A Taste of Her

From the earliest of memories something was unsettling behind Gabriella's steeping eyes; she chose her words too carefully leaving her company unsettled. Aren't deep chocolate eyes meant to be warming, enchanting, alluring?

For what it's worth she continued to be invited to the polite gatherings in our neighbourhood, I mean she'd never behaved rudely and always brought enticing gifts to her hosts. Why did her presence lead to whispers?

Last I saw her she was dressed in a silky black robe so exquisite that I felt embarrassed I'd stopped by her home without calling first. She answered the door swiftly, stared deep into what felt like the very heart of me, she invited me in yet I declined. Whiffs of pachouli incense, a familiar Carol King song I can't name was playing, or was it Carly Simon? I handed her the invitation to the Christmas cake exchange for that...Saturday the fourteenth I believe. It's the last I saw her. Her hand reached out for the invite, her smooth cocoa skin touched mine.

Yes, I did speak to her after that. She called me, you can check my cell phone: here you are. She asked if an Italian Panettone would be appropriate, I assured her it was. What else? Let me think. I heard what I thought was a man's voice in the background, but of course, it could have been the television. She wasn't married.

Like I said, I went to the cake exchange with my lemon cake, saw the usuals and it didn't occur to me then to be alarmed. We weren't close friends. I arrived at a little after four p.m., hung my coat and had Prosecco with my friends. Why, are you insinuating that we are exclusive on purpose? What's with this interrogation anyway? Jesus!

The salmon lipped detective pushed what looked like a diary toward me across the dining room table. He nodded for me to open it. I felt as if I were stealing secrets, imposing unnecessarily into Gabriella's privacy. I opened the book and of all surprises there were photos of me, lots of them tumbling out. What the hell?

The detective asked why she had so many photos of me? I honestly have no idea, it still feels weird with her missing and all. Me, heading into the market in my camel haired coat, me laughing at a party with a close up of my mouth, me with a cigarette on my own front steps. It's crazy, isn't it?

All the women were interviewed, asked the same questions but only I was photographed. Sitting around the clubhouse fireplace the other women laughed it off, shrugged their shoulders, spoke about their latest tennis match or shopping finds. I slumped back in my chair and sipped my tea.

I thought of Gabriella's satin robe, her hand touching mine, her asking me inside. What if. What if I had just said yes.

Lara, the mouth of our middle aged click spouted across the room, "Pia! You always seem so far away these days. Whatever goes on in that pretty little head of yours we'll never know."

And I made sure of it.