The Photographer's Wife (27 page)

Brett, however, has sensed the danger of the moment. “OK, sorry,” he says, determined to defuse the situation. “That was a stupid thing to say. You’re tired. You’re cranky. And you’ve had a bad day.”

Sophie nods vaguely.

“And you just want a kiss and a cuddle and a nice, gentle, every-day bang. Am I right?”

Sophie thinks,
Wow, that was close.
She clears her throat. “Yes. That’s about the sum of it,” she says.

Brett stands. “Come,” he says, holding out one hand.

And more because she lacks the energy for a fight than anything else, Sophie, lets herself take it and allows herself to be led from the room.

1968 - Hackney, London.

Barbara is making fish pie. She leans in to smooth the potato topping with a fork and struggles to lose herself in the task. For today there is something strange going on, something she can’t quite put her finger on and doesn’t want to think too deeply about.

Diane is coming to dinner tonight, bringing her new boyfriend to meet them – a first – and there is a sense of anticipation hanging in the air which seems, somehow, out of proportion to the event, which ultimately is nothing more than a simple meal of fish pie shared with friends. Even Jonathan, unusually, inexplicably clinging to her knees as she works, appears to sense it.

Tony, who has nipped out for “some booze”, seems both excited and irritated in equal measure and Barbara’s suspicion that he’s going to get blind drunk adds to her feelings of apprehension. She’s noticed in the past a certain nervousness which manifests just before he starts a bender, as if the alcohol were a safety valve that stops him imploding. And it’s been a while since the last time... Tonight could be one of those nights.

“I need to get butter from the fridge,” she tells Jonathan, ruffling his hair. He giggles and positions one foot on each of hers, clasps her thighs and says, “Go on then.” Together, they toddle to the fridge, then back across the kitchen with Jonathan making robot noises throughout.

Barbara cuts tiny chunks of butter and distributes them across the top of the sculpted potato topping and wonders if Tony will still get drunk once neither Phil (who has moved to Scotland) nor Diane are available. She can’t help but sense that Diane’s finding a boyfriend is a new beginning for her and Tony as well. And she doesn’t want to make a false move. She doesn’t want to miss that boat.

***

They arrive at six-thirty. Richard is a tall, skinny, nervous-looking man. His eyes dart across their faces as if searching for something, then continue around the room as if collecting details for a police report. But he’s a good looking guy. He reminds Barbara of Dirk Bogarde in
Doctor at Sea
. Her eyes flick across his crisp, white shirt and his neatly knotted tie, and she wishes, briefly, that Tony dressed better.

Richard isn’t the kind of person she expected Diane to end up with at all, but then again – and she notices this now – Diane’s transformation from arty tomboy to elegant damsel is no longer a work in progress. Even the eyebrows have been plucked into submission. Tonight she’s wearing an expensive if simple v-neck black dress over a white, large collared blouse, with white heeled sandals. Next to impeccably suited Richard/Dirk, they look like they have just fallen out of the latest Hollywood movie. Barbara feels distinctly frumpy in comparison and vows to make some new, more fashionable clothes for herself.

Tony is shaking Richard’s hand now, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “So you’re the famous Richard we’ve heard so much about!” he is saying, which is strange, because Barbara hasn’t heard anything about Richard at all.

They moved to this new, larger, rented flat three weeks ago, and the dining-room, which smells of paint, is still very much under construction. Barbara painted the walls a turquoise blue less than forty-eight hours ago and found the floral lampshade in a second hand shop just this morning. Tony says he doesn’t like the tone of blue and he
hates
the lampshade, and in truth, Barbara isn’t that keen on the overall result herself. It’s not as she imagined it in her mind’s eye but then so few things in life ever really are. Still, it’s better than entertaining surrounded by peeling wallpaper beneath a bare lightbulb. The camping table, borrowed from next door, has been covered with a tablecloth and looks fine, and they have three chairs now, so only Tony has to sit on a crate.

“So you’re an architect, I hear,” Tony says, revealing that he really has heard things about Richard. “That must be interesting.”

“Yes,” Richard replies. “And you’re another photographer, so Diane tells me.”

“Not really,” Tony says. “Not like Diane. Just amateur stuff, really.”

Diane laughs. “That’s not true,” she says. “He’s had photos published in the
Mirror
. He’s good, isn’t he Barbara?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I only had a few published,” Tony says. “I’m just a delivery guy, really.”

“Delivery!” Richard says, attempting to make his voice sound enthusiastic. “At least you’re out and about! I spend all day in an office. It’s dreadful.”

His valiant attempt at making Tony’s humble employment sound interesting has the opposite effect to that intended, and hangs in the air, momentarily embarrassing everyone. “I’m going to give it up though,” Tony says, after an awkward silence. “I’m going to move into photography full time. That’s the plan. I’m going to do an evening class.”

Barbara feels his pain and despite the fact that this has never been mentioned before, and despite the fact that she doubts his ability to do what he’s suggesting, she says, “You should. I
keep
saying it. You’re easily good enough.”

Tony glances at her in surprise. “Well, thank you!” he says.

Barbara serves halved grapefruits with glacé cherry hearts, followed by the fish pie. Tony, Diane and Richard devour the food as if they have never eaten before; they wash all of this down with numerous bottles of pale ale, yet despite the food hitting the spot and despite the alcohol, the atmosphere at the table remains chilled. Barbara can’t quite put her finger on what’s wrong, but the conversation remains stilted, the silences frequent and painful. By the time she serves the apple crumble, she’s exhausted from the simple effort of trying to find things to say, so when Jonathan, next door, cries out, it’s with a genuine sense of relief that she scuttles off to tend to him.

Diane and Richard do not stay late. By ten, unconvincingly feigning early starts the next morning, they are pulling on their coats and waving goodbyes and, arm-in-arm, heading down the path.

“Well, that was nice,” Barbara says, once the front door has closed behind them.

“Was it?” Tony, who is barely on the right side of sober replies.

Barbara shrugs. So they’re playing this honestly. “No, not really,” she admits. “It was awful.”

“I can’t stand those Fancy Nancy types,” Tony says.

“I thought you liked him,” Barbara says. After watching Tony attempt to ingratiate himself to Richard all night, she’s a little confused.

“Bloody architects,” Tony says. “Did you see what he was like when I said I do deliveries? Oh it must be
so
interesting being out and about like that.”

“I think he was just trying to be nice,” Barbara says.

“Thinks he’s the bees knees, that’s his trouble.”

“Oh, he’s OK, I think.”

“I think that Diane could do much better than tricky Dicky there.”

“She seems to like him,” Barbara says. She almost adds,
“and he’s a good looking man,”
but luckily restrains herself. That wouldn’t have gone down well. She has to tread carefully when the beer has been flowing. “They sort of look right together,” she says instead, her tone of voice thoughtful.

“Huh,” Tony says, cracking another beer and heading through to the lounge.

“You’re jealous,” Barbara whispers, behind him.

“You what?” Tony calls back.

“Nothing,” Barbara says. “I just said I might turn in. Jonathan had me awake early this morning.”

“Sure,” Tony replies. “I’m just going to finish off these beers.”

***

Barbara is sitting on a cushion in the corner of the room. Cold air from the draughty sash windows is drifting down her back but she won’t move just yet. She’s determined not to make a sound. Between her legs, her son is playing with a bright yellow submarine, driving it along the lines of the rug making spluttering, farty engine noises through pursed lips.

The purple sofa, a recent (second-hand) acquisition via a work colleague of Tony’s, is occupied by four tightly-packed friends from his new photography class. They are, from left to right, dark-haired Dave – in a thick, off-white, Arran jumper – pretty, hippy Alison, quiet-as-a-mouse Wendy, and sensible Malcolm.

Tony is offering them nibbles on sticks – cocktail sausages and pineapple and cheese cubes – which Barbara prepared earlier.

“The thing about cameras,” Dave is saying, “is the way they make people look at things they wouldn’t otherwise notice. All the little details.”

“A camera is kind of like a butter knife,” Alison says, wide-eyed.

“A butter knife?”

“Yeah,” she says. “A hot butter knife just, you know, slicing through reality and saving it for later.”

“Gosh, I like that,” Malcolm says. “A hot knife through reality.”

“How do you feel about the still-lives next week?” Alison asks. She always looks a little astonished at the sound of her own voice. Barbara wonders if it’s because she’s surprised that suddenly, unexpectedly, a woman is allowed to express such complex thoughts. None of them really expected that, and some, through luck, are better prepared than others.

“I think I prefer photographing people and places,” Tony says. “I’m not so sure about bowls of fruit.”

“Do you really think that’s what it will be?” Dave asks, picking at his teeth with the now-empty toothpick. “Bowls of fruit?”

Tony shrugs. “That’s what still-lives usually are, aren’t they?”

“Hey, bowls of fruit have rights too,” Alison says.

“Fruits have rights too!” Malcolm agrees, and everyone laughs, and though she doesn’t get it, Barbara fakes a smile too and turns her attention to her son. “Are you pleased with your new submarine?” she whispers.

Jonathan looks up at her and beams and nods ecstatically, and momentarily there is just Barbara and Jonathan, Jonathan and Barbara, and all is right with the world. “That’s Ringo,” he says, pointing at one of the people in the submarine and emulating her whispered tone.

“That’s right,” Barbara says. “Well done.”

“...looking forward to the darkroom sessions,” Tony is saying when she tunes in again. “I’ve mucked around developing with a friend of mine – her dad has a photo shop. But it will be good to learn all the techniques properly.”

Malcolm is studying a duplicated sheet of paper covered in purple text. “It says we’re studying dodging and burning,” he says. “Whatever that means.”

“It’s about changing the exposure for different parts of the print,” Tony tells him. “Dodging is when you use something opaque to reduce the exposure, and burning is the other way around. I think that’s it anyway.”

Jonathan crashes the submarine into Barbara’s foot and makes a loud “pow” noise and everyone turns to face them.

“How are you over there, Barbara?” Alison asks, now the submarine explosion has pierced Barbara’s cloak of invisibility. “Are you sure you don’t want your turn on the settee?”

Barbara smiles and shakes her head. “I’m fine here with Jonathan,” she says, her heart starting to speed up as the attention of the room turns on her.

“Tony told me that you make your own clothes,” Alison says earnestly.

Barbara nods and swallows. Her throat is dry. “Yes,” she croaks. “Sometimes.”

“That’s really cool,” Alison declares. “I’d love to know how to do something practical like that. I can’t even sew a button on. I have to get my mum to do it.”

“I... I think I’ll go see how that quiche is going,” Barbara says, now standing and pulling down her very-ordinary, shop-bought skirt.

“She cooks too, then!” Malcolm comments.

“She sure does,” Tony says. “Barbara’s a great cook, aren’t you?”

Barbara runs her hand over Jonathan’s head and the gesture calms her nerves momentarily, and allows her to take one almost normal breath which she uses, smiling demurely, to sidle past Tony’s clever friends. Alone in the kitchen, she grips the cold hard edge of the sink and stares out at the yard, damp from recent rain. She tries to take deep breaths. She struggles to still her racing heart. She’s having one of her “turns” but she got away with it. She doesn’t think anyone noticed.

As the conversation next door continues, she takes a tea-towel, dampens it beneath the tap and dabs at her forehead. Tony is changing before her eyes and she can sense herself being left behind, can hear him learning to have new kinds of conversations. Right now, she can hear him saying, “The thing about the camera is the way it democratises image-making. And that’s going to change the way we record history.”

She runs the phrase through her head repeatedly, until, on the fourth pass, she works out what it actually means. And then she manages a series of jerky, difficult breaths and crouches down to pull the quiche from the oven. It’s so perfect, so symmetrical, so smooth and glossy, that it looks like a quiche from a recipe book. “I can do this,” she says out loud. “I’m fine.”

2012 - Brighton, East Sussex.

As the restaurant comes into view, Sophie releases Brett’s hand. She’s nervous about presenting him to her mother and wants to be able to carefully choose the moment when she’ll explain just who he is. Had Brett’s editor not told her that it was “essential” to have “the wife” – her mother – on-board, she would have been happy to put this meeting off forever. But essential, it is. So here, they are.

Brett, who has been watching the waves, now turns and spots the Regency. “Gee, Sophe!” he exclaims. “Is that it?”

“It is, I’m afraid,” Sophie says. “It’s supposed to be good though. It’s got great reviews on Trip Advisor.”