She takes the toothbrush from the mug and applies toothpaste. She raises it to her lips. And then she freezes. Because something really is wrong.
The mug is empty, that is all.
The mug is empty. And the mug, which generally contains two toothbrushes and a razor, should not be empty.
She opens the bathroom cabinet. Brett’s shaving foam and aftershave have gone too.
She turns and gently opens the bathroom door again, then peers back out at the lounge and this time she can see what is wrong, this time she can see why the space within the room is distorted. Brett’s psychology book has gone. His jumper has vanished. His dope box is missing.
Her heart flutters. She walks, naked, through to the bedroom and opens the wardrobe. Brett’s section is empty.
Barely able to breathe now, she attempts to remember their conversation last night, runs it through her mind word by word looking for any tiny hint of conflict. “That’s mad,” she murmurs.
She returns to the lounge and like a police crime-scene expert, she scans the room anew. It’s too tidy. It’s too empty. And there in the bowl are Brett’s keys. And there on the keyboard is a folded Post-it note.
She crosses to the computer. Sophie, it says, simply. It’s folded in two.
She sighs deeply, looks around the room again, then shakes her head and unfolds the slip of paper.
2013 - Powys, Wales.
Sophie looks out through the spotless windscreen at the rolling countryside beyond. She stares at the pale blue sky, at the rolling hills of green, at this day, somehow familiar, yet entirely unknown, pinned to the cork board of her life forever more. It feels cinematographic, epic even. Some days are like that and you can sense, right from the moment you awaken that they are not going to be like any other day.
She drives well, not too fast and not too slow. She will not add tragedy to this screenplay. She checks the rear-view mirror, indicates and pulls out around the truck. She notes, but tries not to think about, the hundreds of miserable muzzles peeping through the gaps in the crates – tries not to think about the terror of hundreds of imprisoned animals being shipped to a place of destruction. But the thought manifests anyway: why, simply because we can’t understand their screams, is this OK? Perhaps she should become vegetarian. Judy would like that.
“You’re feeling more comfortable with the car now?” Barbara asks from the passenger seat, interrupting her thoughts.
The manoeuvre successfully accomplished, Sophie pulls back in and cancels the indicators. “Yes. it’s fine. It’s just the first half an hour, really,” she says. “After that, it’s just like any other car.”
“Good,” Barbara says, remembering Tony and the Sierra many years before.
They pass a road sign to Llanwrtyd Wells and Sophie points and says, “Isn’t that where I was born?”
“Not quite,” Barbara replies. “You were born in Llanelwedd. They’re all Llan something of other in Wales. It’s probably not that far, though.”
“Maybe we could try to find that cottage you stayed in. That could be fun.”
“Yes,” Barbara says. “I suppose we could, if we could be bothered.”
“It’s funny, really. I mean, that I haven’t been back here since I was born. Not once.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Barbara says. “I was never a great fan of Wales, myself. We always thought being sent to Wales was some kind of punishment. It was a bit of a family joke.”
“You used to threaten us with Wales when we were little.”
“I don’t think I did,” Barbara says.
“Yes. You did.”
“I would have just been joking. It was because of the evacuations during the Blitz. We didn’t want to be sent away, and your grandmother said we could stay in London as long as we didn’t make a fuss. So any crying or misbehaving, she used to say, ‘Watch it, or it’ll be The Wales for you my girl.’”
“You never told me anything about the Blitz,” Sophie says.
“There’s not that much to tell. Bombs fell. People died. A lot of people died. But we survived it all.”
“You must have some great stories. The things you saw, the air raids and all of that.”
“I’ve been trying to forget about it most of my life.”
The female voice of the GPS interrupts them. “At the next junction, go, straight on, on A483.”
The stuttering interjection over, Sophie glances across at Barbara. “I suppose that’s understandable,” she says. "And how do you feel about coming to Wales? You don’t feel like it’s a punishment, do you?”
“No, it’s beautiful,” Barbara says. “And at least it’s not raining. All my memories of Wales are of driving rain.”
“Yes, we’re lucky weather-wise.”
“I’m still not convinced this is really necessary though – running away like this.”
Sophie raises one eyebrow. “It’s just for a few days, Mum. It’s just till things cool off.”
“All the same.”
“There were three journalists outside my flat at seven am this morning,” she says. “Three. They would have tracked you down by now too. If you want to talk to the Sun, we can still go back.”
“Don’t be silly. You know I don’t.” Barbara fiddles in the glove compartment then offers Sophie a lemon bonbon.
“No thanks,” Sophie says. “The sherbet makes me cough. I thought I was going to die after the last one. I almost crashed the car.”
"What did it really say on the note?” Barbara asks. The yellow of the bonbons has made her think of Post-it notes.
“I already told you what it said.”
“But that can’t have been all. You can’t stay with someone that long and then just say, ‘Sorry.’”
“I told you, Mum,” Sophie says again, her voice a little exasperated. “It said, ‘Sorry Sophie. This one’s a career changer. Forgive me.’”
“And nothing more?”
“It was on a bloody Post-it, Mum. There wasn’t room for any more.”
“There’s no need to swear, dear.”
“Well…”
Barbara twists her mouth. “It’s all very… I don’t know…”
“Sordid?”
“Yes. It’s a very bad way to behave. But I did say not to trust a journalist. I did warn you.”
“Yes, thanks. I was waiting for that one.”
“Well, I did.”
“Yes, Mum. You did,” Sophie says, sharply. "So, what?”
After a pause, Barbara asks, softly, “Are you upset? About Brett?”
“I’m furious. You know I am.”
“Of course. But I meant more, romantically speaking. About losing him.”
Sophie thinks for a moment before replying, “I don’t know, to be honest. I keep waiting for it to hit me. Maybe I’m just too angry to be upset.”
“Perhaps that’ll come later.”
“Perhaps it will. Then again, maybe I just didn’t really love him like I thought I did,” Sophie says.
“That would be a shame.”
“I’m not sure,” Sophie says. “Would it?”
They drive in silence for ten minutes, both lost in their loss and the scenery, before Barbara asks, “Do you think we’ll be able to find a copy? In Wales, I mean.”
“Of the Sunday Times?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I should think so. They even have electricity by all accounts. And telephones!”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“I was just joking, Mum. But yes. They’ll have the Sunday Times in Wales. I’m not sure I really want to read it though.”
“Nor me,” Barbara says. “But I think I’ll probably need to read it. Before we go back, at any rate.”
“I have a feeling it’s gonna be pretty bad,” Sophie warns.
“If it just says that a few of the shots weren’t his, then–”
“The way journalists are,” Sophie interrupts, “I doubt very much that’s all it will say.”
Sophie sighs. “I don’t know, Mum. You tell me.”
Barbara turns back to the side window. “Gosh, Wales is green,” she says. “I suppose it’s all that rain.”
***
Barbara makes two cups of tea in the tiny kitchen, then moves through to the lounge of the rented cottage. She puts the cups on the coffee table, then slides onto the settee beside Sophie. “Go on then,” she says. “I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Sophie stares at the folded bundle of paper that is the Sunday Times. “Are you sure?” she asks.
Barbara nods. “Yes,” she says. “Go on.”
Sophie rips off the cellophane packaging, then extracts the culture supplement from the pile. She flips it over and inhales sharply. There, on the cover, is Barbara’s “self” portrait of her father. “God!” she exclaims.
“Britain’s Best Photographer?” the caption reads. “Or a drunken, womanising fake?”
“Oh,” Barbara says, simply.
When Sophie reaches to turn the page, Barbara puts one hand over hers. “Perhaps you shouldn’t read this after all,” she says.
“I know, Mum.”
“You know?”
Sophie nods. “I know. About Diane and Dad.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise,” Barbara says.
“She told me.”
“OK then. Go on. Let’s see how bad this really is.”
Once they have both silently read the four-page spread, Sophie comments, “I can’t believe that Brett left me for this. What a worm!”
“At least he was nice about your work,” Barbara says. “At least he said that it’s you who has the real talent.”
“Who cares?” Sophie says. “He still left me for a single spread in the Sunday Times.”
“Men do that kind of thing,” Barbara says. “At least he left you for a reason. At least it wasn’t just on a whim.”
“What, this is not just a whim?”
Barbara shrugs. “Well, if it is, it’s a pretty mean-spirited whim.”
“It says you took the abortion demo photo as well. Is that true?”
Barbara nods. “Yes. Phil must have told him that. He was the only one who knew.”
“And what about the others?”
“Oh, the others were his. Don’t worry.”
“All of them?”
“Well, except the ones I’ve told you about.”
"So, only four of the thirty weren’t his, right?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“And it says the postal worker shot was staged?”
“Yes. That one was my idea. But your father took the photo. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with staging a photo. You know that. The strike was real enough.”
“I suppose. And the summer of seventy-six. I remember, we were on holiday. You told him to take that one too, didn’t you?”
“I had good ideas sometimes. That’s all.”
Sophie sips her tea. “Sure. But why let Dad take all the credit?” she asks. “That’s what I can’t work out.”
Barbara reaches out to close the supplement. “Sorry, but I can’t look at that anymore,” she says. “But in answer to your question, I suppose I just never felt I was in competition with him. That was never my idea of what marriage was. That’s not how we were brought up to think.”
“What, girls were brought up to be doormats you mean?”
“That’s unfair, Sophie. I saw us as a team, that’s all.”
“But what about Diane? You knew.”
“Yes. Of course. I tried not to think about it. I was very good at not thinking about it. But deep down, yes. Of course I knew.”
“Did you know she was in Paris with him?”
“Sophie, do we have to do this?”
Sophie shakes her head sadly. “I’m only trying to understand, Mum.”
Barbara nods and licks her lips. “OK. No, then. I didn’t know about Paris until afterwards,” she says quietly. “Diane was supposed to be in America, remember. I didn’t know until I saw the coroner’s report that she wasn’t.”
“The coroner’s report?”
“Diane identified the body. So her name was on the report.”
“Oh Mum,” Sophie says. “That’s awful. Didn’t you ever think about leaving him?”
“Of course I did.”
“But?”
“I don’t know,” Barbara says. “Again, it’s not how we were brought up. We were taught to make things work. No matter what.”
“But he had a twenty-year–”
“I know what he had, thank you.”
“Sorry, Mum, but you know… You could have done other things.”
“What other things?”
“I don’t know. You could have had a whole different life. Didn’t you have dreams?”
“Dreams…” Barbara laughs. “My mum once told me that dreams are like butterflies. If you catch them, they die.”
“Oh, that’s a bit depressing.”
“But true.”
Sophie thinks for a while, then says, “I don’t think that is true. Dreams can come true. Sometimes. If you believe in them enough. If you’re determined enough.”
“Well, I’m glad you think that way. And maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s a generational thing.”
“What is?”
“Having dreams. Or at least, thinking they’re possible.”
Sophie wrinkles her nose at the logic of this, then says, “Anyway, you didn’t want to leave him? Not even once you knew for sure?”
“No. I suppose I thought that he needed her in a way.”
“He needed her?”
“We needed her perhaps. Your father needed a drinking buddy and that was never going to be me. He had a wild streak in him. It was like an illness almost. The pressure would build up, and he’d have to let it out. So in a way it suited me that he went crazy with her instead of me. It kept all of that side of him out of the house. It kept it away from the family.”
“I could never have put up with that. I would have killed her. Or him.”
“I didn’t feel I was in competition with her, really. Or not later on anyway. I had won that battle. Diane did everything she could to get him. But it was me he married, after all. It was me he came back to every night.”
“But didn’t it hurt you? That must have hurt so much.”
“It did. But not as much as it hurt her.”
“I still would have killed her,” Sophie says.
“Well, I can’t honestly say that I didn’t think about it. But it was complicated, Sophie. It was the sixties and seventies. People were living in threesomes and foursomes and communes… Everything was changing. Everyone was questioning everything. And Diane was special to me too. For the early years she was, anyway.”
“You two were friends, then?”
“We were more than friends. She was family.”
“A member of family who sleeps with your husband?”
“Yes, well… put like that, of course…”
“And you fell out… when?”
“Paris was the last straw. I thought she was in America by then. I thought it was all over. So Paris hurt. Tony, you know… being with her… and then not coming back… the fact that she saw him last. That hurt more than anything else.”
Sophie nods. “I can’t even imagine. She said she got married once. For a year. Did you ever meet the guy?”
“Diane? Really? No, I don’t know anything about that. She had a boyfriend once. Or so she said. But I don’t know anything about a marriage.”
“I’m assuming she never had any kids, then?”
Barbara looks away. “I really wouldn’t know,” she says. “But I doubt it.”
“I wonder why.”
“I think she was a bit like you. She just never liked them much. She preferred her career.”
“It’s still kind of unusual for a woman of her generation, isn’t it?”
“You’re the one who spoke to her, dear, not me,” Barbara says, her voice sounding brittle.
“Well, she didn’t mention anyone. She sounded very alone.”
“That’s called karma, dear. It’s called bad karma.”
Sophie stops stroking her mother’s shoulder, leans forwards and raises her fingertips to her temples.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, dear. But you can’t blame people,” Barbara tells her. “They do the best they can. And often it’s not very good. But it’s still the best they could manage.”
Sophie shakes her head. “Diane said you were a saint.”
“I’m afraid that’s pretty meaningless coming from the likes of her.”
Sophie closes her eyes and continues to rub her brow, prompting Barbara to ask, “Are you OK?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure.” Her phone, which has been buzzing all day, now buzzes again so she swipes it from the table and glances at it, then frowns and taps at the screen. “Huh!” she says.
“More journalists?” Barbara asks.
“There are plenty of those. But no, that one was from White Cube. She says the gallery’s gone crazy. They’ve sold right out of prints. She wants to know if I can bring in some other works.”
“Really?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Any publicity really is good publicity,” Barbara says.
“Apparently,” Sophie says. She puts down the phone and sighs deeply. “Can we go and find that cottage this afternoon? I’d love to see the place.”
“Where you were born? I’m not sure I could find it,” Barbara says. “Why do you want to anyway? It’s just a damp little house in the woods.”
“I don’t know,” Sophie says thoughtfully. “I feel weird. It’s hard to explain, Mum. But I’ve been feeling it for days, ever since the exhibition, since before, even. It’s like something is missing. It’s like there’s this one piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit into place.”
“What piece? I don’t see any puzzle.”
“No? Maybe not. I don’t know,” Sophie says. “Maybe it’s me, but it’s like… why didn’t you leave him? Why put up with Diane? Why would she come to the exhibition, too? I mean, with the history you have and everything… And how come we still got to hang out with her when we were little, even though you knew she was sleeping with Dad? I mean, we called her ‘auntie’ but you knew. And she still came to the house. I feel like there’s something I’ve missed. Does that make any sense? I suppose it doesn’t to you.”
The Photographer's Wife Page 38