The Mistress

She, grand hostess of tongue-twisted lies, found comfort in this Art-Deco gem – a small café dripping with intimacy, chattering lips, momentary pauses from working actors, writers of the exquisite and bohemian kind who congregated within its closed doors.

A historian, as she was known amongst the staff, singlehandedly turned this haunt into a butcher’s kitchen. Because of her, the beloved Mr. P., favoured as the next Nobel Laureate, stopped writing. A Minister, name not mentioned, left her husband for his secretary to spite him. Mr. M., opening night, on his way to the theatre, caught his wife canoodling in the corner of the same cafe, with his own brother; rumoured to have fled to a monastery far from the glory of the stage.

‘I’m no different from a social columnist,’ she once exclaimed. ‘I report the facts. A noble service for my fellow man.’

Ear to the wall, who would dare repeat her discoveries without permission.

She screened faces belonging to the withered and the unspoilt entering her slaughterhouse, thrust away from the winters’ glare. Became she did, a witness to the mention of a name, sound of a kiss, explosions of laughter, whispers in corners hidden from the human stare (so they thought). She knew very well there existed secrets in every peck, each exchanged word, message left on the mobile phone. While an old French jazz tune played, lost amongst the cacophony of voices, her leering look cautioned them.

But as scenarios continued to unravel, the cigarette hanging from her painted lips loosened, dry from the cold she so despised – exhaling smoke over the copy of Henry and June, given by HER.

She stretched out a plump leg to notice a ladder in her stockings, piano keys scaling up her inner thigh, where her lover’s fingers had travelled the night before. Through fake auburn curls she caught the lingering eye of the man beside her. With no smile to offer, she concentrated on finishing her third coffee, slowly, ever so slowly, interrupted by thoughts of HER.

The woman who had promised her wildflowers from the Grampians, mud baths in Turkey, to sail the rivers of Myanmar …

Who would have imagined, Madeleine de la Rosa had a mistress.