The Mirror World of Melody Black (3 page)

So, instead, I opened the window in our reception room, leaned out as far as I could, and smoked. There was the odd taxi passing in the street below, but nothing else. None of the house lights opposite was on. It was a solid mass of anonymous brick, each building melting into the next. I drew the warm smoke and cool night air into my lungs and wondered how many lonely deaths occurred in London on the average Wednesday night. And how many of those deaths were sudden and unexplained? Several, I was sure. Certainly enough to make Simon's death a mere statistic. Not the sort of thing that would warrant even a paragraph in the
Evening Standard
. Things would be different, of course, if I didn't live in London. In other parts of the country, where people weren't crammed one on top of the other like battery hens, it would be easier to grieve when a neighbour died. In other parts of the world, the simple action of going next door to borrow food would not be met with raised eyebrows and sidelong glances. But here, in a city of eight million, I couldn't escape the feeling that it was this action that had
caused
Simon's unlikely death. It was as if I'd broken one of the cardinal rules of modern urban living, and had to suffer the consequences. Maybe that was what I should have told PC Something: that there was nothing coincidental about my going over to Simon's flat today. It was just cause and effect.

My thoughts were spinning, so I left the window and tried to read for a bit. Then, when I couldn't concentrate on that, I flipped open my laptop and checked my emails. There was only one new message, from my sister. She wanted to make sure I wasn't planning to pull out of the ‘family meal' at the end of the month. I sent a reply saying that I was still shortlisting excuses. After that I read my Google homepage for a while. Quote of the day was from Einstein: ‘The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.' Tomorrow's weather was grey, grey, grey. On a whim, I typed
lack of emotion death
into the search bar, and spent the next fifteen minutes completing a psychopath test, then started reading a forum post about a man who had felt no emotion when his mother died in a car crash. I clicked on link after link, following an erratic trail through cyberspace, with no destination in mind.

And this was how I first stumbled on the Monkeysphere.

I awoke slumped across one arm of the two-seater, my spine twisted like a corkscrew. I couldn't have been asleep for more than two hours, but the muscles in my lower back felt taut as piano strings, and my head was full of thick, numbing fog – through which dim figures paraded like sarcastic wraiths: Simon, laid flat on a trolley; the policemen, casting conspiratorial glances; Miranda Frost, awaiting me in a faceless house in Highbury.

Shit.

I lurched into a sitting position, my eyes darting for the clock: 7.48. Why hadn't Beck woken me? The impulse to cast blame was hamstrung, a heartbeat later, by the inconvenient and obvious truth. Beck always slept like a corpse, and due to the ridiculously short amount of time it took him to get ready in the mornings, his alarm wouldn't be going off until eight. Mine should have gone off at six forty-five. I fumbled for my mobile. It
had
gone off at six forty-five; and my phone was set to silent.

How long would it take to traverse central London? Ten minutes speed-walking to Shepherd's Bush Market, twenty-five to King's Cross, then another five to Highbury and Islington. Add on fifteen, at least, to battle through the tunnels and wait for trains. Plus ten to find the house. Numbers tumbled through my mind like drunken acrobats, until I realized it was much too early for maths. Call it an hour, flat-out. That left less than twelve minutes to be washed, dressed and out the front door.

A shower was out, obviously, as was breakfast, as was coffee – despite the fact I'd never needed it more. There was a little bit of speed at the bottom of the freezer, but I was loath to take it on an empty stomach because of the ulcer I'd developed last year. Nevertheless, I was halfway to the kitchen before I'd talked myself out of it. Speed for breakfast; Dr Barbara would have kittens! Twenty milligrams of fluoxetine and a cigarette on the way to the Tube station would have to suffice.

Clothes, hair, teeth, make-up, toilet: my priorities arranged themselves before me like a row of dominoes already in motion. Fortunately, my clothes had been pre-selected days ago. The only thing I had to change was the footwear, replacing heels with ballet flats. Of course, I could have done with the extra inches – I can always do with the extra inches – but at this time of day, with so little sleep, heels were a visit to A&E waiting to happen.

After my own rude awakening, I had no thought of allowing Beck to wake gracefully. I flung the bedroom door open – he shot bolt upright – grabbed an armful of clothing from the wardrobe, and was back out and heading for the shower room in a matter of moments. Once I'd managed to wriggle into my tights, the rest of the outfit proved less of a challenge. Half a can of Batiste Dry Shampoo and a headband gave my hair the illusion of order and cleanliness, and then I gargled mouthwash while I peed to save myself thirty valuable seconds. I applied eyeliner and volumizing mascara with the deftness of a cartoonist creating features, then flirted with the idea of contacts before deciding that my big, black-framed glasses were a far better choice. Beck always said they made me look sexy and studious – and I hoped that Miranda Frost would appreciate at least half of this duality.

I sprang from the shower room in a cloud of body spray, with Beck saying something long-winded and, so far as I could tell, pointless through the open bedroom door. I couldn't wait for the end; I had to cut him off with a swift synopsis of the facts.

‘Darling, I'm horribly late. I overslept, on the sofa – don't ask! I'm leaving in the next minute. Please don't get up or try to talk to me. You'll only slow me down.'

‘Oh. Right. Okay. I hope it . . .'

The rest was lost as I gathered up my bag and phone and cigarettes. A fleeting glance out of the window confirmed that it was drizzling, but there was no time to be messing about with an umbrella. I descended the stairs three at a time and stepped out into the rush-hour rain.

By the time I reached the bottleneck of Shepherd's Bush Market, I was wet right down to my underwear. It was that damn stealth rain that feels like nothing more than a morning mist but saturates by attrition. Smoking was a logistical nightmare, and the Tube itself, needless to say, was Dante's Fifth Circle of Hell – the one reserved for the wrathful and sullen. My carriage was full when I got on, and got progressively fuller over the next eleven stops. For half an hour I steamed in my own tights. Then, when I changed at King's Cross, Marie Martin was everywhere – on the platforms and in the tunnels, occupying every third space on the escalators. She looked amazing, of course, shot in soft-focus black and white, with hair as dark as death and a pout to make men melt. More specifically, she looked as if she
smelled
amazing, by some indefinable photographic alchemy. Maybe it was those tiny, glittering beads of moisture on her upper lip. Maybe it was just a negative association on my part. I was certain that I didn't smell particularly great at that moment. A mixture of cheap body spray and wet nylon.

Marie Martin: Séduction

Abigail Williams: Hot and Humid

My best hope was that I smelled inoffensively damp, like the Amazon rainforest.

I wanted to text my sister to vent my spleen. I wanted to text my father to tell him he was a superficial prick. I had time for neither.

I emerged from Highbury and Islington at 9.07 and ran the rest of the way to Miranda Frost's house, a cigarette in one hand and my phone, switched to Google Maps, in the other. When I arrived, at 9.14, the hollow throb of hunger in my stomach had been replaced by a stitch.

‘Ah, Miss Williams.' Miranda Frost glanced theatrically at the watch she wasn't wearing. ‘I'm so pleased you could make it. It is Miss Williams, isn't it?'

‘Uh, yes. Abby. Hello. Sorry – I had some trouble getting here.' I waved vaguely at the sky, as if for corroboration. My mind was a sinking ship. ‘I would have rung, but . . . well, I didn't have your number.'

‘I didn't give you my number.'

‘No.'

‘So the fault lies with me?'

Never back down; not once you've committed to an excuse. ‘Yes. Incontrovertibly.'

Miranda Frost did not smile. ‘Well, you'd better come in. We haven't got all morning. I intend to be working by ten. Shoes off, please.'

It was technically a flat, I supposed, but bore nothing in common with the shoebox I called home. It was spread across the bottom two floors of a Georgian town house overlooking Highbury Fields. It had a private rear garden and windows larger than the floor space in our kitchen; Miranda Frost's kitchen, in turn, was larger than our entire flat. Indeed, the notion that our residences fell into the same broad category was patently absurd. Miranda Frost and I were both living in flats in the same sense that John Lennon and Ringo Starr were both respected song-writers.

‘You have a lovely home,' I ventured.

‘This isn't my home, Miss Williams. It belongs to a friend. I stay here whenever I'm in London, which is as seldom as possible. I couldn't afford a place like this. I'm a poet, not a barrister.'

‘Oh.' There was a leaden silence. ‘What about your friend? What does she do?'

‘She's a barrister.'

‘Right.'

I busied myself with my bag.

‘Do you mind if I record this conversation? It will save time.'

‘Whatever you find most efficient.'

I delved deeper into the side pocket, spilling half its contents – cigarettes, lipstick, a tampon – over the kitchen table. ‘Shit! Sorry. I didn't get much sleep. My co-ordination isn't great this morning.'

‘Evidently. Part of the trouble getting here, perhaps?'

‘Yes.' With things going as they were, there seemed little point denying it. ‘But it wasn't entirely my fault,' I added.

Miranda Frost shrugged. ‘Far be it from me to question your professionalism. You're young. No doubt you lead a fascinating life. Would it help if I made some strong coffee?'

I decided to interpret this offer as sincere, despite abundant facial evidence to the contrary. ‘Yes. Thank you. That would be very kind.'

She looked at me, without comment, for several seconds. Then there might have been the briefest flicker of a smile. But more likely it was a hallucination. ‘Very well. I'd hate for this morning to be a
complete
waste of time.'

When she returned with the cafetière, I had already started drafting copy in my head.

We're sitting in the
high-ceilinged
airy kitchen of a Highbury town house. Miranda Frost, 52 [check detail], is dressed in a cashmere cardigan and pleated skirt. When she speaks, her voice carries the brisk precision for which her poetry is famous. She makes a lousy cup of coffee and is much more of a bitch than you'd imagine.

‘Mmm, caffeine. Thank you, Miranda. May I call you Miranda?'

‘You now have thirty-three minutes, Miss Williams. It's your time to spend as you will, but I suggest that we dispense with the pleasantries and press on.'

I smiled through clenched teeth. ‘Yes, let's. Just bear with me a second.'

The rain had permeated the outer layer of my shoulder bag and soaked through to the back page of my notebook; where once had been questions, now dwelt an unnavigable sea of blue ink. I decided to stall first and improvise second. ‘Forgive me. Do you mind if I start slightly off track?'

She sipped her coffee. ‘I'd expect no less.'

‘Okay . . . Well, you're a notoriously private person.'

‘Is that a question or a statement?'

‘It's a statement.'

‘And an oxymoron.'

‘Yes, perhaps. But they sometimes have their place.'

‘In Shakespeare, Miss Williams. Not in competent journalism.'

‘Right. Well, I suppose that's not a million miles away from the point I'm trying to make. You rarely give interviews. Your last, I believe, was in 2010, for
The Culture Show
.'

‘Correct.'

‘So, er, I guess the question I'm asking – just for personal curiosity, really – is why now? Actually, scrap that. Not why now. Why me? I mean, I'm not exactly
The Culture Show
.'

Bumbling and disjointed as this was, it was nevertheless the first thing I'd said that seemed in any way to please Miranda Frost. That flicker of a smile was back.

‘It was your name, Abigail. Nothing more. Your name amused me, so I chose not to delete your email. I assume you must be aware of your literary forebear? Salem?
The Crucible
's central harlot?'

‘Oh, right. Yes. Ever since I was about fifteen. We read that play in school. You have a good memory for names.'

‘Only in fiction, as a rule.'

‘It passes most people by.'

‘As it did your parents, presumably?'

‘Yes. I mean, my mum reads a little, but not widely. And my dad despises culture in all its forms; he's in advertising. I can't imagine he ever took my mother to the theatre.'

‘Ah, “took”. Past tense. They're separated?'

‘Divorced.' I was aware, of course, that Miranda Frost had somehow inverted the interview, that it was her asking the questions. But at least she was starting to warm up a little. I decided I had nothing to lose and ploughed ahead. ‘My dad left us for his secretary. It was the most appalling cliché. Now he's hooked up with a French perfume model, four years older than me.'

‘A perfume model? How does one model perfume?'

‘A model who's in a perfume ad. Marie Martin.
Séduction.
She's all over the Tube, if you're interested.'