The Photographer's Wife

by Nick Alexander

Mrs Pie is outside watering the window boxes when Barbara arrives. “Hello love,” she says. “Everything go to plan?”

  Barbara nods and, worrying that Mrs Pie will catch a glimpse of the sailor dress, pulls the coat more tightly around herself. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, it did. Is T—”

  “So congratulations are in order,” Mrs Pie says, pointing the spout of her watering can at the next window box, the one beneath the “Vacancies” sign.

  “Yes,” Barbara says. “Yes, thank-you. Is Tony here?”

  “You haven’t lost track of him already?” Mrs Pie says, pinching off a dead branch from a geranium with her free hand and tossing it over her shoulder.

  “Sort of,” Barbara admits. “Is it possible he’s already in the room?”

  “It’s not im-possible. I was out till half an hour ago.”

  “Is it OK if I go check?”

  “Of course it is. It’s your room.”

  “Which room is it, please?”

  “The top one. You don’t need a key or nothing. We only have a nice class of guest here at Beach Cottage.”

  Barbara thanks her and heads upstairs, pausing at the bathroom on the first floor to wee before climbing the three flights of stairs to their attic room. On the way, she pauses to peer at the many royal photographs adorning the walls of the staircase.

  The final photo on their landing (and can this really be an accident?) is of the Royal wedding of 1947. Elizabeth and Philip, spotless, beautiful, opulent, Elizabeth’s train tumbling down the stairs before them, both smiling genteelly. And in their position, who wouldn’t be smiling?

  Inside the room, the bed has been scattered with petals. Not rose petals, but geranium petals. Bunches of garden flowers occupy the nightstand and the mantelpiece. Barbara switches on the light and sees that Mrs Pie has draped a crocheted pink placemat over the lampshade. It throws pretty patterns on the wall above the bed.

  Barbara crosses to the window and looks out at the sea – glassy, undulating. The moon is rising now, making the broken waves of the shallows sparkle and shine as they hit the pebble beach.

  Barbara looks around the room again, then sits and bounces on the bed before standing, removing her coat and shoes and lying down.

  She drapes herself elegantly (did she see this in a film?), then props herself up on the pillows and imagines Tony arriving and seeing her lying thus. Which would be more flattering? The subdued patterns from the lamp, or the moonlight? She switches off the lamp, shivers involuntarily, then switches it back on again. The moonlight makes the room feel cold. The lamp is definitely better.

  She moves to the edge of the bed and props herself up so that she can track the progression of the moon. The sailor dress is tight around her middle, so she stands anew and moves to the chest of drawers. Inside, as promised, she finds her nighty and Tony’s pyjamas. She imagines Glenda here, earlier, folding them and closing the drawer – imagining the night of passion that her younger sister would be enjoying later that day.

  She crosses to the window again and looks outside. A solitary man is walking along the seafront with a small dog on a leash. “Where are you, Tony?” she murmurs, sliding one hand across her belly and imagining his baby, which everyone tells her is growing inside.

  She crosses to the door and after peeping through the keyhole, steps out onto the landing. She pauses and listens to the sounds of the house. A shrieking seagull above, a radio playing dancehall music somewhere downstairs, an elderly couple talking in one of the other guest rooms... But there is no sign of Tony.

  She crosses to the photograph again and then, glancing nervously downstairs, she reaches out and lifts it from the hook, then returns with it to their room.

  She crosses to the chest of drawers and lays it on the dresser so that she can see it as she changes from the horrific dress into her nighty.

  Then she props the photo on the nightstand so that she can see both it and the door simultaneously and drapes herself, film-star style, across the bed. “He’ll be here soon,” she tells herself quietly and repeatedly, until she finally falls asleep.

  The next morning, it’s not Tony but the sunlight that wakes her.

  2012 - Hoxton, London.

  Sophie watches as Brett’s bald head bobs up and down between her knees. She notices a bead of sweat and watches as it forms, then trickles down to his eyebrow. They have been dating for just over a year and the sex between them now follows a well established pattern. It’s not that Sophie is bored with the sex she has with Brett and it’s not that he’s in any way a bad lover. Her friend Ralph once told her that he realised he was gay when he found out that going down on women made him gag. Sophie remembers telling him that if not being keen on oral sex was a definition of ‘gay’, then half of the men she had ever dated were gay. Brett, now grazing her inner thigh as he attempts to lick and slurp her to ecstasy, is, Sophie admits, an extremely generous lover. It’s just that, like a pop song on the radio you’ve heard a hundred times before, sex with Brett no longer has the capacity to surprise her. It starts like this, which leads to that, which leads in turn to the other. In a minute, Brett will start to move upwards, kissing her breasts, nuzzling her neck, kissing her deeply. She knows where and when and how this will all happen. She can even conjure up, in her mind’s eye, or perhaps in her mind’s taste-buds, the memory (and premonition) of Brett’s kiss – that unique mixture of Brett and Sophie and massage oil, re-served to her via mouth-to-mouth.

  Despite the fact that she is edging towards orgasm, Sophie thinks about this and she thinks about her ability to think about this, even here, even now, in the middle of sex. And as Brett moves ever upwards, shifting his attention to her nipples, she wonders what this detachment might mean.

  But Sophie is distracted today and she knows that this isn’t in any way Brett’s fault. She woke up this morning far more excited about the idea of a retrospective of her father’s work than she is about anything else currently happening in her life. She thinks, again, that she needs another ally if this project is to have any chance of ever seeing the light of day. She needs someone to bounce ideas off, someone less cynical than Brett, someone more enthusiastic than her mother or her brother, and someone who knew her father better than she did, or at the very least, knew his work better.

  Brett pauses, snapping Sophie back into the here and now, and she realises that his hardness, today, isn’t so hard, and understands suddenly that what always happens next, isn’t, today, going to happen next at all. So Brett still does have the power to surprise.

  “You OK?” Brett asks her now. “You seem distracted.”

  “Sorry. I am a bit unfocussed today. Maybe we can have a coffee break and then reconvene? Would that be OK?”

  Brett nods, rolls away, and bounces good-naturedly off to the kitchen, where, finding no coffee, he shouts back that he’s heading out: the hunter-gatherer selflessly braving the 7-Eleven for supplies.

  Sophie stretches out across the bed, then reaches for her phone and checks the time. It’s almost four pm. And then, without thinking, as if this is what she was doing before Brett so rudely interrupted her, she phones her mother.

  “Hi Mum, it’s Sophie.”

  “Hello love. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. I’m about to make a pineapple upside-down cake. You always used to love that when you were little.”

  “I still do. Who are you making that for, then?”

  “Jon. He’s coming over in a bit.”

  “Actually, I phoned because I thought that I might come down next weekend.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “To see you of course. But if you don’t want me to come, Mum, then don’t, you know, beat around the bush or anything. Just spit it out.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know I do.”

  “Well, good then. Sunday maybe?”

  “Yes. Sunday’s good. Are you coming for something specific?”

  “Not really. But, um, I did think
that I might have another look at the photos in the attic.”

  “Oh, no, Sophie. We’re not back onto that silly idea, are we? I don’t want you tramping muck through the house all day.”

  “Oh come on, Mum. It’s fair enough that I want to look at Dad’s photos. I am a photographer and all.”

  “Is this still to do with that crazy exhibition you mentioned before?”

  “There’s nothing crazy about it, Mum.”

  "So, it is?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Hum.”

  “And Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering. You know Auntie Diane. Is she still alive?”

  “Diane?”

  “Yes. Dad’s friend.”

  “I know who Diane is, dear. I’m not completely senile. But why on earth…?”

  “I thought she might be able to help me.”

  “With what, exactly?”

  “With, you know... ideas. What to show, how to show it... She was a photographer, right? She helped him sometimes, didn’t she?”

  Barbara doesn’t reply to this but Sophie hears her sigh deeply.

  “Can you think of any way of contacting her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Really? You have no idea?”

  “No. None, actually.”

  “Mum!”

  “I haven’t spoken to Diane since he died.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, dear. Presumably because I’ve had no reason to.”

  “Ah. So you do know how to contact her? If you had reason to.”

  “No. I don’t. I told you. Now, I’d love to spend all day on the phone to you but Jon’s coming and I need to get this cake in the oven.”

  “Was her name Darbott?”

  “You know it was.”

  “Is that with two Ts?”

  “Sophie. Please tell me that you’re not going to go on some wild goose chase to find Diane?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because... Because...”

  “Yes?”

  “Because I expect that she’s dead anyway.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would she be dead, Mum?”

  “Because there’s only so much abuse that a liver can take, dear.”

  “A liver?”

  “Yes. Now I have to go, love. Let me know next Saturday if you’re still coming. But I’m not having you traipsing through the loft again. So if that is why you’re coming, then there’s no point at all.”

  “Mum, hang on a minute. What about Dad’s friend Hugh. Or Phil?”

  “Oh Sophie, stop it. Stop it now.”

  “Stop what?”

  “I have a cake to cook! Bye, dear.”

  Sophie has just pulled on her dressing gown when Brett returns with the coffee. “I got croissants too,” he announces, dropping the bag on the worktop.

  “You have to stop buying croissants,” Sophie says. “I’m getting fat.” What she really means is that Brett has to stop buying croissants because Brett is getting fat – no, fatter – but Brett doesn’t get it.

  “You look pretty good to me,” he says, with a wink. He rips open the pack of coffee and pours some into the filter machine, then flicks the switch. “So, what are you so distracted about?” he asks.

  Sophie is looking out over the London skyline. It’s a beautiful day outside with blue skies and fast-moving clouds casting even faster moving shadows. “I’m sorry?” she says.

  Brett laughs. “I rest my case!” he says, triumphantly.

  “Oh, nothing really,” Sophie says, managing to pull Brett’s missed comment from some ten-second reality-buffer in her mind. “I’ve been thinking about that exhibition of Dad’s stuff again. Mum’s being really weird about it. That’s all.”

  “Weird?”

  “Plain unhelpful, really.”

  “You said she wouldn’t be into it from the get-go.”

  “I know. But this is more than that. She doesn’t want me getting the pictures down from the loft. She can’t tell me how to get in touch with anyone from his past. It’s more like wilful obstruction.”

  “Who d’you want to get in touch with?” Brett asks.

  “Dad’s friend, Diane Darbott. His best mate Phil as well. Mum says she has no idea where Diane is, which is pretty unlikely. She actually said that she’s probably dead. I think she was implying that she had a drink problem, but I never saw any sign of that.”

  “You knew her then, this Diane?”

  “Uh-huh. She was fun. I really liked her.”

  “Have you googled her?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to. But she’s not really the Facebook generation, so...”

  Brett peers in at the slowly filling coffee pot then straightens again. “Maybe it just makes her uncomfortable.”

  “What makes who uncomfortable?”

  “Your mother. The whole art thing. You said she was... what was that word you used?”

  “A heathen. But I was being unfair.”

  “Sure. But maybe it just all reminds her of the past too much. It would make sense.”

  “Oh absolutely! I’m sure that’s what it is. But it was all years ago. She needs to get over it, because I need to see what work he left behind.”

  “So, coffee?” Brett asks, brandishing the glass jug at her.

  “Sure.”

  Brett pours two mugs of coffee and puts them on the small kitchen table. He then sits and rips open the paper bag containing the croissants.

  Sophie pulls her gown around her, then slides into a seat and tears off a tiny piece of croissant and feeds it into her mouth. Because this solicits the memory of the skinny model doing the same thing, she reaches for the whole croissant and bites into it with gusto.

  “Horrible croissants,” Brett says, pulling a face.

  “It’s the 7-Eleven,” Sophie points out. “Not the Sept-Onze.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning this is England. You’re safer with crumpets than croissants round here.”

  “Crumpets?”

  “They’re an English thing. Like muffins. Or bagels. Actually, they’re not really like anything.”

  “Crumpets, huh?”

  “I’ll get you some. You know, I keep thinking... Dad could have been so great.”

  Brett slurps at his coffee before replying. “He was pretty great, Sophie.”

  “Sure. But he could have been really great, I reckon. If he’d just been with someone who understood his art. Mum was a good wife and mother and everything but as far as his work was concerned... well...”

  “Well?”

  “Suffice to say that she was more motivated by taking him shopping than going on a photo shoot. That’s why he used to hang out with Diane so much. And he never really travelled anywhere. That will have been because of Mum. He could have done so much more.”

  “He was up there. Don’t dis the guy, babe. He’s gotten a bit forgotten now, is all.”

  “Gotten forgotten. I like it. And whose fault is that? That he’s gotten forgotten?”

  “That’s a lot of responsibility to pin on your ma. I’m sure she did her best.”

  “Are you?”

  Brett shrugs.

  “OK, maybe I'm being a bit mean. But you see my point?”

  “Yes, I see your point.”

  They drink the rest of their coffee in silence, then Brett asks, “D’you want to finish what we started before?”

  “I’m sorry? Oh. I’m not sure to be honest.”

  Brett reaches for a tin box on the shelf beside him. “Perhaps this will get you in the mood?” he says, pulling a tiny bag of cocaine from the tin.

  Because Sophie knows that what he’s saying is true and because it’s the weekend and she has no other plans, and because she’s feeling guilty about before, she agrees. “Just a small one then,” she says. “I don’t want to be feeling wired all d
ay.”

  Brett lifts a framed photograph from the wall behind him and uses it, along with a business card, to lay out the lines, and as soon as they have snorted them, Sophie does feel different: enthusiastic, euphoric, confident and, yes, aroused.

  “Come!” Brett says, standing, rubbing his nose, then taking her hand and leading her through to the bedroom. He heads straight for the “naughty” drawer and Sophie stands in the doorway, her expression one of wry amusement, as Brett retrieves the two pairs of handcuffs and the dog collar. “Time to ring the changes, babe,” he says.

  “Does this mean we’re now officially bored?” Sophie asks.

  “Bored?”

  “When I asked you about those, you said that they were for when we got bored.”

  Brett pouts and shakes his head. “I’m not bored at all here, babe,” he says. He pulls off his sweatshirt, then adds. “Maybe it’s just that now I trust you enough to share this with you. You could choose to feel flattered.”

  “But do I trust you enough?” Sophie asks, picturing herself tied up and at Brett’s mercy and surprising herself by not finding the image displeasing.

  “I can’t see you need to, really,” Brett says, now fiddling with the handcuffs and then clipping the end of one pair to his right wrist, then one end of the second pair to his left wrist.

  Sophie frowns at him, naked from the waist up, handcuffs dangling from each arm. “I don’t get it,” she says. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Whatever you want,” Brett says, now climbing onto the bed and spreading his arms so that the handcuffs clank against the iron of the bed-head. “I’m at your mercy, mistress.”

  “Oh,” Sophie says, suddenly embarrassed that the penny has taken so long to drop. “Oh, I see!”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Brett says, “But there are various torture devices in that next drawer down. So if you did feel like I’d been a bad Brett, well, you could take it out on me. Get your own back, so to speak.”

  Sophie sighs and crosses the room to peer in the drawer. Thinking that this isn’t what she expected, she lifts a small chain connected to metal clamps from the drawer, pokes, slightly disgustedly, at a set of love balls, then at a ball-gag. “Is this meant to be for you?” she asks, lifting the pink dildo and flopping it from side to side, comically.