That old ad is doing the rounds on social media again. It has always haunted me, but after the day I’ve had at work, I’m regretting my life choices more than ever. I indulge myself by dialling the number.
“Is it too late?” I’ll say. I sigh when a recorded message tells me that my call cannot be connected.
I know exactly where I was on Friday 4th March 1994. It was mum’s fortieth birthday, so I had trudged into town after sixth-form college to browse the shops for a gift.
The mirror had caught my eye immediately amongst all the other bric-a-brac, emitting a soft golden glow under the lights. It had been relegated to the back of a shelf behind five dusty dolls, which I ceremoniously brushed aside.
Meanwhile, two hours away in a London dance studio, Mel B was belting out The Greatest Love of All. There was still time.
“How much is this?” I said to the shop assistant, catching her kohl-rimmed eye in the reflection.
She shrugged. “What does the tag say?”
There was none. It had fallen off. “Must be free!” I laughed.
“Go on then,” she said, and went back to reading her book.
I tucked it under my arm and ran out before she could change her mind, feeling like it was my lucky day. And maybe it was. What a shame, then, that when I headed into the newsagents next door for a birthday card, I didn’t grab a copy of Stage magazine and find the audition ad inside. I was so close to the train station, too. Victoria was probably performing her musical theatre number as I walked out of the shop, the door tinkling shut behind me.
What would I have sung? Probably something by Kylie. Luckily for Emma Bunton, I did not. Instead, I went home and watched Neighbours.
Mum still has that mirror in her downstairs toilet. Something propels me over there now.
My voice echoes in the tiny cubicle. “Mum, why’s the mirror so high up? You can’t even see yourself!”
She appears in the doorway. “Huh? Oh, that mirror. It’s beautiful but I look awful in it. All haggard and grief-stricken. The room looks different too. It freaks me out, so I keep it out of sight.”
I’m intrigued. Standing on the toilet seat, I’m eye-level with the mirror. She’s right about the room. A luxury bathroom suite reflects back at me, not this dingy little cubby-hole. But that isn’t the thing that makes me almost topple off the toilet. It’s the fact that I have no reflection.
Pictures adorn the walls in the premium bathroom. I reach for my phone, hands shaking as I take a snap and zoom in.
And there I am. Hair in bunches, flanked by the other Spice Girls. But what’s that beside it? A framed newspaper clipping. I zoom in further.
“Jealous fan Emma Bunton imprisoned for the murder of Baby Spice.”
I lift the toilet seat and vomit.
