The Photographer's Wife (42 page)

“I wish it would just happen,” Sophie says. “I’m so nervous I can barely stand.”

Brett reaches out and gently brushes her arm with the back of his hand. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just fine.”

“I suppose the
really
big rush will be on Sunday when the centre-spread comes out.”

“I think there’ll be plenty people tonight, hon. You did invite half of London.”

“I hope there aren’t
too
many either. That woman at the
Mirror
never got back to me to say how many colleagues she had tracked down. Imagine if they all come!”

“Sophie!” Brett says. “Relax.”

“I can’t,” Sophie says. “I don’t know how to. I’m not made that way. Actually, I’m too cold to relax. It’s freezing in here. I should have worn more.”

Brett attempts to put his arm around Sophie’s bare shoulders but because she is so stressed and rigid, this position simply cannot work. “It’ll warm up too,” he says, dropping his arm to his side. “By the end of the evening, I’ll be overheating and you’ll be just right. And anyway, even if it doesn’t, even if you catch the flu, it’ll be worth it. Because you look totally awesome in that dress.”

“I hope Mum’s dress isn’t too similar. Because the way she described it, it sounded exactly the same. Black, strapless, beaded front… We better not look like twins.”

Brett laughs. “That would be cute.”

“It
so
wouldn’t, Brett,” Sophie says. “But I don’t expect a man to understand that.”

At one minute past seven, people begin to arrive. The first person through the door is a woman. She’s Sophie’s mother’s age with intense blue eyes and a walking stick. “Hello,” she says glancing around nervously as she crosses the expanse of empty floor. She looks like a mouse checking for hidden cats. “I think I’m a bit early.”

“Actually, you’re right on time!” Sophie says, checking her watch and fixing her warmest grin.

“I’m Janet French,” the woman says, wrinkling up her nose. “Are you…? You’re not
Sophie
, are you?”

Sophie nods. “I am.”

“I’ll bet you don’t even remember me,” Janet says. “You used to play in our garden. In Lewes. You used to stop in sometimes on your way to Eastbourne.”

“Oh, did you have swings in the garden?”

Janet laughs. “Yes, we did. And a big fish pond. You got undressed once and went swimming in it.”

Sophie laughs. “Well, I definitely don’t remember that.” Another group of oldies are arriving now and Sophie glances over Janet’s shoulder as she says, “This is Brett, my boyfriend.”

“Hi Janet.”

“Sorry, but
how
did you know Dad?”

“I was at the
Mirror
,” Janet says. “In the early days. When he was still a dispatch rider. Sally Reed contacted me. She seemed to be tracking down all the old crew. I hope that’s OK?”

“Absolutely,” Sophie says. “I managed to get in touch with Phil. Do you remember him? Yes? Well, he said he’d deal with the
Mirror
crew. And he knows some of Dad’s friends from the evening classes he used to do as well, so…”

Janet is glancing at the rows of wine glasses. “Do you think I could…?” she says, waving one hand over them.

“Of course!” Sophie replies. “That’s what they’re for.”

Once Janet has started, wine in hand, to tour the still shockingly empty room, Sophie leans in to Brett’s ear. “I wish Mum would get here,” she says. “It’s a bit embarrassing when I can’t even recognise people.” She nods at two grey-haired men who have joined a huddle at the entrance. “I don’t know who
they
are either. Unless that’s Phil. Actually, it might be. Hang on.” She crosses the room to welcome the new arrivals. “Hello!” she says to the white haired man. “Are you Phil by any chance?”

He laughs. “Sophie!” he says. “Gosh, you were this tall the last time I saw you.” He makes a chopping gesture with his hand, just above Sophie’s waist. “And no. I’m Malcolm.
This
is Phil.” He gestures to the bald man beside him who is so bent over he struggles to look Sophie in the eye.

“Oops,” she says, “Sorry! It’s been so long.”

Strangely, Sophie hadn’t imagined quite how old all of her father’s friends would be. She had (stupidly she realises) imagined them in stasis since the moment of his death.

She realises now that her
father
would look this old were he still alive today and feels an unexpected surge of grief at his absence, at all those missing years.

“Is Barbara here?” Phil asks, struggling, with his bent back, to look around the room.

“Not yet,” Sophie says. “But she should be here soon. Jonathan’s bringing her.”

Malcolm, who has been scanning the room, now points (with surprising vigour) at one of the photos. “Isn’t that the one?” he asks.

Phil turns sideways so that he can peer up at the image. “Yes!” he says. “Ah, thank God! You included it.”

Sophie follows the men’s gaze. “The shipbuilders?” she asks. “Why that one?”

“Huh,” Malcolm says gleefully. “I’ll let Phil tell you
that
story.”

Phil offers his elbow to Sophie. “Come with me, dear,” he says. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

Sophie takes his arm and shuffles with him across the room to the photo, a huge black and white print of men, suspended on ropes, riveting the panels of a warship.

“Ah, I know,” Sophie says. “You’re going to tell me that this one got used on the cover of a record, aren’t you?”

“No, dear.”

“Didn’t it? I was sure that–”

“Yes, it was on the record sleeve,” Phil says. “Robert Wyatt, I think his name was. But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”

Sophie catches Brett’s eye across the room. He winks at her and she raises one eyebrow and leans in to hear Phil’s voice, now little more than a murmur.

“Do you know where it was taken?” Phil asks.

“Scotland somewhere, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Clydeside.”

“I think I kind of knew that.”

“And guess who never once set foot there?”

“Um… not sure. Margret Thatcher maybe?”

Phil jabs, slightly disconcertingly, at Sophie’s chest. “Your father,” he says.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tony. Never went to Clydeside. Not once.”

Sophie laughs. “He must have gone there at least once.”

Phil shakes his head.

“Oh God!” Sophie says. “Don’t say someone else took it?”

“Shh! Quietly does it, Sophie.
I
took it, if you really want to know.” Phil is unable to hide his pride at this fact.

“But how? It won that prize. They did posters for the record with it. It was all over the place.”

“No one knows,” Phil says. “And don’t worry. No one ever needs to.”

“But that’s terrible. Why would Dad–?”

“He couldn’t get up there for the shoot. He was holed up somewhere, I expect,” Phil says. “So I gave him one of mine. We used to trade images quite often back then. It was the way things worked in the papers.”

“But it’s in the book, Phil. We’ve got prints of the darned thing for sale in the bookshop. And if you own the copyright–”

Phil pats Sophie’s elbow. “Don’t worry, Sophie. As far as everyone’s concerned, your father took it. And that’s just the way it should be. And your father paid me back for that one a long time ago. So there’s no account due.”

Sophie is staring at the photograph. “God, if I’d known, I would have left it out,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Phil.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t,” Phil laughs. “I’m really rather chuffed about it.”

Something he said suddenly strikes Sophie as odd. “Phil, what did you mean when you said he was probably ‘holed up’ somewhere?”

Phil laughs, but his laughter quickly becomes a coughing fit.

“Phil? Are you OK?”

When he eventually stops coughing, he says, “Ah, now
some
things are better left unsaid. And on that note, I could do with a drink.”

“Yes,” Sophie says, leading him away from the dreaded photo. “After that, so could I. But you have to tell me. I know you will.”

Phil laughs again. “Oh really, it’s nothing. Your father was quite a character. But then I expect you know that already.”

“What was all that about?” Brett asks, the next time his trajectory crosses Sophie’s.

“Ugh!” Sophie says. “Don’t ask. Something about Dad being a
right character.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, and apparently the shipbuilding photo isn’t Dad’s at all.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Phil reckons
he
took it. He says they traded photos sometimes.”

“Wow,” Brett says. “And that’s a real iconic photo of his.”

“Yep. Of course he may be talking bollocks. I’ll have to ask Mum.”

“Sure,” Brett says. “Well there she is. You can ask her now.”

Sophie turns to see Barbara just stepping into the gallery. Her eyes scan her mother’s dress and she heaves a sigh of relief. Her mother’s is longer and fuller and higher cut than hers. It has far less beading too. Other than the fact that it’s a black evening dress, there’s really not much similarity.

“Mum,” she says, when she reaches her. “Thank God you’re here. All these people keep coming up to me to say ‘hello’ and I haven’t the foggiest idea who they are.”

Barbara, who has moved little more than a yard into the room before freezing, looks pale and anxious.

“Hi Sophe,” Jonathan says.

“Hi Jon. No Judy?”

“No, she’s at home with Dylan. We had a babysitter booked but when push came to shove, she just couldn’t leave him.”

“And how is Dylan?”

“He’s great. Gorgeous. Noisy. You must come out and see him.”

“I will. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so rushed off my feet with all of this.”

“Of course. Well, Judy’s not that keen on visitors right now anyway, so there’s no hurry.”

“Well yes, that’s what I understood when I called her,” Sophie says. “That’s a great dress, Mum.”

Barbara nods weakly. “Thanks. Yours too.”

“Are you OK?”

Another nod. “The photos look, um, nice,” she says quietly.

“Well, good.” Sophie had hoped for a little more enthusiasm than ‘nice.’ She glances enquiringly at Jonathan who blinks slowly at her, a blink which means, “G
ive her a moment and she’ll be fine.”

“Drink, Mum?” Jonathan asks.

Barbara fiddles with the clasp of her handbag. “Definitely.”

“Wine or cava or–”

“Wine, white, please.”

Jonathan heads off on the wine mission so Sophie takes Barbara’s arm and leads her towards the first of the images. "So, what do you think, Mum?” she asks. “It looks good, huh?”

“Yes,” Barbara says, sounding distracted. She glances over her shoulder. “Is that Phil?”

“It is. And the other one’s Malcolm.”

“Gosh,” Barbara says. “How old we all are.”

“Well, you’ve weathered better than they have,” Sophie says. But in this moment, she realises that not only had she failed to imagine how old her father’s friends would be but she has been refusing to notice how fast her own mother is ageing too. She sees this now. She sees how small and frail Barbara is. “Do you want to go over and meet him? Talk to him, I mean.”

“Just let me get my breath, dear. It’s a lot to take in.”

“The photos, you mean? Or the people?”

“Well, all of it.”

Sophie gives her mother’s arm a squeeze. “OK. Stay there and I’ll go get that drink,” she says.

At the drinks table, she finds Jonathan deep in conversation with Brett. “As you know, Brett,” Jonathan is saying tersely, “I
don’t
want to get involved.”

Brett laughs and fiddles with his bow tie. “I’m not interviewing you, man,” he says. “I’m just making conversation.”

“What’s going on?” Sophie asks, reaching for a glass of wine for her mother. “You two aren’t arguing, are you?”

“Brett’s idea of conversation sounds suspiciously like digging,” Jonathan says. “Once a journalist, always a journalist, eh?”

Brett raises the palms of his hands. “Hey, I was only asking why Jon didn’t follow in the family way. I’m not wearing a wire or anything.”

Sophie shrugs. “You could have, I suppose,” she tells Jonathan. “You took good photos.”

Jonathan’s face contorts as if this is the most ridiculous thing he has heard all year. “I did
not,”
he says. “I didn’t have the eye. Everyone knew that.”

“That’s not strictly true. I found some of yours when I was going through Dad’s. The three kids on the wall? Do you remember that?”

Jonathan nods but looks puzzled.

“And the one of that bus conductor, smoking. That was yours wasn’t it?”

Jonathan nods. “Sure, but you always said I was rubbish.”

Sophie grimaces, sips at the glass of wine, remembers that it was destined for Barbara, glances guiltily across the room at her and then, seeing that she’s in conversation with Phil, takes another less-guilty sip. “Did I?” she says.

“Yes! Always. Over and over. Every photo I ever took.”

“Ooh, sorry ‘bout that. That would have been sibling rivalry. I don’t think I wanted the competition.”

Jonathan looks exasperated; he looks as if this discussion is somehow important to him. Sophie can’t for the life of her work out why. “Aw, come on Jon,” she says, trying to ease her guilt. “You know what it was like. Mum was always going on about how clever
you
were. How good your school results were. You were always the favourite. I just wanted a little bit of… you know…” She glances at Brett for help.

“Attention?” he suggests, unhelpfully.

“No! I mean…”

“Real estate?” he offers.

“Yeah, kind of. I wanted a corner of the garden for myself. I wanted photography to be
my
thing not yours. That’s all.”

Jonathan is staring into his glass. He looks like he’s about to cry. Sophie catches Brett’s eye again and he pulls an ‘oops’ face.

“Well,” Jonathan says, forcibly snapping himself out of it. “Dad never taught me. He taught you. So he must have thought you were better anyway.”

“He didn’t
teach
me,” Sophie says. “He dragged me around with him occasionally. But I don’t remember him ever specifically
teaching
me anything.”