Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

The face in the window stared back at her. Hers, yet not hers, it blurred into a jelly of reflected faces and the shifting darkness beyond.

She would be there, soon. With her mother – with him . She would have to say the right things, laugh in the right places. Pretend everything was alright.

Laura picked up her overnight bag, left the station and began the slog up Wimbledon Hill. Lorries shuddered past, splashing her jeans. She forced her umbrella into the wind. Her body felt flimsy, like one of those skeleton leaves clinging to the trees along the road.

At the top of the hill she turned into a side road then left into Elgin Drive. Slower now, past the line of stern 1930s houses. Number 31 loomed behind its ten-foot, ruler-flat hedge. The Porsche wasn’t in the driveway.

She opened the gate, hesitating. She didn’t want to go into this house again – not now, not ever. What if she turned around and went home, said she wasn’t feeling well? It wasn’t far from the truth. The warning signs were back: a thudding heart, a prickling beneath the skin. But she drew in her breath and made herself walk up the path and press the doorbell.

The hall light came on behind the frosted glass panels. She waited. Then her mother appeared, a little out of breath. Her hair, now highlighted blonde, bore the signs of her favourite Toni & Guy stylist.

‘Hello, Mum. I thought you weren’t in.’

‘The radio was on, I didn’t hear you.’ She was enveloped by arms, bosom and a cloud of floral perfume. ‘You’re soaked! You should have called, darling, I would have picked you up at the station.’

‘It’s only ten minutes. I don’t mind the walk.’

Laura followed her mother into the kitchen. The cactus on the windowsill had sprouted a third lobe, a spooky shade of orange. On the worktop, plastic containers competed for space with her mother’s collection of herbal and homeopathic remedies for everything from insomnia to swollen ankles.

‘Dad isn’t back from work yet?’

‘He shouldn’t be long. How was your trip?’

‘It was just what I needed, I didn’t want to come back. How was Christmas?’

‘Oh, you know. Your father wasn’t in the best of moods.’

A thick paperback lay beside the toaster – one of those self-help books with instructions for how to transform one’s life. She opened it and read the underlined sentence:

Picture affirmations as seeds that you are planting in the garden of your mind.

Laura put down the book. Her mother was a sucker for all that New Age stuff.

‘Did Stephen miss you while you were away?’

‘I doubt it. We’re not seeing each other anymore.’

‘Oh, Laura.’ Her mother’s brightness vanished. ‘What happened?’

‘He was seeing other girls,’ she explained. ‘He said he didn’t think our relationship had a future. He said I didn’t trust him. Stuff like that.’

His words were stuck inside her head. I don’t know who you are, Laura. You never let me see the real you.

Their parting had been brief, though not painless. Evidence of his betrayal had been left for her to find: an unfamiliar hair slide on his dressing table, a blonde hair on a pillow. She’d yelled, hurled things. He’d told her she was being hysterical.

‘I’m so sorry, darling.’ Her mother approached, arms opening. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Laura bit her lip. The tears were banked up behind her lids, ready to flow. But she stiffened and pulled away. She didn’t want to cry here, with her father liable to walk in any moment. In any case, she had cried quite enough lately.

‘I just needed time to sort things out in my head.’ It wasn’t only that. She couldn’t talk to her mother about lots of things. Explaining herself to her mother was just too difficult. Keeping things inside was easier, was what she was used to doing.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ Her mother was already removing a bottle of milk from the fridge, which was crammed with cling-filmed bowls. A damp ginger cat squeezed with difficulty through the flap and padded towards her. Laura glanced into the hall. She had to be on her own for a few minutes.

The downstairs toilet was fragrant with air freshener. On the shelf, dried flowers sprayed prettily from a vase. The basin, spotless, boasted a pristine block of Royal Jelly soap. Her reflection startled her: ghost-white face framed by a damp tangle of nearly black hair, eyes smudged with kohl. They stared back at her, as sad and shiny as a spaniel’s.

She turned the tap on full, wondering if the sound of pouring water would hide the howl that might erupt from her. No, almost certainly not. She neatened her hair and splashed cold water on her face.

‘Don’t take this too much to heart, love,’ her mother said as they sat at the kitchen table. ‘You never know who might be round the corner.’

No one, hopefully. She’d had enough of love, enough of men who wanted too much or too little. Enough of men full stop. Her mother meant well but she just didn’t get it. They were too different, they would never understand each other. They were never going to be the best buddies that she wanted them to be. How could that happen when her mother still loved Dad, thought he was as white as snow? In all this time she’d never guessed the truth.

‘Daniel’s bringing Karen with him tomorrow, did he tell you?’

Laura shook her head. Her brother, two years older than her, was a project manager at a high-tech company in Bristol. She envied his focus, the way his life appeared to go wherever he willed it. Her own life was waiting in vain for some direction. Engrossed by her history course at Durham University, she had graduated with an upper second, better than she’d expected given her erratic performance in exams. But now, eighteen months later, she was starting to wilt. Try as she might to latch on to some sort of career, something vital to success always eluded her.

‘He said it was about time we met her,’ her mother said with a knowing look.

It was serious then – Daniel never brought girlfriends to the house. Although she was glad Daniel would be around tomorrow for their father’s birthday, she wished she’d been able to think of a good enough excuse to not be a part of it.

Her father arrived shortly after 7.30pm. When her mother went to greet him, Laura didn’t get up. His footsteps smacked the wooden floor as he strode along the hall. She saw, as he entered the kitchen, that his face and neck were still tanned from the summer. No sign yet of a beer belly. He was a tall, athletic man, quite decent looking. A man she ought to be proud to have as her father.

‘Hey, sweetie, how’re you doing? Good to see you again.’

He put down his briefcase and momentarily stood before her, arms at his sides as if hoping she might hug him, before leaning over and offering her his cheek. She barely touched the stubble with her lips. Faint, woody notes of his scent, peppermint mouthwash on his breath. He lifted his briefcase onto the worktop, pulled off his tie and took a beer from the fridge, as any other man might do.

Over dinner, her father’s mood worsened. He grumbled about a scratch he’d discovered on the passenger door of his car, which he suspected wasn’t accidental.

‘It’s that kid down the road, I bet. The one who rings on people’s doors for the hell of it – his parents let him roam the streets at all hours. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

Her mother nodded, looking worried. ‘How was work today?’