Dark Mirrors by Siobhain Bunni Page A

confessed quietly, “we haven’t had sex in almost two years.”
    If she was trying to shock her mother with this blatant statement of fact she failed miserably. Sylvia didn’t so much as flinch, being at a point way beyond shock. She thought her daughter’s marriage was solid – troubled but solid. A bit like hers and Frank’s. They’d had their good years and their bad years but they were rock-solid. And in sympathy all she wanted to do was reach out to her daughter, to make it better. She also wanted to castrate Philip. But on the other hand, she wasn’t convinced. He just wasn’t the type. But then, she thought, is there a type? Swallowing the concrete lump in her throat she held back, knowing that Esmée had to finish this without her and as she did, as any good mother would, she collected her thoughts and composed her reaction and advice.
    “And I miss it so much, Mum, I really do. I’m only thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m human and I need intimate contact.”
    Her mother blushed at the notion of her daughter’s sexual desires that, if she were honest, she really didn’t want to know about.
    “Sometimes I just to want to reach out to him, for him to hold me. I’m not after mad raging sex any more, I can live without that, but I can’t live without intimacy and companionship.”
    Sylvia watched and listened in complete dismay as Esmée poured out her heart and, when desperation and the tragic reality of her daughter’s circumstances became apparent, she went to her, knelt beside her and cried with her.
    “Oh Esmée,” she whispered with the love only a mother can possibly give and, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead while wiping away the tears she could catch, repeated her name softly, over and over. “Esmée, Esmée, Esmée, you should have come to me, I’m here for you. We’re all here. You might not believe me but I do understand what you are going through. Really I do.”
    Here she paused. She had her own story. Was now the time to tell it? This was a parenting moment for which there were no instructions, no rulebook. Painful as it was to acknowledge, Sylvia accepted that there were some secrets which, ultimately, were meant to be revealed and that they, in controlled circumstances, could be fashioned to help, perhaps to avoid a repetition of errors or maybe to illustrate simply life’s big picture.
    What do I do, Frank? she silently asked the spirit that had never left her.
    Do I tell her? Can I tell her? But she didn’t really need to ask his permission. She could feel him, sense him there with her. He was a presence that passed through her, a pulse of electricity that tickled every nerve-ending on the back of the hand that gently swept the face of their weeping child. He gave his approval and taking a deep breath she knew that the confession wasn’t a betrayal but a means to an end. Now more than ever she needed to support her daughter, no matter how painful or humiliating.
    “Esmée, your father and I . . .”
    Esmée looked upon her mother kneeling at her feet, unable to explain the charge that at that moment connected them so intensely.
    “You know there were times when we drove each other mad,” Sylvia went on. “Times when we hated, even despised each other . . . it wasn’t always a bed of roses.” There was melancholy laughter in her voice as she iterated further, needing to put her daughter’s plight in context and help her see sense. “We had our fair share of problems.”
    Sylvia’s face coloured strongly and, keeping her eyes low, she stood up with a wince and set about clearing the table. Esmée’s gaze followed her with curiosity.
    “Do you remember those bunk beds?” It was a loaded question thrown over her shoulder while walking to the sink with the half-empty cups.
    “Yes,” Esmée answered with a cautious nod, sensing a revelation in the offing, her interest aroused.
    “Well, we bought those to make a spare room for your father. We didn’t sleep