Robyn Donald - The Mirror Bride

On the way, still inflamed with fury and righteousness, she bought a magazine with the most outrageous and embarrassing headline she could find, tore off the cover, folded it into four and stuffed it into the envelope with her letter, then posted it.

Scarcely two hours after the mailman had collected the mail from the box outside the dairy she realised that Drake could quite easily contact her stepfather and tell him where she was.

At first such terror enveloped her that she collapsed into a chair, her stomach quivering with panic, her mouth moving as she said aloud, ‘He wouldn’t—surely?’

Of course he wouldn’t.

No one, not even a man who had repudiated his son, would willingly put a child in jeopardy.

Not even Drake Arundell.

But although she tried to reassure herself, she couldn’t. The loss of her job meant that her days, once busy to the point of bursting, were now long and too full of empty hours—hours in which she could spin fantasies of Simon being torn from her arms by a vengeful Brian Harley. She even went so far as to get all their clothes out onto Simon’s bed and make them into parcels in case they had to flee from the flat.

Reason prevailed and she put them away, but she began to look nervously about her, seeing a threat in every stranger.

There followed two of the most worrying days of her life. In the evening of the third day after she’d sent the letter the knock she’d been expecting came. Swallowing, deliberately steadying her voice, she said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

‘Open the door, Olivia.’

Wiping suddenly damp palms down her thighs, Olivia did as she was told. Cool, clammy air rushed into the flat, its petrol-scented breath evocative of too many people trying to get home through the rain. Drake loomed in the entrance, yet it wasn’t so much his size that disturbed her as that mysterious thing called presence. Drake had too much, and in his case it was spiced with enough danger to impress even the most foolhardy.

Her eyes flicked across to the child who had curled up on the old sofa-bed and fallen asleep with the unexpectedness of childhood. It was too late now to turn back. All she could hope was that she didn’t show just how nervous she was; Drake would pick up any signs and use them to his advantage.

‘Come in,’ she said quietly.

He looked around, once more taking in the landlord’s cheap furniture, the total lack of anything that looked as though money had been spent on it. His eyes came to rest on Simon, snuggled under the blanket Olivia had draped over him. He frowned. ‘Is that where he sleeps?’

‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘He has a bed in the bedroom.’

‘With you?’

Biting off the words, she retorted, ‘I sleep out here on the sofa-bed.’

Astonishingly he said, ‘The last time I saw you, you were seventeen years old, gleaming golden with the gloss that money and confidence and a good school gave you. Your stepfather was the town’s only accountant—and comparatively rich—and you intended to go to university and become a lawyer. You’ve come a long way from there.’

She pressed her lips together.

He said impatiently, ‘You can tell me about it tomorrow morning at eleven in my office.’

‘I can’t come in to your office—’ she began, indignation edging the words.

‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the boy.’

‘His name is Simon, and he won’t wake.’

‘It makes no difference what his name is,’ he returned curtly. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wallet and opened it, removing a card. ‘Eleven tomorrow morning,’ he reiterated, setting it down on the table. ‘Make sure you’re on time. If you don’t turn up, Olivia, the next person on your doorstep will be a policeman with a warrant for attempted extortion. That second letter was not a good move.’

He turned and went down the stairs, moving swiftly and gracefully. Shivering, Olivia switched off the inside light and walked out to the edge of the balcony.

‘His car was parked in the light of a streetlamp. As she watched he opened the door and got in beside a woman clad in some crimson material. Blonde hair gleamed like satin as she turned a smiling face away from Olivia. Then the car door closed behind Drake and the internal light blinked out.

Shaken, Olivia turned and went back inside.

The next day was fine, one of those brilliant days when the sky was a cool, polished blue so deep that it seemed like a lapis-lazuli bowl inverted over the city. After leaving Simon at school, Olivia set off to walk as far as she could into Auckland before exhaustion forced her to catch a bus.

Five minutes early, she presented herself outside Drake’s office in Grafton, her feelings raw with outrage, her head held so high that her shoulders ached. The building was an elegant block guarded by security men and glossy receptionists, all of whom looked at her with variations of the same smug astonishment.

She knew why Drake had insisted she come here. He’d wanted to intimidate her. And after she’d trekked over an acre or so of slippery marble she had to admit that he had succeeded.

‘This way, please,’ murmured his secretary, a rather large but superbly groomed woman of middle age, as she headed off across more expensive flooring, this time a carpet whose close velvet pile made Olivia’s hot, tired feet curl.

Seated behind a huge, dark wooden desk, Drake was checking through a sheaf of papers. He got to his feet and said, “Thank you, Maria.’ After a narrow-eyed scrutiny of Olivia he added, ‘Bring a tray, please, with something to eat.’

When the door had closed with an expensive lack of noise behind the woman, he said, ‘Sit down, you look worn out.’ He waited until she’d obeyed before resuming his seat behind the desk.

‘I am,’ she snapped, furious with him for making her come all the way here.

That unpleasant smile curled his mouth. ‘Bad night, Olivia?’

‘Not particularly,’ she lied, wondering what he’d say if he ever found out that her sleeplessness had been caused more by the glimpse of the woman beside him than by his threats.

He’d probably laugh; he’d certainly use such knowledge against her.

Her letter and the torn cover of the magazine were in front of him, a jarring, tawdry note in that expensive, restrained room. Drake’s lean, tanned forefinger didn’t quite touch the cheap sheet of writing paper. He said, ‘You have nerve, Olivia, but extortion is a serious crime. And I’m starting to get just a bit sick and tired of this harassment. Push me any further, and I’ll see you in gaol.’

He meant it too. Olivia knew that she’d let her anger override common sense, but she couldn’t back down now. She looked at him steadily.

‘If that’s all you wanted me to come in for, you’ve wasted both my time and yours,’ she said, making no attempt to hide her disdain as she got to her feet. ‘I despise men who think they have some macho right to get women pregnant and then abandon them. Simon needs your help now more than he’ll probably ever need it again. If you never do anything else for him, you can do this. You had your chances; you had loving parents who did their best for you. Simon only has me.’

‘Sit down,’ he said without any inflection.

She shook her head.

‘Sit down, Olivia, or I’ll call the police right here and now.’

She looked into eyes so lacking in anything but an inflexible determination that they froze her right through to her soul. With an enormous reluctance—and only, she told herself, because she was so tired—she sank back into the chair.

‘And if I do this for him,’ he said coldly, ‘what will you want the money for next time? Because blackmailers never stop, Olivia. Even when they believe their reasons for extorting the money are impeccably moral.’