Mirror Hours

One year. Five months. Three days. Two hours and 57 seconds. No. 58… 59…. .

Victoria counted each second. The emptiness of the day lay ahead of her: the seconds, minutes, and hours to fill, the routine of daily living, before falling into bed and waking up to do it all over again. The clock counting was a mindless exercise, but it was an obsessive habit that had kept her sane.

But it’s stopped you moving forward too hasn’t it? she thought, studying her face in the bathroom mirror.

Today will be different. Today is the day she told herself.

Her best friend Sally had set the wheels in motion. “The best years of your life are ahead!” she’d exclaimed over their second bottle of wine one Friday afternoon about a month ago. “You’re only 34 – you’re single – and you’re ridiculously gorgeous. You don’t even know it for Christ’s sake. And you’ve yet to reach your sexual peak,” she’d winked at her, raising her glass.

At the time Victoria had groaned and rolled her eyes. Yes, of course she’d missed the sex since Toby had died. But she’d put all thoughts of her pleasure aside as she tried to come to terms with being widowed so young. A widow! Good god, it made her sound so old.

She knew she wasn’t to blame in any way for Toby’s death. No. That fell squarely in the lap of the cocky 16-year-old driver of the stolen Tesla. The fact that it was a ‘silent’ car and that the kid was too busy showing off to his girlfriend and wasn’t paying attention were ‘contributing factors’ - as the coroner helpfully pointed out.

There had been no mention at the inquest of the moments preceding Toby walking into the Tesla’s path – the ‘unpleasant’ confrontation as Toby had called it, her tearful accusations, and his vehement denials. What a liar he’d been.

They’d married straight after graduation, and for the 13 years of her marriage there had only been Toby. The thought of looking for someone new and starting all over again hadn’t appealed to her so far. But, she sensed a stirring inside her.

It was time. Time to stop feeling guilty about moving on.

She looked deep into her reflection, and the pupils of her cat-like, green eyes dilated as she imagined all the possibilities for pleasure that were out there.

Downstairs, she made a cup of tea and took it into the sunny sitting room. They had bought the Primrose Hill house early in their marriage, and as she looked around the room now, she acknowledged that she was very fortunate to live in such a beautiful home, even if the last 17 months had numbed her to the good things in her life. At her bleakest moments, her grandmother had swept in from her country estate in Gloucestershire and reminded Victoria that however dark things seemed, it most certainly was not the end of the world. Lady Isabelle may have been born privileged, but she was a strong woman and had been Victoria’s rock for almost her entire life.

She stopped in front of the framed photograph of her parents that sat on the mantelpiece and picked it up. What a handsome couple they had been. Her father, Richard, the Duke of Bibury, looked every inch the Gloucestershire gentleman farmer; a patrician nose and highly-coloured cheeks, sandy brown hair that was difficult to tame and just a slight jut of the chin that told everyone he was aware of his social status. But from what she could remember of him, he was never a snob and had treated everyone with the same courtesy. He had been loved by all the estate workers and local residents, and was a popular figure at the local pub, At the Bibury Arms, they’d referred to him as Duke Dickie. Apparently, he’d been quite tickled by this nickname and often used to announce himself as Duke Dickie when answering the telephone at home. She treasured the memories she had of him, and of Eloise, her fun-loving mother.

Her mother’s looks were a somewhat exotic contrast to his Englishness. Like Victoria, she had chestnut hair that in this photo was in a style very recognisably from the late 1970s. Who was the actress that had made this style famous, Victoria wondered. Ah, yes, Farah Fawcett Major in Charlie’s Angels. Her skin was a deeper gold than Victoria’s, but they shared the same feline green eyes. At Cambridge, some students had remarked to Victoria that she didn’t look typically English, and she’d told them that she took after her mother, who had inherited some of the physical traits of her French grandmother, Fleur. This grandmother had come from Marseille, a melting pot of European and North African races, and Victoria imagined that if she took one of these DNA tests that revealed one’s ethnic origins, she’d find quite a few surprises.

She studied her mother’s face more carefully: she would have made an exquisite artist’s model, Victoria thought, especially for somebody like Matisse or Klimt. Victoria assessed the photo with the professional eye of a curator of modern art. A prominent photographer who was very close to the Royal social circle had taken it, and it was a wonderful example of his portraiture style.

Setting the photo back in the place it had occupied since Victoria and Toby had moved in to Chalcot Terrace, for the first time in a long while she wished her parents were alive. They’d died in an accident only two months after Victoria had turned thirteen; a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman. Christmas Eve 1997 had brought severe gales across the UK, and as her parents had been driving home from a friend’s house in Cirencester, a tree uprooted by the gale force winds had crushed their car with instant loss of life. As a result, her grandmother Lady Isabelle had taken over the role of parent for both Victoria and her older brother James, who had inherited the ducal seat. Although her grandmother had been a tower of strength then, and after Toby’s death, she wished with all her heart that her parents were still living and that she could have turned to them for solace as well.

The first few months after Toby’s death in November 2016 had been devastating. Not only had he died in front of her, he’d also closed her out from all knowledge about their finances. She’d never had to think about money at any time in her life, and she hadn’t questioned the fact that Toby took care of all their accounts and investments. His death had forced her to look at her financial status, but she had not known where to start and couldn’t even access his computer. Thankfully, a friend’s son who was an IT whizz and wannabe hacker had cracked Toby’s password and had managed to retrieve some accounts and personal emails that Victoria was never intended to see.

Victoria remembered the first time she’d seen Toby. Who is he? she’d whispered to Sally when he’d walked into The Anchor in Cambridge; a favourite pub with undergrads.

Victoria and Sally had been in their favourite corner booth, and had barely clinked cheers to their first glass of house white wine when Toby, his face still flushed from having played an impromptu game of rugby with the lads, walked through the door with two friends, Guy and Jonathan. He was scouting around for the others, when his gaze settled directly on her. She’d inhaled sharply, and she just knew. He was hers. She was his.

Emboldened by a second glass of white wine she’d approached the bar to order another round for her and Sally, and had been careful to position herself right beside Toby and his friends.

They all had noticed her; she was tall, but not too tall, athletic with chestnut hair that fell in waves around her shoulders. She also had piercing green eyes and golden skin that tanned easily.

They’d fallen into bed that night, fallen in love even faster, and married barely a week after graduation. She’d been a bold young woman then, but 13 years of marriage to Toby, who only half-jokingly called himself a ‘Master of the Universe’, had stripped her of her natural self-confidence. She wished she had paid more attention to his true nature from the start.

But today she had other things to think about. Today she was going to see Jonathan their accountant. Apparently he had ‘news’. Plumping the sofa cushions and giving one of them a hard punch, she reminded herself that Jonathan had been with Toby on the day she’d met her future husband. Now he was her accountant, and a rather attractive one at that!

In the months after Toby’s death, Jonathan would often make the trek across town to Primrose Hill, telling her not to trouble herself with the traffic. This was in the early days when they were both trying to sort out Toby’s investments, his will and the life insurance claims.

Today she could really do with some adoration.

Did she dare? A little flirtation surely couldn’t hurt? She hoped she had read his signals correctly.

The question was: what to wear?

She had been waiting to try on her latest purchases and now carefully unwrapped them. Simple and classic, white lace push-up bra and panties. It had been some time since she’d visited Rigby & Peller and spent that much money in one go, but she knew it was a worthwhile investment.

White may be a little virginal she thought, but red or black was getting way ahead of herself. She adjusted her plump yet firm breasts and stood back. She loved the look, and for the first time in a long while, she appreciated how desirable she could be.

She zipped up her Zara charcoal black pencil skirt: it was gratifyingly less clingy than the last time she’d worn it. Now it sat much better on her hips and hugged her perfectly from behind.

Victoria pulled on the Chloe lemon silk blouse - another impulse purchase. It was probably too much for a meeting with an accountant, especially Jonathan. Too flimsy, too revealing… too sexy. But what the hell.

She finished off her outfit with her favourite black Jimmy Choo court shoes: they accentuated the curve of her calves and lengthened her legs. She decided to leave her long, chestnut tresses tumbling over her shoulders. One last look in the mirror and she was ready.

Could she remember how to do this?

She slid into her BMW and started her journey to Jonathan’s office. Her progress was slow in the congested London traffic and she slipped in and out of daydreams. A memory of Toby surfaced. It had happened after the first time he’d worked all night and arrived home after dawn. Now she knew his story about having to finish the plans for a new office block in the City was probably a lie. He might well have been a star architect in the making, but now she knew that his ‘late’ work was more about play.

He’d quietly slipped into their bedroom that morning. “So I need to apologise,” he’d whispered, lightly tracing the curve of her hip, lingering for just a moment on her thighs, her buttocks, the arc of her back, tracing circles of desire over her flesh, making her gasp with pleasure. “Am I forgiven?” She sized him up. His playful smile, his tousled hair, his bare chest were tantalisingly close. She looked into his eyes and he saw the response he was hoping for.

Leaning in close, he kissed her deeply, and just as naturally and passionately she kissed him back. The warmth of their bodies instantly stirred her and his tongue entered her mouth and explored deeply, increasing her arousal.

He’d pulled her body close, cupping one of her firm breasts, before his finger and thumb found the nipple. It hardened under his teasing touch and he moved his mouth from her lips to her breast, taking it in his mouth, sucking just hard enough to cause the shivering sensation she so loved.

The fingers of his other hand travelled down over her belly and between her legs. He felt for her, softly stroking her, parting the lips to feel her wetness. A groan escaped from deep in her throat as he pushed one, then two of his fingers deep inside her, establishing a rhythm that her hips automatically responded to.

She felt his erection pressing against her thigh and instinctively she reached for his hard cock. He moaned as she lightly stroked him, using just the lightest of touches, a barely-there motion - up and down - that aroused him every time. She moved her fingers all the way up to the tip of his cock and – too quickly - a bubble of salty wetness escaped. She experienced an overwhelming sense of satisfaction at pleasuring him.

In return he’d slowly moved down her body, kissing and licking every inch of her skin. It was excruciatingly wonderful. Closing her eyes, she’s savoured feeling him move between her legs. He looked up into her eyes, as his tongue licked the entire length of her swollen lips. Her clit was pulsating, aching for release. The tip of his tongue circled it, lightly then more firmly…

A blaring horn jolted Victoria from her reverie and she inched the car forward.

Twenty minutes later Victoria was saying good morning to the glamorously blonde receptionist at Wentworth, Blake and Associates. How young she looks, Victoria thought self-consciously as she offered her a seat and a cup of tea.

“ Mr Wentworth is a little delayed. He has asked me to apologise and hopes you don’t mind waiting,” the receptionist smiled apologetically whie handing Victoria the cup of tea.

Victoria smiled back. “I’m not in a hurry. Please tell him I’ll wait.”

She didn’t have anything else to do today, and besides, she had plans that included Jonathan. It would be her pleasure to wait she smiled inwardly.

Looking through the glossy magazines in reception, she picked up a copy of GQ. It was definitely preferable to The Accountant. She flicked through it until she stopped at a profile of Paul McCartney. In it he recalled some of the raunchy adventures he’d had with the other band members. She was surprised to read about threesomes in Vegas, mutual masturbation in the dark and other tales that would raise eyebrows in some circles.

Victoria reflected on the fact that she’d only ever experienced sex with Toby. Sex with him had given her pleasure and a sense of intimacy. But it tended to follow the same old routine, with some minor variations, such as where the sex took place. It was invariably at their home and always indoors. One night, while walking over Primrose Hill, she’d mentioned that she’d read something about the number of people who have sex in London’s parks. Toby had laughed, but then he’d said, “I hope you’re not thinking that we should try that.” The way in which he’d said it had taken her aback. It was just a conversation, but his tone with her was unnecessarily aggressive. She felt put down; put back in her box. She imagined what he would have said if she’d suggested a threesome. Not that she had ever thought about suggesting such a thing, but she had heard enough of Sally’s stories to know that sex came in lots of varieties.

Which variety did she really like, she wondered: the one she already knew, or did she have an appetite for those things she’d only ever read about?

She was pondering what the answer might be, when she became aware that somebody was standing in front of her.

“Jonathan!” she exclaimed, quickly putting the magazine back on the table and standing up.

“Tori!” he greeted her warmly taking her by the shoulders to draw her closer and plant a kiss on both cheeks.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Jonathan apologised. He used the diminutive of her name. Toby had started that at Cambridge and as a result their entire social circle had followed suit.

Discreetly, Victoria looked him over: his dark navy suit was cut to accentuate his athletic body. The crisp white shirt and pale blue tie signalled his professionalism, and his shock of brown curls reminded her of the boyishness he had never quite lost.

Jonathan always managed to look in perfect health. Probably because that was exactly what he was. One of those people who seemed to sail through life making it all look effortless and enjoyable. He’d never been married… maybe that was his secret… but had had a series of beautiful equally healthy-looking girlfriends who wouldn’t have appeared out of place on the front cover of any glossy magazine. But they were never air-headed bimbos. Jonathan had always liked his women strong, intelligent and successful; the sort that ran their own business and ran marathons as well.

But now she noticed something that she’d never spotted before, not in all the years she’d known him: in his office environment he exuded an alluringly assertive air. Where had the shy, awkward Jonathan who came to her house gone?

“What were you reading?” he asked.

“Oh, just something about The Beatles sex escapades,” she laughed nervously.

“Mmmm, how interesting. Did you learn anything useful?”

“Useful?” she echoed back, wondering what he could possibly mean.

He didn’t reply. He looked directly into her eyes, in a way he’d never ever done before.

A heartbeat later he gestured to her with his hand, “Follow me.”

She fell into step beside him, wondering if this was going to be a meeting about her finances, or something else entirely.