Thank you, Turner, for supplying the inspiration for this piece of Kiera Kate Austin! LOL aKa xx

PEARL FISHERS’ DUET: “C’etait le soir – au fond du Temple Saint”


Kicking off my flip-flops and slipping out of jeans, I eased into a straight black shift and kitten heels for the evening’s formal dinner party. I would long to be barefoot again after only a couple of hours, but there was a subtle enjoyment in the change of social scene and an opportunity to “dress up”, though the evening might be hard.

Armed with a willing smile and an openness to engage my fellow guests, I circulated lightly among our hostess’ invitees. As always, I sought to deflect those conversations which might enable too quick an assessment of my worth according to occupation or home address, trying to get beyond that peculiar veneer of what might be construe d as material success.

At table masks started to slip, oiled by fine food and wine and by the melting waxy glimmer of candles. In half-darkness, truth began to emerge: sneers and taunts jokingly applied between edgy couples and rivalling men; female one-upmanship, tallying offspring’s pony club rosettes and musical accomplishments. My smile thinned and I found myself retreating, unnoticed, further into gathering gloom as I eased back in my chair. Like a rosary, I fingered each pearl on the string around my neck, smoothing and warming each one, comforting against my skin.

Then, for the first time, I noticed him. Sat obscured at the far end, he was not participating in the cross-table competition, but neither was he disengaged. I was sure I had been introduced to everyone prior to being seated, but this man must have been a late-comer, his unobserved arrival fascinating. Although in deep shadow, there was yet warmth and a sense of benevolence that he brought to the table. I felt an intense sudden connection, a strange camaraderie, though I neither knew who he was or where he had come from. His presence made the circle complete and brought wholeness where cracks of embarrassment and irritation were beginning to emerge. It was as if he was an open window, channelling balmy air to clear the stifling atmosphere.

Concentrating on his mystery, I must have pulled at my pearls just a little too hard. But no-one noticed when the thread unexpectedly snapped, sending a gush of luminous beads spilling beneath the white linen cloth. With the alacrity of a small child, I was down amid a mass of tangled feet in an instant, amused by the worn and shabby slingbacks nuzzling unseen against hidden Playboy socks; and saddened by the firmly planted, highly-polished black laced shoes whose lonely stodgy ankles suffocated beneath rumples of thick grey wool.

Beyond the labyrinth of legs, there was the salt-smell of sea and soft lights, like moonshine on water. There he was, his face lit from the glow of the many pearls, gathered into his cupped hands like treasure overflowing from a hinged oyster shell.

“They are so much more beautiful like this, don’t you think?” There was no need to answer; he had known that I did all along.