short stories

When I took the mirror back to the shop this morning, I wasn’t at all surprised to find that the old woman seemed to be expecting me.

‘You kept it longer than the others,’ she said, as I laid my parcel down in the space she had cleared amongst the rest of the junk that cluttered the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I think I’d better get on with my own life now.’

She smiled knowingly as she unwrapped the string and newspaper and lifted the mirror up to check it for signs of damage, presumably. I had the chance to see my face in it one more time: the same straggly blonde hair with wisps of grey, tired eyes and the furrows in my brow that the events of last year had scarred me with.

As I turned to leave she put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘you did well, Caroline. Remember it is better to reflect and not to regret.’ She smiled and I made my way out through the swirling motes of dust, into the bright sunlight of the street outside.

***

I can still clearly remember the day I bought the mirror just under a year ago. I had recently moved into my own house. It wasn’t much, but it suited my needs and I was very comfortable in it. I was twenty-eight, I had a good job in an important company and I was almost over the break up of an intense six-year relationship. The head office of my company, in LA, had just offered me a five-year contract, working over there in a managerial position, starting in the late autumn. I had been elated at the news and, despite having only just bought my house, had eagerly accepted. The perks outweighed the distance, and the salary and lifestyle were more than tempting. I planned to rent out my house to students while I was away, and so still have it when I moved back.

On that particular day, walking through the town during my lunch- break, I had taken a shortcut to the sandwich shop via a dim, narrow alley. I had come across an interesting looking junk-shop and had decided to step in to investigate.

Inside, the air was dusty and stale, suffused with the smells of long-forgotten histories. I wandered amongst the junk looking for anything that might give my empty house a bit of furnishing. An elderly woman, as grey as the shawl she was wrapped up in, regarded me silently from the back of the room. She didn’t offer to help so I didn’t ask. Suddenly my eye was caught by my reflection in the mirror. It was an antique, very ornate, with an elaborate frame of leaves and swirls. I loved it immediately. While I stood there admiring it, the old woman got up and came slowly towards me.

“It’s a beautiful mirror that, but not a piece to be bought on a whim.” She paused and I waited for her to go on.  “It has a long history and it’s been in this shop for a good many years. You could say that it is a part of the shop. But, when you walked in I knew straight away that it was waiting for you and that you would buy it.”

I turned and looked straight into her bold eyes. I was almost tempted to laugh at her and walk right back out of the shop. A mirror, after all, was not the most essential piece of furnishing I was lacking. But something about her confident aura and the gentle glow in her eyes told me that she was sincere. This was no cunning sales technique.

“How much is it?” I asked instead.

She smiled then and turned away. “I don’t think I’ll sell it to you today. You go away and think about it for a while, and if you’re the right person for it, you’ll be back.” I laughed then, certain she was joking, but she returned to her chair at the back of the shop and picked up an old lamp she’d been cleaning. Incredulous, I turned and left the shop, thinking what a crackpot I’d just encountered, and how I’d better go and get my sandwich before I was tempted to buy any other ridiculous item.

As the door slowly heaved itself shut behind me I found myself face to face with someone I recognised. It was Ryan Bentley, whom I’d last seen at a party almost a year previously. He recognised me immediately and seemed pleasantly happy to see me again. After filling him in on what I had been up to in the last year and where I was working, we said goodbye and I finally got to get my sandwich.

For the rest of that week, my mind kept returning to that mirror. I even saw it in my dreams. I tried very hard to forget about it but I had already chosen the spot on my bedroom wall where it would look its best. On Friday I returned to the shop. It seemed I was expected. The old lady had taken the mirror off the wall and cleaned it up. She had it propped by the till and was laying out some cardboard and newspapers to wrap it with.

‘Well, here you are. I expected you a little earlier,’ she said sweetly.

I stared at her through the dusty motes in the sunbeams, but she beckoned me over and lifted it onto the table for me. I helped her, as it was pretty heavy for its size.

“It’s £35 but it may cost you more than that in the long run – Caroline.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shivered but didn’t dare ask how she knew my name.

“This mirror is going to show you more than just your pretty face, you know. By coming back here today, you sealed your fate, or chose your path, or met your destiny…. whatever you choose to call it. If you had not returned you would have taken another path from this moment on and lived a very different life. Of course, this happens to each one of us at every moment of our lives, but we can never know how things might have been different, if…or if not. The best thing is to reflect but never to regret. What is, is; what wasn’t could never be – but you will soon see what I mean. Take the mirror and may it help you to see for the better.”

I paid the woman and picked up the mirror, which was heavier than it looked. I was, by now, completely convinced that she was a crackpot – or perhaps some sort of witch – and was imagining what a laugh I was going to have with my mates about it later that evening. I thanked her nonetheless and turned to leave. As I did so she called out, “I’ll be seeing you again, Caroline.” No fear, I thought and left.

It was a strange coincidence to bump into Ryan Bentley again as the door closed behind me. We both laughed.

“Well hello again, Caroline! You must either own that shop or be a true regular,” he joked.

“And you must work nearby or else be following me,” I replied, suddenly captivated by his beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. Why had I never noticed it before?

“Or maybe it’s just fate!” he laughed. As he said those words, I felt my hair stand up and I recalled the old woman’s words. “That looks heavy. Can I give you a hand?” I tried to protest but he had already firmly grasped hold of the mirror and swung it up on his arm. I thought, why not, and decided to let him walk me back to my office. We laughingly recalled names and faces from the party and compared notes about what had happened to people since, and I was surprised at how affable and gregarious he was. So when he asked for my phone number and suggested a possible date, I was happy to give it.

A few nights later I was getting ready and admiring my reflection in my mirror. I had arranged to go out for a meal with Ryan and was wearing a new crushed velvet dress I had bought for the occasion. I was very pleased with my reflection in the mirror. Some mirrors are flattering and this one was. As I leaned closer to put on my lipstick my reflection seemed to waver and for a second, I was sure I had seen myself wearing my leggings and pullover, unmade-up, flicking through a magazine, as I had been that afternoon, before I’d started getting ready. It was only for a second. I shook my head and there I was again, about to put on my lipstick.

The incident unnerved me slightly, but I had such a wonderful evening with Ryan that I put it right out of my head and concentrated on enjoying myself. After our meal we went to a live jazz bar, and I felt more myself with him and more relaxed than I could remember feeling for ages. He told me a lot about his work as a paramedic and how much he loved it. I told him about my job offer in the States and he seemed disappointed. He congratulated me but said he would be sad to have just found me only to have to say goodbye. I was touched, and for the first time, felt a stab of doubt about my future.

For the rest of that month, I floated and daydreamed my way around my work, played Ella Fitzgerald love songs and watched my weight as Ryan and I began to get deeper and more involved. Inevitably, it wasn’t long before Ryan spent the night at my house. My bedroom was strewn with the debris of our clothes.

At some point in the night, I got up to go to the bathroom, and stopped to glance at my appearance. I gasped to find my room was as neat and tidy as before and instead of seeing my reflection looking back at me, I could see myself, curled up, asleep in my bed. I was alone. It was like looking through a window at another time in my life. The words of the old woman suddenly came back to me. ‘This mirror will show you more than just your pretty face…’

I turned around to look back - to check that I hadn’t just dreamt Ryan was there. He grinned up at me sheepishly from the bed but when I looked back at the mirror, everything was as it should be. I decided that the passion of the evening was probably getting to my head, and dismissed it.

Over the weeks that followed, my relationship with Ryan began to take over my life, changing my fate irrevocably, it seemed. It was a tough decision, but it didn’t take me long to realise I wouldn’t be taking up that job offer in the States. I felt that Ryan was what I really needed in my life, and maybe I was in love with him too.

But, it wasn’t the only thing happening to me. I had noticed on several occasions the strange quavering effect of the mirror, and each time, it was quite clear that what I was seeing was myself as I would have been if I hadn’t met Ryan. Most of the time it was just little things I noticed – like once when the only difference in the room behind me was the absence of a bunch of pink roses Ryan had sent. To begin with, I had felt a weird nervousness about looking into the mirror, and had considered putting it away, but my curiosity always got the better of me and I continued to look for that hidden life. Naturally, I didn’t breathe a word of it to Ryan, and pretty soon I just accepted the situation as almost normal.

Around the time that I should have been packing my bags and heading off to America, Ryan had started to build a permanent place for me in his life. I was more or less living at his place anyway and rarely stayed in my small house alone. But when I did come home I was able to look in the mirror and see myself, putting on my lipstick in a strange apartment with polished walls, large windows and in the background, the unmistakable outlines of an American city – Los Angeles. There I was in my other life. It was curious to see how it could have been.

That’s when I should have smashed the mirror, or taken it back to the shop. But who can resist the secrets of an unknown fate? My secret remained locked inside me as I watched my other self living it up in America, and I began to wonder if I had made a mistake, yet Ryan continued to be the sweetest and most loving person I could ever have hoped for.

In America I saw myself being wined and dined and showered with gifts by a tall, gorgeous, immaculately dressed man, who was in my apartment more and more. From the clothes I had started to wear, the jewellery, the little furnishings, it was clear that I was doing pretty well in my new position. It was also clear that practically every one of my evenings was spent in some form of social engagement or another as I watched myself – dressed in Armani, Versace or other top fashions probably from Rodeo Drive – leave on the arm of this handsome stranger.

Ryan had started to notice, obviously – he wasn’t stupid. When we spent the evenings together, curled up on his couch, sipping red wine in the glow of the winter fire, he would curl a strand of my hair around his finger, kiss me gently and ask me what was wrong. I would break out of my reverie, smile sweetly at him, and mumble something about problems at work. How could I begin to tell him? I loved him, but I thought I was in love with a ghost too. ‘That other man must exist. I could be with him right now,’ I kept thinking to myself. I was beginning to see that I was in a mess, torn between my fates.

One evening in late autumn, we went for a walk through the park and I tried to tell him. I asked him what he would do if he could see his path through life, if he could choose his destiny, what would he choose between, love and comfort or material success and glamour?

He replied immediately. ‘Definitely love. I’ve never cared much for the fast life. I love my work, I love my home, and I love you.’ He stopped walking and turned to face me, holding me gently by the shoulders and looking down, searchingly, into my face. ‘I’ve never felt so clear before about anyone. I want to marry you Caroline and spend the rest of my life with you. I know you’ve got other things on your mind right now, and you want to succeed in your work, but I’m willing to stand by you, whatever it takes.’

I think there were tears in my eyes as he kissed me. I felt comforted, strangely secure and happy in love, and I berated myself for fantasising about a figment of an unlived destiny. I would make more of an effort; I would try to give Ryan the hope he was looking for. I just asked him to give me some time.

But it didn’t stop me, two nights later, when I had decided to stay at my house to finish some work, from watching the events in my mirror as avidly as most soap fans watch their weekly dramas.

I had covered the mirror with a silk scarf, determined not to let it use me. But it was stronger than I was. I had a little peek. There I was, in my lush American apartment, being kissed and undressed by the man who was beginning to haunt my dreams. The door to the bedroom was open, reflecting back to me the satin sheets on the enormous king size bed. I couldn’t tear my gaze away as he carried her – me – naked, into that room, and began to make love to me with such erotic expertise, that I found myself getting turned on, frustrated. I wanted to be there, I wanted to be me in that other life. The mirror let me watch just long enough to make a decision, and then it showed me my own distraught face, and I had to turn away.

Over the next couple of weeks I began to inquire at work about the position. It was too late, someone else had taken it, but if I wanted to contact the head of the department in the States, he would be able to inform me of any possible openings in the near future. When I was sent the literature, I was almost knocked over to see that the head of the department I would have been working for, as real and as handsome in his glossy profile photograph as he was in my mirror, was the man I had been dreaming of. His name was Samuel Conner.

‘I’m really very sorry, Ryan, but I need to get my head straight about this.’ He had stood by the window, looking out at the grey drizzle that sleeted onto the lawn outside, his shoulders drooping with despair. ‘If I do go, it may not be five years, perhaps only two or three. I’m not asking you to wait. I love you, but I have to let you find someone who won’t be as messed up as I am. I need to find out who I am. I don’t think I can do that here.’

I had felt so guilty about concealing from him the real truth. It was as if I were already seeing someone else behind his back. I hadn’t had any job offer yet, but I had applied, and I couldn’t lie to him about that. I had told him I would be moving back to my own place until I knew what I really wanted, and perhaps it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while. The strange thing was, that when I got back to my house, and unpacked my bag, I felt as if I were the one who had been left with the broken heart.

But then things began to get weird. As autumn turned to winter I waited for my applications in the States to be processed, and as I waited I watched. Mr Samuel Conner was appearing less and less in the mirror. What I saw one evening took me completely by surprise.

The American Apartment was in semi-darkness, the great windows to one side of the room let in night light from the city, but apart from that, only one small lamp was lit, over by the coffee table, where I saw my other self, curled up in a bathrobe, drinking from a glass tumbler which I seemed to be refilling from a bottle of scotch. Well, that wasn’t so unusual – I liked the odd drink on my evenings alone at home. But I couldn’t believe it when I watched myself sit up and lean over a small piece of mirror, on which, quite clearly, were three or four powdery lines of white chalky stuff. She – I – inhaled them into her nose and then lay back, totally wired, on the black leather sofa. I couldn’t possibly have done that!

Well, I made a decision. If I ever did find that other life, I would certainly part from my fate on that score, having the benefit of foresight, as I did.

Over the next few weeks, however, it was clear that the other Caroline was getting deeper into trouble. On several of those evenings I watched her repeat the habit, sometimes alone, sometimes with him, sometimes with a crowd of people. The apartment began to slip into decadence, and my once clear skin and fresh eyes looked back at me, withdrawn, red-rimmed, hollow. How had I let that happen to myself?

I thought about Ryan, and I tried not to. He had stopped calling to ask how I was, and I didn’t want to think about how much I had hurt him, how much I missed him. Christmas came and went, so did the New Year, and I had never felt so alone, so empty.

Then one day in February I got a reply from America. They had found me a good position in the same department, a three-year post, which I was welcome to take up as from April. The head of the department had signed the paper, Samuel Conner.

Elated, I rushed home to get ready for the celebratory meal I had arranged with some colleagues and stupidly, decided to put on my make up, in front of that mirror.

My own reflection vanished and I saw the door open. I – her – the other me, walked into the room, or staggered, more like, practically falling over the coffee table as he, Samuel, followed behind, in such a way as I had never seen before. He looked angry, dangerous and they – we – were clearly arguing. I watched transfixed as the other me went into the bedroom and started throwing clothes into my tatty, old brown suitcase. He came up behind and grabbed her arms. She spat in his face, but was clearly so out of it that she could barely even manage that.

Suddenly he struck her, hard across the face. I saw myself fall across the bed but he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up, to strike me again. I tried to run from the room, but he grabbed me in the living room, right in front of the mirror and started wrenching at my dress. He tore it – despite my flailing limbs and hysterical fighting – right off my body like a piece of old rag. Then he kissed me, hard, holding my hands behind my back, pushing me up almost against the mirror. I could only watch in shock and growing horror as he got rougher and more insistent. It became clear when he kissed me again that he had drawn blood and I pulled away, shouting ‘enough!’ But it was no good. Samuel was snarling, a look of utter contempt and aggression on his face. With his other hand he began to unbuckle his belt. I couldn’t believe it…. I was watching myself being raped.

I don’t know what I did, I think I shouted, I swore, I banged my fists on the glass, but the people in the reflection couldn’t hear me and there was nothing I could do. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. She fought him, as well as she could but when it was clear that his strength was too much, I watched her lie still and endure.When it was over she spat at him again, but he just grinned and said something sarcastic. I watched her run to the bathroom and lock herself in. He rearranged his clothing and left. My own reflection stared back at me again.

Yesterday morning, after I had turned down the job offer in the States for the second time, I made the decision to return the mirror to the little old lady in her dusty antique shop. Good luck to anyone who bought it. But I couldn’t help gazing into it for one final time.

Reflected back at me was my very own room, more like it had been when I’d first moved in, but definitely the same. On the floor by the door was my tatty, old brown suitcase and spilling out of it, some of those beautiful Armani dresses I had worn in my other life. I must have just flown back from LA. But the room itself was filled with people. The first person I noticed was my mother, who was white-faced and wearing an inconsolable expression of grief. She barely stood, clinging to the doorpost, as a stretcher draped in a sheet, was being carried out by two ambulance men. The third ambulance man, with his back to the mirror, I recognized with astonishment and dismay, as Ryan. He was trying to console my mother, but it was clear from the look on his face, that he was in almost as much shock as she. Whatever my fate had been, it was over now.

***

Walking out of that little dusty antique shop into the warm spring day this morning, feeling empty handed, but clear, refreshed, alive, I bumped straight into Ryan.

‘This has got to be more than just an uncanny coincidence,’ he laughed. ‘This must be fate!’

Laughing back into his smiling face and reaching up to brush away a tear that was beginning to form there, I caught my reflection in his eye.

The End

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