The Mirror's Tale. Christine Hummel

the ‘more’ being the problem. It was going too fast for me. I wasn’t even sure if I had wanted more than the achievement of gaining someone’s interest, but now I was stuck with dealing with the follow-up.

      * * * * *

      By Friday morning however, I had managed to achieve the brainwashing to a certain extent, and was almost happy about the evening’s arrangements. After all, as teenagers we go out with all sorts of people we don’t really know, …. don’t we?

      Goodness knows, I had taken some horrendous risks myself at that age, even ending up in a den for auctioning stolen goods and drug dealing one sleepy Sunday afternoon in my hometown…and… hadn’t I ridden off into the night on the pillion of a 1000 c.c. motorbike with a young man I had never previously clapped eyes on, and lived to tell the tale? Got myself involved with some seriously delinquent gang leaders with nick names like ‘Winkle’ and ‘Dog’ who even terrorized the local police and were frequently featured in the local papers; hair-raising to think about now.

      Unless my guardian angel had retired from the job I should be O.K. I reasoned. …or, maybe like cats we have a certain number of risks we can take before our luck runs out… No. Stick with the positive. Choose your superstitions carefully. After all the odds were, Friday evening would arrive, come what may.

      Never-the-less, during that Friday afternoon I vacillated between fear that he, after all, would not turn up, and the hope that indeed he wouldn’t, thus letting me off the hook and circumventing the need to quell the butterflies I was suffering. As twilight descended I began to ready myself, again with meticulous care. Into the shower using my best-perfumed shower gel, then slipping sensuously into the beautiful underwear and the black velvet, knock ‘em dead trousers with a discreetly sexy black lace top. Somewhere I had a chunky stylish gold bracelet that I hadn’t worn for years. Must find that! That, and my ‘for best’ gold watch would make me look really classy I thought, and finally I managed to unearth them, after a frantic rummage through many boxes that I hadn’t even opened since moving here from the family home.

      The final job was to get my hair right and this was usually a real battle as, hormonal changes had wreaked havoc with its texture. Previously I had had a glorious healthy mane of dark brown wavy hair, but the grey had crept in and the ends had a tendency to emulate Brillo pads if I didn’t have it cut and coloured regularly and take the time to condition it, which I found a real chore. Life became more and more a full time servicing job, to stem the tide of the degenerating state of one’s body, I thought sadly.

      However, the trip to the seriously tarty hairdresser now paid off. My hair was still looking pretty good even after my amateur messing with it, probably because the cut was certainly much better than I had ever had before, and the colour had a more subtle, more expensive tone.

      I looked around me after all my self-pampering efforts I felt deliriously self-confident, but then it struck me that the flat looked like that of an average teenager. Clothes, make-up, boxes and bags strewn around everywhere. Regression was now total, I thought. But, unlike your usual adolescent I began to tidy up whilst wondering whether I should invite him in for an aperitif?

      Did one do that? Where were we going, and had he booked a table? I decided not to invite him in at this stage, which meant I had to be totally ready to run downstairs as soon as the bell went…if he came. Ten minutes to go ‘til the time agreed. I lit a cigarette. I couldn’t think of more to do to myself and the flat was now looking very respectable. Wish I’d bought flowers, though. This was all in case I changed my mind about inviting him in for that aperitif or… perhaps… maybe… dare I? A nightcap afterwards? What a tentative, untrusting person I had become, I thought. I waited.

      * * * * *

      The designated time passed; five, even ten minutes. No doorbell. Uuuum! I thought, he’s not coming. I moved over to the window to look out. Right then a dark coloured Alfa could be seen cruising slowly along the road as if looking for a parking place, its colour blue, though virtually destroyed by the orange light of the street lamps. I was pretty sure it was the same car I had seen that evening a few weeks ago and it gave me a feeling of foreboding. What had that been about?

      Not wanting to appear too keen, I moved away from the window and waited. A few minutes later the doorbell rang confirming my hunch. I grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs. As I opened the door I was greeted by a large bouquet, which he very graciously held out to me. Here were the flowers I had wanted, but once again my plan was wrecked. No chance of making a quick, clean getaway.

      We went back upstairs to attend to the flowers. Clearly one can’t go out for the evening with a bunch of cut flowers. They have to be put in water, don’t they?

      I felt a bit flustered and angry. No boyfriend I had ever had would have done such a romantic thing but then none of them had been middle-aged Italians. I realised once more that I was in uncharted waters here.

      Of course, despite my discomfort, I thanked him profusely, also behaving to type. That’s what well brought up English girls do, isn’t it?