Copyright – A Mixed Bag
Copyright – A Mixed Bag
“No, why on earth would it be?”
“But you always courted attention, you were always at the centre of things! This should be perfect!”
“If you think a plaque, memorial gates and a champagne reception for the city worthies represent my life’s work, then I wasted far more time than I care to think about.”
Silence follows. Some things never change.
“Sarah. Sarah? Are you alright, dear? Are you ready to go in now?”
I look at the man – some titled chap who had taken it upon himself to ‘look after’ me, the ‘poor Mrs Albright’.
I stand, pull back my shoulders, take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, I need to cancel all of this. Alex wanted the focus to be on his causes, not him as a person. The money you have raised should go to charity, not be spent on this. I’m so sorry…”
The man takes my hand, a shockingly intimate response. I realise that I haven’t been touched by another person for weeks.
“My dear, I quite agree. Leave it with me. I will deal with the hangers-on.”
I sit down with a thump. I feel a huge relief.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
The silence that follows this time is somehow comforting.
Her world, the stage of the Old Bailey, the number one court in the land. She has chosen murder, rape, the most heinous of crimes, as her home. And she loves it, gliding down the tiled corridors, wig in hand, wheeled case stuffed with evidence lists, case law, closing and opening speeches. It is where she belongs. Juniors vie for her attention, yet quail when selected by an imperious prod of her crimson nail. She is terrifying.
And yet, watch her now as she collapses through her front door in the minutes after midnight. Her make-up has faded, her hair has pulled free of its chic chignon. Much of her work, the gossip of the law, takes place in the pubs that cluster around London’s Inns of Court like washer-women around a pump. In her twenties and thirties, she had thrived on this extra-curricular frenzy, gulping down rumour and Shiraz like a baby at the breast.
Watch her, now she is home, now she is just the woman who has realised too late that all she really wants is a husband, two kids, a dog and some goldfish. What’s the use of a family home without a family to fill it? Who needs limited edition this, designer that, original the other when they can’t welcome you home at night, or miss you when you’re not there?
Look at her as she regards herself in the mirror, frankly appraising the high cheekbones, the flinty eyes, the fulsome lips. She fumbles in a pocket, pulls out a glossy square of paper. A photograph? Her eyes slip downwards, shy of her own scrutiny. Her face dips and she hooks a stray curl behind her ear, a regular, unconscious act. Then with a swift twist, she releases her hair and it tumbles down her back, uncharacteristically wild, black stranded with silver. A softness appears in her expression as she glances at her reflection again. She slips the piece of paper into the corner of the frame, touching it with her fingertip – a gentle mannerism.
Her coat is thrown over the bannister, heels kicked off, black jacket unbuttoned and she sighs, as if release from these trappings is ultimate relief. Now turning sideways, we can understand.
She caresses her stomach with one hand, and then the other. The mask slips once and for all.
“Hello, little one. Welcome home.”
Freya Writes... 