Rebecca

I remember her clearly, maybe more so now than I ever did as I stand in front of my washroom mirror getting ready to play the role of a wonderful hostess. Uncommonly beautiful, witty, and poised she was, everything I hope could be at least for tonight. She was so self-assured and confident and I, a young and inexperienced child to the world of high society, would learn to admire and respect her like a living, breathing work of art.

My parents were hosting a party for a few of their close friends in our penthouse that looked over the city’s magnificence in the wake of a new year. Everything was coated with snow and strings of light seemed to connect the whole city in a warm, glowing ambiance. I was a seven, and remember going to the park with my father earlier that night, we were the only ones there. He pushed me on the icy swing and had we a little snow ball fight. I was in high spirits, not only because I was having fun but because I knew I would see her that night.

I was already in bed when the guests started arriving, but I was wide awake with excitement. I would see her tonight, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my short life. The first and only time we met was merely a passing hello with my mother in a perfumer’s shop but I kept that memory near and dear to my heart because she left me in such a state of awe. It was mine alone to revisit whenever I pleased.

She was the last one to arrive to the party. Her voice was rich and soft and she almost purred her hellos as she made her rounds about the room. This was the moment I was waiting for. Carefully and quietly I unfolded my legs from the sheets and barefoot in my garish frilly white nightgown tiptoed to the door where just a crack of light was spilling through. I put my face close to the opening and searched the room for the owner of the voice and when I caught sight of her I could feel my heart swell. She was sitting on the armrest of the couch talking with a Mr. Banks, an associate of my father.

She was very pale, but a lovely ethereal pale and her long dark hair framed her feline face and to compliment her spectacular figure she wore a black dress that had ¾ sleeves and a generous but fashionable v-neck and classic heels. Mr. Banks made some forgettable joke but she laughed and her crimson lips had spread into a soft smile. A smile I remembered from the perfumer’s. A smile that possessed me so in that brief instant and had me longing for more of her, like a drug, a wonderfully addictive drug.

I wondered if I could quietly sneak out of my room and go talk with her. But if I did and got caught I knew mother would make sure I would go back and stay in bed and I would probably get scolded for it in the morning, so I waited and admired her from afar.

“More wine, Rebecca?” my father came and asked her, a bottle of Merlot in hand.

Rebecca. That was her name, I missed it in the perfumer’s and hadn’t the courage to ask my mother. It was odd that moment; my mother became sort of stiff and almost ruffled at the sight of her then, quite unlike herself.

She nodded and my father grinned. He filled not only her glass but also Mr. Banks’ and Dr. Kempf’s, the later who had just joined the conversation about politics, a topic that bored and was beyond me.

Through out the night there was much laughing and drinking and smoking and I watched them from behind my door as the hours passed. Rebecca, now sitting beside my father, had a pretty collection of cigarette butts all rimmed with red lipstick, overflowing in the ashtray on the walnut end table beside her. I thought she looked graceful and picturesque smoking, they way she did it made it look like some sort of art. The way her hand would bring it to her lips then she would turn her chin slightly and take a long, carefree drag and exhale leaving her face behind a hazy veil of smoking adding to her mystery.

“Well not much longer now,” said my father, getting up from his seat and taking a glance at his Rolex. “I suppose I’ll grab the champagne. Banks old man, you care to help?”

Mr. Banks and my father then went outside to the balcony where the champagne was just recently put outside to chill. Rebecca remained talking with the doctor. They were soon joined by Mrs. Kempf and my mother, both of whom were dressed rather plainly. My mother wore her black turtle neck sweater and long plum skirt and they both had their hair pulled back and wore minimal makeup giving them an almost severe washed out look.

“Where has James gotten off to?” asked my mother quickly.

“Oh they just stepped outside for the champagne,” replied Rebecca. “By the way Clarice where is your washroom?”

My mother pointed the way to the washroom and Rebecca left the group. Moments later Mr. Banks came back holding the frosty bottles and quickly filled glasses and carelessly let some overflow. My mother inquired for father once again to which Banks said that he was getting some fresh air and in response she pursed her lips and became quite standoffish.

It was at this moment I realized how different my mother was from Rebecca. She wasn’t very pretty and barely spoke to anyone at parties outside her small circle of friends and always seemed cast off to the side when she was around my father or among a group. Never putting forth an effort to push aside her shy nature and take a chance.

“Clarice,” called father from the balcony. “Would you grab the box of Cubans I left out in the kitchen?”

“Of course, darling,” mother replied.

She padded off to kitchen, ever the devoted little wife, as Mrs. Kempf trailed behind her chatting away about a new piece of gossip that’s just come to mind, leaving Mr. Banks and the doctor’s passionate discussion about the stock market.

I was the only one that night who saw Rebecca emerge from the bathroom. I remember being confused when I saw her; she was acting different, strange. She quietly and slowly slinked her way down the hall and passed the living room unseen and slipped around the corner like some sort of thief. I caught a whiff of her exotic perfume in her wake; it was spicy and passionately floral. It left me drunk. My mother had nothing like it. Her perfumes were always light and sweet that stood huddled on her vanity rarely touched.

I was so excited when I saw she was standing behind the wall alone. It was either now or I’d never have a chance to be alone with her again, I thought. It would be my chance to finally go talk to her. Tell her how pretty she was and how much I admired her and hope she would feel some sort of affection in return. So plucking up my courage I opened my bedroom door only a bit more just so I could fit through. My heart was racing and the blood pulsing in my veins was pounding in my ears. As soon as I got out I made a mad dash for the corner of the room where I knew Rebecca would be waiting on the other side.

It was the only time I was grateful for all those ballet lessons because I made it across the room in a short time with my long strides and silent footing. No one noticed me.

When I got to that corner of the wall I threw myself against the other side of it, taking deep breaths. But as my breathing became easier a sense of disappointment flooded through me. She wasn’t there. Rebecca was no where to be seen. Her scent lingered in the air.

I wondered if I’d missed her but there was no other way out of the small hall I was now standing in except for-

Suddenly I heard a giggle.

Then voices, familiar voices.

Rebecca and father’s.

I moved to the French doors that led to the balcony pressing myself close to the wall. They were standing together in the cold of the night, my father’s jacket around her shoulders and his arms around her waist.

“Are you cold?” he asked her.

“Not any more.”

“Are you happy?”

“When I’m with you, always.”

They smiled and a chilling winter wind blew some snow from the roof down to them. Then he pulled her closer and kissed her. It looked like a scene from the movies; romantic, picturesque, a perfect ending. But this wasn’t any movie. It was my life. I’d never known my father to touch or kiss anyone that way not even my mother, the woman he was supposed to love till death. Yet there he was and I’d never seen him look so happy.

A deep sense of betrayal burned within me. Of course I was too innocent and young to realize the true extent of it but that didn’t mean I couldn’t feel it. In months to come I would feel the pain of my father’s actions everyday of my life until our family was officially dissolved with the signing of a simple piece of paper. But now at that moment all the beauty and adoration I felt for Rebecca was gone and filled with disgust and repugnance. I hated myself for ever thinking she was something to be admired.

As they released each other from that kiss I let out a little cry. My father must have heard me because he looked straight to me, surprised at first.

“Darling come out here,” he said tenderly. “Quiet now. Don’t be afraid. Come, I want you to meet someone.”

I opened the latch on the door and my father came and scooped me up in his arms.

“Darling I want you to meet Rebecca.”

He brought me face to face with her. I stared at her, my face devoid of emotion. She smiled sweetly at me and stroked my hair.

“Hello there. Out past your bedtime I see, you’re mother wouldn’t be too pleased if she found you out this late.” She gave my cheek a pinch.

How dare she mention my mother. How dare she try to take her place by stroking my hair and kissing my father. I wanted her to leave and never come back.

I screamed at the top of my lungs, tears pouring down my face. I kicked and beat my fists against my father until he set me down on the ground trying desperately to keep me quiet until everyone in the house came running to the balcony. My mother was the first one outside yelling my name until she saw us.

She stood there frozen in place and I ran to her and hugged her leg. I felt her hand rest on top of my head but she still didn’t move. Everyone else stood behind her watching for what would happen next. Mrs. Kempf must have been memorizing every detail of that night to go chat about with her friends at tea the next day, no doubt the old bag glamorized it up a bit of course because in a week’s time the whole affair had become public and newspapers bore our surname in great big black letters across the front cover, telling more of an unfound story than fact.

“Clarice,” my father said, taking a step towards her but she backed away.

“At our own home, James? At our own home you do this?” croaked my mother, tears welling up in her eyes. “Take your whore and get out.”

“Clarice, you don’t understand. This is just a big misunderstanding-,”

“GET OUT!”

My father became quiet and looked around at all the faces around him. He couldn’t lie; they’ve already deduced the truth. He pushed passed Mr. Banks and Dr. Kempf and went into his room and started packing an overnight bag. Occasionally we heard the odd vase or mirror shatter but we did nothing.

Rebecca stood there frightened trying to look innocent. “Clarice, you really must understand-,”

“I’ve had plenty of time to understand you’re relationship with my husband. You think me so ignorant and ill connected to not know? Let me tell you something whore, you most certainly weren’t his first and I guarantee you won’t be his last.”

Rebecca was trembling now, maybe because of the cold or maybe not. She looked face to face hoping for someone to show her some pity or compassion, but no one did.

“I’m going to give you and James one chance to leave here without any spectacle or out burst,” my mother said, her voice was strong and bold, unlike her usual self. “Now.”

Rebecca quickly passed by everyone keeping her head down. We followed her inside where my mother granted her a few minutes to wait for my father. I remember he took her roughly by the arm and nearly flung her outside into the hall when he slammed the door behind him. He didn’t even look at me or say goodbye.

The room had become very quiet and my mother asked everyone to leave. She politely said goodnight to each of them and sent them off with a bottle of champagne each. When everyone was gone she sprawled out on the couch and covered her eyes with her hand. She might have been crying or laughing or perhaps some strange combination of both.

It was this memory of my mother I cherish the most. She was most lovely at this moment a plain beauty, a broken but laughing soul. I went to her side, my cheeks red and nose runny from the cold, and tugged on her sleeve. Looking down at me she smiled and lifted me to lie beside her. She stroked my hair the way she always had and I hoped ever would.

Suddenly we heard the world around us erupt in cheers and fireworks. The New Year was upon us…

And now it was going to be my turn to face the crowd of people waiting for me downstairs and host the bringing in of another year. As frightened as I was the memory of my mother gave me some strength, some confidence. That night she would be the woman I would look to for inspiration and assurance.

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A/N: Okay, just an idea that popped in my head after rereading one of my favourite books, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier so I consider this somewhat of an ode to it. I always like basing stories around the New Year, perhaps because its always been a sort of special time for me not quite in the conventional sense. Well I hope you have something to comment about this piece so please review! Much appreciated. Cheers.