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 time I’ve been on the end of flattery for quite a while. I try to make it a nonchalant smile but my cheeks have no doubt given me away.
‘Face not included, I’m afraid,’ I eventually say. ‘You’ll have to insert your own.’
‘Pity,’ he says with a smile and a shrug. It’s a chance for him to pop in a cheeky follow-up like ‘Your face would look great in my flat’, or even go for broke with something like ‘Your face would look great pressed to my pillow’. I’m a little relieved when neither come. I don’t actually know how I’d react to some serious chatting-up. As disarming as he is, I’ve been such a closed book in terms of relationships and romance that I’m not even sure when I’ll be ready to open it again. It’s a dusty old book now and placed on a shelf so high I’d need a set of steps to reach it. Anyway, it’s no matter because a killer line doesn’t come. Instead he tells me he thinks he’s found his favourite mirror.
It’s a nice one; he has taste. I stand beside him but refrain from looking into the glass and catching his eye. Just moving to his side brings a myriad reflections all around, like a crowd is milling about the room. I reach up to flick over the price ticket so he can see the damage. I am close enough to catch his scent. It’s as welcoming as everything else about him.
‘You are single,’ he says, his eyes on my hand. Well, that’s whipped the rug from beneath my feet. It is said as a statement rather than a question and it is a statement I cannot deny. Rings on certain fingers are one way we silently tell a part of our story to strangers, however much of ourselves we would normally keep hidden. Having no rings seems to tell just as many tales. The implication is loud and clear: I am available. And his statement was not just a passing observation but a declaration of possibilities. I almost reply that I once thought I was close to wearing one. But what is that to him or to anyone? It never happened.
‘Yes’ is what I actually reply, stopping at that because there is nothing to add. I am indeed available, although I hadn’t thought of myself in such simple terms. Worse still, I am already seeking out a reflection of his fingers, checking for rings, instinctively if perhaps unconsciously showing my readiness to collude with him in whatever naughtiness he has in mind in pointing out my lack of husband or fiancé. I spot no glinting gold. I, of course, have a fabulous reason for being single but what is his excuse? Maybe it’s a warning sign I need to heed. Then again he did say he was always away, always travelling back and forth, which isn’t exactly ideal for forging or holding down relationships. Maybe the timing has simply never been right.
And now we are looking at each other’s reflection in the glass before us. I am tight-lipped and a little flushed of face. He has those sparkly eyes. I’ve not informed him of any boyfriend obstacles so I’ve effectively laid myself open. My breath is not coming as easily as it should.
‘This mirror,’ he says, looking ahead to see me. ‘I know the size is fine. I’d just like to visualise it in my flat first. Would you mind if I came back to have another look at it?’
Despite feeling I could be getting out of my depth here, I still feel a pang of disappointment that he is going to leave. It’s offset by the prospect of seeing him again.
‘No, of course not,’ I say, trying to sound businesslike rather than desperate.
‘Would you mind if I asked you a question in the meantime?’
My cheeks continue to give me away. I am an amateur at this flirting malarkey and he can see in my face I am there for the taking. I couldn’t stop his question even if I wanted to.
‘No, of course not,’ I find myself saying for the second time, seemingly intent on sounding like one of the parrots they used to sell here.
‘Well, there is one thing I find completely irresistible in a woman – apart, of course, from her having eyes just like yours.’
Another warm surge goes through me. I’m starting to tremble a little but I hold his gaze. I can’t just let this hang there. He knows I have to ask.
‘And
