Photos of You (ARC)

by Tammy Robinson

  The water is cool but not cold. It laps around my feet and I lift the dress, quickly tucking it into my knickers at the sides of my thighs so it comes up to just above my knees. I see tiny fish dart away as I walk along the shore a little. I can’t go far; I know they’ll be looking for me soon. But I needed this.

  Growing up in a small town right on the ocean, I took it for granted. It was just always there, after all, so it wasn’t a novelty like it was for the truckloads of out-of-towners who’d arrive every summer and lay claim to the beach, departing after the Christmas holidays, leaving nothing in their wake but litter and the odd broken heart. When something is readily available it often loses its allure, and as my friends and I got older that’s what happened. So it’s been a while since I’ve been down here, especially on my own, and it’s only now I realize how much I have missed it.

  I pick up a few shells and try to skim them across the surface like we did when we were kids, but I am rusty and out of practice and they fail dismally at the first hurdle. Bending down to forage for more, I hear a noise that is out of place, a clicking sound. Puzzled, I turn to the path and at first I see nothing obvious, but then the light shifts and I make out the outline of a man, standing in the shadows of the trees at the bottom of Kate’s property. He has a camera, and it is trained on me.

  As soon as he realizes I have seen him he lowers it and smiles ruefully.

  “Sorry,” he calls out, emerging from the trees and jumping easily down the bank to stride down the beach toward me. The length of his legs means he is in front of me in an instant, a hand thrust out in greeting. His fingers are long and look well lived.

  “James,” he says. “I’m your photographer for the magazine shoot, not some random stalker.”

  His smile is broad and honest, and I find myself tracing the outline of his lips with my eyes. They are a plum color, emphasized even more by the light blond stubble on his jaw. I’m not normally a fan of facial hair, but his is trimmed and discreet and suits him. He is the very epitome of the saying “larger than life” and fills my vision, the beach, my world. Tall and athletic, he is wearing a snug black T-shirt and jeans that are possibly a size too big, given that they slouch around his hips and reveal a sliver of tanned skin. He is also barefoot, and has rolled his jeans up to his calves. Up close I realize he is older than he first appeared, evidenced by the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. His skin is beginning to show signs of weathering, and has the kind of color cultivated by a great deal of time in the outdoors and exposure to the elements. The brilliance of his green eyes against this is penetrating, and his hair is a palette of blond tones, similar to that which Kate spends a fortune every month trying to replicate. It is shorter on the sides than the top, which is brushed roughly to one side.

  I’ve had boyfriends, although not recently. My longest relationship lasted for three years, spanning the ages of nineteen through twenty-two. We had tentatively started discussing the possibility of engagement, but then something, and also nothing, happened. We simply drifted apart like wispy clouds on a summer’s day. The sum of the parts that made up Us disentangled so stealthily and so slowly that it wasn’t even painful. We just looked at each other sadly over the breakfast table one morning and realized that We had Come to an End. No fuss, no tears. Well, maybe the odd one when I watched a particularly soppy rom-com or drank myself maudlin. We’re still on good terms, and I bump into him in the supermarket occasionally. He is married with three children, and despite looking beleaguered as they run circles around the trolley and attempt to throw food in without him noticing, he looks happy.

  After that I dated a few guys, enough still to count on one hand. The length of time each relationship lasted varied between one (awkward) date and six months. I had just begun to see someone when I got my cancer diagnosis, the first one. To his credit, he tried to do the right thing and play the part of caring boyfriend. He drove me to some of my appointments and bought me flowers when I started treatment. But then shit got real, and I got really sick, and neither of us had the strength to pretend that we cared enough to take things any further. Considering we were still in the first flushes of our relationship and he had yet to see me in my less-than-best knickers or with more than a day’s growth of hair on my legs, I couldn’t blame him. Nothing takes the shine off a new relationship more than your girlfriend breaking out with festering mouth sores from chemotherapy.

  So it’s been a while since I’ve been with a man, and although I am dying, I am not yet dead. I have the same desires and urges as the next woman, and the man in front of me is awakening all of them.

  I realize he is also scrutinizing me, waiting for me to speak. I am not typically brave when it comes to situations like this, so I try to think of something Amanda would say.

  “Well.” I tuck my hair behind one ear and try hard to look nonchalant. “If I had to choose someone to be stalked by and you were in the line-up, I’d pick you.” Then I blush, hoping he won’t notice with all the makeup I am wearing.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sorry,” I say, cringing. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. That’s not the kind of thing I would normally say.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You said it so eloquently.” The upward pull of the corner of his lips suggests he is teasing.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “If it’s not the kind of thing you normally say, then why did you say it?”

  I screw up my face because when I look up at him the sun blinds my eyes. “I’m not sure. I just thought I’d try being someone else for a minute. Someone fearless and uncontrolled by normal societal decorum.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  “Terribly. How about we try again.” I hold out my hand and adopt a serious expression. “Hi, there, I’m Ava. And you must be James. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  His cheeks dimple with amusement. “You have?”

  “No. Not a thing. Again, I don’t know why I said that. For some reason you’re making me nervous. But I’m guessing you have that effect on a lot of women.”

  “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  “Seriously? But look at you. You’re like…you know.” I gesture toward him and wave my hand up and down.

  “Tall?”

  “Yes. Tall. That’s exactly what I was getting at.”

  “So not insanely good-looking, then?”

  I snort laughter unintentionally before resuming a straight face. “Sorry? Good-looking? Oh, well, I guess. I mean, I personally hadn’t noticed. But I suppose some might say—”

  He laughs. The sound is loud and uproarious in the quietness of our surroundings, but it is a wonderful sound. The sound of life.

  “As far as first impressions go I’m not doing so well, am I?” I smile up at him ruefully.

  “On the contrary, you’ve complimented me twice. What more could a guy ask for?”

  We hear my name called, muffled by the trees and distance, but clear nevertheless. I am being summoned. I give James another rueful smile.

  “I guess I’m wanted.”

  “I guess you are.”

  “Shall we…?” I gesture toward the house.

  “After you.”

  I start walking back up to the beach and he falls into an easy stride beside me.

  “Am I in trouble with Nadia for disappearing?”

  He shrugs. “Who cares.”

  “She’s kind of intimidating,” I admit.

  “Most journalists are. The trick is to remember it’s you doing them the favor. Without you, they have no story.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Besides, Nadia’s like that with everyone. I don’t work for her magazine often, but every time I do she seems to have a new assistant.”

  “So you’re freelance? That must be exciting.”

  He nods. “Overseas publications mostly. I’m doing this as a one-off favor for the edito
r, an old friend.”

  “I’m sure he’s grateful.”

  He gives me a funny look. “She. Marilyn Southgate. You haven’t heard of her?”

  “I don’t really read a lot of magazines. Not my thing.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Maybe you shouldn’t mention that in your interview.”

  We have reached the trees and he steps back and gestures with one hand for me to go first. A gentleman. I find myself breathing shallowly, and I’m not sure whether it’s because of the physical exertion or his presence. Either way, I don’t want to go first, conscious of his eyes on me as I walk slower than someone my age should. But I don’t want to make a fuss so I smile meekly and start up the track. I hear his breath quicken as he walks behind me and it makes my senses hyper-aware. I can hear the breeze rustling through the canopy of leaves above us, and the sound of birdsong as a Tui goes head-to-head in a singing competition with a bellbird. Behind us the ocean provides the backing track. The air leaves particles of moisture on my skin as I move through it and I hope fervently the dress doesn’t react badly to a little dampness; I have no desire to be in Sophie’s bad books. I have barely gone twelve steps before the heat and the thick air combine to make me feel light-headed.

  “Are you OK?”

  I don’t realize I have slowed right down to almost a stop until James is at my side, his voice and face betraying his concern. He reaches out to place a steadying hand on my arm and I suck in my breath sharply at his touch, as fleeting as it is before he removes it again. What is it about him that has this effect on me? I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before. Lacking the breath to speak, I simply lean back against a sturdy tree trunk and nod.

  “Do you want me to get someone for help? Your mother?”

  I shake my head fervently. That’s the last thing I need, her overreacting.

  “I’m OK,” I manage to say softly. “I just need to rest a minute.”

  “OK.”

  “You can go on without me. I’ll be there soon.”

  He tilts his head. “I’ll wait, if it’s all the same with you.”

  I nod.

  I concentrate on my breathing, counting each breath in and holding it before releasing. It works and I start to feel my pulse settle and my head clear.

  “Better?” he asks when I straighten up. He fills my presence with his vitality and health, and I don’t want to be sick in front of him, or weak. I want, just for one day, to pretend otherwise. I allow myself to imagine that I am a model and on location for an exotic photo shoot. I am his muse, his Yoko Ono. He is infatuated with me.

  “Yes, thank you. Must be the heat.”

  “Look, Ava.” He shuffles one foot in the dirt and decaying leaves. A twig snaps. The Tui takes flight, its wings powerfully thumping through the air. I feel a sense of dread at what’s coming, and my dream evaporates and swiftly follows the Tui into the ether.

  “I don’t really know what to say, you know, about what you’re going through,” he continues awkwardly. “But I also don’t want to not say something, either. If that makes any sense.”

  Cancer firmly inserts a foot between us, refusing as always to remain in the background.

  “It’s OK,” I say. “I understand. I probably wouldn’t know what to say either, if the situation was reversed.”

  “For what it’s worth, you seem like a really nice person.”

  “Oh, I am,” I say, without a trace of modesty but with more than a touch of bitterness. “I help old ladies across the road, pay my taxes on time, step over worms after a rainstorm. I’m as nice as they come. And that’s why it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  “It is.”

  “And not fair.”

  “No.” His expression is hard to read as he looks at me. “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

  “Oh, really? And what exactly were you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He holds my gaze, and I like the way he doesn’t flinch from the harsh truth. The ugliness of the disease is in the way it tries to alienate you from the healthy, those not afflicted. Whether they mean well or not, when you are dying, some people tend to act like you are already dead. And I get it, I do. Everything changes. It’s inconvenient. I remember at one family event, a wedding I think it was, not long after I was first diagnosed, I complained to my mother that I may as well have sat at home for all the attention anyone paid me.

  “I feel like I’m a zombie in a horror film,” I’d complained. “No one will look me in the eye or engage in conversation. When I went to the toilet they parted in front of me like the bloody Red Sea. What are they scared of? That I’m contagious?”

  “Be gentle, Ava,” she’d said. “They don’t know what to say.”

  And I’d looked at her, anguished, and said, “Can’t they just say hello?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  What do you mean viral? Like herpes?”

  Amanda snorts.

  “Jesus, Mum,” I sigh. “No, not herpes.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good, then. I was worried for a minute.”

  “It’s a social media thing, Mrs. G.,” Kate explains. “Sometimes, for whatever reason, certain photos or stories appeal more than others. Then they get shared over and over until they’re, like, all over the world and thousands of people are reading.”

  My mother frowns as she tries to understand. “So when you say Ava has gone viral, you mean…?”

  “People everywhere are following her story. And I mean everywhere. The magazine article got shared over two hundred thousand times alone.”

  “Two hundred thou—? Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  Mum flinches and looks at me.

  “Sorry, Ava,” Kate says. “Poor word choice.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Here, look.” Kate hands Mum her tablet and shows her where to read the comments underneath the online article. Mum fishes in her purse for the glasses she refuses to use in public, and starts reading.

  It is two weeks since the magazine published the article. Since it came out, the Facebook page Amanda set up has been inundated with offers. Everything from dresses to flowers to venues to money. A limousine company even offered to drive me to wherever I chose to have my “ceremony,” as long as I let them use my face on their advertising brochures afterwards. I politely declined.

  And now, to top it all off, Kate has just fielded a call on my phone from Marilyn Southgate, the magazine editor. The readers love me, apparently. The plucky young cancer patient whose only dream is to have a big wedding party before she off and snuffs it.

  Not her exact words, obviously. But that’s the gist of it.

  “No,” I say preemptively.

  “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say yet,” Kate points out.

  “I don’t need to. I know where this is going. I have a sixth sense for some things.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “OK, what did Marilyn want, then?”

  “She wants to do another story. An exclusive of the wedding.”

  “Kind of,” Kate concedes.

  “Ha. Told you.”

  “But that’s not all she wants.”

  “I don’t care what she wants, the answer is no.”

  Mum sits down on the bed, narrowly missing my knee. Everything aches today, but I don’t tell her that. She doesn’t need to know.

  “Sweetheart,” she says. “Have you read any of these comments?”

  “No.”

  “You should. They’re very lovely.”

  I’m feeling sulky and sorry for myself, so I don’t answer.

  “Marilyn wants to do a serial article,” Kate says cautiously. “Yes, she wants to cover your big day, but also the lead-up and the organization for it. An article a week, with photographs. They don’t want just to leave people hanging.”

/>   What people?

  “No.”

  “That’s not all.” She takes a deep breath. “They wondered if you might be interested in doing a weekly little column, an advice kind of thing.”

  “Advice on what? I’m not an expert on anything. She’s mad.”

  “Sort of like, musings…about things you’ve realized while you’ve been sick. What’s important in life and what’s not. You now don’t focus so much on the materialistic stuff. That kind of thing.”

  “No.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “I don’t need to. It sounds like an extraordinary waste of the little time I have left. In fact, the whole thing does. Cancel the wedding. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  With some effort, I roll over in bed and bury my head in my pillow so they can’t see the tears that trickle across the bridge of my nose to leave damp patches on my pillowcase.

  Amanda clears her throat. “I think maybe we should give Ava some space.”

  A hand gently strokes my hair, I don’t know who it belongs to but I’m assuming it’s Mum. Sure enough. “Is that what you want, love?” she asks. “Or do you want me to stay.”

  I know I’m being a brat, and that these three women would do anything humanly possible for me and therefore do not deserve to be treated the way I am treating them. But I also know that because they love me they won’t take offense, no matter what I throw at them.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble into my pillow. “I didn’t sleep well. Maybe a nap might help.”

  “OK.” Mum kisses me on the head and I feel her weight lift off the bed. Before she leaves the room, though, she pauses. “Do we need to see Dr. Harrison about increasing your pain medication? Is that what kept you awake?”

  “No,” I lie. “The pain is fine, Mum.”

  She sighs deeply. “You’re lying, Ava Green. I know you, remember? But we’ll discuss it later. Sweet dreams, baby girl.”