The visual exterior of the shop screamed junk. Ideal if you’re renovating, short of cash and need a selection of eclectic furnishings and furniture quickly. Of course, we’d had some lovely free pieces from various sources, gifted, recycled, and preloved but we were looking for a sofa, the novelty of the deckchairs having worn off, weeks ago.
The bell attached to the door cheerfully announced our arrival. We split up. That way we could cover the rooms more efficiently, then go for a coffee. That, and neither of us thrived on shedding funds that should be funnelled elsewhere.
Even I had to admit the place was a cavernous jumble of small rooms that wove together haphazardly, which was a contradiction in itself. The rooms were heavily layered with trinkets, blending, together the vintage and classic. Bakelite and silverware, china and textiles swathed the walls and surfaces. There was a flash of coppery light as it caught a shiny kettle.
Paul had already taken the stairs, leaving me to scout the ground floor. Garden tools, pottery-style demijohns, seed trays and greenhouse heaters took up the first room, moving through to sideboards, and tables slicked with magazines. And then I saw – me. In a corner section full of antique-looking mirrors.
It was discombobulating. Some of them were the size of a hand mirror, mounted together with their dinner plate sisters. Others were full-length. I smiled, and the images returned the gesture, but as I turned to retreat, I’m convinced one figure beckoned me forward. It must be a trick of the light. Obediently, I complied, inspecting the mirror, which was two-tone. She smiled at me, or was it me smiling at her? I’m imagining things.
Its main centre was my silvery reflection, surrounded by a slim diamond bevelled edge, with individual jade-coloured pieces alternating with clear glass. She – or was it me, watched as I took in the full-length surround. I admit to even looking behind the piece. No camera. A prickle of unease trickled down my spine, fizzling into numbness.
Was I dreaming? She invitingly held her hand out and there was a sudden urge to meet her tips, while the rest of my being screamed to run.
I didn’t. There was excruciating pain and I’m convinced I screamed.
As my fingers rested against the glass, she laughed. Pivoting on my heel, behind me all I could see was snow. Hard, compacted pearlescent starkness, with a few footsteps sullying the ground. And in the distance, a hill with a solitary tree. My increasing breaths fogged the pane. Spinning against the cool glass wall at my elbow, looking to a diagonal corner, I could see a sideboard and beyond that in the background a vintage garden rake.
There were footsteps on the treads of the stairs and my husband said, “Nothing up there. Anything down here?”
“No," she replied. “Let’s go for a coffee.” She turned, flashing a smile that wasn’t mine.
I screamed pounding the glass with my fist, as I watched them both leave through the front door.
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