A Division of the Light (11 page)

Alice did not complain. Gregory pushed the tag so that it was hidden, felt for the first time the warm texture of her flesh, and imagined unfastening the clips so that the tight black straps relaxed from her torso and then fell away. And then he imagined sliding his hands around her body and cupping her breasts in them so that her nipples were between his fingers. He lifted the camera from the tripod, took several more shots, and spoke again.

“And now I want them raised, with your hands at the back of your head.”

“You can see that I haven't shaved under my arms. Does that make a difference?”

“Mapplethorpe's photos of Lisa Lyon show underarm hair.”

“Why do you mention other photographers so often? Aren't you confident of your own opinion?”

“I like a little body hair on women. In the right places it's natural and it flatters. That's my opinion.”

Alice lifted her hands slowly and gracefully, like a swan about to fly.

“I never expected to pose like this,” she said.

Gregory did not answer. When she continued, he could not tell if it was wry amusement that he could detect in her voice.

“I think that maybe this is what you were after all the time. Am I right? And I think you'd
really
like to photograph me in just a pair of knickers and nothing else.”

“Of course I wouldn't. That would be a glamour shot. I don't do glamour shots.”

“And naked wouldn't be a glamour shot?”

“Not the way that I would do it. If I were to photograph you nude I'd have you stretched out with your arms above your head, maybe against a background of plush, maybe just against a rumpled sheet. Female body geometry is more pleasing than a man's. You can see it in the form of triangles. One triangle has its points at the armpits and the pubis, another starts at the eyebrows and finishes at the same place, and yet another draws imaginary lines across the nipples and down to the navel. There are more examples.”

“Do you always think in abstractions?”

“I see what's there.”

“But you're not going to see me. Because I wouldn't let you photograph me without clothes.”

“No? I still think you should consider it. For now, what I'd like—”

“Shall I guess? You'd like me to take off this bra. Am I right?”

“You needn't turn round. Unless you wanted to.”

“It will leave marks on my skin.”

“You're young. They vanish quickly. And I can adjust things so they don't show.”

Nothing happened for several seconds.

“No one can see in through those windows,” he promised, and glanced up at the skylight. Clouds had gathered over the city.

“After this you can leave,” he added.

“You think you've done enough?”

“No. But we'll call it a day.”

There was a moment's hesitation, and then Alice crooked her arms around her back. While Gregory watched she lifted the straps from her shoulders and then stood with the bra dangling from her right hand. Her left hand appeared to be held firmly across her breasts as though she still wished to protect them.

“Just drop it on the chair,” he said.

She did so.

“The waistband of your trousers is too high,” Gregory said.

“They're staying on.”

“If you just unfastened them and pushed them down a few inches, along with your underwear, I could photograph the small of your back.”

“Is that important?”

“For symmetry, yes. And suggestion.”

“Suggestion?”

“The body changes into rounded forms, and it divides. The spot at the base of the spine is a pictorial node.”

Alice loosened buttons at the front of her trousers and pushed them down about four inches with her thumbs. The swell of her buttocks protruded from above the waistband.

“You want my hands behind my head again?” she said flatly.

“No. I want them stretched out.”

She put out her arms.

“No—straight out, as if they were taking your weight. Imagine that you're being crucified. That's it. And your head down a bit—not too far; no, raise it slightly. That's perfect. Hold it like that for a few seconds.”

Gregory moved in, bringing the margins closer so that only the upper part of Alice's arms were in the frame, emphasizing her shoulders, her neck and the long fall of her spine. The shutter clicked as rapidly as an animal's warning. He knew that all the frames would be what he wanted.

“That's it,” he said, at first triumphantly and then quietly, “that's it.”

“Happy?” she asked.

“Not happy but content. For the time being. But I feel we've only just begun.”

“And I feel that we've finished, so I'm getting dressed now.”

“Right,” Gregory said.

He turned away so that he was not watching. Even so, he was sharply aware of Alice's presence. He could smell her perfume, sense her warmth, and the small noises that she made while dressing disturbed and excited his imagination more than he was able to admit.

And now he knew for certain what he had always suspected; that he needed Alice Fell in his life, and that he wanted to know far more about her than she was willing to reveal.

A steady pulse of images flicked across the screen. Chin resting on one hand, eyes rarely blinking, Gregory was absorbed in the sequence. Whenever the slide show came to a stop he started it
again. He had done this three times already, and so far he had not deleted a single shot.

Gregory had been aware of the increasing number of exposures, but now that they were parading before him it was evident that they were both too many and not enough. Too many because he had taken more shots of Alice than he had expected, and not enough because, despite the quality of those taken toward the end of the session, neither photographer nor model had advanced to the obvious next step.

Any professional, Gregory believed, would look beyond this accumulation of images and see that it concealed an unexplored level of honesty. Once that was acknowledged, then even his best compositions would be judged as frustrating configurations of hints, approximations and evasions.

Alice stared out at him. At first her character seemed as flat as the rectangle that contained her; later she appeared to be playacting, awkward, coy. What had been teasingly promising in the studio appeared archly counterfeit on the screen.

Gregory leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, scratched the back of his neck, then bent forward and put his hands back on the keyboard. The chair squeaked like a hinge that needed oil.

For more than a minute Cassie had stood beside the door, a printout held in her hands, and carefully watched how her father was absorbed in the display. Eventually she drew up a chair and sat down.

“A problem of choice?” she asked.

“You can tell which ones are the best. They're obvious. Just as it's obvious that the session can't be called an unqualified success. You can see that, can't you?”

Instead of answering, Cassie placed the printout next to the keyboard. It was a page from the website of a hotel chain, and it showed two watercolor sketches of a modernist hotel built in the 1930s. Across them Cassie had written dates, figures and question marks. Gregory had already worked for the company four times.

He glanced at the printout and then looked back at the screen. “I'm trying to get out of brochure work.”

“But this is quality: rich guests only. The relaunch is costing a fortune. Whoever takes the photographs will make a lot of money.”

Gregory nodded, uninterested.

“Designed by Lubetkin and there's a mural by Eric Gill. They say the building is in Pevsner. So it would be an interesting shoot.”

“Right. So you could do it.”

“Dad, they want
you
, not me. They know you. And sometimes you forget that I don't work here full-time.”

“Maybe you should do. That cancer charity can't pay you much.”

“Neither do you. And I need an answer.”

“I'll think about it.”

Cassie persisted. “If you're interested I can phone them now. The refurbishment won't be completed for a couple of months. The dates would fit in easily with your diary.”

Gregory pointed at the screen. “From this point on there's an improvement, but the necklace didn't work as well as I imagined.”

“I told you it wasn't right.” Cassie paused for a moment before continuing. “I'll go back and try to agree terms. Is that all right?”

“Can you see that the compositional dynamics are wrong? That wasn't obvious at the time.”

Cassie looked at the screen again. Alice sat with her shoulders bared and her fingers resting on the necklace that had belonged
to Cassie's mother. She wondered if it was her imagination that lent a particular suggestiveness to the touch of those fingertips on the beads. The part-smile on Alice's mouth hinted at a triumph.

“The studies of her back are an improvement,” Gregory said, “but we didn't get to the point I wanted to reach. I mean, technically the work is fine, but there's no true excellence. I have to be honest and admit that none of it is
unique
.”

Cassie understood that her father was expecting too much.

“You can't be unique all the time,” she told him. “Maybe you've got all there is to get. Maybe there's nothing else that's worth retrieving.”

She sat motionless and waited for his response.

Cassie prided herself on assessing people within a minute or so of meeting them, and had seldom been wrong. She had shared brief exchanges with Alice Fell at the beginning and end of the studio session. Alice's evasions and forced pleasantries had convinced Cassie that beneath that blandly attractive exterior there was an untrustworthy and manipulative woman.

“Meaning?” Gregory asked after a few seconds.

“Meaning that maybe you're looking for something in your model that isn't really there.”

“It's there all right.”

“You can't be certain. Not really.”

“I've got a sixth sense for hidden qualities. This subject is more difficult than most. She works hard at being a challenge. In a way, you've got to respect that.”

“But if she's so resistant to being photographed—”

“I didn't say she was.”

“That's what it sounded like.
If
she's so resistant, then what's the point? Why play a game it's impossible to win?”

Alice gazed out from the screen. The lens had caught reflections in her eyes. To Cassie it was obvious that Gregory should forget the session and move on to more rewarding subjects. She opened her hand to the image as if she were casting pebbles into a still pool.

“It's not worth anyone's while for you to continue,” she said.

Gregory did not answer directly, but mused on Alice as if she were a conundrum that only he could solve.

“She protects herself all the time. Even when she's partly stripped and with her back turned she looks protected. She can't look as natural as I want, because she's not in a relaxed state. If she can use something as a shield then she will do, even if it's just a string of beads.”

He sat back and announced his conclusion.

“It would be better if I did some nude studies. There would be nothing for her personality to hide behind.”

Cassie was unsure if she should respond. What her father saw as deep insulation she saw as brittle coating. Alice Fell's mystique was thin and as easily cracked as lacquer.

“Not everyone wants to be photographed naked,” she said cautiously.

“True, they don't.”

“So Alice Fell may not.”

“Cassie, she's not like your mother.”

The remark was as unexpected and cruel as a shower of ice. For a few seconds all was silence.

“That's an insulting comparison to make,” Cassie said at last.

Gregory made a nervous motion with one hand, as if his words still hung in the air and he was able to erase them, and then he shook his head.

“It's just a difference of people,” he said. “Women like Ruth are uncomfortable with nudity on camera. Other women aren't. Even though she doesn't know it yet, Alice would love to pose naked.”

“Dad, this sounds like a daydream.”

“She'll come round, I'm sure she will. I've lent her the Eastman book on the development of photography. She'll see the argument more clearly once she's studied the history. She'll be able to concentrate on the results that gifted photographers can get. Now, look at these.”

Alice posed naked to the waist, back to the camera, shoulder blades prominent and arms folded protectively in front of her body. Cassie studied her with a disaffected eye.

“Her strap marks are visible. There, you see? Where they cut in under the arms? They ruin the grain of the picture. You must have noticed.”

“I took all these as a kind of test.”

“I see. Does she turn round?”

“She didn't want to.”

“And yet you think she'll be easily persuaded to take off all her clothes?”

“I didn't say it would be easy. Most people don't like to admit to what they secretly want.”

“Well, I think we could agree that Alice Fell has secrets.”

“She's a different kind of model,” Gregory insisted. “Sooner or later she'll understand that we can't remain where the session stopped. We have to go on.”

Alice had stretched out her arms horizontally. She could have been awaiting some kind of brutal punishment, the lash perhaps, or she could have been preaching to an invisible crowd. Under the studio's angled light her hair shone as it fell across the base
of her neck. The skin on the long track of her spine was illuminated like ivory.

Gregory tapped the keyboard with one finger and then turned to Cassie.

“You don't trust her, do you?” he asked, with unexpected directness.