in all ways I’d had the stuffing removed from me, I decided the best thing was to immerse myself in something to keep my mind elsewhere. My ever-thoughtful grandma passed her collection of antique mirrors on to me and charged me with doing something useful with them, and thus my new venture was born.
I will never be a millionaire from it but my shop does make me proud. I have a knack for bringing in nice items and displaying them well. Hanging at varying heights from the ceiling in the main room are all manner of lights, from antique through to modern, all casting their sparkling glow about the walls, which I always ensure are covered with mirrors of every kind. I try to angle my stock here and there, both to throw the light around and to give illusions of extra space and shaping to the square room. Create the right mood and the customer feels comfortable and will want to stay and explore more. I give them a soft glow any Hollywood lighting director would be proud of. I don’t need anyone running from their own starkly lit reflection.
In the middle of the floor, to fill the emptiness, is a fabulous and very large modern-style chaise. From the raised end it stretches out to accommodate even the lankiest specimen lying down. It is flat-seated and has no back, so customers can sit either side and peruse my wares in comfort, rather than have to stand around looking at themselves. Most don’t mind the sight of their own face whilst alone but can suddenly become quite shy once I come along to offer assistance. Self-consciousness can take over and that can mean potential buyers fleeing, which is something I don’t need.
I have shrewdly angled mirrors near my counter so I can keep an eye on browsers in the main room without having to go up through and disturb them – I couldn’t do that if I was selling gerbils. I can create complex views all around the place, bouncing reflection off reflection. I can have my back to you yet still be looking at two or three different aspects of you. Plenty of times I’ve suddenly spun round thinking there was someone there, only to be met by my own reflection in some corner. It’s something you have to get used to. It’s comforting in a way to not feel alone when actually you are, but it is disconcerting too, like you are constantly being spied upon, from all around.
As it is, it’s mostly me doing the spying, filling the time when unaccountably not one single person in this whole town feels the irresistible pull to buy a plate of silvered glass with their face in the middle of it. I angle my mirror display in the front window so I can see people approaching from either direction. I can do a lot of people-watching this way, whilst apparently not looking at them at all. This fellow, for instance. He’s always enough to stop me doing what I’m doing and sneak a good peek. I don’t see him too often so the welcome sight provokes just a little internal flutter. He has a pleasant face, a handsome face, and he always dresses smartly. And yes, if nothing else occupies my mind, idle moments are spent imagining other details.
It is almost impossible for anyone to walk past a mirror without looking into it. It’s just instinct. You catch a sight, you look. Of course, if you then see me inside looking back you may quickly avert your gaze, staring straight ahead as if you weren’t just gawping at yourself. Or you may feign sudden interest in another mirror, as if there was no vainness at all behind your desire to check out my window display.
He’s no different. As usual he’ll turn his head my way, eyeing the low mirrors along the front, noting the reflection of his always smart shoes below the neatly tapered trousers. Then he will look up and see me there, apparently coincidentally distracted from my work at that very moment, so that our eyes meet as if by accident. Then he will give me a little smile and a nod to confirm that familiarity has given us some kind of connection, albeit through a plate-glass window. It used to be just a nod but recently a smile has been added, giving me another little flutter and a burst of warmth that can last a while after he looks away again and proceeds to wherever it is he goes.
So here he comes. I’ve got my technique down these days; I’m a true expert now. Keep the head bowed but the eyes up so you can watch his approach. It’s all about timing. There’s his sideways glance, down at the mirrors. Hold for just a second. Now look up to meet his gaze. And there it is, along with the burst of warmth inside. Hold those kind, brown eyes. Melt just a little. Allow yourself fleeting notions of romance. See the little smile break instinctively across his lips – nice kissable lips, if you want to really to embellish the moment. Give a shy nod back and allow a slight smile to flicker whilst wishing your cheeks didn’t colour so much and make you look like some blushing virgin from a Jane Austen novel. Then watch him walk away, being sure to grab a sneaky back view as he goes out of sight.
Except that this time he doesn’t go. He passes the door and is heading away when he suddenly stops, his eyes down on a particular mirror in the far corner of the window. He is studying it. It’s a modern design so I think it might be genuine interest – it’s the kind I’d expect someone like him to be drawn to. Not that I know him at all, of course – outside my head, that is. He really is studying it. He’s looking at one behind it too – another modern design. And now he is coming back, eyes still on the mirrors rather than me, but my heart has started to race a little and he is coming in for sure, opening the door to the accompaniment of a burst of traffic noise. I actually feel my legs going weak.
He smiles my way, since we do kind of know each other in that eye-each-other-up way. It’s the same smile you’d get from someone who’d been checking you out from across the room at a party.
‘Do you mind if I look around?’ he asks.
Of course I don’t – despite the weak knees. His voice is pretty much as I’d imagined it. Polite without being posh.
‘Please do. There’s plenty more through there.’
My voice doesn’t sound too shaky, thank heavens. He smiles his gratitude and goes up to the main room. All my carefully placed spy mirrors can now come into their own and I can stay where I am and compose myself – it is, after all, simply a guy on his own in my shop. It’s not the first time. Just because he smiles as he passes doesn’t mean he’s not here on serious business. He’s giving the mirrors some pretty genuine-looking attention, or so it seems. He can’t see that I can see him. Or so I think. Actually, I can’t be sure he hasn’t found an angle of his own and is perfectly aware I’ve been covertly checking him out. That kind of forces me into action, whether my legs are ready for it or not. I go up the step and into the room and ask him if there is anything I can help him with. The kind, brown eyes fix on me.
‘I keep meaning to come in here,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken me so long. It’s embarrassing how bare the walls in my flat are. I was always going away, often abroad, so I never really saw it as my home. So now I’m spending more time there I ought to do something about that.’
His tone is mellow but he has self-assurance. Plenty of people clam up when I approach and make it plain they don’t want to talk. He is immediately open and even shares something of himself. Any salesman needs to find a common level with a potential customer but he’s kindly giving it to me on a plate. I’ll let you into a secret: there’s not much to talk about regarding mirrors. Some of my antique ones have a story but with the rest it’s essentially a case of do you like it or not? Yet he’s telling me about the plain colour of his walls, about how there is no particular style to his flat so nothing would really be out of place, giving me every chance to point out the ones I think are particularly nice or well-crafted.
I like how he looks into my eyes as I talk. But he doesn’t stare. From time to time he looks back at whichever frame we are discussing, so that he doesn’t appear to be there just on some mission to woo me. He might indeed be here with serious intentions to purchase. He seems as warm as I pictured him in my head. He’s intelligent too – you can tell by how he speaks and what he says. His eyes are bright as well as kindly. I really like that. They kind of sparkle when his smile broadens after one of our quips. I think what I like most is how at ease I am in his presence. It’s flirting without any actual flirting taking place.
But then he says, ‘Does this one always come with that face in it?’ He’s pointing at the one straight ahead of him and I’m two mirrors down. ‘The one you are looking at has got a much nicer one in it.’
It causes a bit of a blood rush. It’s the first