Seven Years Bad Luck

After the bang came the crash. Mark swivelled around, still busy tying a Van Wijk knot on his maroon Paisley tie to just the right size. It was all in the tie. Mark could tell if a man was worth his time by his tie. A guy with a Windsor knot deserved his respect. A bit old school, but a tough client and loaded.  

Shit. He had slammed the door to the dressing room, sending shards of glass all over the plush ivory carpet. I must stop working out so hard at the gym. He smiled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  

'Mr Marc!' came a shout from the landing. Chloé, his housemaid, had a slightly husky voice. He had hired her six months before. It was trendy to have a French housemaid, and a cute one in the bargain; tight ass, perky boobs. He wasn't going to tell that to Nancy, his fiancée. Vulgarity was an abstraction to her. Nancy was a pure soul, an aristocratic daddy's girl. The perfect catch. 

Chloé appeared at the threshold; hand clasped over her mouth. The scent of her slightly musky perfume aroused him, and his eyes dropped to her breasts. 

'Mon Dieu!' Chloé's face was a hideous mask of horror. The contorted lines of her face accentuated by the unforgiving morning light repulsed him. He followed her gaze that had settled on the shards of glass. 

'Clean that up, Chloé. You know I like wandering around barefooted.' He slipped on his highly polished black Kenneth Cole Oxfords, just in case. 

Chloé stood frozen on the spot staring. 

'Wake up girl! Make sure it's done by the time I'm back.' 

Chloé shook her head. 'Mr Marc, I can't...' 

Mark looked up from his shoelaces. 'Can't? Let me remind you, your job is to keep my house in tip-top condition. I pay you enough.' 

'Of course...I meant...it's bad luck to break a mirror.’ Her lips were trembling and her voice throaty. 'Seven years of bad luck. The only way to break the curse is to wait at least seven hours and then bury the glass by moonlight.' 

Mark jumped up from the bed. That's all I need, a hysterical French slut giving me orders. He came up close to her so that she could feel his breath on her forehead. 

'Dépêche-toi!' His French was rusty, but his tone was as hard as granite.  

Grabbing his powder grey suit jacket and leather briefcase, he headed for the concrete and steel staircase and jogged down the stairs. He paused in front of the key rack. Today's client was sensitive to style. Grabbing the keys to the 1995 Jaguar XJS convertible, he headed towards the garage. As he approached, the sliding doors hummed open, revealing the sensual silhouettes of three cars. A red Audi R8 Spyder, a silver Jaguar and a black BMW M4. Mark slid into the beige leather seats, inhaling the earthy smell of leather and wood mingling with the faint juniper and smoky scent of his Paco Rabanne XS.  

The Jag still required a key to open the doors and start it. He admired the veneer and leather trim of the dashboard, caressing the steering wheel’s smooth dark red leather casing, and turned the key, anticipating the initial throat roar and the low hum of the engine. 

Nothing. He tried again, cursing. Click, click, click. Nothing. 

Shit. Now what? Two hitches in less than half an hour. He slammed the horn in frustration; it emitted a weak drone.  

I must’ve left the lights on last night. The beauty of vintage cars! 

His ears pounded with rushing blood and the backlash of last night’s hangover.  

These things never happen to me; never. It's that French bitch, she's jinxed me with her crazy superstitions.  

He got out of the car and slammed the door while texting Jason, his car servicer. 'Get over here now, battery prob with the Jag.' No hassle, he'd just grab the Audi instead. No risk there. The bliss of modern technology. 

As he strode towards the house, his pulse rate quickened and the ringing in his ears grew louder. He threw the front door open and came face to face with Chloé, scrolling her phone while sipping coffee. His temper exploded like fireworks. 

'Haven’t you cleared that mess yet?' 

She jolted up, dropping her phone. 'But Mr Marc...the bad luck...' 

Mark's vision blurred for a few seconds and his right temple throbbed. 

'When I get back, I want to see the mess gone, and you with it.' His steel eyes followed Chloé as she cowered towards the kitchen. 

He grabbed the Audi's keys from the key rack— damn! He had left the Jag’s keys in the ignition—and slammed the door behind him. He sped off leaving the garage doors open. 

The Audi tore down the driveway skidding to a stop while the massive iron gate slowly swung open. Mark drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel, glancing in the rear-view mirror to check whether Chloé had bothered coming after him. No. Good riddance to her. He would find a replacement in less than twenty-four hours.  

He slammed down the accelerator and lurched out of the gate, narrowly missing a grey Mercedes. Idiot! He grinned as he looked in the rear-view mirror. Near miss, but still a miss. Luck was picking up again. He was glad he had sacked the jinxer. 

It’s the best decision I’ve made so far today. Now for the real decisions. 

He walked into the glass high-rise that housed Collins & Cox Management Counselling and pulled up his starched shirt cuff. Only five minutes behind schedule. He decided to jog up the eight flights of stairs; he needed to let off some steam before the meeting with Powell.  

Joe the security guard greeted him with his usual smile. Mark strode past without a glance. Joe didn't deserve to be snubbed; he was a decent guy. He made a note to get him a bottle of red wine for his birthday. A Bourgogne Pinot Noir 2019, that was an excellent year. 

Liam was already there, his butt poised on the edge of Sarah’s desk. She was leaning towards him, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. He was being his usual self. The nice guy. Always checking on the staff. They were too pampered for Mark’s tastes. But Liam was Liam, pitiful, albeit good at business. He and Liam were opposites; it was a miracle they were still partners after five years.  

‘Where’s the dinosaur?’ Mark offered Sarah a curt nod. She sat up and returned to her computer screen. 

‘Keep up the excellent work Sarah!’ Liam stood up and smiled at Mark. Liam’s amiability infuriated him, it veered on the unprofessional at times.  

‘Owens is in the executive meeting room with Powell. I thought I‘d wait for you before going in.’ 

Mark didn’t need Liam to save face; his excellent reputation needed no endorsement.  

The meeting went smoothly, as always. Mark patted himself on the back. Owens, Nancy’s father, and the firm’s major investor hardly spoke to Mark. He shrugged it off. Senility hits even the richest sooner or later.  

‘That was an all-round decent win, Mr Owens.’  

Owens tore his gaze from the window and met Mark’s; it was charged with hostility. A shiver ran down Mark’s spine. That damned Chloé with her superstitions had ruined the day’s vibe. 

‘What’s wrong with the old man? You’d think he’d be dancing on his ancient mahogany desk with the Powell deal.’  

They were walking towards Liam’s office, and Liam slung his arm around Mark. 

‘What’s wrong with you, old sport?’ 

Mark wasn’t sure how he was feeling; just plain mad right now. He shrugged off Liam’s arm, then regretted it. 

‘Nah, all good. Let’s get the day rolling, I’m heading off to see Anderson for the project launch. We’re talking over two hundred employees and twelve CEOs. If we nail this one, we can both go to Hawaii for a month and rent a penthouse overlooking the beach.’ 

‘What I need is a quiet holiday with Amanda. She’s feeling neglected. I can’t blame her. Some quality time is what she deserves.’ 

Mark marvelled at the limits of his partner, no wonder he still drove around in an old Ford Mondeo. Style was a mystery to Liam.  

By lunchtime Mark had won the tender for the new project; the dice were rolling his way again. On a whim, he called Nancy and invited her to join him at Nando’s on Manhattan Beach. The LA sea air would clear his head. 

No answer. Strange, she usually picked up straight away, her phone was glued to her hand with little else to do apart from the few charity events she hosted, and her Instagram posts. He shrugged and headed for Nando’s, driving just above the speed limit. 

He didn’t fancy eating alone today. As he drove, he messaged Judith. He’d had a brief affair with her last winter, but she complained incessantly so he’d ghosted her. 

‘Nando’s at 1.30 p.m. bring that negligée I gave you for Christmas.’ He added a winking face emoji. 

By the time he got to Nando’s, no reply had come from either woman. To hell with them he would enjoy his own company.  

Giulio had just served him an espresso and was heading for the kitchen when he cried out. ‘Signor Marco! Is that your car?’  

He had left it in a no-parking zone, some stupid cop was probably slapping him with a fine. He’d call the district station, talk with the supervisor and ditch it. ‘No worries, Giulio!’ He waved away Giulio’s angst and dipped his amaretto in the espresso. 

‘Alberto! Call the cops now!’ Giulio cried out to one of his camerieri. The waiter picked up the landline, dialling frantically while Giulio rushed outside.  

Mark brushed a few crumbs from his lapel with the starched white napkin and strolled towards the counter. He froze. Through the window, a man was smashing the Audi’s windscreen with a baseball bat. Giulio had grabbed the man around the waist, risking his own skull.  

‘Signor Marco, the cops are coming!’ Alberto shouted as he ran to Giulio’s aid.  

Mark watched as both men hauled the screwball aside, finally wrenching the bat from his hand. The man fell to the pavement and sat pulling at his hair. 

Alberto burst into the restaurant, but Mark cut him short. ‘Call a taxi—I don’t have time to wait around for the cops. You tell them what happened. My service man will pick up the Audi, or what’s left of it.’ 

Mark left the restaurant as soon as he spotted the taxi. He swept past Giulio, nodding his thanks, and added, ‘Keep an eye on the crazy bugger, Giulio; I’ll send you a cheque for the bother.’  

The man with the bat lifted his head. The flesh beneath his eyes was puffy and bloodshot. He glared at Mark and shot up, faltering. ‘You fucking bastard. Keep your hands off my wife!’ 

Mark slipped into the taxi and tapped the glass separation. ‘11456 Bellagio Road Bel Air, move!’ He stretched his neck to look through the rear window as the cab zoomed off. The basher was waving his fist at the cab, tripping over his own feet.  

Realisation finally hit him. Judith’s husband, the loser. Mark shrugged; he would have the windscreen repaired and the Audi delivered to his house. That guy had a hell of a lot more to repair. 

He shoved twenty dollars through the slot in the glass partition and slammed the cab door. Strange. The large iron gate was wide open. He headed towards the house, past the garage. The sliding doors were still open. The Jag had gone. 

Fuck. What was it with the cars today? The only person who had been at the house was Chloé. The stupid bitch had left the gate open, and they had stolen the Jag. The front door was ajar. On entering, the silence pressed down on him ominously. His eyes darted around the living room. The house was still.  

He slid his briefcase next to the hallway closet, crept across the living room to the base of the stairs, looked up, and easing himself against the bannister tiptoed up the stairs. The ringing in his ears increased and he felt a nerve pulsating in his left temple. No one. He let out his breath and entered the bedroom. The glass was everywhere now as if someone had deliberately strewn the shards around the room. 

An envelope lay on the bed on top of the jumbled bedclothes. He recognised the writing, frowned, and tore it open. 

Dear Mark, I always knew you were a bastard, but I also saw something more beautiful in your soul. I hoped to be the one to bring out that beauty within. I was wrong. I need to preserve myself. Nancy. 

Mark ripped the letter to bits and added it to the shattered glass. That boring, spoilt, snobby bitch. If anything, he had to thank her for dumping him. His life would have been an utter drag, wasting the best years of his life with a stuck-up wallflower. He felt great again as if a load had been taken off his chest.  

He glanced at his watch–a present from Nancy–jogged down the stairs and snatched up the keys to the BMW and his briefcase.  

When he strode into the office building’s lobby for the second time that day, Joe was behind the reception desk. He looked up and smiled. ‘Welcome back Mr Collins… is everything alright?’ He left the desk to greet Mark.  

Mark liked the guy. He was simple and genuine, not like most of the people he knew. On a whim, he undid his watch and pressed it in Joe’s hand. 

‘You take this Joe, a foretaste of your birthday present next month. I rarely wear it anyway; I’d be happy for you to have it.’ 

‘Mr Collins, but… I can’t…’ 

‘Yes you can, and you will.’ 

‘But…. you’re a good man, Mr Collins, despite what everyone says.’ 

Mark caught Joe’s words as the doors of the elevator shut. 

The first person Mark saw when the doors of the elevator opened was Liam. He stood there, frowning, running his hand through his hair. He grabbed Mark by the arm and led him to his office. 

‘Listen, whatever happens, don’t fret.’ 

Mark’s ears picked up the ringing again. He slung his briefcase on his oakwood desk. 

‘What are you blabbering about?’ 

‘Owens has called a special meeting, and it’s looking bad.’ Liam’s gentle brown eyes searched Mark’s. He touched Mark’s elbow. ‘He wants to fire you, Mark.’ 

Mark wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He plopped down in his leather chair in silence. 

Finally, he croaked, ‘He can’t do that…’ 

‘Listen, I’ll pull out too. The old man needs at least one of us. I’ll put the pressure on him.’  

‘This is all about his stuck-up daughter. Who wants to work with a weak, obnoxious old dodo anyway? Good riddance to him. I refuse to go to the meeting; you deal with it. If I see that wrinkled grimace of a face, I swear I’ll smash it in.’ 

Liam nodded and squeezed his arm. ‘I'll always stick by you Mark, you’re a bastard but a good player and deep inside you have a kind streak; you just don't know it.’ 

Mark rubbed his face with his hands, leaned over, resting his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. How was it that his partner and friend remained faithful to him even after his avowal?  

Joe’s words echoed in his head. Despite what everyone says…    

Mark didn't need Liam's pity. He was no longer angry, just disgusted with the day, he thought back to Chloé and her superstition. It had all started with the broken mirror.  

Mark drove the BMW to Bel Air through the hills for what seemed like hours. It had been a hell of a day. The luck he thought would always be by his side had abandoned him, he couldn’t take one more strike. He was done.  

It was dark when he got back home. He left the BMW outside the front door, not bothering to park it in the garage, dropped his briefcase, threw the keys on the coffee table, and traipsed upstairs. He tore the sheet off his bed, and with his bare hands began picking up the shards from the mirror, throwing them into the sheet. By the time he had finished his hands were bleeding, but he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was bury the damn mirror as far under the earth as possible, together with his past life. 

The moon was full; that was a good omen. He spent the next hour digging up the hard earth, sweating profusely. By the time he walked back inside and dropped into his soft leather sofa, he was covered in dirt and blood. He had to change somehow. He craved peace and renewal. He had lost a housemaid, two cars, his lover, his fiancée, and most likely his job, but all this seemed irrelevant. 

His phone vibrated. The first message was from the service company. ‘We had to bring your Jag in, will drive it back by 3 p.m. tomorrow. Audi fixed.’  

The second was from Liam. ‘He’s ready to talk. He can’t afford both partners quitting. We’ll fix it. Let’s meet tomorrow. Your friend, Liam.’ 

He still had his friend, and even Joe’s respect, which made at least two people in the world; that was enough.

He eased his feet on the coffee table and dropped his head back onto the sofa’s headrest and closed his eyes. His luck was already changing for the better. He vowed to keep it that way. He would sell the Jag and the Audi. A Toyota Corolla would do.