of those weirdly angular trim phones that cost a bomb in antique shops down King Street. The smile turned into a grin and he shook his fist in celebration. And then the image was gone, the milky stain reappeared, and she was looking at her fairly puzzled self in the mirror.

Isobel sat back, thinking about what she’d seen and heard. The room the man had been sitting in wasn’t this room. Even behind the big modular, brown leather couch, the stringart sailing ship picked out in silver thread on black velvet, with a clock where the moon might be, on the wall behind, the improbably bulbous television in the corner by the window, the dimensions of the room were wrong. So was this a reflection stored in the mirror from some other place and time? Or a bridge to that other time where events were unfolding as she watched? The alternative of course was that she was completely gaga.

But she realised she didn’t feel scared. This wasn’t some threatening demonic vision, some evil haunting. It was interesting. Who was this man, she wondered. What did he do? What was his relationship with Sam? And did he love her? It sounded like he’d stuffed up in some way, or maybe he’d broken it off, like Nick, for no reason - even after all the sharing, the tender words, the intimate, beautiful times together…

She felt herself being drawn into that familiar circle of what-went-wrongs and consciously pulled back. That was a dead end. But this man, well, maybe he’d had a change of heart. Now there was a telling phrase.

She took to glancing regularly at the mirror throughout the rest of the day. But it remained resolutely unchanged. Was that all she was going to see? She hoped not. She wanted to watch what happened with him and Sam, if possible. Did they get back together in the seventies, fall in love, get married? Were they still alive today, looking back on nearly forty years of wedded bliss? She wanted to know.

It was very distracting, even worse than a facebook addiction because the mirror was there, right beside her and accessible twenty-four hours a day. Even when she was away from it, taking a walk or driving somewhere she’d be thinking about the man, how the conversation was received on the other end of the phone, if they met and how it went over. She wondered what she’d do in a similar situation. And then she didn’t have to wonder at all.

Two days later, her mobile rang. She was expecting a client, but the voice on the other end chased away her businesslike demeanour and left her lost for words.

‘Isobel?’ Pause - waiting for an answer that didn’t come, couldn’t come – then, ‘It’s Nick.’ What the fuck was she meant to say? Several more seconds passed. ‘Isobel, can you hear me?’

Social conditioning kicked in even as she was trying to work out how she felt about him calling her out of the blue like this. ‘Nick. Long time no... whatever.’ She stopped herself. Did that sound like she was being mean? Did it sound bitter? Try again. ‘How’s things? Why are you calling?’

It was his turn to be silent. ‘Yes, well. Good question. Not one that’s easily answered. Um...’ More silence. ‘Look, the phone’s probably not the best... I mean --’

Fuck, spit it out, she thought.

‘Do you think we could meet for a chat?’ he finished lamely.

‘Well, I don’t know. What do we have to chat about?’ And even if you want to chat, do I? she wondered.

‘Just a quick drink, Isobel. Tomorrow night, unless you’re busy. Please?’ he added when she didn’t answer.

She couldn’t deny him. She took a girding breath. ‘Okay. It’ll have to be after eight though. At the Townie.’

‘See you then,’ he said. And rang off. In a movie, she’d have stared at the phone incredulously. She resisted, but her insides were stirred up and that old familiar tightening of the chest was making its play for the high ground of her consciousness. No, bugger you, she thought. I’m not going to wallow in pointless anxiety just from one bloody phone call. Maybe he’s come down with a terminal illness or something. It doesn’t have to be about me. Or us. Then she felt bad about thinking Nick dying a lingering death was better than raking over old emotions. Finally, with an effort, she got back to work and steadfastly ignored persistent thoughts of Nick or the blooming mirror.

It was trivia night upstairs at the Townie. The quizmaster was in full swing and tables were limited so they met downstairs near the pool tables. Isobel had taken over an hour to work out her clothes, not at all sure why apart from the obvious fact that she liked to look good when she was out. Nick was wearing his usual jeans and that black leather jacket he always looked spunky in. They endured the awful should we kiss: shouldn’t we moment and he’d finally pecked her in the borderlands of her lips and her cheek. She looked at him trying to discern any change - haggard with rings under the eyes from lack of sleep when he realised what an idiot he was, incipient alopecia from all the worry - but there was none of that. He looked the same and that wasn’t fair. She’d cried her eyes out off and on for weeks, hadn’t slept well for what felt like months, and she still had dreams.

He bought her one of the better Cab Savs and smiled awkwardly. ‘So how’s the new share house?’

‘Good.’ But she didn’t want small talk. It just sounded so forced. She wanted some honesty. ‘What did you want to see me about, Nick? Do I still have some of your CDs?’ That was perhaps a bit unfair, but she couldn’t help it. She felt so tense.

‘No. You’re right. Look, Isobel…’ He took a drink of his wine and sighed heavily. ‘I have been an absolute fuckwit and I know that now and I want to see you again ‘cos I miss you. I love you. I don’t want not to be with you.’ He sat there looking tortured. A roar of laughter came from a foursome at the nearest pool table as the cue ball followed the black into the corner pocket.

Isobel felt her face flush and her head started to buzz with a million thoughts. Did she want him back, what would happen if she did, could she trust him, he’d hurt her so much, she was lonely, life was dull, he’d been fun, would she sell herself short if she said yes, why now after nearly eighteen months, and on and on. ‘You left me, Nick,’ she said. ‘You said it wasn’t working and just walked out without another word. Do you know how much that hurt me?’

‘I know. I’m an idiot.’ He reached out for her hand. She almost pulled back but the feel of his skin on hers, the way their fingers twisted together in that familiar way made her stop, made that old ache leap into her chest again.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking I’d be an idiot to put myself in a position where you could hurt me so badly again.’ His hand tightened on hers.

‘I am so sorry, Isobel. Please. If I could take back the hurt I would.’ He stopped, perhaps realising no words could ever do that. His eyes were shining. ‘Just think about it. If you can’t, I’ll understand.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and she smelt him, felt the curls of his hair on her brow. ‘Call me,’ he said and was gone.

Her own tears started on the walk home. She was crying again for the end of their relationship all those months ago, the fear of restarting it now and the loneliness she’d been doing her best to ignore all the time in between. She opened the front door quietly, not wanting Noeleen to see her. Her housemate was up in the darkened living room at the other end of the hall, the walls painted with shifting light from the television set.

‘Hi,’ she managed to call out in a voice approximating normal and closed her door on Noeleen’s reply. She looked at her herself, mascara streaked on her cheeks. ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall…’

She took her clothes off quickly, got into her cotton pajamas and snuggled under the doona her breath coming in short gasps as she wept silently into the pillow. Why now? And why did it reduce her to the emotional equivalent of a train wreck. All she wanted was some certainty, some easy unstressful answer. But she felt pulled in three directions at once. She couldn’t ignore it and she couldn’t - it seemed - make a decision about Nick. Sleep refused to come for hours and when it did, her dreams were disturbed. At the foot of her bed, the mirror darkened.

2nd 'verse... (part 2)

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 06:16:10 GMT

She woke with that clarity and peace that only comes from complete mental exhaustion. She couldn’t argue with herself anymore. Let what happens happen. The day was grey and quiet. She remembered it was Saturday. She rolled over and picked up her book from the bedside table, folded it open across the spine and read. Some time later, maybe an hour or so, she heard Noeleen waken and start moving around in the kitchen. Then there was a tap at her door. ‘Yes?’

It was Noeleen, poking her head around the door. ‘Thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said, and then came fully into the room and handed Isobel a hot mug. She sat on the edge of the bed looking at her. ‘You all right? You were quiet last night but I thought I heard crying. Tell me if it’s none of my business.’

She sipped at her tea. ‘No, it’s okay. Ex-boyfriend that’s all.’

‘Ah. Let me guess. He’s either accusing you of keeping his favourite CD or he wants to get back together?’

‘The latter,’ she said. ‘After being the one to break it off.’

Noeleen squidged round so she was leaning with her back against the headboard beside Isobel and laid her ugg-booted feet on the bed. ‘So, let’s see.’ She held up one finger after another. ‘He’s either missing the regular sex, on the rebound after his current girlfriend dumped his sorry arse, or he realises what a dickhead he was.’

Isobel smiled despite herself. ‘Well it’s been well over a year, so it can’t be just the sex. But I’m not sure if he’s been seeing anyone else.’

‘So it could be number two but potentially number three. Either way he should be eating several helpings of humble pie.’

‘That sounds a bit manipulative.’

‘Not at all. It’s self-protective. It’s a way of making these dolts realise they can’t stuff you around and they’d better be damned sure of their feelings because otherwise they’ll be jumping through hoops for nothing.’

‘Maybe,’ Isobel said.

‘Fancy some cinnamon toast?’

She smiled again. ‘That would be fan-tastic.’

‘Be right back.’

Noeleen hopped off the bed and scooted out the room. Isobel drank her tea. There was a faint rumble of traffic noise, not as bad as a weekday. She wasn’t sure about making Nick jump through hoops, but Noeleen was at least right about sussing him out some more. She didn’t even properly understand why he wanted what he wanted. And until she did, she couldn’t make a decision about whether to trust him or not. She allowed herself a little glimmer of hope, but marshalled it carefully. This wasn’t the time to lose perspective.

Noeleen appeared again with a plate stacked high with toast and took up her possie on the bed before launching into a truly hilarious story about getting thrown out the Bank Hotel on ‘ladies night’ and Isobel’s mood improved out of sight.

At least this was normalcy. Everyday things she could deal with. The vision in the mirror seemed like a dream. And Nick calling out the blue more than just a weird coincidence. Had what she’d seen been just wishful thinking - or caused by wishful thinking more like? She couldn’t see herself dreaming up Seventies romances. Alone in her room once again, she almost laughed. A wishing mirror? Come on. It was very ‘fairy tale’. Had it picked up on her subconscious thoughts or desires, presented her with a scenario and then created the same thing in the real world? Well it was fanciful, certainly. More prosaically, she had an overactive imagination.

She left it a couple of days, concentrated on her work and just gave herself a bit of time and distance. And maybe there was a bit of making him sweat on it too, the first of Noeleen’s ‘hoops’ perhaps. But then she rang and they agreed to meet for a bite to eat that night in King Street. Isobel was glad he’d chosen a restaurant they’d never been to before – a cheap and cheerful Szechwan Chinese where she could indulge her chilli fetish. It felt like new beginnings. They played catch up, safe conversations about work and friends. They shared a nice Gramps Shiraz, but she was careful to pace herself, needing to keep in control. It would be so easy just to fall into bed with him again, feeling his warm smooth skin against hers, his lips on her neck, her nipples, her inner thighs. Stop it, she thought and pulled herself upright, covering the reddening of her cheeks - she hoped - with a quizzical look quizzically at him across the table.

He was scanning the bill and she pulled her wallet from her bag.

‘Let me,’ he said, pulling his own wallet out.

‘No. Half and half.’ He looked a little crestfallen. ‘But you can walk me home.’

‘Okay.’ He smiled that little boy smile she had fallen for once before. Straight teeth and dimples, who could resist?

They walked together down King Street. She laced her fingers into his and they moved in silence down past the Townie and through Erskineville. It was a warm night, the low cloud reflecting the light of the nearby city. People were out everywhere, the footpath tables at the Rose crowded with smokers. They turned into her street and she reluctantly let go his hand to dig in her bag for her keys, coming to a halt beside her gate. She looked at him, It was obvious he wanted to come in, still desired her, wanted to fuck her and she wanted to be fucked. But not now. Partly it was what Noeleen had said, wanting to make him prove himself but it was also partly fear. Fear of being hurt again. And then he kissed her, softly on the lips and she opened up to him, their tongues meeting, exploring each other tentatively and then with more urgency, she felt him harden against her and she pulled back.

‘No,’ she said almost panting and pulled her bag up in a half-hearted gesture like a shield. That look was in his eyes again, the bad puppy look. ‘Nick, I had a lovely evening. I just need some time to get used to this again is all. Okay?’

He touched her shoulder. ‘It’s completely okay. Honestly, Isobel. I’m just really glad that we were out together tonight. It’s more than I hoped for.’ She couldn’t see any guile or insincerity in his eyes. He leant in and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I’ll call.’ And he turned and walked back up towards Erko, turning briefly to wave.

Inside, she quickly got ready for bed. Noeleen was out for a night of ‘hot and uncomplicated sex’ she had said earlier. She’d also reinforced her hope that Isobel wouldn’t be engaging in sex - hot, cold, lukewarm or otherwise because ‘sex-with-the-ex’ was about as complicated as it got. She left the lights off as she undressed and pulled her pajamas out from under the pillow, which is why she noticed the faint glow from the mirror. Intrigued, she buttoned her top up and hunkered down in front of the glass, which looked normal except for a swirling opalescence in the centre. As she watched a scene resolved which was chillingly familiar. The man she’d seen earlier was walking with a tall slim woman down a reasonably lit suburban street. It was as if Isobel were walking backwards in front of them like some sort of steadicam operator. The woman fascinated her. She was beautiful, long auburn hair caught up in a ponytail, green eyes, a face that looked ready to smile. She was lithe and very sexy, her body clothed – fashionably Isobel supposed – in a cheesecloth drawstring blouse, improbably flared faded denims and leather sandals. No doubt a shorter woman would have been in platforms in that era, she thought, but the whole effect would have looked pretty darn trendy in twenty-first century Newtown. The man – she wondered what his name was and when exactly they both lived – wore a tan cord three-piece suit. Shades of all those old Mills and Boon’s she’d read! The long collar-tips of a paisley bodyshirt were turned over the jacket lapels completing the effect. They walked hand in hand past cars that Isobel didn’t recognise, but they looked boxy and heavy for the most part, some of them bristling with chrome. The couple didn’t talk, and it seemed to Isobel a companionable silence. The man was smiling as he walked and the woman looked relaxed holding his hand and striding along.

She sniffed the air. ‘Evening jasmine,’ she said. ‘I love that smell. It’s so restful. All the work of the day done, the pace of life slowing at last and then the jasmine plant releasing it’s scent just as we have time to pause and appreciate it.’

They stopped then and the man took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ he said. His voice was deep and warm. ‘I should get you some jasmine perfume, maybe. If you like it so much.’

The woman’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘Martin. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.’ She let go of his hand.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m just not sure what happens next. I mean I had a lovely meal. It was almost like old times, but these aren’t old times, are they?’

Martin put his hands in his pockets. It looked to Isobel like he was closing down and the woman seemed to see that too. ‘I like you, Martin. You should know that. You made me happy. But then you walked away from us. And that was very painful to me.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette, lit it. ‘It’s just, I need to know what’s different now. Why are you back, and how do I know you’re not just going to leave me again?’

‘Look – Sam.’ He place a hand on each shoulder, drawing her closer. ‘I’ve been foolish. I was scared, because of what I felt for you. Maybe it doesn’t make sense but it made me feel vulnerable. So I ran. And I wish I hadn’t. But running didn’t help me either. I missed you even more. I just want a chance to prove I want to be with you. That I won’t ever hurt you ever again.’

‘You can’t promise that.’

‘I know. That’s life. But I sincerely want to try.’

She looked at him for a long moment and then dropped the cigarette to the ground as he drew her closer and they kissed. A long kiss. His hands moved down the sides of her body, cupping her buttocks and pulling her closer. She seemed to melt against him and then she pulled away. ‘No. Martin.’

Déjà vu all over again, Isobel thought.

He looked hurt, almost angry for a moment, Isobel thought, and then he smiled. ‘Sorry. You’re just so damn sexy. You know I’ve always thought that.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But let’s take it slow. I just need a bit of time, Martin.’ She kissed him on the cheek and then took his hand as they began to walk again. Isobel looked closely at Martin but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His speech had sounded very sincere but, like Nick, she realised it didn’t really answer anything. It was fine for Nick to say he was sure about them being together now, but he’d been sure that they shouldn’t be together then. Tonight had been all very nice but they hadn’t resolved anything. He had to explain to her what’s changed to make this right and what happened before wrong. Otherwise there was no reason to take him back.

The mirror image faded and she tipped it a silent thanks. With Noeleen and the enchanted looking glass watching out for her, maybe things were going to turn out okay. She hopped under the covers and allowed herself to think back on the evening. Nick was — she had to admit — very cute. And intelligent. And funny. And his politics were right. And he thought just enough like her and just enough unlike her to make their conversations stimulating. And he had a beautiful body, she knew that. And he was good in bed. Very good, in fact she’d never responded to another lover quite the way she had with Nick, and… Damn! She could feel that familiar fluttering in her belly and lower, between her legs. Obviously it had been too long. There was no way she was going to get to sleep now without some help. Slowly she pushed her hand down the front of her pyjamas and thought about what would have happened if she’d asked him in.

The next day she woke feeling very cheerful. Her good mood lasted through the morning. Work was going well, and she was concentrating on moving some hypertext around when the front door bashed open and Noeleen walked past, going down the hall with an armload of groceries. She backtracked and stuck her head through the open doorway to Isobel’s room.

‘Careful,’ she said.

Isobel looked up, distracted. ‘Hmmmm. What?’

‘You’re humming a happy song. And you don’t even realise your doing it. God what are you going to be like if you two really get together? An outbreak of dancing in the kitchen? I might have to find a new house and a new housemate.’ She made for the kitchen again without waiting for a response.

Isobel sighed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She did look happy. Younger even. No worry lines on her forehead and there was colour in her cheeks. She stuck her tongue out at her image and got back to mousing. ‘It’s all under control,’ she said to herself. Just then her mobile rang. The screen showed it was Nick calling.

‘Hi!’ he said and there was a sudden loud rattling noise and a dinging of bells.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where the hell are you, it sounds like a fairground or something.’

‘Sorry. Just avoiding getting knocked down by a tram. I’m in Melbourne - took the early flight down here for a quick job, trying to convince the Vic Office we are not all a bunch of convict descended ne’er-do-wells.’

‘Oh. What’s the weather like?’ She grimaced. What the hell kind of conversation killer was that?

‘Bit of everything as you might expect. Look, um, I’m down here till this afternoon, but I scored some tickets for The Basement tonight. Some cool jazz playing and I thought I’d buy you dinner.’

‘Oh you did, did you?’ She smiled. ‘Well I guess I can allow that.’

‘Great. Eight pm. Meet you at the bus stop at Circular Quay. Wear something beat-poetish.’

It was a great band. The lead singer was a statuesque blonde with a voice like cream poured over gravel and a range that was amazing. The crowd was appreciative, the food was average - well that was to be expected really, eating was always secondary at The Basement. But the bar was certainly well-stocked. Isobel had a liking for single malts and Nick bought her some Talisker which was so smoky and smooth. She probably had a little too much, truth be told, but she was enjoying herself and Nick was being wonderful. Attentive, entertaining and funny talking about the Melbourne Office and the rivalry with Sydney. He sought her opinion and listened to it, laughed at her jokes and swept her out the venue on his arm and hailed a cab which they both piled into in fairly uncoordinated fashion.

‘I think,’ she said with that practiced kind of speech pattern adopted by the fairly tipsy, ‘that I am a little drunk.’

‘Well, you’re in good company,’ Nick said. ‘I think I may have had one or two over my limit. And it’s a school night. Ah, fuck it. I’m having too good a time to care.’

When they got to her place, he followed her out the cab. ‘And where do you think you’re going, mister?’ she said and then instantly felt a bit mean. The cabbie was peering at them through the window but Nick waved him off.

‘I can walk from here,’ he said.

‘To Summer Hill?’

‘It’ll clear the head. It’s a good walk.’

‘Okay.’ She wasn’t convinced though. ‘Cos I’m not asking you in.’

‘Didn’t presume that you were going to, darling,’ he said, enunciating his consonants a little too carefully and affecting an air of mock hurt pride. He leant in and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Honest.’

It perhaps wasn’t the time or place, but the scotch had loosened her tongue a little. ‘Because I know you’ve had a change or heart about us Nick. But I just need to understand why that’s happened. What makes you want to be with me now when you didn’t before?’

He nodded. ‘Fair question. And this is only a semi-sober answer so if I don’t express myself properly you have to give me another chance to explain tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ Despite the alcohol, she felt herself tensing up. Did so much depend on this?

‘Maybe our - biorhythms were off or whatever. Maybe I’m just a slow-fuse kind of guy.’ He took her hand. ‘I knew you loved me, Isobel. You told me and I felt it every time we were together. And I wanted to feel the same way, but if I was honest with myself I didn’t. So I waited thinking that that feeling would come. But it didn’t seem to. You can’t wish yourself in love. And I didn’t want to lie to you. Didn’t want to say "I love you" when I didn’t feel that. So when I thought it had been long enough that if love hadn’t knocked me over the head by then it never would, I finished it. Because it wasn’t fair to take your love when I couldn’t give any in return.’

‘You could have told me at the time, you idiot,’ she said. She felt tears behind her eyes but forced them back.

He let go of her hand, seeming uncertain. ‘You’re absolutely right. But I was a coward. It was too hard to be honest. Sorry. Guess I’m not perfect after all.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘So I left. I cut you off completely. I know it was cruel, but I thought that would make the hurt go away quicker. That you could be angry with me instead of being sorry for yourself. You could forget me and I could forget you and we’d both move on. But I didn’t.

He looked at the ground and then gave a short laugh. ‘And one day I realised it had happened. I was in love with you. But I thought by then I’d blown it. I wasn’t going to call. I’d had my chance. But that didn’t help. So I called you expecting to be told to fuck off in no uncertain terms. And I can hardly believe you’ve given me a second chance, Isobel. But now I have it there is nothing I won’t do to make this work for us. I love you, Isobel. I love you and I want us to be together for as long as humanly possible.’

Silence. She looked at him for a long time. It was as if they were both trapped in the moment, caught in amber, neither capable of thinking, breating, doing anything else until the question between them was answered. It was at once the simplest and most difficult question Isobel had ever considered. Slowly she pulled him towards her and kissed him full on the lips. ‘Okay.’ She kissed him again. ‘Safe home.’

His face broke into a big grin and he turned on his heels and walked, only weaving ever so slightly, in the direction of Summer Hill.

Of course she could have relented and asked him in. But actions were as important as words. What he’d said rang true with her and she couldn’t help a rush of excitement as she unlocked the front door. It was exciting. To be loved, to have someone you care about cherish you and know that they wanted to be with you, wanted to do whatever they could for you. To share, really share yourself with someone else. It was all she wanted.

And yet she didn’t sleep well that night. She tossed and turned in a half-awake state ,conscious thoughts trailing off into imaginings and vice versa until she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or awake at any given moment. It was like when she was a little girl and she had the flu. That kind of feverish reverie that you can’t escape no matter how much you try but when you do wake you can’t remember what disturbed you so.

Tiredness and constantly dipping into thoughts of Nick meant she didn’t achieve much work the next morning which was bad because she had a deadline looming - a presentation to a credit union on an intranet revamp. Deadline or no, by lunchtime she had to get out of the house, so she walked up to King Street and strolled along towards St Peters looking at the retro fashion and furniture shops. It was a chilly day, despite some winter sun. There was a fairly strong wind blowing and she wrapped her coat around her and tightened her scarf.

She was looking through a window at a particularly nice deco table and chairs when a movement inside caught her eye, and her focus shifted. It was Nick. A smile came to her lips, but before she could tap the glass to get his attention she saw him laughing. He was talking to a very attractive blond and staring intently into her eyes. She laughed too, then touched him on the shoulder and turned to walk out the shop. She stopped in the doorway and gave him a little wave, which he returned. Isobel felt sick. Then Nick saw her and came out onto the street.

‘Hello there,’ he said, smiling. ‘This is a bit of luck.’ And he kissed her.

She couldn’t help stiffening at that but he didn’t seem to notice. Her mind was running at a million miles an hour but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to appear nosy, or suspicious, but she couldn’t leave it alone. ‘Yes. Just taking a break.’ She managed a smile. ‘Who was that you were with?’ She tried for an offhand tone but it rang false to her ear.

He looked a little puzzled, then raised his eyebrows. ‘Haven’t got a clue. She dropped a contact lens in the shop and I almost stood on the thing. She washed it off in a little purse thing - you woman carry amazing amounts of paraphernalia in your bags - and then put it back in. It was one of those tinted lenses that made her irises look purple. Quite an amazing effect. Hey, have you had lunch?’

Her heart calmed a little as she listened to him. It all seemed harmless, thank God, but she was still a little unsettled. ‘Uh, yes. In fact I need to get home. Big job to finish off. What brings you to King Street anyway?’

‘I was seeing a client up near the uni, and I felt like stretching my legs, so I thought I’d walk to St Peters and catch the train from there. How’s the head?’

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. ‘Didn’t sleep too well, but that’s all. It pays to drink top shelf spirits, I suppose. How’s your head?’ she said, remembering his rather roundabout gait back up her street to the main road.

‘Same. Nothing a raw egg and Worcester sauce couldn’t cure.’ Was he being serious, she wondered. ‘But speaking of food, would you like to have dinner at my place Friday night? I’ll dig out the recipe books and cook up something tempting.’

2nd 'verse... (part 3)

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 06:14:43 GMT

‘Ooh, smooth topic change.’ She smiled despite her mood. ‘Yes, I can do that. Okay. See you then.’ And this time she kissed him. But on the cheek. Not the lips like last night. He smiled and was gone in the direction of the station.

Walking home she found herself going round and round in mental circles about the girl in the shop. It sounded harmless enough – if it was the truth. Good God was she going to go into a tailspin every time some little thing like this happened. Was she so insecure, so afraid of the relationship failing again? Trust. Trust was essential and she should trust him. He’d never two-timed her before. Or not to your knowledge a treacherous voice said in her head. God the whole thing was depressing.

But he had disappointed her before. Maybe she’d been stupid but she’d trusted that they would be together for a long time, maybe forever. They had fit so well. She’d felt so comfortable, so in love, so happy. And then the wheels had come off when she least expected them to.

Work continued slowly that afternoon and Noeleen was a stop-out again - it had been happening quite often and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. They weren’t joined at the hip but they were housemates, shouldn’t they at least spend a little time together? She ended up watching some season 3 Deadwood on the dvd and wondering why it suddenly turned to shit after such a great first couple of seasons. But she kept replaying that little scene in the shop over and over in her mind, looking for cues - the tilt of a chin, the shift in Nick’s stance closer to the blonde that might mean she and he were together, or if not together that he’d rather like it if they were. Fuck. She pushed the remote. The screen went blank. She was going to bed, much good that it would do her. She couldn’t sleep, not feeling the way she did.

Brushing her teeth in the bathroom, she looked at her panda eyes in the mirror. God, if she’d looked like that this lunchtime it’s no wonder he was looking elsewhere. ‘Stop it!’ she said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

The cabinet under the sink was ajar. Rinsing off her toothbrush she went to shut it, and stopped. There was an orange plastic pill bottle in there she hadn’t noticed before. She picked it up and read the label. It was Noeleen’s - sleeping pills apparently. ‘Sonata,’ she read. Hmm, catchy name. ‘Contains Zaleplon. Not to be taken where there is a history of liver or cancer disease or when pregnant.’ No to all of those, thank God. ‘Habit forming.’ Well, she wasn’t going to make a habit of it. She took one, rinsed it down with some water from that tap and then replaced the bottle. Then she got in bed and waited for the thing to take effect.

At first she thought it wasn’t going to work. But then the feeling came upon her slowly. It was as if she were sinking into the mattress. Her arms and legs felt leaden and a small laugh escaped her lips. She started to worry that maybe she was having a reaction. Was she speeding? But then her thoughts started to come sluggishly and she recognised that ‘drifting off’ feeling that meant sleep was coming. ‘Thank goodness’ was her last coherent thought. As the drug took hold and she slept more deeply, she began to talk in her sleep. Had she ears to hear in the real world, she might have heard the mirror talk back.

The light had a strange quality, that golden obliqueness that spoke of early morning. She was outside, sitting in a lounger. Around her there was the kind of murmured conversations and general food and drink detritus that spoke of the very late stages of a party. She must have been up all night. She was on an outdoor sofa and beside her was a sorry individual: a young man with dark hair and shaggy sideburns, snoring softly and perched in a very uncomfortable position against the other arm of the chair.

‘Morning bracer?’ A woman stood over her half in shadow with a pitcher of something red and a glass. She had on a bright housecoat and her mascara was badly smudged. ‘John and I crashed. God knows when. He’s still out for it. Here, you need one of these.’ The woman thrust a glass of the red stuff into her hand, nudged the sleeper and then moved on when she didn’t get a response. Isobel sipped it. A pretty potent bloody mary, heavy on the tabasco.

There was a house behind her that she didn’t recognise, big bay windows leading into a lounge with a decadent looking orange leather couch. She was on a brick verandah overlooking a reasonable sized lawn leading down to a wooden fence which ran on all three sides. It was somewhere in the ‘burbs judging by the space between the neighbouring houses. Then she realised what she was wearing. Very dark indigo jeans, tight to the knee then flaring improbably and a heavily brocaded waistcoat with nothing underneath. Her breasts were peeking saucily over the top. Or rather, not her breasts. A handbag was lying beside the arm of the couch. She rummaged in it, drew out a handmirror, looked at herself in it. Red hair, pert nose, heavy make up on the eyes, full lips. Oh, she thought, with that lack of surprise that often accompanied dreams. I’m Samantha. Which meant she was in another era. Well the people around her - let alone her own style of dress - seemed to confirm that. Kaftans, flares, body shirts, lots of hair, especially facial hair on the men. They were a very hirsute bunch. So where’s Martin? she thought.

Nobody seemed to be bothering much with her. She stood up - she was barefoot - and had a better look around. No sign of him and she didn’t recognise anyone else. She walked over the verandah and in through the doors to what was the lounge. The couch was empty but a man and a woman were writhing on the floor behind it, their clothes loose. Into the hall, the walls were lined with tribal art - masks, wooden carvings, highly patterned pieces of woven grass. A study off to the left, empty, front door ahead of her, ajar and showing a brick path and another swathe of lawn up to the road, door to her right only slightly open. She pushed on it and recognised Martin’s cord jacket thrown over a free-standing vase. She looked inside and froze. Martin, lying naked on a scatter cushion on the floor. On top and with her back to Isobel/Samantha, a blonde. She was straddling Martin, her hips grinding down on him, her back arching. Isobel held the doorframe to steady herself. Martin was looking right at her. ‘Well what did you expect, you frigid bitch?’ he said and laughed at her. The blonde stopped her gyrations and turned towards her, cheeks pink, forehead glistening with sweat. Isobel/Samantha stumbled back into the hall and ran for the front door. That woman. It had been the woman in the shop with Nick.

She woke in bed with a start. Golden sunlight slanted obliquely through her window. The dream was still vivid behind her eyes, the shock of betrayal almost a physical thing. Fuck. She wasn’t taking another of those pills any time soon. That wasn’t rest. She didn’t feel rested. She felt tensed up like she was going to snap. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was all but off the deep end if her anxieties were starting to invade her dreams like that. The girl in the shop… No, she thought. It was the pill that was the catalyst. I wouldn’t have dreamt that otherwise. I’m not that insane. You sure about that? a betraying voice whispered in her head. Let’s think about this straight, she countered. The images in the mirror have been prefiguring events for the most part. So this is just my subconscious taking that cue and doing its own prefiguring based on my own self-defeating preference for the worst-case scenario.

She wished Noeleen were here, just to have someone outside her head to talk about these things to. Nick wouldn’t do that to me, she told herself in lieu of a sane outsider talking her down from a figurative ledge. He’s a nice, decent man.

Nick dropped her an email that afternoon. Nothing of great importance. Just one of those new-couple dating things that had nothing up-front to say but was laden with a subtext of ‘I like you; I care about you’. She didn’t respond. She was deep into a self-feeding circle of anxiety. She felt paralysed by fear. Fear of being alone, fear of her heart being broken again. She couldn’t think her way out of it, no matter what sensible things she told herself.

Noeleen came home in the early evening. She’d gone straight to work from wherever she’d stayed the night before. But by then Isobel wasn’t sure how to talk to her about Nick without coming over as some sorry psycho: visions, suspicions, dreams? Good grief. Besides Noeleen seemed pre-occupied herself, not noticing the strain that must have – surely - been evident on Isobel’s face.

Noeleen watched tv that night and Isobel stayed in her room, lying that her head was aching from too much screen work and making her head sore by thinking on and on about the same things. This wasn’t what relationships were meant to do. It was a mess. She should call it all off, but then she remembered Nick’s words that night, the way he looked, how she felt when he touched her, and she know she couldn’t end it. Which threw her back into thinking about his sincerity, the girl in the shop, how she’d invaded her dreams.

Gradually she tired herself out with all this thinking about things that may have no basis in reality. And she remembered the email that she hadn’t answered. So, before bed, she SMSd Nick to say she was looking forward to dinner. And when she slept, she didn’t dream, or didn’t remember if she had.

The taxi dropped her at the end of Nick’s street. The day had flown by in a kind of semi-conscious daze and she still felt tired. Then she’d taken ages to decide what to wear, casting off successive options into an ever-growing pile on her bed. Finally she’d plumped for a long cotton skirt and a nice top she’d picked up last month on the North Shore. Even so, she was a little bit early so she took the time to walk the length of the street, her boot heels clicking on the footpath. Spring was coming and the air was scented with wattle and the resiny smell of gumtrees wakening.

Nick lived in a converted flour mill, all security doors, internal courtyards and mezzanine floors right at the end of the street. The entrance was flooded with light as she approached and someone was coming out of the doorway. Isobel stopped mid-stride, nearly stumbling. It was the blonde from the shop, from her dream. The woman walked smartly up the path and smiled at Isobel as she passed her. It was as if someone had wrapped a cold hand round her torso and was squeezing so her breath came in shallow gasps and her felt full with blood.

This can’t be happening, she thought. She turned to watch the woman, who climbed into a black Mazda parked nearby and drove off. Had she been visiting Nick? ‘No,’ she said aloud. This was a coincidence. She knew Nick. There was no way he would do this to her. She was being silly. Still she was shaken and what little happiness she’d been able to conjure about tonight’s dinner fizzled.

She pressed the buzzer. There was an incomprehensible noise from the speaker grille and then the door buzzed her in. Nick was waiting in the hallway on the second level, an airy transom with a huge oak beam cutting across the ceiling. She looked for any sign of tension that might show he’d been hurrying the blonde out before her arrival, but there was none. He was smiling. It was a beautiful smile. No guile there at all and she felt her own smile in return, weak but there all the same. She handed him the bottle of wine she’d brought and he kissed her, full on the lips - slow and lingering. He tasted of cinammon.

‘Welcome,’ he said, ushering her through the door. The place was such a change from the last apartment before they moved in together - a rather dingy flat with ‘well-loved’ second hand furniture. White walls predominated with concealed and appropriately dimmed downlights. Furniture was minimal, a glass and steel dining table, a sleek silver hi-fi, plasma screen on the wall and a ridiculously over-cushioned couch in the corner by the floor to ceiling window.

‘Well you have come up in the world,’ she said.

‘Some things change for the better,’ he said, offering her a glass of wine. ‘I have pot roasted guinea-fowl with sage, celery and blood orange for your dining pleasure.’ He frowned. ‘You do like, guinea-fowl, don’t you?’

‘Never had it. But it smells wonderful.’ She sipped the wine and rolled her eyes. ‘And this wine is delicious. It knocks the plonk I brought from Dan Murphy’s for six.’

‘Well, I admit I am trying to impress you.’

Or feeling appropriately guilty, she thought. Shut up, Isobel!

They sat and he talked about work, asked her about hers, changed the cd. He gave good chats. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place - his active mind, always thinking about stuff, analysing it. But all the while her traitorous brain was looking for clues, waiting for him to slip up, reveal himself. It was as if her mind had a mind of its own, despite her constant silent reinforcements that she was overreacting, making it all up, being SILLY!

The food was delicious too, and their was berry sorbet for desert and then coffee made on some incomprehensibly spiggotted machine. It was a textbook evening, a textbook seduction. She felt things were moving towards their inevitable conclusion.

‘I just have to use the bathroom,’ she said. He told her where to find it and she walked across the polished boards, up a couple of steps and into the loo.

She finished up, flushed, and washed her hands. There was a mirrored medicine cabinet over the basin. Quickly she opened it and had a look. Men’s toiletries, deodorant. Nothing ‘fem’. But then behind two bars of wrapped soap on the bottom shelf she saw a familiar pack. Her gut dropped like an elevator. Keep a grip, she willed. She picked it up, looking at its reserved rose pattern. Tampons. Only two left. Then almost as an afterthought she looked at the bottom of the packet. Use by Jan 08.

She let out a huge sigh of relief. Well past their date. I mean, it was silly to think Nick hadn’t had lovers in the time that they’d been apart. The fact that she hadn’t notwithstanding. He probably hadn’t even noticed they were there.

Still when she went back to the living room and sat beside him on the couch she drained her glass to steady her nerves. He refilled it, glancing at her. He looked nervous all of a sudden. The role of practiced seducer rolling off him.

‘Well then,’ he said.

‘Well indeed.’ She took another sip of wine, already feeling her latest rush of nerves subsiding. Did she want to do this? Oh – god – yes. ‘I think you should kiss me now,’ she said.

He put his glass down and his arms were round her, his lips on hers in one swift movement. They kissed, tentatively at first then with more heat until their tongues touched, tentatively and then her mouth opened and the kisses came more hungrily. He mumbled something but she didn’t understand, his voice was so thickened with desire. And she desired him. She wanted him now. Fingers fumbled at buttons and then she was undoing his trousers and pulling his taut cock out. He moaned, or she did and his fingers penetrated her panties and fingered her moist cunt. They stood somehow and, still clutching at each other and shedding clothes all the way, they made it to the bedroom, falling together on the covers and dispensing with the last of their clothing. She felt his weight on her and she arched, butting her pubis against his cock.

‘Wait,’ he said, gasping. ‘Condom.’ He reached in the bedside drawer, grabbing a packet and moving quickly to get the condom on. And then he was in her in slow strokes. She could feel the length of his cock as it penetrated, rubbing on her clit. God she’d missed the feel of him inside her. And then he did something that took her out of the moment. The way he was moving his cock, varying the angle, he’d never done that with her before, quickening as he went.

Butohfuckworryaboutitlater, she thought, because it felt good and her orgasm was on its way. There was nothing that could stop it and it was going to be a big one. She cried out once and then her hips writhed as she came, long and hard and deliciously and through the feeling she could feel his cock kicking inside her as he emptied himself.

She didn’t stay the night, though he asked her to. She wasn’t sure why but she suddenly wanted just to be home, and he’d offered to run her back but she’d insisted on a cab.

There had been some very lovely post-coital cuddling during which he was very sweet and then he’d gone down on her. Which he’d done before, of course, but this time his technique was different, his tongue teasing and kissing her and bringing her to the edge of orgasm but then slowing, easing off until the feeling subsided until he started in again. She rode the wave of it, moaning loudly and losing herself in the sensation, going with the waves of pre-orgasm, thighs tightening and relaxing and then she came and it made that earlier orgasm seem like nothing at all, her whole body shuddering and any conscious thoughts dissolving into disjointed meaninglessness. When she came to herself some time later, his arms and legs wrapped round her, she thought how amazing that was but how strange. To fuck someone you knew, and had fucked so many times before, but whose bodily cues and rhythms just didn’t feel the same at all. It was shortly after that that she’d left.

The thought niggled at her all the way home in the cab. It had been a virtuoso performance and that was the problem. It hadn’t been sex with Nick the way she’d remembered it. He’d gained a lot and more varied experience and he’d used it on her and it had been magnificent but she thought about her dream, about Martin and the way he’d played Sam along being all sincere when all he really was was a root rat that… She stopped herself. Wait, that was a dream. Not real… Or not a vision in the mirror is what she meant to say. What possible bearing could it have? And then she remembered the tampons and the use by date on the pack. Did tampons ‘go off’ anyway, she wondered. She doubted it. So just because they had been bought a long time ago, it didn’t necessarily follow that they’d been left in Nick’s bathroom a long time ago.

The wine had worn off by now, and the after sex glow, and she was left with a sour taste in her mouth and just as many suspicions as before, maybe more.

It was Saturday morning. She woke in her pajamas feeling glum and just a little sore between the legs. Noeleen was in the kitchen and she joined her for coffee and toast at the rusty table in their concreted back yard. The olive tree was starting to flower and there was a mild spring breeze blowing the tops of the gum trees on the other side of the back lane adding a pleasant swishy rustling to the sounds of the day. But nothing penetrated Isobel’s mood. She was thinking about ending it with Nick, but did she want to and how could she after she’d just fucked him? Wouldn’t that just be a bit psycho-bitch-from-hell? The thing was she still wanted him but she didn’t know if she could put up with how the whole situation made her react. Nick was fine. It was herself that needed to change but how to do it? It wasn’t that easy. Maybe she needed therapy.

Noeleen was nattering about her new boyfriend who was apparently much better than the other one – in every way possible, it seemed: better looking, better job, better salary, better clothes and better sex.

Isobel was only half-listening, nodding and grunting on auto-pilot, but Noeleen didn’t seem to notice. Isobel’s phone bipped and she picked it off the table. SMS from Nick. ‘Morning, lover. It’s the most beautiful day I’ve seen in a long time’ and a smiley followed by three Xs. She didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say.

‘So we’re off to hit a couple of galleries today and then he’s taking me to dinner “somewhere nice”. It’s all a big secret and I’m feeling very spoiled.’ Noeleen flashed a grin at her.

‘That’s great,’ Isobel managed.

‘SMS from lover boy?’ Noeleen asked. ‘I noticed you were ‘en retard’ last night, m’dear.’ Her eyebrows arched.

Isobel nodded. ‘Well good for you not replying right away. Treat ‘em mean.’ She got up. ‘Look, I’ve got to dive through the shower and get out of here. Might see you tonight, but who knows.’ And she pecked Isobel on the cheek and was gone away into the house.

Isobel had another cup of coffee while Noeleen ran the shower and some time later heard a yelled ‘hooroo’ and the door slam.

On her way back to her room, her mobile rang. It was Nick. She switched the thing off. She needed time to think.

But thinking had to wait, because as she rounded the doorframe into her room, she saw a scene coalescing in the mirror. She stopped in the doorway, watching.

Sam was sitting in a tapestry upholstered armchair beside a window. Full sun was showing through the net curtains. She had her chin in her hands, elbows on knees, and tears falling slowly down her cheeks, mascara running. There was a knocking, growing more insistent as she ignored it. Finally she dragged herself up and moved to the door. ‘Go away,’ she said.

‘Open the door, Sam.’ The voice was muffled, but Isobel was sure it was Martin. She began to feel a little unsteady.

‘Leave me alone,’ Sam said. ‘Go back and fuck that whore some more.’

Isobel felt like she was at the top of a long drop, looking down. This couldn’t be right. She’d dreamt the party not seen it in the mirror. What the fuck was going on?

Martin said something Isobel couldn’t hear. It was low and guttural, full of anger, and then the door shuddered and Sam stepped back, startled. ‘Go away,’ she said again, taking another step and turning to the phone on a side table by the chair. Her hand froze there, reaching for the receiver. ‘I’ll call the police, Martin. I mean it.’

There was another bash at the door and it leapt in the frame. Instead of picking up the phone, Sam’s hands leapt to her chest and she backed away further towards the mantelpiece. Her eyes widened.

The door crashed and then flew open, the lintel splintering and Martin stood their, sweat pouring down his face, his clothes disheveled. Sam gave a squeal but her throat seemed constricted with fear, unable to really call for help. She skittered sideways from the mantelpiece as he advanced and then Isobel saw she was standing in front of a mirror. Her mirror. She could see Sam in front of it, Martin’s back as he advanced on her, and the cold rage in his face reflected in the glass.

‘You bitch,’ he spat. ‘Now you’re going to take what’s coming to you.’

And then the glass was clear and Isobel was standing, breathless with fear in an empty room. Her hands were trembling as she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. Her thoughts came slowly, trying to understand what she’d seen, how it had married up with her own dream, what had happened to Sam and what did it mean for her. Was she in danger? Slowly she walked towards the mirror. It was completely clear now, free of any blemishes. She saw herself in it and her face frightened her. She looked pale and lost. What on earth can I do? she thought. What’s going to happen to me? The room seemed to fade away from her.

She had to get out of the house. She dressed quickly, throwing her pajamas on the floor, grabbed her bag and sunnies and went out.

She’d driven into town, following her normal route out of instinct without really noticing the shops, the traffic, anything. But then she’d been in the Domain underground car park, standing outside her car with the keys in her hand. She’d placed them in her bag and taken the walkway up to park. It had been a nothing sort of day. Neither hot nor cold, some people around but not crowded. She’d walked up past the Art Gallery and over the road into the Botanic Gardens, passing through the trees redolent with the smell of fruit bats and down to the lake. She’d sat on the grass watching the ducks wandering around. She hadn’t thougt about anything much, it was as if this were a movie inside her head: she watched, but didn’t participate. Slowly the sun swung through the sky and then she’d thought it was time to go. She’d chosen a different way back up the slight incline, cutting across the grass instead of keeping to the path. In a shaded patch beneath a Morton Bay Fig, a couple lay. She’d glanced their way, seen a curl of brown hair beside a lick of blonde. Then she’d looked again. Her body had become stone. Nick, lying beside a girl. A blonde. The one from the store. From his apartment. They’d been kissing. Passionately. His hand inside her blouse. The words had been out her mouth before she knew it, dripping sudden venom.

‘You fucking BASTARD!’

He’d looked at her, his face registering shock, then surprise, then guilt. At least he’d had the decency for that. ‘Isobel,’ he’d said. The woman was pulling herself up to sitting, rearranging her bra.

‘Fuck off!’ she’d shouted, then turned and ran – ran like she’d never run before. She’d heard him shouting after her but she’d kept going. Fury and grief battling inside her and one thought: get to the car. Get home.

And then she was here, back in her room, back in her pajamas, back staring at the mirror and her eyes in the mirror and the tears running down her face. She held her arms around herself and her body shivered with the sobs. She’d been so stupid. And she’d let him hurt her again.

She jumped at a light tap at the door. It was early evening. Was Noeleen home after all? Had she forgotten her key?

She went to the door, listening. The rapping came again. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

Nick. Her throat tightened and she snibbed the deadlock. ‘Get away from me!’ she screamed. ‘Just get away!’ she backed from the door and hit the hall stand. Noeleen’s china fell smashing to the floor and she slipped, a shard of china stabbing the sole of her foot. She screamed again as she crashed to the ground.

‘Isobel.’ The rapping became a banging. ‘Are you all right?’ The door started shuddering. She screamed again, her eyes searching the room and locking on the mirror. In the glass Sam was backing away and then Martin had her, his hands gripping her throat, as he shouted at her and her screams died in her throat. The door crashed open. Nick was reaching towards her.

‘Isobel, I’ve been calling all day.’

Her bloody foot slipped on the boards as she tried to scrabble away.

‘God, you’re bleeding. Let me help you.’

He was coming for her. Just like Martin. She bashed up against her bed. Pushed herself up to stand, resting most of her weight on her good foot.

‘Get away from me,’ she shouted. Her voice was weak, breathless. ‘Go back to that slut in the Gardens.’

‘Gardens? You’re not making sense. I’ve been at work all day. Here.’

He grabbed her by the shoulders. She wrenched away and his hands fell on her neck. He looked angry. He was going to kill her. She screamed again, twisted away and kicked at him.

Nick took a step back, tripped on the Persian rug. His arms came up as he tried to keep his balance but it was too late. He began to turn as he fell.

Isobel watched. Everything seemed to slow. Nick was falling backwards. He’d be spreadeagled on the carpet close to the mirror. The image in it was gone. Was she safe now? Had it been a warning? Then it seemed to her that the mirror jumped off from the wall, just a few inches. But Nick was still falling, his head and body turning. His neck hit the broken edge of the mirror. Slid down it and he fell to the floor, the mirror knocking back against the wall.

Blood. Fountaining. She looked at Nick, His neck was slit right across, blood flowing down his shirt, spurting into the air, painting walls, the curtains, running down the mirror, staining the carpet. She couldn’t move. Paralysed with horror. Nick was watching her, one hand trying to keep his neck together, the other reaching out for her. His eyes were wide, horrible. And then the blood slowed, the light faded from his eyes, his hands dropped to his side and she realised she was screaming.

Death by misadventure the policeman said. She stood in the corridor, Noeleen holding her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop watching as they bagged him up and carried him to the ambulance. The blood. The room was covered in it. The walls were awash. The pattern in the carpet was invisible under the load of red it had absorbed. But the mirror. She’d seen the blood running down it. The mirror was clean. Not one speck of red remained on it. But beneath the surface the liver-spotting had returned, so only the edges were reflective.

A single coherent thought came to her. That, maybe, she’d been played for a fool. ‘Noeleen,’ she said. Her voice was faint and thready. ‘Can you get rid of the mirror, please?’

Testing, testing. Is this thing on...

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 09:17:33 GMT

One might think that nothing has been happening since I finished draft one. However that is not the case. A good redraft takes time and distance. And external input. So I've been thinking about the story and what I think it needs. More importantly my subconscious has been ticking over on it and I'm excited to see what it's going to come up with. And I've been talking to valued friends to get their perspective on it. This is useful for two major reasons and lots of minor ones. Firstly my friends can see things that I haven't thought about. They can tell me if it sounds right, if the character and voice is believable, if the pacing is right, if the plot is believable and so on. They can help me take the story in new directions. Secondly I can think about what they've said and agree with them, or if I disagree with them it leads me to look at the elements of the story that I obviously haven't developed or expressed well enough to make them think and understand what I want them to think and understand. Basically even if you're rejecting their advice you have to beef up your original ideas or expressions to make them work more convincingly.

So this is what I've gathered and what I think. The voice and character are believable. The plot flow is a bit disjointed, which is partly a result of the episodic way that I wrote it. The pacing is wrong at the end, it's too quick and needs some serious work. I had felt it needed to end quickly because Isobel will quickly reach a point where she confronts Nick and finds out he's NOT cheating on her. But thanks to a friend's comments I now know that's not necessarily the case. I need to weave the idea of the vampire mirror more strongly into the plot and tease it out a bit more to make it believable. What are it's motivations, why does it do what it does. One friend thought the idea of a bloodrinking mirror was just stupid. I'm not convinced - blood is just life force after all. But it does mean I need to develop this more to MAKE it believable. And I need to crystalise the real horror of the piece, which is not the blood fest with the mirror, but the realisation by Isobel that she has done a terrible thing that she will never, ever be able to take back.

More soon. Promise.

Keith

End of draft one

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 09:39:01 GMT

I'm happy that I managed to write the first draft of this story exactly as it came out my head. That - after all - was the reason behind this exercise. As I said, I knew the shape of the story at a conscious level when I began 00and round about last week I saw in my head how it had to come to a close. Any nuances this draft contains came as I typed. This is how my brain works. It may not be how others do it but there you go.

The next stage for me is to consider the draft as a whole. Look at the structure, the pacing, the individual scenes, the description and dialogue. It's a first draft so I expect a fair bit of rewriting and tightening. My feeling about the end in particular is that it needs work. But I need to be very tentative about how I do that. I respect the way the story came out of me and I want to preserve that as far as I can and (hopefully) augment it with a bit of judicious rewriting.

This was in many respects (for me) the easy part. Speaking of my own creative processes, once I have the idea it's a matter of taking the brakes off and going along for the ride. I have to drag myself to the keyboard but when I'm there I am constantly amused and entertained by what comes out of the tip of my fingers. Hopefully this translates to a good story. We'll see.

So, expect a hiatus of about a week while I read and mull. Then we get into the boring iterative process.

For those faithful who have dipped into what has gone before and want to stay on for the ride. I hope I entertain.

Keith

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 09:23:18 GMT

She closed her room door behind her and leant against it, watching her reflection in the mirror. It was over, she’d told herself that again and again in the cab. But it still hurt. Then there was a knock at the front door. She hadn’t heard a car or anything. Maybe it was Noeleen. She’d forgotten her key before tonight. But still she put the chain on before easing it open. Nick was there and as she pushed the door shut again it jumped in her grasp and she stepped back. He’d pushed it so hard the chain had broken

‘Isobel!’ he said. But she was too frightened. She ran into her room, trying to hide behind the door. Where the hell was Noeleen when you needed her. She was backed against the wall when he came in.

‘You stay away from me,’ she warned.

'Isobel, listen to me. What the fuck’s gotten into you?’ He held her by the shoulders trying to get her to look at him, to calm down, to talk.

She squirmed in his grip. He wasn’t hurting her, not yet, but he looked angry. She wasn’t sure what he was going to do, what he wanted from her. And then she noticed the mirror behind her. She saw her reflection. But she wasn’t in the room. She was back at the party, the one from her dream. She was running out the front door, Martin naked and chasing her. He grabbed her from behind, pulled her down on the grass. One hand was choking her while the other fumbled beneath her dress. He was going to rape her. Maybe kill her.

‘Listen to me for God’s sake,’ Nick shouted. He’s going to rape me, she thought. Kill me maybe. In the mirror her face was turning red, her struggles were weakening.

'No!’ she screamed. She pushed at Martin , pushed at Nick.

Nick took a step back, tripped on the Persian rug. His arms came up as he tried to keep his balance but it was too late. He began to turn as he fell.

Isobel watched. Everything seemed to slow. Nick was falling backwards. He’d be spreadeagled on the carpet close to the mirror. The image in it was gone. Was she safe now? Had it been a warning? Then it seemed to her that the mirror jumped off from the wall, just a few inches. But Nick was still falling, his head and body turning. His neck hit the broken edge of the mirror. Slid down it and he fell to the floor, the mirror knocking back against the wall.

Blood. Fountaining. She looked at Nick, His neck was slit right across, blood flowing down his shirt, spurting into the air, painting walls, the curtains, running down the mirror, staining the carpet. She couldn’t move. Paralysed with horror. Nick was watching her, one hand trying to keep his neck together, the other reaching out for her. His eyes were wide, horrible. And then the blood slowed, the light faded from his eyes, his hands dropped to his side and she realised she was screaming.

Death by misadventure the policeman said. She stood in the corridor, Noeleen holding her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop watching as they bagged him up and carried him to the ambulance. The blood. The room was covered in it. The walls were awash. The pattern in the carpet was invisible under the load of red it had absorbed. But the mirror. She’d seen the blood running down it. The mirror was clean. Not one speck of red on. But beneath the surface the liverspots had returned, so only the edges were reflective.

‘Noeleen,’ she said. Her voice was faint and thready. ‘Can you get rid of the mirror, please.’

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 09:40:26 GMT

The taxi dropped her at the end of Nick’s street. She’d taken ages to decide what to wear, casting off successive options into an ever-growing pile on her bed. Finally she’d decided on jeans and a nice top she’d picked up last month on the North Shore. Even so, she was a little bit early so she took the time to walk the length of the street, her boot heels clicking on the footpath. Spring was coming and the air was scented with jasmine and wattle and the resiny smell of gumtrees wakening.

Nick lived in a converted flour mill, all security doors, internal courtyards and mezzanine floors right at the end of the street. The entrance was flooded with light as she approached and someone was coming out of the doorway. Isobel stopped short. It was the blond from the shop, from her dream. The woman walked smartly up the path and smiled at Isobel as she passed her. It was as if someone had wrapped a cold hand round her heart and was squeezing so her breath came in shallow gasps and her head felt full.

This can't be happening, she thought. She turned to watch the woman, who climbed into a black mazda parked nearby and drove off. Had she been visiting Nick? 'No,' she said aloud. This was a coincidence. She knew Nick. There was no way he would do this to her. She was being silly. Still she was shaken and what little happiness she'd been able to conjure about tonight's dinner fizzled.

She pressed the buzzer. There was an incomprehensible noise from the speaker grille and then the door buzzed her in. Nick was waiting in the hallway on the second level, an airy transom with a huge oak beam cutting across the ceiling. He was smiling. It was a beautiful smile. No guile there at all and she felt her own smile in return, weak but there all the same. She handed him the bottle of wine she'd brought and he kissed her, full on the lips - slow and lingering. He tasted of cinammon.

'Welcome,' he said, ushering her through the door. The place was such a change from the last apartment before they moved in together - a rather dingy bedsit with 'well-loved' second hand furniture. White walls with concealed and appropriately dimmed downlights, glass and steel dining table, a sleek silver hi-fi, plasma screen on the wall and a ridiculously cushioned couch in the corner by the floor to ceiling window.

'Well you have come up in the world,' she said.

'Some things change for the better,' he said, offering her a glass of wine. 'I have pot roasted guinea-fowl with sage, celery and blood orange for your dining pleasure.' He frowned. 'You do like, guinea-fowl, don't you?'

'Never had it. But it smells wonderful.' She sipped the wine and rolled her eyes. 'And this wine is amazing. It knocks the plonk I brought from Dan Murphy's for six.'

'Well, I admit I am trying to impress you.'

Or feeling appropriately guilty, she thought. Shut up!

They sat and he talked about work, asked her about hers, changed the cd. He gave good chats. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place - his active mind, always thinking about stuff, analysing it. But all the while her traitorous brain was looking for clues, waiting fof him to slip up, reveal himself. It was as if her mind had a mind of its own, despite her constant silent reinforcements that she was overreacting, making it all up, being SILLY!

The food was delicious too, and their was berry sorbet for desert and then coffee made on some incomprehensibly spiggotted machine. It was a textbook evening, a textbook seduction. She felt things were moving towards their inevitable conclusion.

'I just have to use the bathroom,' she said. He told her where to find it and she walked across the polished boards, up a couple of steps and into the loo. It was when she was using the wash basin that she noticed it - in the mirror, beside the small bin and tucked under the bowl where it must have fallen. A tampon. A used one. She'd been here then. Kissing him. Maybe not fucking him since it was her period, but then some women didn't worry about that. The cinamonn. Was it him or her? She couldn't believe how stupid she'd been. She should have listened to herself instead of being so pathetically desperate for him that she ignored all the warning signs. She threw the door open and stood on the small landing. Nick looked up from the lounge, his expression changing as he saw her.

'You fuck,' she said. 'How could I be so stupid?'

'Isobel, wh--' he began but she cut him off.

'Don't even start.' She was glad she didn't have a coat and her wallet was in her jeans. She grabbed the door and ran out, down the hall and into the street. She heard him shouting after her, but he didn't pursue. When she was far enough away she stopped running and made for the main drag and a taxi. Her mascara was running. Why the hell was she crying? That was stupid too.

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 08:45:24 GMT

Nick dropped her an email on Thursday. One of those new couple dating things that really meant ‘I like you; I care about you’. She didn’t respond. She was deep into a self-feeding circle of anxiety.

She felt paralysed by fear. Fear of being alone, fear of her heart being broken again. This wasn’t what relationships were meant to do. There was no-one to talk to either. Noeleen was out and even if she’d been around Isobel wasn’t sure what she could say without coming over as some sorry psycho: visions, suspicions, dreams. It was a mess. She should call it all off, but then she remembered Nick’s words that night, the way he looked, how she felt when he touched her, and she know she couldn’t end it. Which threw her back into thinking about his sincerity, the girl in the shop, how she’d invaded her dreams.

Gradually she calmed down as the real world encroached. There was the job to finish, lunch to fix, an appointment at the hairdresser – who was a great colourist but Isobel wasn’t so sure about her cutting skill. All these incursions helped refocus things, put them in perspective. So that night, before bed, she SMSd Nick to say she was looking forward to dinner. And when she slept, she didn’t dream, or didn’t remember if she had.

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 12:31:49 GMT

The feeling came upon her slowly. It was as if she were sinking into the mattress. Her arms and legs felt leaden and a small laugh escaped her lips. She started to worry that maybe she was having a reaction. Was she speeding? But then her thoughts started to come sluggishly and she recognised that 'drifting off' feeling that meant sleep was coming. Thank goodness was her last coherent thought. As the drug took hold and she slept more deeply she began to talk in her sleep. Had she ears to hear in the real world, she might have heard the mirror talk back.

The light had a strange quality, that golden obliqueness that spoke of early morning. She was outside, sitting in a lounger. Around her there was the kind of murmured conversations and general food and drink detritus that spoke of the very late stage of a party. She must have been up all night. She was on an outdoor sofa and beside her was a sorry individual, a young man with dark hair and shaggy sideburns sleeping in a very uncomfortable position against the other arm of the chair and snoring softly.

'Morning bracer?' A woman stood over her half in shadow with a pitcher of something red and a glass. She had on a bright housecoat and her mascara was badly smudged. 'John and I crashed. God knows when. He's still out for it. Here, you need one of these.' The woman thrust a glass of the red stuff into her hand, nudged the sleeper and then moved on when she didn't get a response. Isobel sipped it. A pretty potent bloody mary, heavy on the worcester. There was a house behind her that she didn't recognise, big bay windows leading into a lounge with a decadent looking orange leather couch. She was on a brick verandah overlooking reasonable sized lawn leading down to a wooden fence which ran on all three sides. It was somewhere in the 'burbs judging by the space between the neighbouring houses. Then she realised what she was wearing. Very dark indigo jeans, tight to the knee then flaring improbably and a heavily brocaded waistcoat with nothing underneath. Her breasts were peeking saucily over the top. Or rather, not her breasts. A handbag was lying beside the arm of the couch. She rummaged in it, drew out a handmirror, looked at herself in it. Red hair, pert nose, heavy make up on the eyes, full lips. Oh, she thought with that lack of surprise that often accompanied dreams. I'm Samantha. Which meant she was in another era. Well the people around her - let alone her own style of dress - seemed to confirm that. Kaftan's, flares, body shirts, lots of hair, especially facial hair on the men. They were a very hirsute bunch. So where's Martin, she thought.

Nobody seemed to be bothering much with her. She stood up - she was barefoot - and had a better look around. No one seemed familiar. She walked over the verandah and in through the doors to what was the lounge. The couch was empty but a man and a woman were writhing on the floor behind it, their clothes loose. Into the hall, the walls were lined with tribal art - masks, wooden carvings, highly patterned pieces of woven grass. A study off to the left, empty, front door ahead of her, ajar and showing a brick path and another swathe of lawn, another door to her right only slightly open. She pushed on it and recognised Martin's cord jacket thrown over a free-standing vase. She looked inside and froze. Martin, lying on a scatter cushion on the floor, naked. On top and with her back to Isobel/ Samantha a blond. She straddled Martin, her hips grinding down on him, her back arching. Isobel held the doorframe to steady herself. Martin was looking right at her. 'Well what did you expect, you frigid bitch?' he said and laughed at her. The blond stopped her gyrations and turned towards her. Isobel/ Samantha stumbled back into the hall and ran for the front door. That woman. It had been the woman in the shop with Nick.

She woke in bed with a start. Golden sunlight slanted obliquely through her window.

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 09:55:38 GMT

But even so, he'd disappointed her before. Maybe she'd been stupid but she'd trusted that they would be together for a long time, maybe forever. They had fit so well. She'd felt so comfortable, so in love, so happy. And then the wheels had come off when she least expected them to.

Work went slowly that afternoon and Noeleen was a stop-out again - it had been happening quite often and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. They weren't joined at the hip but they were housemates, shouldn't they at least spend a little time together? She ended up watching some season 3 Deadwood on the dvd and wondering why it suddenly turned to shit after such a great start. But she kept replaying that little scene in the shop over and over in her mind, looking for cues - the tilt of a chin, the shift in stance closer to the blond that might mean she and Nick were together, or if not together that he'd rather like it if they were. Fuck. She pushed the remote. The screen went blank. She was going to bed, much good that it would do her. She couldn't sleep, not feeling the way she did. Brushing her teeth in the bathroom, she looked at her panda eyes in the mirror. God, if she'd looked like that this lunchtime it's no wonder he was looking else where. 'Stop it!' she said through a mouthful of toothpaste. The cabinet under the sink was ajar. Rinsing off her toothbrush she went to shut it and stopped. There was an orange plastic pill bottle in there she hadn't noticed before. She picked it up and read the label. It was Noeleen's - sleeping pills apparently. 'Sonata,' she read. Hmm, catchy name. 'Contains Zaleplon. Not to be taken where there is a history of liver or cancer disease or when pregnant.' No to all of those, thank God. 'Habit forming.' Well, she wasn't going to make a habit of it. She took one, rinsed it down with some water from that tap and then replaced the bottle. Then she got in bed and waited for the thing to take effect.

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 08:19:34 GMT

Of course she could have relented and asked him in. And she felt a bit mean now that she hadn't. But actions were as important as words. What he'd said rang true with her and she couldn't help a rush of excitement as she unlocked the front door. It WAS exciting. To be loved, to have someone you care about cherish you and know that they wanted to be with you, wanted to do whatever they could for you. To share, really share yourself with someone else. It was all she wanted.

And yet she didn't sleep well that night. She tossed and turned in a half-awake state conscious thoughts trailing off into dream images and vice versa until she wasn't sure if she was dreaming or awake at any given moment. It was like when she was a little girl and she had the flu. That kind of feverish reverie that you can't escape no matter how much you try but when you do wake you can't remember what disturbed you so.

Tiredness and constantly dipping into thoughts of Nick meant she didn't achieve much work the next morning which was bad because she had a deadline looming - a presentation to a bank on an intranet revamp. Deadline or no, by lunchtime she had to get out of the house, so she walked up to King Street and strolled along towards St Peters looking at the retro fashion and furniture shops. It was a chilly day, despite some winter sun. There was a fairly strong wind blowing and she wrapped her coat around her and tightened her scarf.

She was looking through a window at a particularly nice deco table and chairs when a movement caught her eye in the shop and her focus shifted. It was Nick. A smile came to her lips, but before she tapped the glass to get his attention she saw him laughing. He was talking to a very attractive blond and staring intently into her eyes. She laughed too, then touched him on the shoulder and turned to walk out the shop. She stopped in the doorway and gave him a little wave, which he returned. Isobel felt sick. Then he saw her and came out onto the street.

'Hello there,' he said, smiling. 'This is a bit of luck.' And he kissed her.

She couldn't help stiffening at that but he didn't seem to notice. Her mind was running at a million miles an hour but she couldn't think what to say. She didn't want to appear nosy, or suspicous, but she couldn't leave it alone. 'Yes.' She managed a smile. 'Who was that you were with.' Might as well try the direct approach she thought.

He looked a little puzzled, then raised his eyebrows. 'Haven't got a clue. She dropped a contact lens in the shop and I almost stood on the thing. She washed it off in a little purse thing - you woman carry amazing amounts of paraphernalia in your bags - and then put it back in. It was one of those tinted lenses that made her irises look purple. Quite an amazing effect. Hey, have you had lunch?'

Her heart had calmed a little as she listened to him. It all seemed harmless thank God but she was still a little unsettled. 'Uh, yes. In fact I need to get home. Big job to finish off. What brings you to King Street anyway?'

'I was seeing a client up near the uni, and I felt like a walk, so I thought I'd walk to St Peters and catch the train from there. Look, um, would you like to have dinner at my place Friday night? I'll dig out the recipe books and cook one of your favourites.'

'Yes, I can do that. Okay. See you then.' And this time she kissed him. But on the cheek. Not the lips like last night. He smiled and was gone in the direction of the station.

Walking home she found herself going round and round in mental circles. It seemed harmless enough. Good God was she going to go into a tailspin every time some little thing like this happened. Was she so insecure, so afraid of the relationship failing again? Trust. Trust was essential and she should trust him. He'd never two timed her before. Or not to your knowledge a treacherous voice said in her head. God the whole thing was depressing.

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 13:13:44 GMT

The next day she woke and felt very cheerful. Her mood lasted through the morning. Work was going well, and she was concentrating on moving some hypertext around when the front door bashed open and Noeleen walked past, going down the hall with an armload of groceries. She backtracked and stuck her head through the open doorway to Isobel's room.

'Careful,' she said.

Isobel looked up, distracted. 'Hmmmm. What?'

'You're humming a happy song. And you don't even realise your doing it. God what are you going to be like if you two really get together? An outbreak of dancing in the kitchen? I might have to find a new house and a new housemate.' She made for the kitchen again without waiting for a response.

Isobel sighed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She did look happy. Younger even. That brow ridge she'd been watching deepening for the past months had all but gone and there was colour in her cheeks. She stuck her tongue out at her image and got back to mousing. 'It's all under control,' she said to herself. Just then her mobile rang. The screen showed it was Nick calling.

'Hi!' he said and there was a sudden loud rattling noise and a dinging of bells.'

'Hi,' she said. 'Where the hell are you, it sounds like a fairground or something.'

'Sorry. Just avoiding getting knocked down by a tram. I'm in Melbourne - took the early flight down here for a quick job, trying to convince the Vic Office we are not all a bunch of convict descended ne'er-do-wells.'

'Oh. What's the weather like?' She grimaced. What the hell kind of conversation killer was that?

'Bit of everything as you might expect. Look, um, I'm down here till this afternoon, but I scored some tickets for The Basement tonight. Some cool jazz playing and I thought I'd buy you dinner.'

'Oh you did, did you? Well I guess I can allow that.'

'Great. Eight pm. Meet you at the bus stop at Circular Quay. Wear something beat poetish.'

It was a great night. The music was fantastic, the crowd was appreciative, the food was average - well that was to be expected really, but eating was always secondary at The Basement and the bar was certainly well-stocked. She had a liking for single malts and Nick bought her some Talisker which was so smoky and smooth. She probably had a little too much, truth be told, but she was enjoying herself and Nick was being wonderful. Attentive, entertaining and funny talking about the Melbourne Office and the rivalry with Sydney. He sought her opinion and listened to it, laughed at her jokes and swept her out the venue on his arm and hailed a cab which they both piled into in a fairly uncoordinated fashion.

'I think,' she said with that practiced kind of speech pattern, 'that I am a little drunk.'

'Well, you're in good company,' Nick said. 'I think I may have had one or two over my limit. AND it's a school night. Ah, fuck it. I'm having too good a time to care.'

When the got to her place, he followed her out the cab. 'And where do you think you're going, mister?' she said and then instantly felt a bit mean. The cabbie was peering at them through the window but Nick waved him off.

'I can walk from here,' he said.

'To Summer Hill?'

'It'll clear the head. It's a good walk.'

'Okay.' She wasn't convinced though. 'Cos I'm not asking you in.'

'Didn't presume that you were going to, darling.' He leant in and kissed her on the cheek. 'Honest.'

It perhaps wasn't the time or place, but the whisky had loosened her tongue a little. 'Because I know you've had a change or heart about us Nick. But I just need to understand why that's happened. What makes you want to be with me now when you didn't before.'

He nodded. 'Fair question. And this is only a semi-sober answer so if I can come up with something better tomorrow you have to give me another chance to explain.'

'Okay.'

'Maybe our - biorhythms were off or whatever. Maybe I'm just a slow fuse kind of guy. I knew you loved me, Isobel. You told me. And I wanted to feel the same way, but if I was honest with myself I didn't. So I waited thinking that it would come. But it didn't. And I didn't want to lie to you. Didn't want to say "I love you" when I didn't feel that. So when I thought it had been long enough that if love hadn't knocked me over the head by then it never would, I finished it. Because it wasn't fair to take your love when I couldn't give any in return.'

'You could have told me at the time, you idiot,' she said.

'You're absolutely right. But I was a coward. Sorry. Guess I"m not perfect after all.' He thrust his hands in his pockets. 'And then we were apart and I thought I'd forget you in time, but I didn't. And one day I realised it had happened. I was in love with you. But I thought by then I'd blown it. I wasn't going to call. I'd had my chance. But that didn't help. So I called you expecting to be told to fuck off in no uncertain terms. And I can hardly believe you've given me a second chance but now I have it there is nothing I will not do to make this work for us. I love you, Isobel. I love you and I want us to be together for as long as humanly possible.'

Silence. She looked at him for a long time. He had that 'caught with the hand in the cookie jar' kind of look. Slowly she pulled him towards her and kissed him full on the lips. 'Okay.' She kissed him again. 'Safe home.'

His face broke into a big grin and he turned on his heels and walked, only weaving ever so slightly, in the direction of Summer Hill.

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:08:36 GMT

Two nights later, Nick rang and they agreed to meet for a bite to eat in King Street. Isobel was glad he’d chosen a restaurant they’d never been too before – a cheap and cheerful szechuan chinese. It felt like new beginnings. They played catch up, safe conversations about work and friends. They shared a nice Gramps Shiraz, but she was careful to pace herself, needing to keep in control. It would be so easy just to fall into bed with him again, feeling his warm smooth skin against hers, his lips on her neck, her nipples, her inner thighs. Stop it, she thought and pulled herself upright, looking quizzically at him across the table.

He was scanning the bill and she pulled her wallet from her bag.

‘Let me,’ he said, pulling his own wallet out.

‘No. Half and half.’ He looked a little crestfallen. ‘But you can walk me home.’

‘Okay.’ He smiled that little boy smile she had fallen for once before. Straight teeth and dimples, who could resist?

‘No,’ she said almost panting and pulled her bag up in a half-hearted gesture like a shield. That look was in his eyes again, the bad puppy look. ‘Nick I had a lovely evening. I just need some time to get used to this again is all. Okay?’

Inside, she quickly got ready for bed. Noeleen was out for a night of ‘hot and uncomplicated sex’ she had said earlier. She’d also reinforced her hope that Isobel wouldn’t be engaging in sex - hot, cold, lukewarm or otherwise because ‘sex-with-the-ex’ was about as complicated as it got. She left the lights off as she undressed and pulled her pyjamas out from under the pillow, which is why she noticed the faint glow from the mirror. Intrigued, she pulled her top on and hunkered down in front of the glass which looked normal except for a swirling opalescence in the centre. As she watched a scene resolved which was chillingly familiar. The man she had seen earlier was walking hand in hand with a tall slim woman down a reasonably lit suburban street. It was as if she were walking backwards in front of them like some sort of steadicam operator. The woman fascinated her. She was beautiful, long auburn hair caught up in a ponytail, green eyes, a face that looked ready to smile. She was lithe and very sexy, her body clothed – fashionably Isobel supposed – in a cheesecloth drawstring blouse, improbably flared faded denims and leather sandals. She supposed a shorter woman would have been in platforms in that era. The whole effect would have looked pretty trendy in twenty-first century Darlinghurst, she thought. The man – she wondered what there names were and when exactly they lived – wore a tan cord three piece suit – shades of all those old Mills and Boon’s she’d read! – and the long collar tips of a paisley bodyshirt turned over the jacket lapels completed the effect. They walked hand in hand past cars that Isobel didn’t recognise, but they looked boxy and heavy for the most part, some of them bristling with chrome. They walked quietly together, it seemed – to her – a companionable silence. The man was smiling as he walked and the woman looked relaxed holding his hand and striding along.

They stopped then and the man took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ he said. His voice was deep and warm. ‘I should get you some jasmine perfume, maybe. If you like it so much.’

The woman’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘Martin. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.’ She let go of his hand.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m just not sure what happens next. I mean I had a lovely meal. It was almost like old times, but these aren’t old times, are they?’

Martin put his hands in his pockets. It looked to Isobel like he was closing down and the woman seemed to see that too. ‘I like you, Martin. You should know that. You made me happy. But then you walked away from us. And that was very painful to me.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette, lit it. ‘It’s just, I need to know what’s different now. Why are you back and how do I know you’re not just going to leave me again?’

‘Look – Sam.’ He place a hand on each shoulder, drawing her closer. ‘I’ve been an idiot. I was scared, because of what I felt for you. Maybe it doesn’t make sense but it made me feel vulnerable. So I ran. And I know I hurt you and I wish I hadn’t. But running didn’t help me either. I missed you even more. I just want a chance to try and prove to you that I love you. That I want to be with you. That I will do anything to make sure I never hurt you ever again.’

‘You can’t promise that.’

‘I know. That’s life. But I sincerely want to try.’

Déjà vu all over again, Isobel thought.

He looked hurt, almost angry for a moment Isobel thought and then he smiled. ‘Sorry. You’re just so damned hot. You know I’ve always thought that.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But let’s take it slow. I just need a bit of time, Martin.’ She kissed him on the cheek and then took his hand as they began to walk again. Isobel looked closely at Martin but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His speech had sounded very sincere but, like Nick, she realised it didn’t really answer anything. It was fine for Nick to say he was sure about them being together now, but he’d been sure that they should’nt be together then. He had to explain to her what had changed to make this right and what happened before wrong. What fundamentally had changed in their relationship – why she should trust him and take him back?

The mirror image faded and she tipped it a silent thanks. With Noeleen AND the enchanted looking glass watching out for her, maybe things were going to turn out okay. She hopped under the covers and allowed herself to think back on the evening. He was, she had to admit, very cute, and intelligent, and funny. And his politics were right. And he thought just enough like her and just enough unlike her to make their conversations stimulating. And he had a beautiful body, she knew that. And he was good in bed. Very good, in fact she’d never responded to another lover quite the way she had with Nick, and… Damn! There was no way she was going to get to sleep now without some help. Slowly she pushed her hand down the front of her pyjamas and thought about what would have happened if she’d asked him in.

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 19:06:37 GMT

She woke with that clarity and peace that only comes from complete mental exhaustion. She couldn’t argue with herself anymore. Let what happens happen. The day was grey and quiet. She remembered it was a Saturday. She rolled over and picked up her book from the nighstand, folded it open across the spine and read. Some time later, maybe an hour or so she heard Noeleen waken and start moving around in the kitchen. Then there was a tap at her door. ‘Yes?’

It was Noeleen, poking her head around the door. ‘Thought you might like a cup of tea.’ she said. and then came fully into the room and handed Isobel a hot mug. She sat on the edge of the bed looking at her. ‘You all right? You were quiet last night but I thought I heard crying. Tell me if it’s none of my business.’

She sipped at her tea. ‘No, it’s okay. Ex-boyfriend that’s all.’

‘Ah. Let me guess. He’s either accusing you of keeping his favourite CD or he wants to get back together?’

‘The latter,’ she said. ‘After being the one to break it off.’

Noeleen squidged round so she was leaning with her back against the headboard beside Isobel and laid her feet on the bed. ‘So let’s see.’ She held up one finger after another. ‘He’s either missing the regular sex, on the rebound after his current girlfriend dumped his ass, or he realises what a dickhead he was.’

Isobel smiled despite herself. ‘Well it’s been over a year, so it can’t be just the sex. But I’m not sure if he’s been seeing anyone else.’

‘So it could be number two but potentially number three. Either way he should be eating several helpings of humble pie.’

‘That seems a bit manipulative.’

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘Fancy some cinnamon toast?’

She smiled again. ‘That would be fan-tas-tic.’

‘Be right back.’

Noeleen hopped out and scooted out the room. Isobel drank her tea. There was a faint rumble of traffic noise, not as bad as a weekday. She wasn’t sure about making Nick jump through hoops, but Noeleen was at least right about sussing him out some more. She didn’t have enough information to understand why he wanted what he wanted. And until she did, she couldn’t make a decision about whether to trust him or not. She allowed herself a little glimmer of hope, but marshalled it carefully. This wasn’t the time to lose perspective.

Noeleen appeared again with a plate stacked high with toast and took up her possie on the bed again before launching into a truly hilarious story about getting thrown out the Bank Hotel on 'ladies night' and Isobel's mood improved out of sight.

At least this was normalcy. Everyday things she could deal with. The vision in the mirror seemed like a dream. And the link between what she saw and Nick's call out of the blue... Had what she'd seen been wishful thinking - or caused by wishful thinking more like. She couldn't see herself dreaming up 70s romances. Alone in her room once again, she almost laughed. A wishing mirror? Come on. It was very fairy tale. Had it picked up on her subconscious thoughts or desires, presented her with a scenario and then created the same thing in the real world? Well it was fanciful certainly. More prosaically, she had an overactive imagination that had been backed up by coincidence.

interlude - time and relative dimensions in space

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 18:58:10 GMT

So far this story has been written in Sydney, Glasgow, Heathrow and now a transfer lounge in Singapore Changi Airport at 5.42am (where the airconditioning is currently set to permafrost). I make it a rule never to be precious about when and where I write, but this is stretching even that rule all out of shape

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 09:19:51 GMT

The tears started on the walk home. She was crying for the end of their relationship all those months ago, the fear of restarting it now and the loneliness she been doing her best to ignore all the time in between. She opened the front door quietly, not wanting Noeleen to see her. Her house mate was up in the darkened living room at the other end of the hall, the walls painted with shifting light from the television set.

'HI,' she managed to call out in a voice approximating normal and closed her room door on Noeleen's reply. She looked at her image, mascara streaked on her cheeks. 'Mirror, mirror on the wall... '

She took her clothes off quickly, got into her cotton pajamas and snuggled under the doona her breath coming in short gasps as she wept silently into the pillow. Why now? And why did it reduce her to the emotional equivalent of a train wreck. All she wanted was some certainty, some easy unstressful answer. But she felt pulled in three directions at once. She couldn't ignore it and she couldn't - it seemed - make a decision about Nick. Sleep refused to come for what seemed like hours and when it did, her dreams were disturbed. At the foot of her bed, the mirror darkened.

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 15:10:34 GMT

It was trivia night upstairs, the quizmaster was in full swing and tables were limited so they met downstairs near the pool tables. Isobel had taken over an hour to work out her clothes, not at all sure why apart from the obvious fact that she liked to look good when she was out. Nick was wearing his usual jeans and that black leather jacket he always looked spunky in. They endured that awful should we kiss: shouldn't we moment and he'd finally pecked her in the borderlands of her lips and her cheek. She looked at him trying to discern any change - haggard and rings under the eyes from lack of sleep when he realised what an idiot he was, incipient alopecia from all the worry - but there was none of that. He looked the same and that wasn't fair. She'd cried her eyes out off and on for weeks, hadn't slept well and she still had dreams.

He bought her one of the better Cab Savs and smiled awkwardly. 'So how's the new share house?'

'Good.' But she didn't want small talk. It just sounded so forced. She wanted some honesty. 'What did you want to see me about, Nick? Do I still have some of your CDs?' That was perhaps a bit unfair.

'No. You're right. Look, Isobel... ' He took a drink of his wine and sighed heavily. 'I have been an absolute fuckwit and I know that now and I want to see you again 'cos I miss you. I love you. I don't want not to be with you.' He sat there looking tortured. A roar of laughter came from a foursome at the nearest pool table as the cue ball followed the black into the corner pocket.

Isobel felt her face flush and her head started to buzz with a million thoughts. Did she want him back, what would happen if she did, could she trust him, he'd hurt her so much, she was lonely, life was dull, he'd been fun, would she sell herself short if she said yes, and on and on. 'You left me, Nick,' she said. 'You said you didn't love me. That we were just marking time and it wasn't fair on either of us.'

'I know. I'm an idiot.' He reached out for her hand. She almost pulled back but the feel of his skin on hers, the way their fingers twisted together in that familiar way made her stop, made that old pain in her chest open up again.

'I don't know,' she said. 'You hurt me, Nick.' His hand tightened on hers. 'I don't know if I can open myself up to the possibility of you hurting me like that again.'

'I am so sorry.' His eyes were shining. 'Please. Just think about it. If you can't, I'll understand.' He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and she smelt him, felt the curls of his hair on her brow. 'Call me,' he said and was gone.

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:06:02 GMT

It was very distracting, and she caught herself stealing glances at the mirror throughout the working day. It was worse than a facebook addiction because the mirror was there, right beside her and accessible 24 hours a day. Even when she was away from it, taking a walk or driving somewhere she'd be thinking about the man, the situation, the conversation he had with Alice at 'the usual place', how it went over. She wondered what she'd do in a similar situation. And then she didn't have to wonder at all.

Two days later, the mobile rang. She was expecting a client, but the voice on the other end chased away her businesslike demeanour and left her lost for words. 'Isobel? It's Nick.' What the fuck was she meant to say? Several seconds passed. 'Isobel, can you hear me?'

Social conditioning kicked in even as she was trying to work out how she felt about him calling her out of the blue like this. 'Nick. Long time no... whatever.' She stopped herself. Did that sound like she was being mean? Did it sound bitter? Try again. 'How's things? Why are you calling?'

It was his turn to be silent. 'Yes, well. Good question, and not one that's easily answered. Um... Look the phone's probably not the best... I mean --'

Fuck, spit it out, she thought.

'Do you think we could meet for a chat?' he finished lamely.

'Well, I don't know. What do we have to chat about?' And even if you want to chat, do I, she wondered.

'Just a quick drink, Isobel. Tomorrow night. Please,' he added when she didn't answer.

She couldn't deny him. 'Okay. It'll have to be after eight though. At the Townie.'

'See you then,' he said. And rang off.

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 06:15:33 GMT

She sat back, thinking about what she'd seen and heard. The room the man had been sitting in wasn't this room. Even behind the big modular, brown leather couch and the arabic scatter cushions, the stringart picture of a sail ship picked out in silver thread on black velvet, with a clock where the moon might be on the wall behind, the improbably bulbous television in the corner by the window, the dimensions of the room were wrong. So was this a reflection stored in the mirror from some other place and time? The alternative of course was that she was completely gaga.

But she realised she didn't feel scared. This wasn't some threatening demonic vision, some evil haunting. It was interesting. Who was this man, she wondered. What did he do? What was his relationship with Sam? And did he love her? It sounded like he's stuffed up in some way, or maybe he'd broken it off, like Nick, for no reason that she could see other than the fact that he just didn't love her - even after all the sharing, the tender words, the intimate, beautiful times together. She felt herself being drawn into that familiar circle of 'what went wrongs' and consciously pulled back. That was a dead end. But this man, well, maybe he'd had a change of heart. Now there was a telling phrase.

She took to glancing regularly at the mirror throughout the rest of the day. The milky stain was there again. Perhaps it only cleared when the transmissions or memories or whatever were coming through. It remained resolutely unchanged. Was that it? She hoped that wasn't all she was going to see. She wanted to see what happened with him and Sam if possible. Did they get back together in the seventies, fall in love, get married? Were they still alive today, looking back on nearly forty years of wedded bliss? She wanted to know.

Sun, 17 Aug 2008 11:39:16 GMT

Besides, in that part of her mind she never visited the thought came that maybe this was the mirror starting to repay her.

Out in the pale winter sunlight and on her way up to the veggie shop, which had a good range but was staffed by a group of unreconstructed Macedonian sexists, she got a little perspective. Whatever it was she thought she heard or saw obviously didn't happen. She might have fallen asleep in her chair, dreamt it all and then woken when she fell to the floor after dozing too deeply. That seemed far more likely than people living in her mirror.

And so it went for almost a week with life returning to quiet and slightly lonely normality and no more odd occurrences. Until it happened again. She'd unconsciously been ignoring the mirror for most of that time, not game to push things. And work was hotting up, with two more clients booked in on what were quick turnaround time jobs. So when she finally broke off from a marathon session at the pc, her eyes wandered and she noticed that stain on the mirror was fading. The dark spots were almost non-existent. There was still a faint milk stain spread across the middle. It didn't seem likely the mirror could be repairing itself. As she focused on the surface she caught a movement again but didn't draw back. Even though she'd dismissed the whole earlier incident, she'd been half-expecting something else to happen in a doubethink sort of way. And as she watched the last of the cloudiness disappeared and there was the figure again, but much clearer this time. He was sitting in an armchair, holding an old-style phone to his ear.

'Samantha?' he said again, and his voice was clearer too. 'Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a surprise. No. Don't hang up.' The man grimaced. He was to her way of thinking in his mid-thirties dressed in a brown skivvy and flared pants. And with his long hair and sideburns, she thought he was a refugee from the seventies. 'Look,' he continued. 'I want to see you, again. Just to talk. Please?' There was such a look of concentration on his face. This conversation meant a lot, she could see that. The creases on his brow smoothed and he smiled. A nice smile. 'Great. Thanks, Sam. Meet you at the usual? Eight o'clock?' He nodded and placed the receiver down. It was one of those weirdly angular trim phones that cost a bomb in retro shops down King Street. The smile turned into a grin and he shook his fist in celebration. And then the image was gone and she was looking at her fairly puzzled self in the mirror.

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 15:12:31 GMT

Later that day she was emailing the latest screenshots to her client when she heard a buzzing sort of insect noise very faintly. She looked around but couldn’t see anything. She glanced at the mirror and saw movement. Nothing obvious. The clear part of the mirror reflected her and the room perfectly but the liver spotting down the middle seemed to be moving, or something was moving behind it. Good God. Hopefully there wasn’t some odd bug worked up behind the silver. She didn’t do bugs very well. Behind the dull pewter spots the mirror was fogged like thin milk with a rippling darkness behind it.

She stood, pushing the chair back and carefully removing the scarf from along the top of the mirror. Nothing obvious along the lip. Steeling herself, she prised the mirror slowly off the wall and peeked tentatively behind it, expecting some horrible larval moth thing to fly up into her face. Nothing. She pulled the mirror out further. Just the brick red reverse of whatever the backing was with a line of numbers printed across it.

The ‘figure’ seemed to lean forward, bringing an ‘arm’ up. Then she heard a voice, tiny and tinny. ‘Samantha? Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a surprise — ’

She didn’t tell Noleen. She didn’t want her to think she was crazy. Perhaps she was. But she felt spooked now and took to propping the door open so – although she didn’t voice the thought – she could make a quick getaway if she had to. Maybe she should throw the mirror out. But that would involve breaking it, no matter how far at a remove the action might be. The alternative was to give it to a friend. But that didn’t seem right either.

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 04:00:01 GMT

That night she dreamt Nick lay beside her in the darkness, whispering words she couldn’t quite hear. She could feel his touch, light and delicate on her neck, the fingers running slowly down her spine, the small of her back, her buttocks, parting her already moist lips and then his weigh was upon her, pushing himself into her in long, slow strokes. Her thighs swayed as she pulled him deeper inside, heat building in a delicious burning, on and on. She woke to an empty bed in the early morning light. Her cheeks were wet and she felt dead inside. ‘Get a grip, Isobel.’ she said aloud, pulling the doona around her. But her voice sounded hoarse and shaky to her ears.

When she felt the loneliness pressing in on her, she threw herself into her work. Even at its most annoying, it engaged her completely. She was good at what she did and her clients knew it. But she’d already spent way too much time working on this website. She was going back and forth with a client who couldn’t decide on the colour palette let alone stick to a decision for more than a day on how they wanted the content arranged. The mirror made her workstation a lot brighter, casting light from the window back onto her reading material, which was a good thing. But after yet another webpage iteration her eyes were tired and sore. Tireder than she imagined, because as she leant back in her office chair she thought she caught movement in the mirror. She looked towards the door, which was open, to see if Noleen or her boyfriend had come in unheard. But there was no-one. Back in the mirror her room was a perfect, motionless reflection. She shook her head, got up and made a cup of tea in the kitchen.

'Mirror, Mirror'

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 07:16:06 GMT

She’d come across the mirror some years before, when she and Nick were still together. It had been abandoned, lying in a shaft of dusty sunlight in the single room in Tamarama that looked across the water they’d let together. Some other renter had left it behind and you could see why. The silvering was old and liver-spotted, mainly across the bottom third although a trail of dull grey seemed to be moving down from the top to join it like some cancerous stalactite, and one corner was jaggedly missing. Nick was all for tossing it, but she’d said no, joking, ‘Seven years bad luck’. So they stored it under the double bed.

Sparing the mirror hadn’t helped though. Nick had still left and no-one replaced him. So she trawled the mirror behind her from share-house to share-house and always it nested beneath a threadbare blanket under her bed. She never stopped to wonder why. There was no rational reason and she was – on the surface at least, and who dared dig deeper than that – a rational person. But if she’d been really honest. If she’d really been able to question herself about it, she’d admit she was waiting for it to come good. She’d spared it. It was in her debt. It owed her.

It was only when she found the movers had broke her vanity during her next move to Kogarah Bay – and after she’d cursed herself for waiving insurance – that she remembered the unconscious and oft-repeated act of shoving the wrapped mirror into place under her bed beside the box of glass Christmas ornaments and backpack she bought when she thought she’d spend years travelling the world.

The move had been tiring. Setting up her desk under the window and filling her bookcases had taken ages. But she bent to the task. One final effort to make everything perfect, to finish her nest and shut the door on the outside world once again. There was a good spot for it against the wall at the end of her bed, between that and the dark wood dresser her aunt had found. She rested the mirror against the plaster, tilting it so it wouldn’t topple. An orange scarf from the dresser drawer draped across the top edge hid the missing corner. Standing in front of it, she could see the deco lamp fitting hanging from the pressed tin ceiling and the dark picture rail cutting a swathe across the mushroom coloured wall. It’s spotted and aged appearance seemed to fit the era of the room, and she smiled at her reflection, pleased with herself, and – secretly – with it. Finally done.

Her latest house-mate, Noleen, was out for the night, staying at her boyfriend’s place. Half her luck. She made a quick broth and noodles on the electric hob and brought it back to her room, finally shutting the door. The sun was going down and golden rays of sunlight struck off the mirror and fanned across the wall and brought out the pattern in the ceiling. She smiled again, with genuine pleasure, and ate her soup, watching the colours through the window change to crimson and purple. Winton Marsalis lulled her on the CD player. The room grew dark and slightly chilly until she pulled the doona over her and read until her eyes drooped.