I just find P.J. Harvey so mesmerising to watch because she

Host: The street outside the theatre glowed with rainlight, slick and reflective, like a living mirror of the night. The posters on the brick wall fluttered faintly under a restless wind — torn corners revealing half-hidden faces, words like Tour, Live, One Night Only.

Inside, the backstage dressing room was a small kingdom of chaos — mirrors ringed with bulbs, half-lit and humming; the air thick with makeup powder, perfume, and cigarette smoke curling like soft ghosts.

At the center of it all sat Jeeny, her hair half done, her eyes reflecting the mirror’s fractured glow. Across from her, perched on a stool near the vanity, was Jack, sleeves rolled, a script folded in his lap.

Host: The room was quiet, save for the faint music leaking through the wall — a P.J. Harvey song, low, sultry, unknowable, threading its way into the very pulse of the night.

Jeeny: (murmuring, almost to herself) “Alison Moyet once said about P.J. Harvey — ‘She remains unfathomable. She’s the kind of woman who makes you rue the day you weren’t born her. She always seems to be the cat that walks alone, and you don’t feel you are supposed to know her.’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Unfathomable, huh? That’s one way to say ‘untouchable.’”

Jeeny: “No. Not untouchable. Mysterious. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Mysterious is just marketing for aloofness. You keep enough distance, and suddenly you’re called deep.”

Jeeny: (turning to face him) “You don’t understand her, then. P.J. Harvey isn’t performing mystery — she’s being. There’s a kind of raw independence in her presence. Like she doesn’t owe anyone explanation, not even the people who adore her.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s armor. Maybe mystery’s just what’s left when you’ve been looked at too long.”

Host: The bulbs around the mirror flickered, casting their faces in alternating warmth and shadow. Jeeny’s lipstick gleamed like a secret; Jack’s reflection looked older than the man himself — lines carved by exhaustion and disbelief.

Jeeny: “You think distance is dishonesty, but sometimes it’s the only way to stay real. The world devours authenticity. Especially in women. If you’re open, they dissect you; if you’re private, they mythologize you.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So, what, she wins either way? Sounds like a convenient legend.”

Jeeny: “No, she loses either way. That’s the point. People don’t allow women to just exist in ambiguity. But she does. That’s what mesmerizes me — she lives in that in-between, without apology.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from nervousness but from admiration — that dangerous admiration that borders on envy. She reached for her earrings, hands steady, eyes locked on the mirror.

Jack: “You envy her.”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Of course. Every woman envies someone who gets to walk through the world without having to explain her softness or her sharpness. She wears both. Effortlessly.”

Jack: “And that makes her better?”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “No. It makes her free.”

Host: The door creaked open slightly; the sound of distant applause seeped in — a rehearsal finishing on the stage below. Then silence again. Jack rose, walked toward the mirror, and leaned beside Jeeny, his reflection a contrast to hers — his face lined, eyes analytical, while hers burned with unspoken fire.

Jack: “You know, I never understood that fascination. People worship mystery because it gives them something to project onto. She’s a blank wall for other people’s longings.”

Jeeny: “That’s not worship — that’s recognition. It’s the ache of seeing someone embody what you can’t.”

Jack: “Or what you refuse to.”

Jeeny: (turning sharply) “You think it’s refusal? You think I don’t try to live on my own terms?”

Jack: “You try, but you still crave understanding. She doesn’t. That’s why she haunts you.”

Host: The air thickened, the kind of stillness that comes before a storm — invisible, but heavy. Jeeny’s eyes darted to her own reflection again, and for a fleeting moment, she didn’t see herself — only the echo of someone else’s silhouette, confident, aloof, untouchable.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I envy her because she gets to exist without needing to be known.”

Jack: (softly) “And you? You need to be known to know yourself.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Does that make me weak?”

Jack: “No. Just human.”

Host: The room’s silence was broken by the faint beat of the song bleeding through the wall — “To Bring You My Love.” The bassline low, hypnotic, crawling through the air like smoke. Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny: “Listen to her voice. It’s not just sound; it’s invitation and distance all at once. That’s the paradox. She lets you feel close — then she vanishes again.”

Jack: “Like a mirage.”

Jeeny: “Like a storm that never touches ground.”

Host: The song swelled, and for a moment, both of them were silent, lost in the pulse. Jack’s gaze softened — he saw in Jeeny’s stillness something of the same mystery she admired: a quiet defiance, a yearning to vanish but be witnessed in the vanishing.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? You talk about her as if she’s some phantom of control — but maybe she’s just as scared as the rest of us. Maybe that mystery’s just survival.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “So what if it is? Survival can be beautiful.”

Jack: “So can honesty.”

Jeeny: “They’re not opposites.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier — steady now, insistent. It rattled against the window like applause. Jeeny stood, fixing her coat in the mirror. The faint scent of her perfume — sandalwood and smoke — drifted between them.

Jeeny: “You think I admire her because she’s unknowable. But it’s more than that. It’s that she gives permission — to not perform. To not be pleasant, explainable, digestible.”

Jack: “You think the world would let you be that way?”

Jeeny: “I don’t care if it does.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe you already are her.”

Host: That landed between them like a chord struck by accident — wrong but resonant. Jeeny’s breath caught; she didn’t smile. Instead, she picked up her notebook, slipped it into her bag, and looked once more into the mirror.

In her reflection, she wasn’t herself anymore — she was someone possible.

Jeeny: (softly) “No, Jack. She’s the cat that walks alone. I still look back.”

Jack: “Maybe the difference between you and her isn’t freedom. It’s forgiveness.”

Jeeny: (turns to him) “And who forgives who?”

Jack: “You. Yourself.”

Host: The music stopped. The silence that followed was immense, like the pause between lightning and thunder. The mirror lights dimmed further, leaving only the faint glow of the corridor outside.

Jack stepped back, and for once, didn’t argue. Jeeny walked to the door, her boots clicking softly on the tiled floor — confident, deliberate, but tinged with fragility.

Before stepping out, she turned and said:

Jeeny: “Maybe being unfathomable isn’t about hiding. Maybe it’s about not explaining the parts that can’t be translated.”

Jack: “Then keep them untranslatable.”

Jeeny: (half-smile) “Maybe I will.”

Host: The door closed behind her. The room was left in half-darkness — her perfume still lingering, the mirror still catching her ghost image. Jack stared at it for a while, then at the stage light outside that flickered faintly through the doorway.

Somewhere in the distance, P.J. Harvey’s voice began again — raw, powerful, unapologetically strange.

Host: The camera would pan slowly toward the mirror, where two reflections still shimmered — one fading, one waiting — the known and the unknowable forever dancing in and out of sight.

And in that brief shimmer of absence, the world understood what Alison Moyet meant —
That some souls are not meant to be deciphered,
only witnessed.

Because the cat that walks alone does not walk away from the world —
She simply walks beyond it,
carrying the mystery that keeps the rest of us
searching.