and a wave were thrown my way, before she increased her speed again and disappeared around the bend into the next street.
I’d wondered why she hadn’t come over and now I knew: she couldn’t talk to the wife of the man she’d reported to the police.
Did she know they would arrest him last night, in front of the children? Did she know what she would be doing to my life?
Mirabelle, my husband’s accuser, stands perfectly still, as if petrified by this moment. But coiled, too. Ready to fight if she needs to. She’s my mirror image, of course. I’m frozen too, solidified but also ready to defend myself if necessary.
Her gaze shifts to the door a few times and it dawns on me that she is waiting for me to move away before she leaves the third step of my staircase, before she closes the gap between us for long enough for her to leave.
Mirabelle is scared. Of me? Of being here? Or of how plausible her case would be if the police found out she was in her alleged attacker’s house taking care of his children the night he was arrested?
I step aside, her body tenses in response, broadcasting that she is scared of me. Me. I take another step left, away from the door, and she moves right, off the step. We continue to move like that, almost circling each other, keeping our eyes firmly on our opponent, careful not to give the other even the slightest advantage, until I am on the stairs and she is in front of the door.
Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches behind herself and releases the catch on the door.
‘Why did you even answer the phone to me, knowing what you’d done?’ I ask before she escapes.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she says.
She’s probably right, I wouldn’t. I don’t. I don’t understand any of this.
I say nothing to her.
The silence in our house is so large, so all-consuming, the click of the door shutting behind her sounds like a bomb going off.
Beatrix
He was nice, I had a nice evening. Will I be reading the book that is Rufus? At one time, maybe, but now? Probably not. Or maybe, I don’t know. He was nice, he made me laugh, I smiled a lot, but the spark just wasn’t there.
Now, don’t be thinking I’m one of those women who has her head in the clouds and doesn’t know a good thing when she dates it. I do. But, well, last page and all that. He walked me to the taxi rank down by the bottom of the Lanes and we stood there awkwardly, not sure if we should kiss or not. He would have kissed me, but I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. Then the moment passed, so I stood on tiptoes – more for effect than need since I was in these killer heels – and pressed my lips onto his cheek. His arm slid around my waist, holding me close as I kissed him.
‘Am I ditched?’ he asked as I stepped back and he reluctantly took his arm away.
‘Not yet,’ I said because, well, what else am I going to say when he’s standing right there?
‘Sorry, mate, it’s a no-goer, I’m afraid.’
Not my style.
The taxi turns into Providence Close at the end that’s nearest Tami and Scotty’s house. I’m surprised Tami hasn’t called or texted, actually. Usually when I’m on a date she checks in to make sure I’m safe (she’s like my big sister sometimes, honestly). In fact, my phone’s been pretty silent all night. I reach into my bag and rummage around until I find it. I pull it out and the screen is black. A few attempts to turn it on tell me that the battery is flat. Stupid phone is be-janxed. I only charged it this afternoon. But, hey, that’s something, I must have had a better time than I realisedif I didn’t even notice my phone wasn’t working. Usually, shamefully some might say, I’m glued to my phone – yes, even in company.
If there are lights on in the Challey house I’ll stop, I decide as the taxi driver slows for the bend. I peer out and see the house is in darkness. I check the LCD clock of the taxi: 22:55. That’s way too early for them
all
to be asleep. Usually
I’d wondered why she hadn’t come over and now I knew: she couldn’t talk to the wife of the man she’d reported to the police.
Did she know they would arrest him last night, in front of the children? Did she know what she would be doing to my life?
Mirabelle, my husband’s accuser, stands perfectly still, as if petrified by this moment. But coiled, too. Ready to fight if she needs to. She’s my mirror image, of course. I’m frozen too, solidified but also ready to defend myself if necessary.
Her gaze shifts to the door a few times and it dawns on me that she is waiting for me to move away before she leaves the third step of my staircase, before she closes the gap between us for long enough for her to leave.
Mirabelle is scared. Of me? Of being here? Or of how plausible her case would be if the police found out she was in her alleged attacker’s house taking care of his children the night he was arrested?
I step aside, her body tenses in response, broadcasting that she is scared of me. Me. I take another step left, away from the door, and she moves right, off the step. We continue to move like that, almost circling each other, keeping our eyes firmly on our opponent, careful not to give the other even the slightest advantage, until I am on the stairs and she is in front of the door.
Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches behind herself and releases the catch on the door.
‘Why did you even answer the phone to me, knowing what you’d done?’ I ask before she escapes.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she says.
She’s probably right, I wouldn’t. I don’t. I don’t understand any of this.
I say nothing to her.
The silence in our house is so large, so all-consuming, the click of the door shutting behind her sounds like a bomb going off.
Beatrix
He was nice, I had a nice evening. Will I be reading the book that is Rufus? At one time, maybe, but now? Probably not. Or maybe, I don’t know. He was nice, he made me laugh, I smiled a lot, but the spark just wasn’t there.
Now, don’t be thinking I’m one of those women who has her head in the clouds and doesn’t know a good thing when she dates it. I do. But, well, last page and all that. He walked me to the taxi rank down by the bottom of the Lanes and we stood there awkwardly, not sure if we should kiss or not. He would have kissed me, but I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. Then the moment passed, so I stood on tiptoes – more for effect than need since I was in these killer heels – and pressed my lips onto his cheek. His arm slid around my waist, holding me close as I kissed him.
‘Am I ditched?’ he asked as I stepped back and he reluctantly took his arm away.
‘Not yet,’ I said because, well, what else am I going to say when he’s standing right there?
‘Sorry, mate, it’s a no-goer, I’m afraid.’
Not my style.
The taxi turns into Providence Close at the end that’s nearest Tami and Scotty’s house. I’m surprised Tami hasn’t called or texted, actually. Usually when I’m on a date she checks in to make sure I’m safe (she’s like my big sister sometimes, honestly). In fact, my phone’s been pretty silent all night. I reach into my bag and rummage around until I find it. I pull it out and the screen is black. A few attempts to turn it on tell me that the battery is flat. Stupid phone is be-janxed. I only charged it this afternoon. But, hey, that’s something, I must have had a better time than I realisedif I didn’t even notice my phone wasn’t working. Usually, shamefully some might say, I’m glued to my phone – yes, even in company.
If there are lights on in the Challey house I’ll stop, I decide as the taxi driver slows for the bend. I peer out and see the house is in darkness. I check the LCD clock of the taxi: 22:55. That’s way too early for them
all
to be asleep. Usually
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