The Summer Without You (21 page)

‘It’s fine,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t care whether you’re in there or not.’

She looked back down at the camera, trying to appear busy, but his feet – in her peripheral vision – didn’t move.

After a few moments, she looked up again. ‘What?’ she demanded, disconcerted to find his eyes steady upon her.

‘I just thought that seeing as we appear to keep bumping into each other, perhaps we should try to clear the air properly, once and for all.’

‘No.’ She looked down again.

‘
No?
’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘So you want to keep up this hostility every time we meet?’

‘Trust me, we’re never going to meet again,’ she quipped, borrowing one of Bobbi’s sarcastic smiles.

He shifted position, heaving the bag back on his shoulder. ‘There must be something I can do to make amends.’

‘A long walk off a short jetty would be a start—’ She stopped. She realized there was something. But . . . no, no. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being able to
make it up to her. After the humiliation on the beach, she was rather enjoying watching him wriggle on her hook now.

‘What?’ he asked, reading her expression.

‘Nothing.’

‘No, I saw – your face. You thought of something. Tell me.’

She stared back at him, but it was hard to keep her eyes on his, to keep the aggression in her gaze. Standing here, so polite and acquiescent, it was hard to believe he was the same man
who’d manhandled her so brusquely. And the idea that had flitted through her mind – it was a good one. ‘Fine. There is something you could do.’

‘OK.’ He planted his feet squarely like he expected her to start wrestling him.

‘The images you made me delete on the beach.’

It was his turn to look wary. ‘Yes.’

‘I want your permission to use them.’

‘What? But how? You deleted them. I watched you.’

‘Yes, I did delete them, but from the camera, not the memory. I retrieved them when I returned to my studio.’

‘You . . .’ He stared at her for a long moment and a tremor of anger and confusion pulsed through his voice. ‘Listen, I want you to know that I am sincere when I say I want to
make things up to you, but I cannot let you use those images.’ His voice had changed, taking on that thin, strained quality she remembered from the beach.

‘They’d be for a good cause, a local cause,’ she said quickly. ‘And besides, no one can or would be able to tell that they’re your children in the photo, if
that’s what you’re worried about.’

Ten days’ immersion in the extraordinary wealth that was seemingly everywhere out here had shown her that with wealth came paranoia; Bobbi had told her some of the kids at the summer camps
had security guards. ‘You saw the pictures yourself. They could be cardboard cut-outs for all anyone knows.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t. I wish I could help you on this, but—’

‘You owe me. What you did overstepped the mark and we both know it.’ She crossed her arms and a defiant look came into her eyes. ‘How do you think the management here would
view the incident if I told them one of their members had behaved in that way?’

His reaction wasn’t what she expected. He looked like he was almost going to laugh. ‘So you’re going to blackmail me?’

‘No. I’m simply asking you to consider my request. I’m asking you to come down to my studio and look at the picture properly for yourself. Then, if you still don’t want
me to use it, I’ll . . . I’ll respect your wishes.’

He was silent. ‘It doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice,’ he said finally.

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow suit you?’ she asked briskly, determined not to feel badly. She’d never blackmailed someone before.

‘Eight thirty. I have plans.’

‘Fine. Eight thirty.’ Damn, that was an early start for a Sunday – especially after a long day like this had been.

He turned on his heel, walking away from her, away from the clubhouse.

‘Hey,’ she called after him. ‘Aren’t you going to have that drink?’

When he looked back at her, his eyes were cold. ‘No.’

She overslept, waking as she should have been arriving at the studio, and careering around the bedroom in such a loud panic that Bobbi banged hard on the wall. By the time she
arrived at the studio, twelve minutes later – a new personal best; it had taken twenty when she’d first arrived – wearing a pair of Matt’s chinos and a white shirt over her
red swimming costume, her cheeks were as rosy as if she’d jogged on the beach, her hair vertical.

She pulled up on her bike, breathless, swinging one leg over the crossbar and freewheeling across the Square path. She could see him sitting on the steps outside her studio, his arms resting on
his knees, his hands clasped and head bowed. Her approach was silent, so that she saw him before he saw her, and she was struck by the figure he cut. If they hadn’t met under such unpleasant
circumstances, she would have found it hard to believe that he was even capable of such aggression.

But they hadn’t. And he was. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

He heard the sound of her bike chain as she was just metres away and he looked up, springing to his feet as he watched her hop off the lower pedal and grab her padlock from her backpack.

‘Morning.’ It was a polite greeting, rather than a friendly one.

Ro nodded and locked up her bike.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she mumbled, refusing to look directly at him as she jogged up the steps and put her key in the lock.

‘It’s fine.’

She looked back at him as she put her shoulder to the door and opened it. He had an air of fatigue about him, down to having small kids, no doubt. She noticed his jeans and faded blue
sweatshirt. They were supposed to look lived in but actually only looked expensive.

Dumping her bag down on the counter, she crossed the floor, pulling up the white linen blinds at the windows. Sunlight streamed in, spotting the floor with bright white rectangles. She noticed
the hydrangea looked a little wilted on the centre table and she automatically refreshed it with water from the small copper can she kept beside the flowerpot.

She was silent the whole while. Usually, she’d be chatting away to a customer, offering coffee and a seat and whatever else might possibly relax them, but this wasn’t a regular
scenario. And anyway, it wasn’t like he was trying to fill the silence either.

Ro walked back to the counter and he put away his phone. He’d been texting someone.

She booted up the computer, drumming her fingers impatiently on the wooden top as it ran through its usual early morning scans. Their eyes met, once or twice, as they waited in silence, no
smiles or niceties coming from either of them.

Eventually, the desktop revealed itself, and Ro brought the image she liked best up on the screen. The bow in the little girl’s hair was caught at a good angle, enhancing the silhouette,
and the children’s hands could clearly be seen to be clasped. But Ro liked most of all the way the children’s chins were tucked down, almost burrowing into their necks like roosting
ducks; it had a pleasing symmetry to it.

‘That’s it,’ she said, turning the screen so that he could see it from where he was standing on the other side of the counter. She didn’t want him peering over her
shoulder, like he had that day on the beach.

She watched him closely as he registered the picture – noticing the slight wince and the way his eyes narrowed as he looked at his own children through someone else’s eyes – or
rather, lens. He looked down for a second, as though thinking, before he looked back at it again.

‘Do you think anyone would know that’s your children?’

‘Well, no, but . . .’

‘There really is no breach of privacy here.’

‘It’s not about that.’

‘That was what you said on the beach,’ Ro countered, her tone bullish.

He sighed, looking back at the picture. ‘I’m not disagreeing that it’s a beautiful picture. It is. And you’re obviously very talented.’ He gestured vaguely with his
arms towards the framed portraits on the walls.

‘I really don’t see what the problem is. The children are anonymous.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t just set up a shoot to recreate this picture.’

‘Because you could never capture it exactly – not the feeling. Yes, I could get some models and put them in similar poses, but good photography isn’t about what you see;
it’s about what it makes you
feel
. So many different elements came into play on that day – the offshore breeze, the light quality, the cloud cover, even the dress your daughter
wore and how it caught the wind like that, the bow in her hair . . . It’s a kind of alchemy.’ She gave a nervous smile as she caught herself waxing lyrical about her passion. ‘And
for the record, it’s for a good cause. A local cause.’

‘So you said.’ His eyes flicked over her and she sensed he was bemused by her fervour. ‘What is it?’

‘A campaign spearheading the regeneration of the dunes along the East Hampton beaches. The idea is to revegetate them with root grasses, which help strengthen them and protect against
erosion, offering greater protection during the bigger storms.’

He raised an eyebrow, looking sceptical. ‘Most people around here are of the view that the dunes – or lack thereof – are only a problem for the ocean-front
homeowners.’

‘And that’s precisely the attitude this campaign is trying to redress. Protecting the dunes is in everyone’s interest. Yes, maybe it is only the ocean-front homeowners who need
the dunes during the storms, but the dunes help preserve the beaches too. And I’m not from here, but it’s pretty obvious even to me that the Hamptons
are
the beaches.
They’re the local economy, the beating heart of the area. I’ve been here less than two weeks, but every day I see people out walking their dogs, jogging, playing frisbee or volleyball,
having bonfires and . . . clam thingies. It’s not just about lying sunbathing on the beach at the weekend. It’s so much more than that. And people just assume the beaches are still
going to be here ten, twenty, fifty years from now, but they won’t be – not unless we take steps now to protect what we’ve got while we’ve got it.’

‘We?’

‘You.’

They stared at each other, neither one blinking. ‘You should consider a career in politics, not photography.’

‘This is Florence Wiseman’s baby, not mine.’

‘Florence?’

Ro nodded. ‘You know her?’

‘Of course.’

‘You like her?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Of course.’

‘So then help her.’

He exhaled wearily, his eyes tracking around the room, taking in the portraits again. ‘I’m prepared to make a deal with you,’ he said finally.

Ro bit her lip, intimidated by how Wall Street he suddenly sounded. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ll give you permission to use the image – only that
one
– if you agree to take the commission I tried to hire you for last Wednesday.’

Ro frowned. ‘And what is the commission, exactly?’

He began walking around the room slowly and she felt the balance of power shift to him. ‘A photo shoot of the kids,’ he said, pointing at the walls. ‘Although not for another
few weeks – Finn has had a bad haircut that needs to grow out a little.’ He stopped by the centre table, flicking quickly through the photobooks. ‘And some of these. One for each
year of each child’s life.’ He looked up at her. ‘Ella’s just turned four; Finn’s three.’

That was seven books.

‘Plus I want two copies of a combined book of both children for each year, to give to their grandparents.’

Another four, times two.

He stopped and stared at the films that were running on loop in silence, headphones still hanging on hooks beside the screens. He walked up and placed one headphone to his ear, just able to make
out the film’s audio. Four children were running at a sports-day race, one chesting the winner’s ribbon, the camera beginning to move up and down as the cameraman (or -woman) began
jumping up and down, obviously celebrating.

‘And a movie.’ He watched, transfixed, as the images segued to the same child sleeping in bed that night, a gold medal with a blue silk ribbon hung round the top bedpost.
‘They’re made of home videos, right?’ He replaced the headphones on the hook, walking back towards her at the counter.

Ro nodded. ‘Highly edited.’

‘So one of those.’

‘That is a huge job. There’s well over a hundred hours of labour just in the photobooks alone. And as for the film . . . How many video files have you got?’

He shrugged. ‘But I wouldn’t need them till September. My mother-in-law’s birthday. Is that enough time?’

Ro looked away. The money she’d make from this would take away all her financial pressures. In fact, it would pretty much pay for the summer. But she didn’t want
his
money
– anyone’s but his. It had felt so empowering rejecting his commission the other day.

‘Time isn’t the issue,’ she said curtly. ‘Let’s just take a step back for a moment, shall we? The point of us meeting here today is that you did something wrong and
you’re supposed to be putting it right. All I need is your permission to use the image and then I will squarely let you off the hook for your disgusting behaviour the other week. We’re
not here to negotiate on what I can do for you.’

His expression remained steady. ‘Everything in life is about negotiation, Miss Marmalade. It’s all a question of balance and whether what you want is worth trading for what I
want.’

Ro gaped at him, distracted. What had he called her? She wanted to laugh, but she was too busy trying to keep her poker face on. ‘Well, it’s not,’ she shrugged finally.

He blinked at her, his expression impassive, but she could still sense his disappointment. ‘So then we both lose. And you still get to think I’m an asshole.’ He turned and
walked towards the door.

Panic mounted in her immediately. Now that she’d hit on her idea for the campaign, she knew it was the right one. It was what she’d been waiting for and she’d been right when
she’d told him it couldn’t be restaged. Moments had to be captured, not recreated.