Through the Looking Glass

A MODERN ALICE

Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Jenna

I lost myself today, and I don’t know how to get back.

I was in Brighton, on the Sussex coast, wandering the lanes and enjoying the sunshine. I wasn’t really shopping: when you are furnishing a 1930s flat in London, you don’t really expect to find something appropriate amid the rustic pine of a Sussex antique shop. But you never know.

I turned the corner and saw a tiny, crooked, dusty shop; the name above the door read Dombey and Son. Was it a joke? A clever bit of marketing? Or had I strayed on to a film set? Intrigued, I went inside. It was just as I had expected: a clutter of decaying dressers with rickety legs, ‘distressed’ pine tables, mis-matched chairs with rotting rattan seats, a cheval glass whose mirrored surface had long since clouded over – and everywhere that unmistakeable smell of damp cardboard and forlorn hope.

And then, under several generations of dust and cobwebs I saw a faint gleam. Shoving aside a box full of books with broken spines, I excavated the object. A small table with a square-section central pedestal, covered in mirror, exactly what I wanted for our dining room. The faded label said £45. A bargain! You’d never find anything like it at this price in London.

I got my mobile phone out to call my husband. Hunting for a signal, I found a spot where a small grimy window let in some semblance of light. “I think I’ve found what we’ve been looking for,” I said excitedly, and started to describe my find.

As people will do when talking on mobiles, I roamed distractedly round the small, cluttered space, until I came face to face with the clouded mirror. But – had I been mistaken? - it wasn’t clouded: it gleamed as if some parlourmaid had put her very best exertions into shining it. I saw my reflection.

Oh yes, it was me: I know my own unruly hair, the nose I despair of (though my husband, bless him, calls it characterful). I rather liked the high-necked white blouse my reflection seemed to be wearing, the long grey skirt, even the button boots were becoming. Rather different from the jeans and T-shirt I had put on that morning, though.

Behind me in the mirror, someone seemed to have done some tidying. The room I was standing in didn’t look like a junk shop: most of the furniture had gone, the floorboards were shining, the rugs deep and luxurious. Candles flickered on a mahogany sideboard. I swear I could smell lavender furniture polish, and I could definitely hear the gentle tick of the long case clock in the corner.

Unwisely, perhaps, I reached out. The woman – me? – held out her hand and grasped mine. Shocked, I tried to pull back, but her grip was strong.

Now I am standing in a warmly lit, softly scented drawing room. The mirror on the wall, so shiny at first, is clouding over. Through it I can dimly see the junk shop, though the mirror is clouding up again. As I stand in the soft candlelight I can just make out something on the floor of the shop: a dropped mobile phone.

***

Jake

Though I say it myself, I have turned into a reasonably good cook. Cooking for one presents challenges, not least summoning up the energy to do it at all, when it’s easier to order take-away or warm up a ready meal. Lapin au vin is my signature dish, a fragrant rabbit stew; I used to cook it for Jenna sometimes on Sundays.

Tonight is my first dinner party, though, and I have to admit I am feeling nervous. Of course, it’s only Tom and Serena – a toe in the water you might say. I like my sister- in-law, but she talks for England! I’m hoping that’ll fill any awkward gaps in the conversation.

Now the front doorbell is ringing and I usher them in, take their coats and fuss with drinks. Serena is in full flight. “I haven’t seen the flat since you redecorated. It’s been ages…”

She wanders into the dining room, stops abruptly. It hasn’t changed: the walls are still scarlet, the ceiling black with the lamp hanging off-centre. We had so much fun planning that. I’ve put the little mirrored table in the corner. It’s what Jenna said she wanted to do, before she… left.

Yes, I bought it. After her last, interrupted phone call I didn’t know what to do. Then the phone rang, it was the owner of some antique shop in Brighton. He’d found a mobile, he said, and rang ‘home’, hoping to contact the person who had lost it. I went down to Brighton, of course, but it wasn’t any use. Jenna had just vanished. The only clue I had to go on was a small handprint on the glass of a dusty mirror. I was sure it was hers.

The dinner party is going well. Tom and I are exchanging stories of childhood escapades. Serena is babbling on about celebrity gossip and the latest episode of Game of Thrones.

Every now and again I glance at the mirrored table. I have covered it with stuff: an art deco table lamp, a collection of black glassware, a ‘30s cigarette lighter that Jen fell in love with, even though neither of us smokes. I can’t wait for the dinner to end.

At last, they are making home-go noises. I get their coats with what I hope isn’t too much alacrity, and wave them on their way with hugs and kisses.

I go back into the dining room. Carefully I move all the stuff off the mirrored table, slowly I place my palm on the shining surface. For an instant the mirror seems to cloud, the shadow of a hand seems to brush mine.

One day, I know, I will see Jenna’s beloved face again.