by Isabel Wolff
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’ A sudden silence descended. Then David looked at Herman. ‘Nice dog,’ he said, suddenly friendlier now. ‘What’s his name?’ I told him.
‘Herman the German,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’
He crouched down and stroked Herman’s glossy head. ‘I like dachshunds,’ he added. ‘They always look like something awful’s just happened—or is about to.’
‘That’s why I like them too. The way they look so acutely…concerned.’ He nodded and now, for the first time, he smiled. ‘I’m sorry about the inquisition,’ I said, calmer now.
He shrugged. ‘That’s fine. I guess it’s just nerves.’ It is. ‘But don’t worry, Miranda…’—what did he mean, ‘don’t worry’?—‘… I’m going to make you look great.’ Oh. And now I noticed how warm his eyes were and how nice his mouth was, and I saw the red-gold lights in his hair. I opened my compact mirror and quickly checked my appearance. The bruising had gone.
‘Should I put on any make-up?’ I asked. ‘I don’t usually bother.’
He cocked his head to one side, his eyes skimming over my face as though I were a painting he was appraising. ‘No, your skin-tone’s even—I think we’ll be fine. In any case, I’m shooting black and white so you can get away without it. In colour, everything shows.’ He took the camera out of the bag and slung the strap round his neck. Then he pointed it at me, focussed, and pressed the shutter.
I blinked. ‘I wasn’t ready.’
‘You were.’
‘But I wasn’t smiling.’
‘I don’t want you to smile. A smile is concealing.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes. A smile is often a mask. Now, just…’ he came in a little closer—I noticed the lemony scent of his aftershave. ‘… Yees. Nice. Very nice.’ He pressed the shutter again. It was so quiet that I barely heard it. ‘Now could you sit on the couch there…that’s it…with the dog.’ He lifted Herman up then moved the two chairs out of shot. ‘Now, I want you to face the other way from him, just lean your head this way a bit, and…yes. That’s great. Herman, you look at me, okay?’ I heard the soft click of the shutter again, then he wound on. He took two more, then another five in quick succession. Then he suddenly stopped.
‘I know this is hard,’ he said, lowering the camera, ‘because I’m pointing a large lens at you, but if you could try to relax a little…’ No, I can’t. Because it’s you. I can’t possibly relax. ‘You see, you look slightly tense.’
‘Oh.’ I am.
‘Now, look at me, Miranda…’
‘This way?’
‘Yes, over there, towards the window…that’s good.’ He pressed the shutter again, then lowered the camera. He was standing there, saying nothing, scrutinizing me. I loathed it. I imagined that he could see my guilt.
‘You’re very photogenic,’ he suddenly remarked as he lifted the camera to his eye again. ‘You have neat features, and good cheekbones. No, don’t smile. I want to see the true you.’ You don’t. You don’t. Believe me.
‘Don’t you use a flash?’ I asked, as he clicked away.
‘No, I prefer to use natural light. That’s nice, yes—towards the window—lift your chin. Good.’ Now that he had the camera in his hands he seemed somehow less abrasive, as though it protected him, gave him a barrier. ‘We’ll have Herman sitting beside you, and I’d like you to look at each other. Yes—hold it—that’s great. Now we’ll do a few of you standing by the door.’
‘I thought you’d be using a digital camera,’ I said, as he changed the roll.
‘I prefer my old Leica for this kind of work. I know it’s not very twenty-first century of me,’ he added as he stuck a label on the new cartridge, ‘but I’m a bit of a purist, plus I like to print my own film. I don’t normally do portraits,’ he added. ‘In fact,’ he went on with a puzzled expression, ‘I’m not quite sure why I was asked to do this.’ Because of me—that’s why. Because I wanted to meet you. ‘But Moi!’s a good magazine, and it’s all work.’
‘You do news photography, don’t you?’ I asked.
‘Not any more. I was a conflict photographer for Reuters, but I fell out of love with it. I do freelance work now.’
‘Photographing what?’
‘All sorts of things. Things I’m asked to do—and things I want to do, on issues I think are important. Anyway, we’re all done in here—let’s go outside.’ I put Herman on the lead, still feeling nervous and inhibited, then we strolled up Primrose Hill.
‘Where are you from, Miranda?’ he asked as we walked up the path. ‘If you don’t mind me asking you a few questions!’ He was definitely more relaxed now, in fact, to my surprise, almost friendly.
‘I’m from Brighton.’
‘That’s a coincidence.’ It isn’t a coincidence. ‘My family lived there for a while.’
‘Really?’ I said disingenuously. ‘Which bit?’
‘Queens Park. West Drive.’ Number 44. The semi-detached house, two doors from the end. I was there the other day, looking for you. ‘Where did you live then?’ he enquired.
‘Sandown Road.’
‘Oh. Not that far away from us then?’
‘No,’ I murmured nervously. ‘Not that far.’
‘We never met, did we?’ he added. ‘At any teenage parties?’ My heart turned over at the thought. ‘I think if we had met I’d have remembered you,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we did.’
‘That’s probably because you’re a bit younger than me, plus I was away at boarding school. My dad worked at the university.’ I know that.
‘Did he?’
‘But then, well…he decided to move. To be honest, my memories of Brighton aren’t that great.’ That’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. ‘I haven’t been back for over fifteen years. Nice view,’ he murmured. We’d got to the top. There were kids flying kites and joggers jogging and people walking their dogs. ‘Let’s just have you sitting on one of the benches,’ he said. ‘This is perfect.’ He took some more shots. ‘The light’s gorgeous now—it’s really soft and there’s no haze because of the wind.’
I sat there, London’s skyline curving before me, from the squat skyscrapers of Docklands to the chimneys of Battersea Power Station; the office windows flashing gold in the evening sun. Now that I’d met him and spoken to him, I knew I’d have to tell him. There was no question of that. But when?
‘Let’s have you walking down again with Herman,’ I heard him say from my left-hand side. ‘Just ignore me and keep going. That’s it.’
I walked away from David, feeling slightly self-conscious now, as people looked at me and smiled as he followed me, clicking away, or walked backwards in front of me. I heard the clock strike seven. I knew what to do. I’d ask him back to the house. I’d ask him back to the house and offer him a beer and—
‘All done,’ I heard him say. He drew level with me again, then we walked down the hill in perfect step, beneath the plane trees, through the gate and into St Michael’s Mews. I opened the front door and David rewound the film, quickly labelled it, then put the camera in the bag.
‘I took two rolls so there should be some good ones there.’ He hoisted his holdall onto his shoulder. Say it now. Ask him. Ask him.
‘Would you—’ I began. But he was already offering me his hand.
‘Well, good to meet you, Miranda. I’ll be off. Would I what, sorry?’ As I looked at him I suddenly felt as though my chest were being squeezed. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘I was just going to say, erm…would you…like…a beer or anything?’
‘A beer…?’
‘Yes. I just thought you might…like one. That’s all. As it’s the…end of the day. I mean, you don’t have to,’ I stuttered, ‘but… I just thought…you might like one.’
‘Well, that would have been great…’ He looked confused. ‘But actually, I’ve…got to run.’
‘I see. So you’ve g
ot to run,’ I repeated robotically. He nodded slowly, then an awkward silence suddenly descended. There’s something I have to tell you, David. It will change your life. ‘I’m…sorry we got off to such a bad start,’ I said.
He nodded again. ‘Yes. Me too.’
‘It was my fault. You must have thought me very odd.’
‘No, no—although, actually, yes.’ He suddenly laughed. ‘I did think that. But I know I can be abrasive so I guess I made you feel nervous.’ You did make me feel nervous, but that’s not the reason. ‘Anyway,’ he glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be on my way.’ He dug his right hand into his back pocket. ‘Why don’t I give you my card?’ As he handed it to me I noticed the scarring on his hands again, and felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. ‘If you need anything, give me a call.’ I do need something. I need to tell you what I did to you and I need you to forgive me. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. He was peering at me. ‘Are you okay? You look a bit…upset.’
‘Oh. No. No. I’m fine. I’m fine,’ I repeated. ‘It’s…’
‘Hay fever?’ I nodded. ‘It’s a real nuisance, isn’t it?’ I nodded again. ‘Okay,’ he said, as he picked up his bag. ‘I guess that’s it. It was nice to meet you, Miranda. See you then,’ he said as he walked out of the house.
I smiled. ‘Yes. See you.’ But how? How will I be able to see him again, I wondered. All I knew was that I had to. He had to know who I was.
CHAPTER 7
‘Just a quick call,’ said Dad the following evening, as I prepared for the next puppy party. ‘To say I’m installed—more or less.’
‘What’s the house like?’
‘It’s not huge, but it’s fine, apart from the horrible brown drapes.’
‘And what about the club?’
‘Well, the course is fabulous, with sea views from the top, and the clubhouse is great. But they’ve clearly got massive financial problems.’
‘Didn’t they tell you that beforehand?’
‘No. It’s come as rather a shock. They just said that they’d need me to do a “bit of a recruitment drive”. But I’ve been looking at the books today and the situation’s terrible. They’ve only got a hundred members signed up and they’ll need five hundred just to break even. Still,’ he added, with an intake of breath, ‘I always knew that this would be a big challenge after Palm Springs.’
‘Then why did you take the job?’
‘I want to retire here, Miranda. I want to lay down my bones.’
‘But you’re only fifty-eight!’
‘I know, but I’d had enough of living in the States. Plus, the awkward fact that I didn’t have permanent residency.’
‘You should have married some nice American then.’
‘I never really wanted to,’ he sighed. ‘Not that I didn’t get offers, what with my oh-so-charming English accent.’ Not to mention his good looks. He’s still an attractive man, my dad. ‘And then, of course, the resort was very nice…’ Nice? The Hyatt Golf Resort is a palace. ‘But these luxury hotels feel so faceless after a while. People come and go; you don’t get to know them—I began to long for the camaraderie that you get in a club. Then I met someone from here and we got chatting, and he mentioned that they were urgently looking for a new General Manager, and I was offered it the following week. When I looked at the map, I realized that the location wasn’t exactly ideal,’ he went on nervously. ‘But I’m sure your mother will be perfectly civilized if we meet.’
I’m sure she won’t be.
‘I’m sure she will be,’ I said. There was an odd little silence.
‘I’ve already seen her, actually.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen her. Your mother. I passed her at lunchtime. She was leading two llamas down the road.’
‘And did she see you?’
‘No. I would have stopped—I wanted to—but she looked so furious, I thought it best not to risk it.’
‘Jose and Pedro must have got out. They go walkabout sometimes. There’s always a bit of a crisis when that happens. Or a “llama drama” as Mum likes to say.’
‘Pity.’
‘No, it’s okay—she always gets them back. People phone her up.’
‘I said pretty.’
‘Oh. Well, yes, they are. Llamas are lovely-looking things.’
There was another odd little silence. ‘No. Not the llamas,’ he said wistfully. ‘Your mum.’
Poor Dad, I thought, as I put round the chairs in the consulting room. He’s always regretted their divorce: I know this because he told me so a few years ago. He finally wanted to put his side of it to me. He said he’d never seen why it was necessary for them to break up. He said Mum had forced him to choose between his marriage, or his dream of becoming a professional golfer. He’d just carried on playing and hoped she’d calm down, but she didn’t. She changed the locks.
Dad did turn professional for a while—he won several of the smaller European tournaments. But he never really hit the big time, so he decided to go into club management instead. He kept in touch with us, of course; but his occasional visits were fraught, as Mum was so unfriendly—she still is. Then, when she married Hugh, Dad went to the States.
He’d call me, whenever he came over, and we’d have dinner. He’d ask me about my studies or my work, or whatever it was at the time; then he’d say, ‘And your mother, Miranda? How’s your mother, then?’ And he’d look rather sad. I felt I could only say the minimum, out of respect for her feelings. I told him about Hugh leaving, obviously, and about the llamas arriving, otherwise, well, I kept Mum…
‘Poor Dad,’ I said to Herman as I filled the water bowl, ready for the puppies. Herman arranged his features into an expression of exquisite sympathy. Then the phone rang. It was her.
‘That’s funny—I was just thinking about you.’
‘Were you? I just wanted to ask you two very quick things. Number one—what do you think of this idea as a money-spinner?’ There was a dramatic pause. ‘Llama psychotherapy.’
Llama psychotherapy? ‘Well, they’d have to qualify first, Mum—it would be too expensive—and apparently it takes a long time.’
‘Don’t be facetious, Miranda. What I mean is, that I could offer days where stressed-out business people can come and spend time with the llamas. They can groom them and talk to them—you know how sensitive they are—and unload all their worries onto them.’
‘Hmm, you mean, “beasts of unburden”—that kind of thing?’
‘No, I was thinking of something along the lines of “Be Calmer With a Llama”.’
‘That’s quite catchy. Why not give it a go?’
‘I think I will. You see the boys really have got to earn their keep a bit more,’ she went on. ‘Especially with the twins going to university in October, what with these wretched top-up fees. Pedro didn’t get the beer commercial, by the way. We’re all very disappointed.’
‘And I’m afraid I can’t get Henry on Animal Crackers. Although they liked the idea of his kissing addiction, they thought it might look a bit cosy as you’re my mum. Can’t you get the local paper to do a story about him? The “Llama Charmer”?’
‘No, they’re always doing me—every time they’re desperate they run another “Llama Lady” feature—and it’s national publicity I need. Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘But the other thing is that I’d like to know your father’s new address.’
‘Why? Are you going to see him? That would be great, Mum. I’m sure he’d be delighted.’
‘No. I’m not. The only reason I want to know is so that it makes it easier for me to avoid him.’
‘Oh.’
‘So where is he?’
I dug the card Dad had sent me out of the drawer. ‘The Old Laundry, Weaver’s Lane, Lower Chalvington.’
‘God, that’s only four miles away.’
‘I know. Aren’t you even curious about him?’ I added, as I heard her scribble it down. ‘You haven’t seen him since my graduation day, eight years ago—when you were so fro
sty you gave us all chilblains.’
‘No, Miranda,’ she said. ‘I am not curious. I’m rather furious. I mean why did he have to come down here? It’s the last thing one wants, to have one’s ex-husband landing practically on the doorstep. I mean, of all the golf clubs…’
‘…in all the towns in all the world. I know, Mum. Never mind. Anyway, my puppies are arriving. Sorry. Can’t chat.’ There’s only so much father-bashing I can take.
Soon, Sooty the sheepdog was trying to herd all the other puppies; Alfie and Roxy were looking for things to retrieve; Gwyneth Paltrow was looking at her reflection in the water bowl; and Twiglet was jumping off chairs.
‘He’s absolutely fearless,’ said Phyllis to Marcus, admiringly. She seemed to have taken a shine to him. ‘He obviously takes after you. I must just ask you,’ she added, ‘because I’m so fascinated by what you do—what’s the most frightening thing you’ve ever done?’
‘Well…’ I looked at him—he must get asked that so often.
‘Jumping off a tall building?’ she suggested sweetly.
‘Not really—so long as it’s not more than twenty storeys high.’
‘Being set on fire from head to foot?’
He shook his head. ‘You wear a flame-proof suit.’
‘Riding a motorbike across a yawning chasm?’ she enquired eagerly.
‘That’s okay. You just have to get the revs right.’
‘Swimming in a tank full of piranhas. Naked.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s fine as long as they’ve had lunch.’
‘What is it, then? The scariest, most frightful, horrifying thing you’ve ever done in your entire life?’ Her pale blue eyes were shimmering with anticipation.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You know those big black spiders you get in the bath?’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘I once put one of those outside.’
‘You’re teasing me,’ she giggled, clapping her hand to her mouth.
‘No, it’s true. I really did. If you don’t believe me, you can ring up my ex.’
