Читать книгу The Mirror's Tale - Christine Hummel - Страница 10

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

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

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

‘As I was going down the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there,

He wasn’t there again today,

I wish that man would go away,

As I was going down the stair,

I met a man who…’

And so on and so on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The quest it seemed was on again.