Rebecca James - The Woman In The Mirror - A haunting gothic story of obsession, tinged with suspense

‘What about the gallery?’ Aaron asked. They were in his penthouse, a rooftop tower overlooking Central Park. The vodka in Rachel’s hand was mercifully robust. It had been a sober realisation that really, other than her colleagues, she had no one else here to inform of her intention, just him. ‘Seems like you’re just getting started,’ he said.

She was conscious at moments like these that Aaron wasn’t merely her lover: he was her investor. ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘A week or two away won’t change that. I’ll be online if I’m needed; in the meantime Paul takes charge, he’s more than capable.’

‘You think a week or two is all it’ll be?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ She put down her glass. ‘It depends what I find. A rickety old house, most probably, and a bunch of junk that needs sorting.’

Privately, the thought of that junk containing just one photograph of a man and woman who might have been her parents, or her grandparents, or her aunt and uncle or cousins or anyone, really, made her flush with adrenalin.

‘Will you be OK in such a big place on your own?’ Aaron came to her and rested his forehead against hers, winding her fingers through his. They kissed; he smiled mischievously. ‘It looks kind of…foreboding. Like a haunted house.’

She laughed. ‘You believe in that stuff?’ she asked.

‘You might.’

‘I certainly don’t. Make-believe isn’t my thing.’

‘You don’t think we’re a bit make-believe?’

She frowned, amused. ‘How do you mean?’

‘We’re playing pretend, aren’t we? Pretending we’re together, but we’re not really, not properly. All I’m saying is that make-believe has its perks.’

‘I’m sure it does.’ Rachel reached for her drink, encouraging him to take a step back. ‘But I’m more interested in the facts at Winterbourne. This may be my only shot at finding them. How many adopted kids get a chance like this?’

‘I’m only suggesting you might want a little company while you’re out there.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Creaks and bumps don’t scare me.’

He folded his arms, watching her affectionately. ‘What does, Rachel Wright?’

She finished the vodka, emboldened by it. ‘What kind of question is that?’

‘What does scare you? Because I’m wondering if Winterbourne represents a chance for you,’ he said, ‘to run away from what’s happened here, from real life.’ In that barefaced way of his, he struck her right where it hurt, forging on, heedless of her dismay. ‘Because you haven’t been happy, even I can see that, and by my own admission I don’t know you that well. Working all hours, pouring everything you’ve got into the gallery, barely pausing to breathe – it’s impressive, sure, and I was impressed by you the moment you walked into my office with a torch in your eyes that told me you’d stop at nothing to achieve it. But managing all that has meant you’ve been able to close other, more personal, doors, hasn’t it?’

Seeing her expression, he added, ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn—’

‘You have spoken out of turn,’ she said, coldly. ‘I’m not running away, Aaron. I’m running towards something. Something I’ve been trying for years to find.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t know. You’ve never been able to get this. I need to see that place. I need to find out about where I came from, the people I came from, my mother, my father, I have no clue who they were. I’ll probably never know, now this last link is gone. But I have to go there, be there, touch it and feel it. I’ve thought of nothing else since I read that letter – and it goes back to way before then. I’ve thought about this, or some version of it, ever since I found out I was adopted. Finally I’ve got the chance at resolution. And once I find that resolution, I can come home.’

Aaron ran a hand through his hair. ‘You’ve been through a lot, Rachel.’

‘I know what I’ve been through.’

‘I don’t want to see you go through any more.’

‘You won’t. I’m going on my own. You won’t have to see anything.’

Perhaps she should have kept the whole thing to herself. She supposed that she had wanted to share it with someone. She had wanted to talk about it with someone because it was too big to take in on her own.

It was hard to think about the person she really wished to discuss it with. His wisdom, his good sense, his kindness, how he would have taken her in his arms… He had always been her first port of call, and Rachel liked that expression because it was true: he’d been the harbour for her little ship that had been bouncing alone on the tides for too many years. He had taken her in, given her shelter, and she’d put too much on him, of course she had, mistaking him for the whole family she lacked, so that when he left it wasn’t just a husband, someone she had hoped to have kids with. It was everyone. It was the past as well as the future. She missed him. Oh, she did.

‘I have to do this, Aaron,’ she said. ‘And frankly I don’t care what you think.’

He nodded. She waited. But the day Aaron Grewal apologised would be the day the sky fell in. ‘Let’s have tonight together, OK?’ he said instead.

She kissed him, an answer he seemed to accept. The future vibrated with nothing and everything, an empty, fearsome space, yet its promise was the closest she had held to her heart in as long as she could remember. Winterbourne would relinquish its secrets. And if it fought her, if it dared make her wait longer than she already had, she would force its mysteries to the surface through sheer dark grit. She was good at that.

Chapter 9

Cornwall, present day

Rachel didn’t like to delay once her mind was set. Twenty-four hours later she was boarding a train at Paddington, the key to Winterbourne safe in her pocket. She kept touching it, running her fingers over its ancient contours. It looked like a key that could open another world, the key to a trapdoor in the ground, beyond which strange creatures roamed and slept, and the sun rose at dusk and the moon rose at dawn.

A woman sat opposite her with a young girl. The girl was applying nail stickers, her focus entire. The woman flipped out a magazine, its cover detailing minor celebrities on vacation, with the headline SKINNY AND MISERABLE!

The train eased from its platform and a voice announced: ‘ Welcome to this South West Trains service to Penzance, calling at… ’ Rachel reached for her tablet and checked her mail, but it was no good, she couldn’t focus. Instead she looked through the window. It took a while to chug out of London, past the terraces under their drab grey sky, and the motion of the train made her tired. She hadn’t slept on the plane, had barely rested or stopped since she’d opened the letter, and she put her head back now and tried to relax. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of the two solicitors at Quakers Oatley, sitting opposite her, their expressions by turns fascinated and grave. She had been Alice in Wonderland, tumbling down the rabbit hole, and they were as captivated by her as she was by them. These gatekeepers were about to change her life, everything she had ever thought about herself, every presumption overturned. Her instinct about their being keen to move the case on had been right. Rachel had the impression that Winterbourne was an albatross for them and they welcomed the chance to get rid of its legacy. ‘We weren’t sure we’d be able to find you,’ the woman had said, adjusting her papers in the prim, efficient manner of one pleased at their own good luck, ‘or, if we did, what your reaction would be.’

The man had run through what they knew. Rachel craved more, each answer insufficient, each explanation scattered with holes. She yearned for the names of her mother and father but was left wanting. Her grandfather was identified as a Captain Jonathan de Grey, making Constance, as the letter made clear, Rachel’s aunt. But there was no grandmother. ‘What about the captain’s wife?’ she’d asked, scouring the scant family tree as the solicitors looked apologetically on. ‘That was her, right?’ But the man shook his head. ‘Your mother,’ he said gently, ‘had different parentage…’