Читать книгу The Mirror's Tale - Christine Hummel - Страница 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My turn to chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How about Friday?’

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

The designated time passed; five, even ten minutes. No doorbell. Uuuum! I thought, he’s not coming. I moved over to the window to look out. Right then a dark coloured Alfa could be seen cruising slowly along the road as if looking for a parking place, its colour blue, though virtually destroyed by the orange light of the street lamps. I was pretty sure it was the same car I had seen that evening a few weeks ago and it gave me a feeling of foreboding. What had that been about?

Not wanting to appear too keen, I moved away from the window and waited. A few minutes later the doorbell rang confirming my hunch. I grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs. As I opened the door I was greeted by a large bouquet, which he very graciously held out to me. Here were the flowers I had wanted, but once again my plan was wrecked. No chance of making a quick, clean getaway.

We went back upstairs to attend to the flowers. Clearly one can’t go out for the evening with a bunch of cut flowers. They have to be put in water, don’t they?

I felt a bit flustered and angry. No boyfriend I had ever had would have done such a romantic thing but then none of them had been middle-aged Italians. I realised once more that I was in uncharted waters here.

Of course, despite my discomfort, I thanked him profusely, also behaving to type. That’s what well brought up English girls do, isn’t it?