The Black Mirror

By L. E. Hartley

A week is a long time in Ireland.
Oliver thought he was experiencing life-changing events in London, but in the four nights hes been gone, his world has turned upside down.
The changes he has undergone since his first encounter with the sexually-liberated witch will be no more than a backdrop to the scenes being played out on his return.

This second book in the Mirror trilogy follows the lives of the three couples as their continuing interactions reshape the lives of those around them.

Another flight, same time tomorrow.

What a difference a day makes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504935036

L. E. Hartley

“Some are born great. Some achieve greatness. Some have greatness thrust upon them.” And some go through life inspiring greatness in others.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The chill night air sends a shiver down his spine as Oliver steps out of the restaurant. The moon reflecting on the black surface of the river catches his attention for a few seconds before he returns the call.

‘Hi. Sorry, I was just having dinner.’

‘Me too. I just slipped away to let you know what’s happening, before I have another glass of wine.’

‘In case you forget?’

Josephine gives a short laugh. ‘I’m unlikely to forget today in a hurry!’

‘So, how did it go?’

‘Brilliant. Money in the bank, no more property.’

‘You didn’t sell the farm as well?’

‘No, silly. Just the house and shops.’

‘And they came across with the five million euros?’

‘Absolutely. I’m still feeling a bit shell-shocked, to tell the truth.’

‘I’m not surprised!’ Oliver is wondering if she’ll ask about his day. Long pause. He tries to sound light-hearted as he says ‘So you’ll be seeing Nigel again tomorrow? Changing your will?’

‘What’s mine is yours, darling. You know that.’

He’s about to say something about it all being in her name, but she cuts in with ‘Actually, Nigel wasn’t there this afternoon. I had to deal with one of the junior partners.’

‘How come?’

‘No idea. I’m over at their house now, and Sam says she has some important news to impart, but is keeping it ‘til after dinner.’

‘You think he’s finally left her?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Laughter from the dining room echoes round the conservatory.

‘Sounds like quite the little party you’re having there.’ Oliver hopes he sounds noncommittal.

‘Just us and the middle men who set up the deal.’

‘Well, have a good evening. Try not to spend it all at once. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Ok. You too! Love you!’ And she’s gone.

At the table, Peter Gilchrist is seating himself on the chair that Oliver was occupying. Shandy doesn’t even notice him walking back across the room, as she gives all her attention to the other man. He realizes they all have to work together on her project, and makes a conscious effort not to feel jealous. Peter is a happily married family man, the director of Shandy’s play. Reminds himself that he is here to design and construct the set. The chance encounter with her, their weekend together before today’s meeting all has a very dream-like quality. He’s already finding it hard to remember what his life was like before he met her. He takes the other seat, picks up the menu.

‘Have you ordered yet?’ Peter asks.

‘No. We were waiting for you.’ Shandy smiles at him.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’

She laughs. ‘Actually, we’re not long here.’

‘Good. So, what’ll it be?’

Over the meal, Peter makes polite conversation with Oliver. They talk about their wives. Their careers. Their cars. Shandy makes no attempt to speak whilst she is eating. As soon as the meal is over, the director excuses himself and with a last sip of water he leaves them.

‘So. What now?’ she asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What happens next?’

‘I never know how to take anything you say! Do you mean, next as in when we leave the restaurant? Or as in for the rest of our lives?’

Her smile broadens into a grin.

‘Or, shall we get another bottle?’

The deep chuckle is infectious, and he shakes his head, laughing too.

‘Do you want to?’

‘Not really. I’d rather go back to the apartment. How about you?’

‘I’m with you. Obviously!’

She rests her hand lightly on his forearm as they stroll along the Embankment towards London Bridge.

‘I was hoping to get some sleep tonight,’ she mumbles.

‘I know. You told me. But that was before, when you said we might not meet again.’

‘You should have seen your face when you walked into the office and saw me sitting there!’

‘You looked somewhat surprised, yourself!’

She snuggles closer, the white fur of her long coat brushing his cheek as she slips a hand into his jacket to playfully tickle his side. He hunches double, and comes up in front of her, his hands already under the red satin lining, feeling her ribs through the silk shirt. He holds her close, tilting his chin, parting his lips. She has no hesitation in responding to his unspoken request. Eyes closed to the passers-by they enjoy a long-drawn-out kiss. She feels him swelling inside his chalk-stripe suit trousers. Starts to laugh at the memory of their first encounter, on the tube. Only last Saturday evening… she looks at the now-familiar face and says

‘Was it really only the night before last?’

‘What? That I met a mad witch who raped me on the Central Line?’

She punches him lightly in the chest, and he makes a small show of pain.

‘C’mon,’ she says, ‘the apartment is just round the corner.’

*     *     *

Samantha is taking the wine glasses through to the kitchen when Josephine returns to the dining room. The three men are drinking spirits from shot-glasses. Bex has a bottle of Highland Malt, which he is mixing with water from the filter-jug. The Ukrainians are knocking back shots of vodka and laughing loudly at their own jokes, as they recount the adventures they had in Belfast the night before. At least that’s what Josephine understands them to be talking about. The drunker they get, the more incomprehensible their accents. Bex is laughing along with them, encouraging their outrageous stories.

‘They are like a bunch of schoolboys!’ she says to her friend, who is rinsing plates at the sink, before putting them into the dishwasher.

‘Very rich schoolboys,’ replies Samantha.

When all the glasses are back on the shelf, the two women give each other a long hug.

‘It’s been quite a journey, hasn’t it?’

‘Not over yet, love!’

‘Only just begun,’ muses Josephine. ‘Am still finding it hard to believe. Keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming!’

Samantha smiles, says ‘Don’t pinch too hard. Don’t want to leave bruises.’

‘More bruises, don’t you mean?’

‘Speaking of which, are the brothers Grimm staying the night, or what?’

‘It’s your house. You decide. I think they said something about flying out of Dublin early in the morning, but I could take them back to town if you want a bit of quiet time with Bex.’

‘Guess we may as well have one last night here with them before they go. Would you like that?’

‘Why not? But what’s the story with Nigel? Are you expecting him back?’

Samantha glances through to the dining room where the three men are still drinking. A heavy fist pounds her table as Yuri presses home a point he’s making.

She shrugs her shoulders, smiles. ‘They can’t do much more damage, can they?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You didn’t see upstairs, did you? Come and have a look.’

She leads the way up to the first room on the landing, pushes open the door. The smell of cordite has dissipated, but the bedroom still reeks of alcohol from the shattered bottles in the antique desk which Nigel converted into a drinks cabinet. Josephine is taken-aback to see the front of it blasted away.

‘What happened? Did he throw a strop?’

‘I don’t think so. Come on over to my room and I’ll tell you about this morning.’

Samantha sits on her bed, Josephine on the dressing table seat.

‘When I got home, about midday, Nigel’s car was parked in the yard, covered in graffiti,’ she begins. ‘That was the first inkling that something was amiss.’

‘Was he here?’ Josephine asks.

‘Yes. I found him in the attic, tied to the rocking stool. Circumcised.’

‘What?’

‘Apparently, some young fellas, three of them, had burst in at six in the morning, dragged him upstairs and … well, cut off his foreskin.’

‘And shot up his desk?’

‘Seemingly. With his own shotgun. Not sure which annoyed him most!’

‘Christ! Who do you think it was?’

‘Don’t you start!’ Samantha laughs. ‘He thought I might have something to do with it. Or possibly Bex. You’d never know, would you?’

‘But he was with us all weekend. He was definitely with us at six o’clock this morning!’

‘I know! Not him personally, of course. But he does seem to have friends in low places, if you know what I mean.’

‘And Nigel thought you might have put him up to it?’

Samantha shrugs, looks at her friend seriously.

‘I did tell him all about Nigel shooting my dog. And the guys he sent looking for me. And the way they threatened me with something similar.’

‘So that’s why he got you the pup? I wondered how he knew you had a thing for Rottweilers.’

‘Isn’t she adorable? Well, yes. Anyway, Nigel decided it was a warning and he should leave, finally.’

‘Good riddance, darling.’

‘I know. It’s been a rough couple of decades, hasn’t it?’

‘I’m surprised he left so easily though,’ says Josephine.

‘Well, there was a bit more to it.’ Samantha pauses, biting her lower lip.

‘What?’

‘There was a petrol can in the room with a lighted cigarette left burning in a soaked rag. He thought they were going to burn the house down around him. Actually, it was just water. But he must have had an anxious ten minutes watching it as he struggled to free himself.’

Josephine is stifling a smile at the thought of her friend’s ineffectual bully of a husband getting his comeuppance.

‘Oh, and they’d stuffed a shotgun cartridge up his arse, just for added drama!’ The mental image is just too much, and Josephine can’t help laughing.

‘Sorry…’

The two of them collapse into fits of giggles, uncontrollable as adolescents.

‘Haven’t laughed so much since we were in school!’ Samantha admits when their laughter finally starts to subside.

‘So you think he’s really gone?’ Josephine asks.

‘Let’s hope so! Come on, let’s go see what the guys downstairs are doing!’

*     *     *

CHAPTER TWO

‘Not exactly the Garden Suite tonight!’ Shandy comments as she drops the blind on the window overlooking the busy traffic.

‘Did you know there’s a Druid Street not far from here?’ Oliver asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes and socks, slipping his tie.

‘How very appropriate.’ She drops her coat over a seat-back, sits down to unbuckle her new boots. ‘Did you live there?’

‘No. Not me. An aunt of mine.’

‘Would you like to visit her?’ Shandy asks, mock-serious.

‘Not tonight!’

There is a casual atmosphere between them, as though forged by long association.

‘Can’t believe it was less than thirty-six hours ago I was with you in the shop when you bought those clothes.’

Oliver watches her slowly unbutton the burgundy silk shirt, and slip it off along with the new cashmere cardigan. The matching leather skirt slides down her long slim legs, and she steps lightly out of it. The plain white bra and panties are every bit as arousing to Oliver as the tiny lace thong which was all she wore under her dress the first time they met. The same white stockings have taken on a different character, somehow.

Shandy lowers the cotton waistband slowly past the lacy stocking-tops, then sits back on the dining chair to peel the panties round her twirling ankles.

‘No! Wait!’ he whispers urgently, to stop her taking off the bra. He is kneeling between her legs, running his tongue between the lips, seeking her clitoris. She digs her fingertips lightly into his scalp through the close-cropped dark hair. How very young he seems to her. And yet. Mid-forties. Maybe a year or so older than her first child. Reminds herself she was only eighteen, already a year married, when that birth occurred.

Flash to the present: she looks down at the muscular shoulders pushing her thighs apart as he locates the sensitive bud and sucks it hard between his lips. Tongue flicking to drive her to new heights of arousal. His hands on her hips, squeezing the yielding flesh, holding her firmly. She moans, arching her back, lifting her legs up over his neck, supporting herself by gripping the sides of the chair. Waves of intense pleasure build and increase until she feels herself release her orgasm-juices deep inside. With the slightly-salty liquid still on his tongue, he pushes her legs apart and rises up between them to kiss her full on the mouth. The taste of her own fluids as he pushes his tongue hard against hers.

His hand deftly unzipping his pants, and lowering his snug-fitting boxer-shorts to ‘free the beast’. He needs little guidance to find his way into her moist opening. She meets him and pulls him deep inside, long legs round his waist as he kneels before her. The chair rocks unsteadily as he starts to thrust, and with a short laugh she suggests moving to a more comfortable location.

In the time it takes to reach the bed, he has hopped out of his trousers and underpants, and thrown off his shirt. She is lying on top of the covers, watching him reveal the athletic body, the magnificent erection. He lies down beside her, cupping both breasts out of the stretch-fabric of her bra so that it supports them, unnaturally high and cleavage-close. Holding one tight, he squeezes the hard little nipple between thumb and finger whilst sucking the other deep into his mouth, tongue-caressing.

Her hand clasping the rigid penis, tugging the foreskin, pulling him closer. Their kiss wild and passionate as he positions himself between her legs, full-body contact, his hands stroking the nylon-clad thighs, lifting them slightly to make his entry easier.

‘God, you’re beautiful!’ he murmurs, raising himself up onto his elbows and looking down along their bodies to see himself sliding in and out.

‘You too.’ Her slender arms reaching up to stroke his clean-shaven cheeks before wrapping around his neck and pulling him back to her mouth.

*     *     *

‘So, ladies! We were just discussing the future of your old buildings.’ Alessandro Orlov, the big man with a believable claim to be Rasputin’s great-grandson, calls out as they re-enter the dining room. ‘Come, join us.’ He gestures magnanimously as they resume their places at the table.

Pouring the last of the vodka into their glasses, he