“You’re not a slave, Lucy,” said Amaryllis.
“I was the ghost who made everything possible.”
“That makes me so sad for you.”
I pull up. Have I said too much?
“Don’t be sad for me. I’ve had this beautiful fresh start.”
She smiles at me, sincere, expectant.
“Once I realized I was invisible, I thought long and hard, and in my large and clean and silent house, I searched through my cupboards. No wonder I’d become invisible to my most beloved people in the world. My clothes were old and worn and faded and out of date, and the woman in the mirror was sad and ordinary.”
“You are not sad and ordinary, Lucy.”
“Oh no. I took action straight away. I went to the largest mall I could find, in the centre of town, and found a hairdresser who could do my hair immediately. I gave that hairdresser complete freedom. I surrendered utterly as I lay my head back in the basin. The warmth of the water down my scalp; the tropical smell of the shampoo; the head massage under his firm fingers. I sighed out loud.
“It was so strange to see my own wet head, slick as a seal’s when I sat and stared at the mirror. I was a make-up artist at a tv network before I became a housewife. I’d transformed so many others in my early career, and now, this stranger in a black cloak stared back at me with big, serious eyes, high cheek bones, expressive mouth and my skin still smooth enough. Smooth enough for what, though? I smiled at myself. I sat higher in my chair. I realized; Bart didn’t know what he was missing. But by then, it was too late for our marriage.”
There’s an awkward silence.
“I should go,” she says.
“No. No. Please, Amaryllis. Tell me how you make your wine.”
It’s a long process. Amaryllis tells me she gathers the berries from a friend she visits every year in the east during the fall, then there’s the right amount of sugar, testing acidity, the temperature ... It’s interesting, but I stifle a yawn.
“I’m boring you.”
“Not at all, Amaryllis.”
“Oh. Look at the time. I probably should have given you the short version. Not everyone is as passionate about elderberry wine as I am. But you know, I do love the idea that you can bottle the sunshine.”
“And it tastes so good! You must show me.”
“Not tonight. I need to get back to Merlin.”
“Oh?”
“My old cat. He frets if I’m gone too long. You must come down and meet him. Any time. I’m always home, except in September when I pick the berries.”
I clean up and turn out the lights, aglow with my new friendships. I love to think that Dirk is above me – a fine, fit, upstanding,attractive, retired doctor – and Amaryllis below; so interesting and welcoming.
In the quiet hours of the night, in my apartment, my mind drifts. I’m not used to living alone. In those first few months after fleeing Bart, I lived with Donna. On her sofa, rolling up my bedding and stashing it underneath each morning. We took turns cooking, washing and sorting our clothes, shopping.
If I wanted to rant and rave about Bart, Donna ranted with me, and nodded without stop. If I wanted silence, she was fine with that, too, or we’d chat about our working day, about the lives we’d unpacked, guessing at the details. I should have married Donna, we joked, more than once, and in that way of friends. I even worked out when it was time to leave, though she never said a word.
By then, along with the money from the sale of my shabby chic furniture van, I’d saved enough for rent, and was accustomed to living in a smaller space, without my workshop – so many projects half-finished, more shabby than chic. My life had shrunk. My needs became simpler. Food, shelter, money to live on, and working out how to reconnect with Phoebe.
In the darkness, I drag my mind to the present, to the generous proportions of these rooms, the ceiling rose above me in the centre of the room, the ornate light fitting. It glows like a pearl, like a milky opal. Calm.
I wonder who else has lived in this apartment. It’s more than eighty years old, and unlike Dirk’s perfectly renovated penthouse, many of the features are original. I love the old bones of this place, the polished floorboards, and especially the window seat where I often sit and stare at the busy view, of so many other buildings and windows, some with the blue and white flicker of television screens, others with Christmas lights winking. Some are empty or dark – the residents deep in the slumber that evades me. Some are lit with the romantic golden glow of side lamps like the ones I make, while others are bright with white lights, like workshops, dance studios and offices.
I tiptoe out to the living room and peer out. A full moon stares across the city, huge and sombre, and I perch on the wooden window seat, my shadow streaming out into the moon, a ghostly silhouette. I put out my arms as if to spook myself, but I can only laugh. There is nothing sinister about this room, and though I miss Phoebe, and the glory years of Bart’s and my marriage, and my years with my parents – all too short – I am full of hope about the future, now that I’ve found this new home at Brighton Court.
I will make a cover for this seat, once I paint the room. The dark timber of the seat is ominous, a little dented and stained.
It’s only then that it occurs to me that the window seat might open, and in the darkness, I prise open the heavy lid. It’s completely black inside, a cavern. I am thrilled. Tomorrow, I will move my lamp-making tools from the spare bedroom and fit them all into this bonus space. Yes, I miss my old workbench, purpose built by Delta Kitchens, a network sponsor, with drawers for my tools and fabric and a mighty expanse of flat space for cutting, but the floor will have to do. I’ve been kneeling on a rolled-up towel.
