“I didn’t realise you lived in a factory,” I giggle, looking around curiously. Natalie leads me through a bare foyer which is about the size of my whole flat into a huge hall full of strange metal structures.
“That’s my brother’s studio,” Natalie explains. “He’s a sculptor.” She crosses the room and we wander along between large sculptures, intertwining knots and bundles of steel, up to three metres high, till we reach a narrow staircase leading to a kind of gallery upstairs. It’s not too warm in the hall and I shiver. We climb the stairs and Natalie opens one of the doors in the gallery. I certainly hope her flat is warmer than the studio. She steps back and lets me through. “Welcome to my home!” she chirps, closing the door behind us.
This room is the exact opposite of the ground floor, warm and cosy, flooded with soft light and all kinds of exotic aromas, perfumes and spices. It’s large and apart from in magazines I haven’t seen a flat like this before. A dark red carpet covers most of the polished wooden floor and the huge sofas are done up in gorgeous soft leather. The burgundy red floor-length curtains covered in golden patterns frame the large window which looks down on the river. Cushions in bright yellow and orange shades are scattered on the floor around a low glass table. Most impressive of all, however, are the bold, abstract paintings on the walls. Wow, that can’t be a Julian Schnabel, can it? The colours take my breath away. Then I nearly faint when I detect an exquisite Warhol flower painting beside a small star-shaped mirror. Now I’m really intimidated, Natalie must have serious money. But if she’s aware of my awe she doesn’t take any notice.
“Here’s the kitchen I share with Rupert,” she explains and walks through another door. In here it’s like another world: all stainless steel, no colours, modern kitchen gadgets, table and chairs in matt black and the curtains in white. Everything is very clean and tidy and I’m not sure if anybody ever cooks in here. This is certainly no student flat. Natalie giggles as she watches my expression. “Not my taste really. A friend of ours is an interior architect and she’s done up the kitchen and Rupert’s room. Take a look if you want, he’s not home.” She gestures to a door at the back of the kitchen and I open it curiously. Hm, looks rather uncomfortable. The difference between the two living rooms couldn’t be greater, Natalie’s is an explosion of colour and Rupert’s is dominated by pure white. Severe, geometric furniture turns the room into a fridge, at least in my view. I wonder if this interior architect has many clients. Natalie looks at me, obviously waiting for a reaction.
“I like yours way better,” I reply honestly, wondering what Rupert must be like to want to live in such barren surroundings. Natalie simply nods delightedly.
“Me too, but Rupert gave the designer carte blanche.” She giggles again as if at some private joke. “My bedroom and bathroom are behind my living room, I'll show you later.” She looks at my bag. “Is that all you brought?” I bite my lip in embarrassment but decide to tell the truth.
“I didn’t think I’d stay the night,” I mumble, omitting to mention the fact that I nearly decided not to come at all. I really don’t want to offend her so I hand her the bag with the food to cover the awkward moment. But Natalie doesn’t seem offended at all. She takes two glasses and some plates out of a cupboard and carries everything through to her room.
“No problem, if you want to stay after all you can wear one of my pairs of pyjamas,” she shrugs. She lights some thick red candles and puts a jazz CD in the player, kicks off her shoes – wow, they have a red sole, clearly Louboutins! – and sits down on one of the cushions. “I’m hungry, let’s eat!” I nod gratefully.
I don’t feel any need to go home the entire evening. We keep talking incessantly and the hours fly by. “You know what tonight is?” she suddenly asks. We’ve long finished eating and it’s nearly midnight.
“Um, New Year’s Eve?” I reply grinning. I’m aware that’s not very witty but I’ve had quite a lot of champagne as the bottle I brought was only the beginning. Natalie smiles mysteriously.
“Well, New Year’s Eve comes up every year, that’s not exciting. I’m talking about something else.” She gets up and walks to the window. “It’s a blue moon today.”
“A blue moon? What’s that?” I follow her to the window. The moon is full and bright, certainly not blue or different from usual.
“It’s the second full moon in a month, something that happens only about forty times in a hundred years. The fact that it coincides with New Year’s Eve is extremely rare,” Natalie explains. I look at the clouds that cover the moon for a moment. “On nights like this anything can happen,” she whispers softy. “Destinies are destroyed, connections made that will never break again. Things can happen which humans call ‘miracles’.” Miracles? I’ve long since stopped believing in miracles myself or even hoping for them. All the same, I can’t avert my eyes from the night sky.
“The last blue moon, when did it happen?” I ask Natalie.
“Again, on New Year’s Eve, in 1990,” Natalie answers promptly. I feel the hairs rising on my neck. That was the night my mum died.
The spell is broken when my phone begins to ring. “We want to wish you a Happy New Year, Livia!” I listen to my stepmother’s voice. “Where are you, by the way? Your father tried ringing your flat first.” I feel my face splitting into a huge grin. Of course they thought I’d be sitting alone at home, ha!
“I’m at a friend’s, I told you!” I reply smugly.
“And where would that be?” she instantly digs further. How old am I? Nine? Suppressing a sigh I answer dutifully.
“In town, near the docks. And before you ask, yes, I’ve had something to drink and won’t go home by car but stay here.” That should get her off my back.
“Near the docks?” she frowns. “I thought all the old buildings were empty there.” Here she goes again.
“No, Natalie and her brother have a very nice flat and studio here. Give my love to everyone,” I explain patiently before breaking the connection. Then I switch off the mobile and throw it on the couch. “My mother still treats me like a baby,” I say by way of explanation.
“Your mother? I thought your mother died when you were small?” Natalie looks at me with round eyes. I can’t remember mentioning this but whatever. I stare into the bright candle flame.
“Well, she’s my stepmum.” Natalie plays idly with the fringes of a cushion.
“So your father remarried? Do you like her?” I shrug and hesitate. I’m not accustomed to talking about these things and I don’t really want to. But Natalie keeps gazing at me.
“Yes, I do, but we never – you know, clicked,” I admit eventually. ”She’s simply not my real mum, it’s different.” Natalie looks at me searchingly.