‘Take a good look at yourself. Look what you’ve become.’ At the time I thought my mother’s words harsh, a spiteful outburst for no good reason. She’d steered me to the mirror in her small low-ceilinged bungalow, the early spring light beaming on glass, showing me exactly what she meant. It was an ugly sight.

‘‘You’re a divorcee not a zombie. You need a holiday,’ she’d added for good measure.

And so, I took one.

The looking glass definitely tricked me into picking it up. The last thing I expected to see while strolling on a Cornish beach was a mirror. A pool of light slap bang in the middle of the shingles. An alien landing pad bright and shiny. I snuck over to the object with the wariness of a crab. When I looked down it clouded over; my own face, framed in black ringlets of seaweed, peered back. It was a strange sight. My face, freckled with sand, a beached sea urchin.

We looked at each other for a short while. Me and my sandy alter-ego. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. Freckle-face winked. What! I widened my eyes; my mouth fell open in shock. My reflection smiled back at me. I touched my pulse. It was racing. I wasn’t dead.

This ‘other’ me, smug in the shingles, gave me another cheeky wink. When was the last time I had looked cheeky … or winked, for that matter? A trick of the light? I looked up at the sky and the sun was still shining. The earth, as far as I was aware, was still turning. Freckles was looking amused when I glanced back down. She raised an eyebrow.

‘So, are you ready for our See Voyage?’ she said in a voice which sounded like mine, but better; like it had been caressed by a warm sea breeze.

I looked around. A man was walking a dog by the edge of the water. Way out on the ocean was a liner. On the beach below was an oval of glass and a reflection of me waiting for an answer.

‘So how is this going to work?’ I replied. I was used to arguing the toss with myself. In an insane world talking to my better half in the reflection of a mirror on a pebbly beach didn’t seem unreasonable.

‘Like I said. We’re going on a See Voyage. We’re going to take that little red boat bobbing away in the shallows.’

‘What little red boat bobbing away in the shallows?’ I turned around. No little red boat, just a man and a dog walking west towards the lighthouse.

‘The red boat in the mirror. Behind me. Be careful when you pick me up … I’m fragile.’

I felt oddly reassured. This cocky ‘mirror me’ wasn’t all show. When I held it in my hand, I noticed a fine crack running down the right-hand side of the glass. Glass framed in mother of pearl, a pink and gauzy grey. I held it to my face, looked my reflection in the eye. Using my sleeve, I wiped away a covering of specks of sand and debris. Close up it looked older, the glass cloudy and mottled. Seaweed hair extensions stuck stubbornly to its slender frame. So, I left them there to swish in the breeze. There was something endearing about this little touch of vanity.

‘Shall we embark?’ My reflection said through pursed lips. ‘To the boat,’ she continued. ‘The one …’

‘I know, just behind you.’

‘Finishing my sentences now,’ Mirrorme said, with a superior smirk.

‘We have so much in common.’

‘And yet so little,’ smarty pants replied. I wondered if she could read my mind, as well as my face.

‘Hold me out in front of you and I will lead the way,’ she commanded.

This was easier said than done. The mirror’s perspective was deceptive, like the rear-view camera screens in cars. I tripped on the extended lead of a Highland terrier, I stubbed my foot on a rock, banged my shin on the side of the little red boat. It bobbed back in the water apologetically.

‘Everything looks so distant in the mirror. Not right in your face like in real life.’

‘Lesson One for the day,’ Mirrorme said.

‘You mean there are more lessons to be learnt before I wake up?’

‘Lesson Two. Reality is in the eye of the beholder. Let’s do history first.’

Perhaps I should have been afraid, with the sea lapping around my ankles, an ocean stretching to infinity. But I wasn’t. For the first time in a very long time the anticipation of doing something mad and potentially dangerous was exciting. I just wished I knew how to sail.

The boat was bobbing up and down expectantly. Mirrorme was fixing me with her glassy eye when I turned back to her.

‘You’ve done this before, remember? Shall I jog your memory?’ The mirror misted over for a second before revealing an old movie of myself on a small dart yacht. Must have been 20 years ago. We were holidaying in Sardinia, one of those all-inclusive family-friendly holiday

clubs, and I’d done a sailing course. I was good at it, I recalled. Sailing was all about tacking and balance. Working with the tides and the prevailing wind.

Placing the mirror on the wooden slat of a seat I pushed the boat out to sea and hopped on board. There was just enough wind to get some movement. The worst thing about any water sport, I remembered, was the static lulls. Today we had a balmy breeze; Mirrorme’s ringlets were fluttering like the sails. I propped her up against my rucksack and we sailed the waves in tandem. From the corner of my eye, I could see the sky reflected in the glass; the gulls swooping, a line of little clouds puffing above the ocean like steam from a train.

I moved from side to side on the boat, pulling at the sail ropes, steering our course over the waves. I had no idea where we were going.

“Well, this is nice,” I said after a while. A long while. And it really had been nice, with the sun and sea breeze on my face, sailing with a sense of purpose, but with no real destination.

When I looked back at Mirrorme I was surprised to see a trail of water running down the glass. Was she crying? Foolish thought. It was raining. First small splashes and then torrents. The weather in Cornwall can be bi-polar and the wind was whipping up the waves, making the boat rock violently. I grabbed the mirror as it jolted off its perch. Mirrorme was looking ahead towards the promenade in Penzance. Waves lashed the sea wall, froth gushing like geysers. In the mirror I could see grey shapes circling the boat. Fins. For Chrissake. Fins! Unlike me, Mirrorme was wearing a noble, brave expression. It could have been carved out of wood, a figurehead for the bow of an old ship.

‘Lesson Three,’ Mirrorme said.

‘What!’ I screamed over the howling wind.

‘Always look for a safe harbour in a storm.’

‘I learnt to tack in the Mediterranean not the Celtic Sea!’ I could see a light blinking to the east. The lighthouse? The light was pulsing in time with the high waves crashing against its stone turret, drenching it with foam. It didn’t look like a safe harbour, and I couldn’t steer the boat to it, regardless. In one hand I clutched the looking glass, in the other the sail ropes. I was clutching on to soggy strands of hope. And then I had a lighthouse moment. The mirror. There were still some faint rays of light piercing through the clouds. The clouds had grown, formed an aggressive gang, but light was still squeezing through. I held up the mirror, turning it in my hand, trying to recreate the SOS signal, spitting out water as the sea flung itself at me.

It all seemed pointless. I was going to die a horrible watery death because I had dared to dream. Dared to do one more reckless thing. The mirror and my raised arm were getting battered by the wind and rain. I let my arm fall to my side.

‘It’s raining men. Hallelujah. It’s raining men. Amen.’ Mirrome was singing. Her grainy little voice was singing. It was all right for her. She would float down to the bottom of the ocean to be picked up by adorable mermaids or be washed up in Hawaii … maybe. Me … I was shark snack. I was the bloated corpse found by wild swimmers in Sennen Cove.

I looked in the mirror. ‘What have you got to smile about?’

‘It’s raining men. Hallelujah,’ she sang back, as a school of dolphins leapt out of the ocean, pirouetting like backing dancers. ‘And you’re gonna get absolutely soaking wet.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I replied, cut off by a mouthful of sea water.

The dolphins were surrounding the boat. I’d read somewhere about how they steer people to safety. Had actually nudged a child to the shore. Just being by our side gave us some protection from the waves. I pulled at the ropes, steering us towards land.

‘Ahoy there. Ahoy there.’ Mirrorme was spouting off again. I was sitting on the mirror as both my hands were busy with the ropes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, as I budged over and lifted her up.

Her eyes were looking towards the harbour. I took the hint and started to flash the mirror again. In the distance I could see boats in the harbour, all safely moored but still taking a beating from the storm. To the west there was something moving on the sea. At first it looked like it might be an orange buoy which had been cast loose. But it was approaching fast, smashing over the waves. It was a RIB lifeboat.

‘Thank God. Thank God! I cried, hugging the mirror to me with one hand, still clutching the ropes with the other.

‘Thank yourself.’

‘And the dolphins,’ I replied.

‘Goes without saying.’

*****

An hour later I was sitting in The Dolphin pub in Penzance Harbour drinking cider. I’d already had a tot of rum on the lifeboat over. I’d brushed off all attempts to rush me to A&E and, once released from my foil wrapping, I was warming myself by a log-burning fire, wearing oversized fishermen’s joggers and a ‘I Heart Cornwall’ sweatshirt.

My rucksack had survived. So had the mirror which was stowed inside. The little red boat, which had slipped its mooring and floated to the beach, had been returned to the harbour. No questions asked. Thankfully.

‘It’s raining men.’ I couldn’t get the damn song out of my mind. But I couldn’t help noticing, The Dolphin was full of them. A pub on the corner of the harbour … hardly surprising that the local sailors and fishermen hung out there. My two rescuers were sitting at the table with me, laughing about my ‘trip’, the ‘foolhardiness of tourists’. ‘Hadn’t I checked the weather forecast?’ ‘Did I really think it was advisable to jump into a random boat and head off, on my own, out to sea?’

The guy probing me had the look of Paul Hollywood questioning a baker about their dubious plans for a Bake-Off Showstopper. He had the same flirty eyes. I figured he must have a tourist in every port. I was itching to get in my bag and check my look in the mirror. I’d used the looking glass earlier to fix my face before going into the pub. I was pleased to see the reflection looking back at me was reassuringly healthy. Cheeky, even. It winked back … but only at the same time as I winked. I tried a few quick moves, just to check this was my actual reflection. It was. Sadly, it was.

The stars were out as I strolled back to my hotel. We must have sat in the pub for two hours or more, the handsome sailor and me. Turns out he is also divorced, and a local carpenter who volunteers for the RNLI. A Cornishman. We’re meeting tomorrow evening for dinner. I’ll return his clothes then. But, tonight, I’ll return another gift.

*****

The gang of clouds which had bullied me on the boat were nowhere in sight. Instead, a full moon blazed in the night sky, illuminating the calm sea so it shone like sheet glass. I walked down the rugged rock steps onto the beach, where I’d picked up the looking glass that afternoon. There were a few people out walking, even at that late hour.

I sat there for some time, just watching the waves rolling in and rolling out. The looking glass was propped up against my rucksack and every now and then I glanced over to check if Mirrorme was there. But no. The only things reflected in the glass were the moon and stars and sea birds flying home to roost.

It must have been midnight when I rose to leave. I placed the glass on the sand, circling it with seashells and draping the frame with strands of seaweed. I took one last look in the mirror. A good look. It was a beautiful sight.