Authors: Isabel Wolff
‘This is the spot,’ he said as he screwed on the camera. It was large and square.
‘Aren’t you using your Leica?’
‘No, I’m using a Hasselblad for this. You get a bigger negative which gives greater detail and tonal quality. Could you pass me the Polaroid in the bag there? In the middle compartment.’
‘This thing?’ I held it up.
‘That’s the one.’ I handed it to him, happy to be helpful and involved. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He slid it onto the back of the camera. ‘And have you got a second hand on your watch?’
‘I have.’
‘Then time this for me, okay?’ I heard the deep click of the shutter. Then he slid out the Polaroid and handed it to me. ‘Stick that under your armpit, will you?’
‘Why?’
‘To warm it up—it’ll develop quicker. Then peel it off in exactly…two minutes.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s alkali,’ he warned, ‘so be careful not to burn your hands.’
I did exactly as David asked, then handed it to him. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured appreciatively, as he appraised it. ‘Yes… That’ll do it.’ He glanced at the sky, then squinted through his light meter. ‘We’ll start shooting in about ten minutes or so, as magic hour starts.’
‘Magic hour?’
‘The hour starting just after sunrise, or just before sunset, when the light is at its best. You don’t want the sun to be high—you want it to be low and slanting, as that gives depth and texture, and the colours are warm and soft.’ As David watched the sky, occasionally reading his meter, or trying out different lenses, I saw how passionate he was about his work, and how focussed, to the exclusion of almost everything else.
‘You love this, don’t you?’ I said quietly.
‘Yes,’ he replied, without looking at me. ‘I do. It’s what
I live for. I’m glad you’re here to share it,’ he added, as he peered into the viewfinder again.
‘I’m glad I am too.’ And I was. I loved watching him work. I loved the intensity of it. I felt infected by his passion. I found it…yes, romantic. Decidedly. Sexy, even. And now, as the sky began to turn from moonstone to a luminous turquoise, I saw David stiffen with anticipation as the optimum moment approached. As we waited for the light to be perfect, I felt like Bronze Age man waiting for the sun to rise through the arch at Stonehenge. We sat immobile on the springy turf, listening to the geese on the lake, and the trilling of coots. Then we spotted a herd of deer coming over the hill.
‘This is it,’ David whispered. The light was pale gold by now, and the air so pellucid it seemed to sparkle. ‘If I can get them in shot too, this is
it
.’ He held up his right hand. ‘Keep
very
still,’ he mouthed. ‘They’re coming our way.’ And sure enough, they came within fifty yards of us, bending their heads to the water to drink. Suddenly a twig cracked under my foot, and the largest stag lifted its head and looked directly at us for about five seconds. I heard the soft click of the shutter, then again, then again. Then the stag moved slowly away.
David circled his left thumb and index finger. ‘Perfect,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody
perfect
.’
‘Thanks for not barking,’ I said to Herman.
David spent the next half hour shooting from the same vantage point, sometimes moving the camera forwards or backwards a little; then he set up nearer the house. As he finished a roll, he’d hand it to me; I’d seal and label it, then tuck it into a bag in the special pocket of his holdall. By a quarter past eight, he thought he was done.
‘That’s…it,’ he said. ‘What a fantastic morning.’ He tucked
the last finished roll into his bag. ‘I know there are at least four or five really great shots there. We’ll go back to the hotel for breakfast, then I’ll do Arundel late this afternoon.’
I thought the early start would have exhausted David, and that, like me, he’d flop. Instead, he seemed energized, and, as we drove back, he talked non-stop about his work—he was on a high.
‘The exhilaration you feel when you know everything’s combined to produce a great picture,’ he said as we approached Amberley. ‘There’s nothing like it. Edward Weston, an American photographer, calls the art of photography “the climax of emotion”, because it’s about finding that split second when the light and what you see in the viewfinder and your own artistic instinct all come together to capture one moment in time, one unrepeatable moment, for eternity. That’s the essence of photography. And that’s the rush I got when that stag looked straight into the lens this morning.’
We had breakfast back at the hotel, then, exhausted, went to our rooms and slept for two hours. I love this, I thought, as I drifted off. I love being with David. Please, please, don’t let this stop.
At lunchtime we walked into Amberley and looked at the village church, then wandered round the graveyard for a few minutes, reading the stones.
In memory of Sarah Hunt… Sacred to the memory of Richard Freeman…
And now a particular inscription caught my eye.
In loving memory of William Galpin, departed this life 10th May 1873, also of his beloved wife Alice, died 19th October 1875. United in life for forty-five years, now together to the end of time
. And I was suddenly struck by this morbid—yet strangely comforting—thought, that I’d like to be buried with David. And yet I’d known him for only six weeks.
We went back to the hotel and finished our game of chess,
then, at half past four we went to Arundel. David set up just below the castle.
‘I’m using a wide angle lens,’ he explained, ‘in order to compensate for the slightly giddying perspective. The light’s quite nice now,’ he added, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the sky. ‘There’s this lovely pinky-gold quality to it. Can you see?’
‘Yes, I can. So have we hit magic hour yet?’
‘Almost.’ He peered into the viewfinder. ‘I’m going to take my time. I want to get it just…right.’ He looked at the sky again, then bent his head to the camera once more.
‘Okay, here we go.’ Suddenly, a flock of crows took flight, and I heard the click of the shutter.
‘Yes,’ I heard him say as he clicked again. ‘Yes…
yes
. God, that was fantastic,’ he exclaimed softly. ‘The uprush of the birds, all that movement, against the solidity of the stone, and that glossy black against the gold.’ He took a whole roll from the same spot, then he unscrewed the camera and we walked down the hill to find another vantage point. I handed him the Polaroid again.
‘You’re a very good assistant.’
‘I enjoy it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s interesting. And you make me see things I wouldn’t have seen before. Like what colour the light is, for example—or the shape of the clouds, or which way the wind’s blow ing.’
‘But there’s a lot of hanging about with photography,’ he said as he peered into the viewfinder. ‘Don’t you find that boring?’
‘No, I don’t. Because I’m hanging around with you.’
He didn’t look at me, but I saw him smile.
By now it was seven thirty, and David was satisfied that he’d got enough shots.
‘I’ve taken four rolls, from three different spots. So we’ll go back now. What time do you want to eat?’
‘I don’t know? Eight thirty? I’d like to have a quick bath first.’
‘Sure.’
When we got back I filled the Jacuzzi, climbed in, poured in a tiny amount of bubble bath, then pressed the button to start the whirlpool. It was slightly complicated as it was an electronic panel, with icons to illustrate the various functions, but eventually I found the right one. And I was just leaning back into the jets of water, letting them massage my shoulder blades, when I heard my mobile.
‘Damn.’ I turned off the taps, then padded across the floor and flipped the phone open.
‘Miranda!’ It was my mother. ‘It’s about the llamas.’
‘I’ve told Daisy about the hen-party idea, Mum. She’s just having a think about it—she’ll let you know in a few days.’
‘No, I wasn’t ringing about that. I just wanted to tell you that I think I might have cracked the boys’ problems long term: there’s something which, if it takes off, should keep them gainfully employed during the week.’
‘And what is it?’
She told me. I rolled my eyes. ‘It sounds absolutely
nuts
. Honestly, Mum. Whoever
heard
of such a thing? Llama hen parties are one thing, but that’s just ridiculous!’
‘No, I think it’s a
wonderful
idea. And so, I may say, does your father, and—ooh, what’s that funny noise in the background?’ she suddenly asked.
‘Oh, it’s just the Jacuzzi.’
‘But you haven’t
got
a Jacuzzi.’
‘I know, but I’m staying in a hotel.’
‘Are you? Where?’
‘In Amberley.’
‘What? Amberley Castle? How lovely, darling, but why didn’t you
tell
me—you could have come over. It’s not far.’
‘Oh, I, er…’ I didn’t want to explain. ‘I had to see a client, and so you see—’ I glanced at the bathroom. ‘Oh…
fuck
…’
‘Miranda?
Miranda
?’
A tide of glistening white froth was advancing across the floor. I dashed into the bathroom, and, as the Jacuzzi jets roared away, the bubbles kept rising, pouring extravagantly over the edge of the bath, like the foam in an over-filled glass of champagne. I groped desperately for the switch, but it was submerged, and, when I finally located it, I couldn’t see which bit of it to press. And still there was the noise of the jets, and the bubbles were cascading over the side, covering the floor, and moving out of the bathroom now and over the bedroom carpet like a tsunami.
‘Oh
shit
!’ Panic-struck, I pressed the switch again and again, but still the jets were roaring away, whipping up the mass of white foam. I grabbed a towel, wrapped it round me and knocked on David’s door. After a moment he appeared in his bathrobe.
‘What’s up?’
‘The Jacuzzi,’ I panted. ‘I can’t turn it off.’
He came into the bathroom. ‘Oh bloody
hell
. Where’s the switch?’
‘There! On that side,’ I said.
He groped with it for a few seconds, as I tried, vainly, to repel the progress of the bubbles across the bedroom.
‘I can’t see how to do it—it’s not like the one on my bath and—oh shit, this is awful—
ah!
’ Suddenly there was silence. I clapped my hand to my chest in an ecstasy of relief.
‘Thank
God!
’
‘Christ!’ he said, as he surveyed the mass of glistening froth. ‘What a
mess
…’
‘I only put in a tiny bit of bubble bath,’ I said sheepishly.
‘That’s all it takes. Did you leave it unsupervised?’
‘My mum called. I’m sorry. I feel
so
embarrassed.’
‘Never mind.’ He grabbed the other bath towel and began to swab the floor with it, while I reached into the bath and pulled out the plug.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I do normally know how to behave in hotels.’
He looked at me and smiled, and I felt suddenly self-conscious in my bath towel. ‘It’s because the switch is electronic, not mechanical, so it was tricky to turn off, but my God…’ He surveyed the white swamp. ‘What a
mess
…’ And now, suddenly, he began to laugh, and I did too, as we soaked up the foam with the spare towels and bathmat, and wrung them into the sink. We were both laughing, our shoulders shaking, and then we suddenly looked at each other and stopped laughing, and David’s hand reached out for my face. He drew me to him, and now his mouth was on mine, and I felt his hardness through his robe, then he tugged at my towel and it fell to the floor. I untied the belt of his bathrobe, pushing it off his shoulders, and now we were half-walking, half-falling onto the bed in a tangle of wet, foamy limbs, and then he was naked beside me, stroking my face and my breasts and kissing me and calling my name, over and over.
‘Oh Miranda,’ he groaned. ‘Miranda.’ And now as he raised himself over me, I saw the flat, smooth scars on his thighs, from where I knew they must have taken the skin to repair his hands. I’d told myself that I would not do this until David knew—until he
knew
—but there was no way that I could stop. And now he was pouring himself into me, his
open eyes locked onto mine as he came with a great, shuddering spasm.
‘Miranda. Mir-an-da,’ he groaned.
CHAPTER 12
On Sunday, I awoke with David’s right arm encircling me like the hoop of a barrel. As I gazed towards the window, where a splinter of light had pierced a gap in the curtains, I felt elated—and, at the same time, dismayed. For I had done precisely what I said I wouldn’t do. But today David would know who I was. Terrified, now, I watched his sleeping face, listening to his gentle, regulated breathing. Then I saw his eyelids flicker, and open.
‘Miranda Sweet,’ he smiled. He drew me further to him, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I could hardly breathe. ‘You
are
sweet,’ he murmured as he gazed at me. ‘And I
think
I’m in love with you. I’m not
absolutely
certain,’ he added as he stroked my face. ‘But I’m ninety-nine per cent sure I am.’
‘Only ninety-nine per cent?’ I said. He nodded. ‘But I’m one hundred and twenty per cent sure I’m in love with you.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Love doesn’t obey mathematical imperatives.’
‘That’s true.’ He dropped his hand from my face to my left breast, then his expression changed. ‘That’s funny,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Your heart. It’s racing. You’re not anxious, are you?’
Yes, I am. I’m very, very anxious
.
‘No…it’s just the effect you have on me.’
He drew my right hand to his chest. ‘Feel mine.’ His pulse was slow and steady and strong. ‘I feel unassailable,’ he said as he stretched luxuriously, then clasped his hands behind his head. ‘I feel that, just for today, nothing in the world can get to me. I’ll remember this day for a very long time.’
You will. You will. You’ll remember it forever
. My heart still pounding, I slipped out of bed.
I put on my bathrobe and pushed open the casement window. In the courtyard below, the square, topiarized yews were casting long, lozenge-shaped shadows in the morning light. Two white peacocks strolled across the lawn; while a flock of turtledoves warmed themselves in a patch of sunlight on the neighbouring roof.