False Mermaid

The very next picture in Nora’s bundle was of Peter Hallett himself. Every detail of his appearance was exquisite: the thick, wavy black hair, full lips so prominent in the lean face, the eyes that could vary from deep aquamarine to cobalt, depending on the light. For some reason, it was always the word “beautiful” rather than “handsome” that sprang to mind when she looked at him. Always something subtly ambiguous about his sexuality, which somehow seemed to magnify its power. His gaze conveyed a blend of sensuality and self-assurance, tempered perhaps with a touch of wariness, a hint of vulnerability. There was something restless and impulsive about him, something dangerous and mysterious and mercurial—all qualities not unlike those of the theater directors and other creative types to whom Tríona had ever been drawn. One glance from those blue eyes could make you feel extraordinary, adored. Without warning, Nora was jolted back to the day she’d met Peter Hallett.

It was only about six months after she’d started seeing Marc Staunton, a fellow med student. Marc had been in excellent spirits that evening, pouring them each a glass of wine before they were off to dinner and then to the opening night of The Winter’s Tale. Tríona was starting to show real promise as a professional actress. She’d caught some critical attention for roles at smaller theater companies, and had just been cast as Hermione, her first major Shakespearean lead at the flagship regional house. It was a very big deal. Nora remembered feeling jittery with anticipation. Marc said: “You’ll never guess who called me today, out of the blue—my old college roommate. He’s just back from living in Europe, thinking of setting up shop here as an architect. I told him we might be able to swing an extra ticket tonight, introduce him around a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why should I mind? I’m sure we can finagle something. What’s he like?”

“All right, I suppose—if you go in for charming, talented, unbelievably good-looking people. He’s always been like that—a little too extraordinary. You want to hate him, but it’s not possible.” Marc hesitated. “You know, on second thought, maybe I should call the whole thing off, tell him I couldn’t score the extra ticket.”

“Relax—he’s probably fat and bald by now.”

Marc shook his head. “Nora, Nora, Nora. You don’t seem to comprehend the sort of person we’re talking about. It’s all right—you’ll understand when you meet him.”

Even with that forewarning, she was not prepared for the dazzling, dark-haired stranger who approached her in the theater lobby. He took her hand with a flourish, and pressed it to his lips.

“Nora—Marc’s description didn’t do you justice.” He must have seen them come in together.

She was genuinely flustered, not only by the suddenness of Peter Hallett’s approach and the oddly antiquated gesture, but also by the intense blue eyes that locked onto hers with a mixture of curiosity, playfulness, and frank sexual appraisal. The memory of that first encounter made her blush, even now.

“Unhand her, you rotten bastard,” Marc said, approaching from behind and clapping his friend on the back. “God, you haven’t changed a bit. I turn my head for half a second, and there you are, worming your way into my place—” In that fraction of a second, Nora wondered what the little exchange revealed about their relationship as roommates. Despite the mock jealousy, it was clear that Marc was enjoying himself.

But as soon as the curtain rose and Peter Hallett set eyes on her sister, all idle flirtation with Nora and anyone else abruptly ceased. How perfectly still Tríona had stood in that shaft of light at the play’s closing scene. How strange and magical she had seemed—the wronged wife turned by her grief into stone. Nora had often found herself wondering whether Peter Hallett had been attracted to the flesh-and-blood Tríona that night or to her character, Hermione. Whatever the answer to that question, his pursuit of Tríona had been relentless, full press from the beginning, and he had not stopped until he possessed her. His campaign had begun at the opening-night party after the show, when he stole a bottle of champagne from the servers and followed Tríona around all night, ready whenever her glass was low.

Later, as they stood at the mirror in the ladies’ room, Nora had ventured an aside: “I think Marc’s friend likes you.”

Tríona stared absently at her own reflection. “Who are you talking about?”

“The guy who’s been following you around all night—Marc’s friend, Peter Hallett.”

“Oh—right.” Tríona concentrated on something in the corner of her eye. “The stalker.”

“Something wrong with him?”

“I really can’t say, Nora. I only just met the man. He’s a little too good-looking, don’t you think?”