Photographic (24 page)

“The truth?”

“You don’t know me. You can’t say what the truth is because you don’t know,” she said, trying to gather up her dignity.

Ian’s anger seemed to fade. He continued staring at her for a while and then shook his head, as if he’d been conned, but was starting to find it amusing. He smiled a little, as if at his own reaction, or at her, she wasn’t sure. 

"You say my business is a small world. Don't you mean our business?"

He didn't like the sound of that. She felt she'd scored a point.

“It’s time I got dressed. Stick around. I’ll be down in a few. Help yourself.” He gestured at the kitchen and strode off down the hall. She swiveled her head around, looking. 

His voice echoed down the stairs. "Try not to take any pictures. If you can help it."

He was out of earshot. "I could have taken lots more pictures than I did," she said to the empty room. "I didn't sell any of them. Yet."

When he came back fifteen minutes later, showered, in jeans and a t-shirt, the shoe was on the other foot; instead of being under scrutiny herself she wanted to scrutinize him, as she had when he’d first opened the door. She busied herself with something in her bag as she got her cool back. Damn, he was fine. She felt herself more feminine in the presence of his masculinity. It wasn’t machismo. It was beauty, and grace, and vulnerability, and strength, and maleness, all somehow expressed in shifting layers and shades, his many faces revealed by the transparency of his expression. That’s why he gets the big bucks, she thought. Everyone wants to watch this sonofabitch. Except he isn’t. She yanked at her hair, hard.
Keep it together, Kuhonik
.

“Let’s go for a walk." He pulled an old gray cardigan off the kitchen chair. Didn't have to ask her twice.

Out in the emerald, sunny glory of the day, they struck off behind the house toward the lake. The air tickled the hairs on her arms as they sauntered along an avenue of great trees bordering a stretch of the water, Ian kicking stones and sometimes skipping them off into the lake.

“Tell me the real story, then.” They had walked some distance in silence.

Marta gathered her thoughts. She darted a glance at him. He looked serious and composed. At least he wasn’t flying off the handle. Or kicking her off the place. These Reillys were a piece of work.

“Well, in the beginning, I was here for pictures, it’s true. I’m a photographer; that’s my job. I’m not denying there’s some dirty dealing out there and some rotten apples, but in my case, I’m a commando: I’m in and I’m out. I get my shots and leave. If someone knows I was there it’s minus points to me. I prefer to do it all anonymously.” She paused, wondering how this sounded to him. She pushed on. “I prefer not to be seen at all. It’s not always possible, of course.

“So, the morning in question, I was getting a shot of your wife and daughter, and unexpectedly, I gave away my position. Also unexpectedly, I got hurt in my, er, descent from the tree. Jane helped me out. I had a sprained ankle. She doctored me up.”

Ian listened closely to this recital. “Do you usually go on people's property to get pictures?”

She shot another look at him. He said it mildly enough, but this was dangerous, possibly litigious territory. “No.”

“Why this time?”

“It was pretty close to the gate; close to the road. It was the only option I had to get the shot I wanted. I try not to trespass. I usually rent something, or I’m on a public road or whatever. It was just going to be a few pictures, that was it.”

“So how did it become an interview?” He spoke in a mild tone that didn't deceive Marta.

Still, she couldn’t conceal an immodest smile. “Jane didn’t want the pictures of Tamsin out there, I guess. So she traded for an interview.”

“You played her." His eyes were on the soft leaf-strewn path in front of them, hands pushed in the pockets of his sweater.

“It was her idea.”

“Come, come.” 

Those words evoked an image of her mother, alligator handbag, matching shoes, and teased bouffant hair floated up in front of her. Marta age six.
Mah-ta, I’ve told you again and again not to pat strange doggies until you’ve properly introduced yourself. Present your hand palm down first, just so. I shall have to get a leash for you myself
. She banished her mother with an angry red X in her mind.

“I made a deal. I always try to get the better end when I make a deal. I won’t be blamed for that.”

Ian’s pace increased and she hurried to catch up with him. “Fair enough, but why call yourself her friend? Getting the better of someone in a business deal is a shrewd move. Becoming her friend is something else.”

“It was business at first." She scrambled after him. “But sometimes business acquaintances become friends. Jane went through a rough time and that got us together.”

Ian slowed down and looked out at the lake as they rounded the far end. “When was this?”

“It was when all the rumors were going on while you were away. She wanted someone to talk to. She gets lonely out here.”

"I know. I get lonely away from here. But I can’t see why she’d choose paparazzi to talk to. There are other people she could turn to.”

“I know what’s going on in the world. Often before other people do. Maybe she thought I was a source of information. And I didn’t see that Jane had all that many friends around.”

He turned to look at her again, searching her face. “Were you a source of information?”

Dazzled for a moment, she hesitated. If only she could have a little more time to look into his eyes and figure out what color they were: it was like green shot through with gold. What was that eye color called? 

"Well…were you?”

“Was I what?”

“A source of information?”

“Oh. Sort of.”

He snorted. “I can imagine what kind of information.”

They were on the other side of the lake and heading back around toward the house.

"You know, it’s all just a big game. Selling stories. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You can say that. Tell us to stay detached. It’s harder to do when it’s your face, your family. It starts to mean something when it affects your life. Say your wife reads it and she starts to believe it. It’s been written so many times—it’s been written into being. What do you do then?”

“I don’t think that’s possible if your wife knows you. If she really loves you. If you have trust.”

He glanced at her but said nothing.

They had reached the front door of the house. Ian put his hand on the doorknob, then turned to face her, his arm twisted behind him.

“You write your own story.” Marta guessed what was to come.

He leaned against the door, eyes half-closed. “You doubt Jane’s love for me?”

“I was speaking hypothetically.”

“There are other couples you’ve infiltrated this way?” He tilted his head as he asked her, his tone making the question inoffensive, but she felt unable to make a reply. Ian twisted the knob, still facing her, and pushed the door in. He stopped with the door half-open. “I’m glad we could talk. It helps me understand you. I don’t understand what you do. To me it’s vultures chasing after carrion. Someone has to, I guess. You seem like a nice enough person. Just don’t hurt my wife, all right? A friend wouldn’t.” He nodded and went inside, shutting the door behind him.

She stood on the steps for a moment, bereft. She could still smell his good smell. She wished she had more time. As she turned away and walked down the drive, she thought of Jane. Would she think all his charm and grace for naught if it was a facade for betrayal? 

The front doorbell of the flat rang. Jane was expecting Marie-Renée from Nannies Nightly and opened the door without thinking twice. It was not Marie-Renée. On the front step was an older woman with a gray-blond chignon, sporting a fine gray wool suit and black court shoes. She observed Jane with pale blue eyes that took in everything about Jane in a swift up-and-down glance, from her scuffed ten-year-old Weejuns to her gray cashmere sweater with a hole in it. 

“I am Lucinda Clark-Edwards.” Her air was preemptory, accent posh. She appeared disgruntled when this statement did not bring instant recognition and reaction.

“I’m sorry, I’m borrowing this flat. Can I help you?”

“I’m Marta’s mother.” She had the tone of one pressed into admitting an unpleasant if salient truth.

“Oh,” Jane said, frankly shocked. “I see.” There seemed no other thing to do but ask her in. “Please.” She stepped aside and spread out her arm, indicating the hallway.

“Thank you.” She swept through to the living room. Tam looked up in surprise as the stranger entered. 

“Where’s Marta?”
Mah-ta
.

“I don’t know, exactly. I call her cell phone when I need to reach her."

“Is she in London?” Mrs. Clark-Edwards spoke as if Jane couldn’t be counted on to grasp simple concepts.

“Oh, no. She’s in the States. At least, she was. When I left. I don’t know if she had any traveling plans. She seems to hop around a lot. But then I haven’t known her all that long.” Jane looked at her guest standing in the middle of the room and heard herself gabbing on. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Clark-Edwards.”

Mrs. Clark-Edwards cast a glance about as if she’d never seen the place in her life and wasn’t much impressed now she had. She finally chose the white slip-covered chair near the small table in the corner. “How well do you know my daughter?” She removed her thin, pale gray leather gloves.

Sitting on the sofa opposite, Jane hemmed. “Not all that well, to tell you the truth. She offered me this place to stay with my daughter when I needed it.”

Mrs. Clark-Edwards nodded, as if confirming her suspicions. “You don’t seem like her usual sort of friend.”

“What’s her usual friend like?”

“I’d rather not discuss that with someone who hardly knows her."

"Oh…of course. Forgive me.” She had forgotten how a certain English accent, a certain manner, could make her feel gauche. Whatever one could say about Marta, she didn't make anyone feel gauche.

“I had hoped to see my daughter, but then she travels so much I didn’t expect to be in luck.” Mrs. Clark-Edwards said this as if it were somehow Jane’s fault. 

“Ah…would you like some tea?” 

“Too early for me, thank you. What’s your name, child?” she said, addressing Tam.

“My daughter…”

“I’m Tamsin Reilly.” Tam stood and offered to shake hands. Jane swelled with maternal pride that Tam would bring out her best manners in the clutch. Maybe the transatlantic acculturation was happening already. Tam seemed to have acquired
savoir faire
. Where was she getting this? 

“I’m six and three-quarters.” 

“How do you do?” Mrs. Clark-Edward sized her up the same as she had her mother. Tam got back down on the floor and continued playing with her toys, painted German miniatures of all different kinds of animals.

“Most children are horrors. Mine were. Sent them off as soon as possible.” 

At this Tam cast a brief worried glance at the guest, then at Jane, but the visitor didn’t seem to notice. Jane shook her head very slightly at Tam. Tam’s eyes grew big and she looked back down at her animals.

“So you haven’t seen Marta for a while, then?” Who was this woman? What did she want?

“No. We’re not a close family.” As she said this her eyes fixed on Jane’s and widened, a bare hint of something that might be madness deep in their pale aluminum blue.

“Well, we can’t all be.” Jane spoke with false bravado, not at all sure where this was going, her escape route to tea and the kitchen cut off. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like any refreshment?”

“No, thank you.” 

Jane was at a loss, and said nothing.

Her guest rose. “Excuse me. The facilities?” She nodded toward the back of the flat and beelined in that direction. 

“Who is that lady?” Tam whispered after she’d disappeared.

“Marta’s mother."

“Oh!” Tam said, revelation spreading over her face, as if it all made sense now. Jane suppressed an urge to laugh. How did Marta fit as that woman’s child? Where had Marta put her accent? Marta had an unusual voice, a pronounced way of speaking, yes. She sounded like a sort of affected American, but an American, nonetheless. She didn’t sound at all like an English girl, born and bred. This was very puzzling. 

Mrs. Clark-Edwards reappeared, marching back to the chair. She sat, then spent a little time stroking her gloves and munching her thin mouth around, as if deciding whether to let a few more disagreeable sentiments out from between those compressed lips. It burst out of her at last. 

“My daughter, she had potential, you know. Three A-levels. University entrance. Manchester. The city ruined her, of course. I don’t know what else could have. Unless it was the American boarding school. Contradiction in terms. She calls it--what she does--a profession.” Mrs. Clark-Edwards’s words sounded different: fuller, more rounded. The way she talked had changed since she came back from the lavatory. Jane eyed her wonderingly. A nip of something from her handbag? 

“Ridiculous.” She rolled her r’s. Her eyes shone. “It’s all revenge against me and her father. Not that he was worth a farthing. American, when all was said and done. It’s all part of her plot.” She glowered at Jane, as if daring her to contradict.

“You don’t approve of Marta taking pictures.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. My husband is in the public eye, he’s suffered at the hands of the paparazzi. She seems to have some scruples about it however. She's been kind to me."

Mrs. Clark-Edwards sat looking first uncomprehending, then outraged at Jane’s response. “What do you know about it? She was one of the pack of wolves after our Princess. Dropped out of uni, became a horrid sort of lackey for some rag. She wasn’t only chasing little fly-by-night flashes in the pan, film stars and football louts. She had to hunt royalty, too. ‘Oh, we’re mates, Mum,’ she used to say. The cheek of that girl. Just because they chatted over the velvet rope, Marta sending good pics along and getting lovely little notes back. Where did it all end?” Marta’s mother sat rolling her mouth around as if she were chewing this information, what she had said, tasting and finding it revolting. “I made her change her name. I couldn’t be associated with the trash, the scandal she brought to our family. It was a disgrace. Disgusting. Shameful and a sin.”