Together by Christmas

by Karen Swan

  Lee wasn’t sure she was. Relieved? Yes, but crowds always made her edgy. She looked back at all the bodies still jostling to get in. ‘Are they sure they’re in the right place?’ she asked in disbelief. Surely they had to be mistaken. Perhaps they thought this was someone else’s party. Or someone had said there was a free bar.

  ‘Of course they are!’ Bart laughed with an energy that told her he was flying.

  ‘Bart, what have you done?’ she asked nervously, looking for the rent-a-crowd she had expressly forbidden. But there were no women with hair extensions or gel nails that she could see.

  ‘Lee! What a party, mate!’ Ricky Lazell hollered across to her, four people away and unable to get closer, a scrum of people clamouring to talk to him. He was the ‘new Ed Sheeran’. She had shot him a few weeks back.

  ‘Rick!’ she exclaimed in a voice that wasn’t her own. ‘Thank you for coming! I’ll find you in a bit!’ She looked back at Bart pointedly. What was he doing here?

  ‘I know, amazing, right? He’s mid-tour too; came back from Oslo to be here. Everyone was so keen to support you; they love you, Lee.’

  ‘Who? Who loves me?’ she asked, feeling panicky. ‘I categorically said no celebrities.’

  ‘No. You said no C-list celebrities and no management agencies. I’ve only asked the certified, Vanity Fair-approved A-listers.’

  She saw the big-hitting crime author Sean May over by the bar. She’d shot him for the January cover. ‘By which you mean, anyone who’s been in the studio in the past month?’

  He nodded. ‘Pretty much, yeah. Isn’t it great?’

  She looked at him. ‘First thing tomorrow, I’m firing you.’ It explained the security guards, at least.

  He laughed, not remotely perturbed. ‘Party first, fire me later. I think tomorrow you’ll be thanking me. I’ll go and get you both a drink.’

  Mila stepped in to her. ‘You won’t fire him, will you?’

  ‘As if,’ she muttered. ‘He’s the only one who can get hold of my contraband coffee.’ She scanned the room, feeling overwhelmed but also temporarily anonymous in the cherry velvet; no one had ever seen her in a dress before. ‘Is anyone even looking at the photos?’ She frowned.

  ‘Give them a chance!’ Mila laughed. ‘They’re all too busy checking each other out. I can’t believe you actually know all these celebs.’

  ‘I don’t. I shoot them, that’s all. It’s work.’

  ‘Lee! Lee, I’m here. I know it’s me you’re looking for!’ Noah laughed, squeezing through the crowd to get to her, people stepping aside to the let the big man through. He wrapped his arms around her and she felt her back crack; it always happened with his bear hugs. Instantly, she relaxed a little. ‘Well – and to think I thought we were doing you a favour by coming along tonight! I’ve just spent the past fifteen minutes talking to the stone-cold fox over there in the green dress.’ Both Lee and Mila glanced over to see a brunette already deep in flirtatious conversation with a man who had to be a model. ‘She’s been laughing at all my jokes. I reckon I’m in with a chance.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her your priest and nun story, did you?’ Mila asked.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Mila patted his arm sympathetically. ‘Then you’re not in with a chance. No.’

  Noah’s face fell. ‘Is Liam with you?’ Lee asked him.

  ‘Not with me, but he’s here somewhere,’ he said, looking around blankly. It was impossible to see straight through from one side of the gallery to the other; the life-size images were suspended on wires from the ceiling, hanging in pairs like giant mobiles. The point was for the visitor to see the image taken from behind first, then walk around to see the contrast on the front – the show was called ‘Back to Front’, after all – but no one appeared to be doing much other than talking and drinking. ‘I saw him hitting the Moscow Mules with some hottie. Talking of which, why don’t you have drinks?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bart’s gone to get some for us,’ Mila said, looking increasingly nervous as people she knew only from flat screens brushed past, scented, glowing, aromatic. Unicorns. They were coming up to Lee and shaking her hand, clasping her shoulders and drawing her in for air kisses. ‘Oh my God, is that Matteo Hofhuis?’ she gasped, gripping Lee’s arm tightly.

  ‘Lee!’ A digital recorder was suddenly thrust in front of her as Rosa, the Vanity Fair reporter, pushed her way through, an unfortunately short man on her tail holding up a small handheld digital video camera which was going to result in an unflattering camera angle.

  Lee watched the red light flash, trying to keep her cool and not think of sniper dots.

  ‘Daniel’s recording for the online footage,’ Rosa said dismissively, seeing her apprehensive look. ‘Listen, we’d better do this early before you’re wheeled off to chat with the great and the good. I can’t believe the crowd you’ve pulled. My editor thought this was just going to be filler, but I reckon she’ll go to a full page when she sees who’s here.’

  ‘Uh . . .’ Lee hesitated. There were so many people looking over at her. Did they really have to do the interview here? But it was hard to move.

  ‘You put your work hat on,’ Mila said, squeezing her arm. ‘Noah and I are going to actually look at the pictures. We’ll catch up with you in a bit.’

  Lee felt another twitch of panic as her friends moved away, leaving her in a sea of strangers.

  Rosa cleared her throat. ‘So Lee, you must be thrilled with the acclaim that has greeted this exhibition. What should people expect if they come to see it?’

  She took a deep breath. This was work. ‘Well, to be shocked, for one thing. Much like the men who drove these women into the refuge, I haven’t pulled my punches,’ Lee said briskly, catching sight of the gallery’s official photographer across the room; with the camera permanently to his eye, he moved through the gallery unseen, taking shots of the glamorous guests. She wished she could be behind his camera instead of in front of this one; she didn’t belong here in the bright lights. She looked back at Rosa.

  ‘And what is the show about?’

  ‘Uh, well, it’s called “Back to Front” and, as you can see, we’ve designed an interactive way to present the exhibition. I wanted to bring attention to domestic violence and how it’s happening among us, right here, every single day. Even in an educated, liberal city such as this, daily pain and terror is a reality for tens of thousands of women, and some men too. Statistically speaking, we probably each know someone who has been affected by this abuse, even if we don’t know we know it. Now, partly that’s because abusers tend to be clever about it, tactical: they know where to hit so the bruises are hidden – the torso, arms, thighs . . . All the women I met at the shelter were able to hide their injuries from their families, friends and colleagues for a very long time. But this issue also goes unnoticed because there’s such a stigma around the issue still. Beatings and abuse aren’t the preserve of sex workers or addicts; it happens to teachers and vets and office workers. Our neighbours, our friends . . . These women need to be able to feel they can stand up and say, “it happened to me.” It can be really hard because, in a lot of cases, these women still love and want to protect the person hurting them. Plus they don’t want to be seen as victims—’

  Someone reached over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Lee, amazing, darling!’ the woman cried as she drifted into the crowd again. Lee was certain she’d never seen her before in her life.

  ‘Uh . . .’ She looked back at Rosa again, having lost her thread.

  ‘So tell us why you decided to style these women in couture gowns?’ Rosa asked. ‘What was the thinking behind that?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to make a statement about the dichotomy between perception and reality – how easy it is for victims to hide painful truths but also how easy it is for us, the unsuspecting public, to see what we want to see. By dressing these women in beautiful gowns and doing their hair and giving them real jewels, we created images of perfection that I then shot from the back. Tha
t represents the viewer’s gaze – it sets up an assumption which is then dismantled by the full-frontal image—’

  ‘Lee!’ someone else trilled, blowing kisses and waving at her. She waved back blankly.

  ‘Uh . . . You’ll see we’ve suspended the images from wires. That’s so the viewer can walk around and then be confronted with the brutal reality of what has happened to these women – their cuts, their bruises, their split lips, black eyes, broken clavicles . . . I wanted there to be a shocking contrast between the Front and Back photographs, an extreme made even greater by the juxtaposition of the image that’s originally set up. I want people to confront their own assumptions and prejudices, to show that everything’s back to front. Our culture is obsessed with images of perfection, of shallow beauty and empty fame, but where are the dialogues about women and children being beaten in their own homes? Where are the resources to give these women proper refuge and shelter? Where are the education initiatives to stop men from using their fists in the first place? The repercussions of this problem are felt throughout our society – school truancy, homelessness, drug abuse, prostitution . . . Why are these issues not being treated as the front-line emergencies they are?’

  Rosa nodded furiously, holding the recorder right up to her face, but her eyes were tracking someone (clearly famous) over Lee’s right shoulder. ‘. . . And why did you decide to apply an age limit to the exhibition? Aren’t you worried that may put some people off?’

  ‘Well, that was down to the gallery, not me, to be honest, but anyone who comes to see this show needs to be prepared to be shocked and even upset – the photographs are unflinching. I haven’t edited or retouched the images. We have to make ourselves look at the truth. If we’re going to make meaningful change in our society then we can’t keep on turning the other cheek.’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve with this exhibition?’

  ‘To spark a dialogue. I hope this show can help turn a conversation into a political and social agenda. Also, I want to raise a ton of money. I’ve waived my fee for this project and all profits will go directly to the Nest women’s shelter.’

  ‘Everyone knows your famous images that won the Pulitzer back in 2015, just as you retired from the war reporting scene. Do you feel that documenting and shining a spotlight on hard-hitting social issues, rather than political ones, will be your new métier?’

  Lee shrugged. ‘I don’t have an agenda as such. Like anyone else, I have bills to pay, so I can’t always and only shoot material that appeals to me personally. But I do know that, as a pack race, humans have to see in order to believe and that imbues photographers with both a power and a responsibility to use their craft wisely. Photographs have the power to change the world – they can spark a protest, a riot, a revolution. It is the truth in photography that keeps us all connected, keeps us accountable—’

  ‘Lee, your champagne!’ Bart yelled, reaching over the heads of the crowd to pass the flutes over for her and Mila.

  ‘Oh, that was well timed,’ Lee deadpanned, looking back at the reporter. ‘Do you want me to say that last bit again?’

  Rosa chuckled. ‘No, I think we’ve got it, that was great, Lee,’ she said, turning off her recorder and shaking Lee’s hand, her professional duties now completed. From the way her eyes kept boomeranging back to the photogenic crowd, it was clear she was about to make use of the free bar. ‘Thanks, we’ll let you know when it goes up.’

  ‘But you’ll edit that bit, right?’ Lee asked as Rosa began to wander off. ‘These are important issues. I don’t want to come across as some champagne socialist.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could ever accuse you of that!’ Rosa laughed again over her shoulder.

  Lee felt a tap on her own shoulder. She turned, feeling overwhelmed. So much was happening, and so many people . . .

  ‘This is quite the party. I’m honoured to have made the cut.’ Matteo Hofhuis grinned at her, leaning in closer, his breath hot against her neck. ‘Although you didn’t need to get your assistant to call me, you know.’ He kissed her on the lips; with his eyes open, it was little more than a peck, yet it was also, clearly, a privilege that would have been afforded only to an intimate. It made a statement to anyone looking on.

  ‘Matt,’ she faltered. It was only a week since their shoot – their night together – but his shaved head was already completely covered by a dark fuzz, his blue eyes looking especially bright tonight. He was beautiful – conceited, but beautiful. ‘You made it.’

  ‘And I’m so glad I did. I can’t take my eyes off you in that dress. You look stunning.’

  ‘What, this old thing?’ She held up an arm, regarding the frilled cuff with a quizzical bemusement.

  He laughed, seeming to understand she hadn’t chosen it. She took a sip of her drink as they looked at each other and she remembered the momentary buzz of their connection, ignited through the lens. It had been a fun night and just what she’d needed – mindless sex, a brief escape from her responsibilities, a sprint out of the clutches of her past – especially after Cunningham had turned up unexpectedly only hours before.

  From the way Matt was smiling at her, it was clear he was keen for a rerun. Would it be such a bad thing, she wondered, breaking her cardinal rule of never going back? If nothing else, her ego could do with the boost. Sam’s unequivocal rejection had left her reeling, far more than she might have expected, and things had hardly been helped by having him turn up on her set the very next day, like some sort of karmic sick joke.

  She had never wrapped up a shoot so quickly. They’d been done within ninety minutes, and where she usually took two hundred shots in a session, she’d taken less than thirty. Somehow, in spite of the barbed-wire-topped walls between them, she had been able to read him, to get what she needed. She remembered how he had tried to talk to her afterwards, how she had used Bart and Jacintha as human shields, hiding behind a fake smile and limp insincerity just as she had that day on the cobbles with Cunningham and his doll-wife. It was amazing how effective manners could be as a deterrent, holding people back behind an invisible line.

  She realized Matt had asked her something. ‘I’m sorry, what? It’s so loud in here.’

  ‘I said, what are you doing after this?’ He was grinning confidently. ‘We could go on somewhere.’

  ‘Um—’

  ‘I want to see you again, Lee,’ he pressed. ‘We had fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, the thing is . . .’ She became aware of a distant buzzing. She pressed her arm closer to her body, squeezing the bag on her shoulder, and realized it was her phone ringing.

  Was it the babysitter? Had something happened with Jasper? ‘I’ve got to take this. I’ll catch up with you,’ she said, pressing the phone to her ear and turning her back on Matt’s puppy-dog eyes. ‘Yes, hello?’

  ‘. . . ear me?’ The voice was almost indistinct over the noise of the crowd.

  ‘Brigit?’

  ‘. . . you there?’

  ‘Who is this? . . . I’m sorry, I can’t hear a thing! . . . Is it you, Brigit? Is Jasper okay?’ But it was futile: the ambient noise level in the gallery was just too loud to hear anything. ‘Just wait . . . let me move to another room,’ she said, pushing through the crowd with apologetic nods and smiles, heading towards the office at the back. ‘Don’t go . . . Are you there?’ She pushed through the doors, but even in the office there was no refuge. The caterers had set up service in there. ‘Brigit? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Fitch? It’s me.’ The voice was suddenly clear in her ear – right there, as though she could reach out and touch him.

  ‘Cunningham?’ she cried, just as she pushed open the fire door and fell out into the small courtyard at the back. The cold night air hit her like a brick and she gasped at the biting temperature. ‘Harry? Are you there?’

  The line was bad again, static fading in and out. ‘I’m . . . on a . . . in . . . leppo . . .’

  She pressed the phone as hard as she could to her ear, not that there
was anything to hear. ‘Harry? Can you hear me? The line’s so bad.’

  ‘. . . my letter . . . Have to know if . . .’

  ‘What letter? . . . Harry, I can’t hear what you’re saying! You’re breaking up!’ She pressed the phone harder to her ear and stared up at the moon, willing the satellites somewhere up there beside it to bounce down a better signal. ‘Can you hear me? Harry? . . . Look, just come back, okay? Whatever it is you think you’ve got to do, just don’t. Don’t do it. Just come back.’

  But he was already gone, the line as fragile as a spiderweb. She stared at the useless phone. ‘No!’ she cried, kicking at a stone flower-pot and immediately regretting it in her open-toed heels. ‘Fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck!’

  She sank down in a ball, sitting on her heels, her hands scrunched into fists and pushed into her eye sockets. How long had he been trying to get hold of her in there for? How long had the phone been ringing, her talking to journalists and actors and drinking champagne whilst he sat in some rebel stronghold in one of the most volatile and dangerous pockets on earth?

  That couldn’t be it. She had got nothing from him. Not a location, a reason for being there . . . ‘Fuck,’ she whispered again, sighing heavily several times and trying to calm herself down. She had to think clearly.

  He would call back as soon as he could; she knew that. She’d been on the other side of calls like that enough times to know he would move somewhere with a better signal and try again. She dropped her face in her hands, feeling depleted, wanting to cry, knowing she wouldn’t. ‘Damn you, Harry,’ she whispered to herself, hearing the crack in her voice.

  She sat there for several moments more, trying to still her wildly beating heart, knowing she couldn’t stay out here, knowing she had to go back in there and deal with all those guests. It was too cold to remain outside, for one thing.

  Slowly she rose and turned to go back in. But she hadn’t taken a step when she froze.