The Photographer's Wife (46 page)

“She’s OK. Um, Phil, do you know, is Diane still here?”

Phil shakes his head. “No, sorry. She left a while back.”

“OK,” Jonathan says, turning back. “That’s fine then.”

When Sophie steps back into the gallery, Brett beckons to her, so she and Sarah Stone cross to join him. “This is Jack Miles,” Brett says. “He’s interested in owning one of these.” He points to Tony’s photo of a punk boarding a train. “That’s doable, right?”

“Oh yes, that’s a fabulous photo,” Sophie says. “We have some limited edition prints of this one available, don’t we Sarah?”

“Sure,” Sarah says. “Come with me, Jack, and we can arrange all of that.”

“I’d like to chat to you afterwards if that’s possible,” Jack tells Sophie.

“Of course.”

Once Sarah has led him off to the desk in the corner, Brett asks, “So how’s your ma?”

“She’s OK, I think. She fainted but she seems fine now.”

“That was some humdinger she was having with wig-lady,” Brett says.

“With Diane?”

Brett shrugs. “If the wig-lady is Diane, then yeah.”

“Don’t call her that, Brett. What were they arguing about?”

“Beats me. But your ma was bawling at her, and some. She told her to go.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

Sophie spins on one heel to take in the room.

“If you’re looking for her, she’s gone,” Brett says. “Almost as soon as it happened, in fact.”

“How weird.”

“She might still be out front, I guess. With the nicotine junkies.”

“I’ll go check,” Sophie says. “I can watch out for the ambulance too.”

She walks past the bookshop, crosses the lobby and steps out into the cool night air. The daylight has gone now and the concrete plaza is lit by the orange glow of the street lamps.

A group of people from the exhibition are smoking just outside the door and Sophie suddenly wishes that she still smoked. She pauses, thinking of asking someone for a cigarette but then spots a small huddled figure on the far side of the esplanade. Unsure, initially, if it’s a tramp or Diane, she crosses the space as quietly as her heels will allow.

Diane looks up as she approaches. She too is smoking and as Sophie reaches her, she smells the sweet, familiar odour of marijuana.

“Diane? Tell me you’re
not
smoking dope in the street?”

“Um,” Diane replies. “It helps with the pain. Is she OK?”

“Mum? Yes, pretty much. She fainted. She banged her head too. But I think she’s OK. They called an ambulance, just in case.”

Diane nods and breathes out smoke. “Good,” she says.

Sophie checks the concrete tiles beside Diane. They look relatively clean. She sinks down beside her and leans against the wall. “Are
you
OK? Brett said you two were arguing?”

Diane smiles. “Not really
arguing
.”

“He said Mum told you to leave or something?”

“Probably true. She’s not my number one fan.” Diane takes a deep drag on the joint then offers it to Sophie, who sighs and then capitulates. She takes a hit and it’s sweet, the way it should be – high quality grass, not the horrible resin Brett buys – and then as she exhales she says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Something personal?”

“Anything,” Diane says.

“Did you and Dad ever have, you know … ”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever have an affair? Because I always somehow thought you did. I always wondered.”

Diane laughs, then coughs.

“Is that funny?”

“Well, we didn’t have an
affair,
” she says.

“You didn’t?”

“No. Not an affair.”

“Oh. Sorry. I don’t know why I thought that. Just a feeling, really.”

Diane sighs. “The love of my life, is what he was,” she says quietly.

Sophie turns to look at her in astonishment. “I’m sorry?”

“Your father. He was the love of my life,” she says again.

“Really?”

“He was an
amazing
guy. Don’t sound so surprised.”

“But then how come you didn’t…? Wasn’t he… I mean, didn’t you… God. How to put this? Did Dad not like you back? Or was he just very faithful to Mum?”

Diane laughs and coughs again. “Oh, he liked me back plenty, honey.”

"Then you
did
have a thing?”

“Yeah. A thing. I suppose you could call it that.”

Sophie is suddenly unsure how much more she wants to know. Strange and conflicting feelings are rising up within her, a mixture of outrage on her mother’s behalf, disgust at her father’s behaviour, and yet, and yet… She has always felt drawn to Diane. She’s somehow excited, glad even, to learn that her father had a secret, second life. “I knew it,” she says. “I knew there had been something between you two. When was that?”

“Sixty-three to eighty-three,” Diane says. “Pretty much.”

“What, the whole time?!”

Diane nods. “Except seventy-seven. We had a break in seventy-seven.”

“What happened in seventy seven?”

“I got married. It didn’t last, though.”

“Why not?”

Diane pulls a face. “I was still in love with Tony, I guess.”

“And what about Mum? Did she know?”

Diane shrugs. “Barbara? You’d have to ask her. I can’t see how she could
not
know but then again…”

“I just realised something,” Sophie says.

“Yes?”

“You were with him in Paris. When he died? That was you.”

“You don’t want to know about that, sweetheart.”

“But it
was
you, then?”

“Yes. But–”

“Just one thing.”

“Really, Sophie. Don’t go there. It can only–”

“Just one question,” Sophie insists. “It’s been driving me insane. The photos I saw, they were awful. Why were they so bad?”

“The photos from Paris?”

Sophie nods. “Yeah. The Pentax shots.”

“God, I didn’t know they were still around. Barbara told everyone that she had burned them.”

“Not the negatives. She kept the negatives. But they were terrible. I couldn’t use any of them.”

Diane offers her the joint again but Sophie declines this time, so she simply stubs it out on the pavement beside her instead. “I don’t know why. Because we were wasted, I expect.”

“Really?”

“Really. Even mine were pretty bad. But your father was fighting with that dreadful camera as well. So…”

“Was it really that bad?”

“It was pretty lousy. And in Tony’s hands, it was a nightmare.”

“Why do you say, ‘you expect?’ Didn’t you even see them?”

“The police took the films when he died. Evidence. They got them developed, I think. But I never saw them. I spent three nights in prison, then got expelled. Were there any… um… black and white ones?” Diane fiddles with a strand of wig. “Any taken perhaps with the Rollei?”

Sophie shakes her head. “Just blurred colour shots of the Eiffel Tower and rubbish like that. So why did you go to prison?”

“Again. It’s best not to go there.”

“But it wasn’t because they suspected–”

“Drugs,” Diane interrupts. “We had drugs on us. The French cops didn’t seem to like that much. Funny that.”

“God,” Sophie says. “So he was just too stoned to work properly? Is that the reason?”

“Plus, as I say, the camera was pretty terrible, the light was rubbish – it was grey – and to be honest, with a few lucky exceptions, he just wasn’t as good as everyone thought he was.”

“Aw, come on. You can’t say that. Not about Dad.”

“I loved him, Sophie. I loved your father more than anyone I ever loved. But he was no great shakes as a photographer. His real skill was getting everyone else to help him out. Barbara was just as good. Better maybe.”

“
Mum?
Don’t be daft.
”

Diane nods. “She took good shots, Barbara did. Including a few that got credited to your father. She was good in the darkroom too. I taught her. Don’t look so surprised. Barbara’s many things but she’s not stupid.”

“I always thought she just kind of held Dad back, really,” Sophie says. “So this is all a bit weird.”

Diane laughs again. “Tony wouldn’t have done anything without Barbara,” she says. “He was a wild one, your father was. Out of control. Barbara was the only person who could keep his feet on the ground. Well, almost on the ground.”

Sophie screws up her features as she struggles to grasp this entirely new vision of her parents’ relationship. “You really think so?”

“I know so. She dressed him, fed him, mopped up his puke, took some of his best shots, developed his god-damned photos when he couldn’t get them right…”

“Wow,” Sophie says, still struggling to understand. “I never knew that. She never talks much about him, really.”

“Did you even ask her?”

“No,” Sophie says thoughtfully. “No, maybe not.”

“Barbara’s a saint.
Really.
A bloody saint. I don’t know how she put up with it all. He was good to me, that’s for sure, but as a husband, well, he was a horror, really.”

“Don’t say that,” Sophie says. “Dad was everything to me.”

“He was everything to me, too,” Diane says. “But that doesn’t change the truth. He was a lousy husband and a pretty lousy photographer most of the time. And without Barbara behind him, he wouldn’t have…” Her voice peters out now and her eyes move to focus on something behind Sophie, something she has spotted lurking in the shadows.

When Sophie turns to look too, Brett steps into the pool of light from the streetlamp. He looks strange, his expression smooth and unreadable. “Brett?” Sophie says.

"So, this is the boyfriend, huh?” Diane asks.

“Yes. Um, how long have you been there, Brett?”

Brett raises his shoulders. “Not long,” he says. He points back at the gallery. “The, um, paramedics are here. They came in the side way. You should go.”

“Sure,” Sophie says. “Can I just get your number, Diane? I’d love to talk about all of this some other time.”

“Of course,” Diane says. “I’d love to spend more time with you, Sophie.”

“You go, honey,” Brett tells her. “Your mum’s waiting for you. I’ll get Diane’s details for you.”

***

Once Barbara has ferociously seen off the ambulance men, Jonathan whisks her off, still protesting, to his place in Surrey.

Feeling a little orphaned, Sophie goes in search of Brett. She could do with a hug and some reassurance.

It’s gone ten pm now and the crowd in the gallery is dwindling. Even Brett is nowhere to be seen.

Sophie chats briefly to Sarah Stone, who informs her that they have sold fifteen books and nine prints, though only three are hers. She says goodbye to Phil, a goodbye which, considering his age and health, feels final and emotional. And then noting that the remaining people in the room are involved in their own private conversations, Sophie heads back outside to see if she can cadge a cigarette. She’s feeling a little over-emotional. Perhaps a forbidden cigarette might calm her nerves.

It’s positively cold outside now – a wind has got up – and only a single smoker remains, one of the waitresses.

When Sophie approaches her, she looks concerned. “I am needed inside?” she asks.

Sophie laughs. “No,” she says. “I was just wondering if I could scrounge a ciggy?”

“The girls looks confused, then, belatedly understands. “Oh, you want cigarette?” she says. “I’m sorry. Is last one. Here.” She proffers her own half-consumed cigarette, which Sophie politely denies.

“I’m supposed to be giving up anyway,” she says. “It’s just… it’s been an emotional evening.”

“Your dead father,” the girl says with an abruptness that only lack of vocabulary can excuse.

“Exactly. All his old friends too. Plus the ones who couldn’t come because, you know, they died as well. It’s a lot to handle.”

“Yes,” the girl says. “I understand this. My own mother. She die too.”

Sophie takes a deep breath of the night air and then shivers. “I’ll head back in,” she says. “It’s too cold for me
out here.”

“I come too,” the girl replies, stubbing out the cigarette on a wall. “Otherwise the agency, they make trouble.” Sophie likes the way she rolls the R in trouble and is just about to ask her where she’s from when she spots two figures in the distance. “Actually, go in,” she tells the girl. “I’m just going to see who that is.”

Worried that one of the people in the shadows might be Diane, too stoned to even realise how cold it is, Sophie heads back across the plaza. As she reaches the figures however, she realises that they are in fact Brett and Malcolm.

“Really!” Brett is saying. “That’s amazing.”

“Yes,” Malcolm replies. “That was taken with a high power zoom, whereas Tony, of course, was still using that old twin lens of his.” Malcolm spots Sophie at this point and pulls an amusing, embarrassed grimace. “Hello Sophe,” he says. “I was just telling your chap here all the family secrets.”

“Were you indeed?” Sophie replies in a parental voice. “That’s very naughty, Malcolm.”

“Well, Brett’s family now, isn’t he?”

“Of course I am,” Brett says, chuckling smoothly.

“Anyway, I’d better be going,” Malcolm says, spotting a dash of actual reproach in Sophie’s eyes. “I was meant to be home an hour ago; your chap here has kept me talking so long, I’m half frozen.”

Again, Sophie says goodbye and again, despite promises to meet up, it feels poignant. It’s almost like she’s saying goodbye to her father all over again.

As they head back into the exhibition, she asks, “What exactly did Malcolm tell you?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Brett says. “The same old stuff. How Phil took the ship pic. How Diane took the festival one. You know, babe.”

“Don’t you even
think
about using any of that,” Sophie says.

Brett chuckles again. “Hey,” he says. “It’s like the man said. I’m family now.”

On their way back in, they cross paths with more stragglers in the process of leaving, so Sophie pauses to say a few more goodbyes. With the end of the private view approaching, she feels even sadder – almost overcome by sadness.

In the gallery, only three visitors remain. “So how long do you need to stay, hon?” Brett asks.