Photos of You (ARC)

by Tammy Robinson

  “The bastard came back,” she told me, shaking her head. “It bloody came back.”

  She died in the middle of April, as the first leaves were turning color on the trees. I went to her funeral and sat at the back of the church, weeping at the sight of the small heads in the front row, lined up like ducklings beside their father so heavy with grief he nearly slipped to the floor. I watched the slideshow of photos of Lisa and her life and I thought: If this thing is ruthless enough to tear a mother away from her children, what hope is there for the rest of us? And it made me angry.

  People speak of fate, destiny. How can this be mine? To have my life boil down to this, the one fact that people will most remember about me: She Died of Cancer.

  Sure, they will also say, “Oh, Ava Green, yes she was nice, lovely girl. Good at quizzes. Quite pretty too, when she bothered to do her hair and slap on a bit of makeup. A generally happy girl, she was.” But they will also, always, end by saying, “She died of cancer. Very sad. Terrible tragedy.”

  I don’t want to be remembered only for that, and it’s not a tragedy, because that implies some sense of random bad luck. That I stood on a crack in the pavement when I should have jumped over it. Spilled salt or broke a mirror. No. I didn’t bring this on myself. It has been brewing inside me since I was a cluster of cells floating in my mother’s uterus. It was always there, lurking within, just waiting to take over.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  OK, now you’re just officially stalking me.”

  I say it with one hand on my hip, looking at James pointedly. He is standing by the reception desk of the small motel I have checked in to myself around half an hour before.

  He turns around, room key in hand, and looks at me sheepishly. “Hi, Ava.”

  “I thought you said last time was the last time?”

  He nods. “I vaguely recall saying something like that, yes.”

  “So? Another favor for Marilyn?”

  He coughs. “Not this time, no. Actually I was still here, between assignments, and when she happened to mention that you were heading to Lake Tarawera for a shoot I volunteered. Always wanted to see this part of the country.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.”

  “You volunteered because you wanted to see ‘this part of the country.’”

  “Yes.”

  “No other reason?”

  “What do you want me to say, that I was so desperate to see you again I pestered her until she let me have this job?”

  “That would be a little more flattering, sure.”

  He laughs. “You can believe what you want.”

  “I will. Anyway, regardless of why you’re here, can I just say how lovely it is to see you again?”

  He nods in agreement. “It’s nice to see you too. My toe is still sore, by the way.”

  “Your toe?” I frown.

  “The eel bite? From when we swam in the river? I’m extremely lucky it didn’t go septic.” He lifts up one foot, shaking off his sandal, and points to a small red mark on the top of his big toe. He looks so pitiful I can’t help but laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” I attempt to straighten my face into a serious expression. “I apologize unreservedly for your wound, however it was inflicted.”

  “What do you mean, ‘however it was inflicted’? It was an eel. A giant one, like a mutant or something.”

  I peer at his toe. “Are you sure you didn’t just stub it on a rock? Or a stick? It doesn’t really look like a bite as such.”

  He slips his foot back into his sandal. “Doctor now, are you?”

  “James, darling, what are you doing here?”

  Nadia, emerging from the restaurant holding a bottle of bubbly wine, interrupts us. She is much more in her element here than she was at the farm. Luxury boutique accommodation. We are all booked in for the night—Sophie and Kelly, Nadia and I. And now, I’m assuming, James is as well.

  “Fishing,” he answers her with a straight face. “Heard there are some pretty big trout in the lake. Much friendlier than eels.” The last bit is, of course, for my benefit.

  She blinks. “Oh, really? What a coincidence. We’re here doing an article on another potential wedding venue for Ava. You remember Ava?”

  “Vaguely, yes.”

  “Sorry, who are you again?” I ask. “Are you the valet?”

  Nadia looks back and forth between James and me, clearly confused. James takes pity on her.

  “I’m here to take the photos,” he says. “And of course I remember Ava.”

  “Oh, lovely,” Nadia coos. “You’re so much better than Steven, our normal guy. I mean don’t get me wrong; he’s nice enough, but he can be a bit too avant-garde, if you know what I mean. His work has a time and place, but with a wedding you really do need to be a bit more traditional.”

  “Well, I’m just happy that you’re happy,” James says.

  Nadia checks her watch. “Why don’t you check in and then meet the rest of us on the lawn for drinks. Say six?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Wonderful.” She looks at me. “Are you up for drinks, Ava? I understand if you’d rather just rest in your room. Big day tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Splendid.” She air-kisses me on both cheeks and heads toward the staircase.

  “Need help with your bags?” I ask James.

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t ask you.”

  “I’m stronger than I look.”

  He smiles. “The answer is still no.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He looks around the foyer and then at me. “No entourage this time?”

  “Entoura—Oh, you mean my mother and Amanda?”

  He nods.

  “No. Not this time. I mean, my mother wanted to come but she’s in rehearsals for her latest play and I didn’t want her to miss out on my account.”

  “Your mother’s an actress?” He picks up his bags and starts walking across to the staircase.

  I follow him, pulling a face. “In a loose manner of speaking. She’s part of an amateur dramatic club at the local theater behind the supermarket.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “They put on shows two or three times a year, depending on how much sponsorship they can get. Right now they’re rehearsing The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “I’ll have to get along one night and check it out.”

  “You really shouldn’t.”

  “Why not? Which part is your mother playing? The young, naive Janet Weiss?”

  “I wish. No, she’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter.”

  “Isn’t that normally played by a guy?”

  “Normally, yes. But they have more women than men in the group and as Fred Burrows broke his hip gardening, my mother is taking his place.”

  “So she’s a—” He squints as he tries to work it out.

  “A woman playing the part of a man, pretending to be a woman. Yes. In fishnet stockings, no less.”

  He tries hard to stifle his smile. “Sounds…interesting.”

  “Interesting is one word for it,” I concede.

  We reach the bottom of the stairs and turn to face each other.

  “So.”

  “So.”

  “I guess I’ll see you on the lawn at six?”

  “You will.”

  “Excellent.”

  He steps up. So do I. We climb to the top of the stairs together. At the top, he looks at me and does a fake double take.

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “My room is that way.” I point over his right shoulder.

  He checks his key and compares it to the sign in front of us.

  “I’m the other direction.”

  “Pity.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  When I walk out on to the beautifully manicured lawn a little after six, I don’t see James at first. Nadia and the girls are standing over by the ba
r, and Sophie waves when she sees me. I head their way and am presented with a pale green cocktail.

  “Cheers,” they giggle in unison, clearly on their way to being three sheets to the wind.

  I hold the glass and look at its contents suspiciously. “What’s this?”

  “Margarita.”

  “No thanks. I’m not really much of a drinker.”

  “You can have one, surely.” Sophie says. “They’re so refreshing.”

  I take a sip. She’s right. I taste lime and the unmistakable aftertaste of alcohol that immediately gives me a warm glow. It’s the kind of drink that goes down too easily, so I resolve to drink it slowly and make it last. Nadia is deep in conversation with a gray-haired man in a suit and acknowledges my presence with a curt nod, before resuming her conversation.

  “No James?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can, taking another sip.

  “He’s over there.” Kelly downs the rest of her drink in one and points with her empty glass. She and Sophie are giddy with the excitement that only a night in a hotel with a bar on a work expense account can bring, and it makes me wistful. She picks up the drinks menu. “Which one shall we try now?” I back away slowly, leaving them tossing up their choices, and wander across the lawn that slopes gently down toward the shore of the lake. James is standing a meter or so back, staring out across the water. I pause for a moment, unsure whether to intrude or leave him to his thoughts, but then he senses my presence and turns.

  “Evening.” His face softens into a smile.

  “Care for some company? Or would you rather be alone.”

  “I spend far too much time alone. Some company would be very welcome.”

  I walk to stand beside him. The lake smells earthy, very different from the sea that I am used to. Small mosquitoes hover above the surface. Behind the lake, the volcanic mountain Tarawera looms intimidatingly against the pale sky. Although it has been dormant for quite some time, it hasn’t lost any of its menace and I shiver under its shadow.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” James says quietly. “Nature. I’m constantly in awe of it.”

  “It’s kind of spooky,” I admit.

  “Spooky?”

  “Yeah, you know. Thinking about all the death and destruction it caused when it blew up and obliterated everything in its path. Those natural pink and white terraces that used to be in the lake looked amazing. I’d have loved to swim in them. Such a waste that they were destroyed in the eruption.”

  “That’s nature for you. Unpredictable. Did you know that some say they’re still there, the terraces, just buried in the bottom of the lake under mud and ash?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I hope that’s the case. Better that than they were completely destroyed.”

  “There’s an amazing walk you can take up the mountain, quite breathtaking scenery and view for miles. And once at the top, you can run down into the crater. It’s a little scary because it’s loose scoria rock, so one wrong step and you’ll end up rolling down and losing some skin in the process. But that’s half the fun.”

  I look at him through narrowed eyes. “I thought you hadn’t been to this area of the country before.”

  He freezes like a deer in headlights. “Sorry?”

  “Dinner time, guys,” Sophie interrupts cheerfully, saving him.

  “Oh, good, I’m starving.” He clears his throat and gestures for me to walk in front. “Ladies first.”

  The meal, served in an elegant dining room with relaxed lighting, is nice, but a bit pretentious for my usual tastes. They serve us twelve courses, tiny ones.

  At one point James leans across the table to whisper loudly, “They can’t be serious. Where’s the rest of the food? This is just a snack, right? A taster?”

  I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing out loud at his outraged expression.

  “Here, have mine.” I start to push my plate across the table to him. We’ve just been served poached crayfish with pickled melon, marinated cherry tomatoes, Greek basil, and feta. It looks pretty on the plate, all arranged artistically and with edible flowers, but I’m not a huge crayfish fan.

  “I couldn’t,” he says, although his face looks at my plate longingly.

  “Suit yourself.” I pull the plate back. “I’ll offer it to Nadia.”

  Nadia has been devouring everything set in front of her with all the gusto of a food critic.

  “No, wait.” His voice is loud and sharp, and the people seated at nearby tables turn to see what the commotion is. He smiles apologetically at them until they lose interest and then gestures to my plate. “Go on, then. Slide it over.”

  Despite his misgivings, he is satisfied enough at the end of the meal, or at least I assume he is by the way he leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly.

  “Everything OK here?” the waitress asks, collecting his final plate. She has been flirting with him all evening, holding his gaze longer than necessary, pressing herself into his shoulder when she leans over to pick up his plates. I want to resent her, because she is everything that I am not, but I can’t. She is young and beautiful and healthy. Why shouldn’t she flirt with an attractive man?

  “That,” he declares, wiping the edges of his mouth, “was superb. My compliments to the chef.”

  She giggles, coquettish. “I’ll pass that information on.”

  “Thanks”—he peers at her name badge—“Kimberly.”

  At his use of her name she becomes emboldened and bends down to whisper something in his ear. I see his eyebrows shoot up and he clears his throat, his cheeks slightly flushed, before he smiles up at her and mumbles something that I can’t hear. I feel instantly deflated. James is free to do whatever he wants with whomever he pleases, but it is yet another painful reminder of something I have lost: potential.

  The potential for love. That giddy, delirious feeling when you meet someone new who you’re attracted to. Who is attracted to you too, so a flirtatious dance begins as you get to know each other, slowly, offering up tidbits of information, enough to whet their appetite, but withholding enough of yourself to keep the allure alive. It might only last a month; it might last forever. But that feeling keeps whole industries alive, and it’s one I crave, more now that I can no longer have it.

  I realize I have allowed myself to be swept up in a stupid little daydream about James. To believe that the potential for magic was there, between us, and I feel completely ridiculous now that I think about it. He has been nothing but friendly and kind in return, but then anyone would, given the circumstances, and he is, of course, much too polite to draw attention to my inappropriateness.

  “Excuse me.” I push back my chair and stand abruptly.

  Nadia breaks off her conversation with the gray-haired man, Bill, who she had invited to join us. “Are you OK, Ava? I thought after this we might head to the bar for a nightcap.”

  “I’m fine, just tired. I should really get some sleep so I don’t look a complete fright tomorrow. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I can’t help but look at James when I say the last sentence, and he frowns, puzzled by my curt tone. He starts to stand.

  “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “No, thank you. There’s no need. I’m pretty sure I can find it by myself.”

  I walk away before he can answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the foyer, I hesitate. To my left are the stairs leading up to my room, and sanctuary from my mortification. But the thought of being there by myself, feeling the way I am feeling, is unappealing. So I head straight instead, toward the doors that allow me to slip out into the night, under a cloak of darkness that goes some way toward hiding how absurd I feel.

  What was I thinking? I wasn’t. That was the problem. And now here I am, feeling pitifully sorry for myself but with only myself to blame.

  With the sun gone the temperature has dropped, and the breeze blowing in off the lake is brisk and invigorating. A degree or two warmer and I’d have been t
empted to swim. To cleanse off my foolishness and bring me back to my senses. But the black water is more sinister than inviting, and our earlier discussion about the mountain keeps my feet planted firmly on the shore. I try to always trust my instincts. More so since my diagnosis. They are the deeper work of something we are yet to understand, and I believe people should listen to them more than they do. But they can be confusing too. The same instincts that are telling me to stay out of the water also told me James was one of the good guys. And yet the way he smiled at the waitress when she whispered in his ear, it seemed like he was agreeing to something I wouldn’t have expected of him. I hope I’m wrong, but I also know I can’t blame him if I’m not.

  Walking along the lawn, away from the lights of the foyer and the restaurant, I trip on something and hop around on one foot, swearing blue words into the inky darkness. As my eyes adjust, I realize there is a life-size chessboard paved into the lawn and I caught my foot on the edge of one tile. On top are chess pieces that come up to my knees. I play around with them for a while, but I’ve never understood the game and quickly lose interest. Turning, I decide I should probably do what I said I would and get some sleep so I am prepared for tomorrow, but then I see some white wooden loungers, four of them, with full-length cushions on top. They look tempting, and I lower myself gently down on to one and stretch out. It is surprisingly comfortable. Overhead, the stars litter the sky like glitter on a child’s art project, haphazard and random, and completely impossible to ignore. It reminds me of the roof in my bedroom growing up, and I remember how I’d always wanted to sleep under the stars but never had. Tonight, I decide, is as good a time as any.

  It seems only five minutes later I am awoken by a quiet voice and a torch in my face.

  “There you are.”

  Disorientated, I forget where I am and try to roll over, almost falling. A hand firmly grips my arm, steadying me.

  “Careful.”

  “James?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”