An Image of You

by Liz Fielding

  ‘It’s five o’clock.’ His voice, out of the darkness, made her start. ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ she told the disembodied voice, ‘in the morning.’

  She heard him move on the other side of the tent and in the sudden flare of a lighted match saw a dark tousled head and bare chest unexpectedly close in the confines of the tent. She could have put out a hand and touched him. Just for a moment she considered doing exactly that. Their eyes met and he held hers in a mocking little smile, aware of her inspection. She blushed and looked away as the gaslight caught and hissed fiercely, bathing the tent in a harsh white light.

  She busied herself pouring two cups and lifted one towards him as Lukas threw back the sheet and stood up. She found herself gazing somewhere in the region of a lean stomach that tapered to narrow hips. She jerked her eyes away and he laughed softly as he disappeared into the wash tent. The cup shook in its saucer and she quickly placed it on the table and covered her hot cheeks with her hands.

  When Lukas reappeared he had a towel wrapped around him, to George’s relief, and a scrap of tissue covering a cut on his chin.

  His eyes met hers and he pulled a face. ‘A bit tricky, shaving by torchlight.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you take the lamp?’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave you in the dark,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve only had lesson one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She knew her fear was irrational and felt she owed him some explanation. ‘I do know it’s silly, but a cousin once shut me in a coal cellar …’ She shuddered, because even though that long, black hour had been years ago it still had the power to turn her into a gibbering wreck if she dwelt upon it.

  ‘Charming cousin.’

  George shrugged. ‘He’s a respected banker now. A pillar of society.’

  ‘I hope he’s not looking after my overdraft. I hate to think what he does with defaulters.’

  ‘He’s a bit grand for that sort of thing. I’m sure you’re quite safe. I’d better get dressed.’ She glanced down at her silk pyjamas. They were perfectly respectable, and yet seemed far too little covering, confined as she was in such close proximity to Lukas. ‘You know, I was so tired last night, I don’t even remember going to bed.’

  ‘Really?’ Lukas’s eyes twinkled disturbingly as he held the tent flap for her and, clutching the torch and her clothes, she scurried through, taking great care not to brush against his naked chest.

  Lukas was alone when she arrived at the mess tent. He waved his hand at the table. ‘Help yourself. Kubwa will bring you eggs and bacon in a minute.’

  ‘Good. I’m starving.’

  He threw her an amused glance over his newspaper. ‘I’m not surprised. You missed dinner. There’s coffee over there. I’ll have one too.’ George poured two cups and passed one to him.

  ‘Did Michael wait on you like this?’ she asked.

  ‘Michael would have been crawling about on the floor looking for bugs,’ he replied from the depths of The Times. ‘I’m beginning to think that in many ways, George, you’re a great improvement on Michael. At least you don’t snore.’

  She felt herself colouring at this reminder of their enforced intimacy and covered her embarrassment in the task of pouring him coffee and then helped herself to a slice of fresh pineapple. By the time she had finished, the steward had appeared with two plates piled with bacon and eggs and some fresh toast.

  ‘If you’ll take the Land Rover this morning you’ll find it’s already loaded up with the tyres. I’ll just get the rest of the props for you.’

  ‘What about the camera equipment?’

  ‘I’ll see to that and bring it with me.’ He looked up from his breakfast. ‘I want to set up a shot here for later. Michael’s accident delayed us rather and the girls are booked for other jobs.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your best. Just get it right.’

  She rose from the table, controlling with great difficulty the urge to slap him. ‘Yes, boss,’ she murmured. ‘If you’ll point me in the right direction,’ she added and then pulled up short at the sight that met her eyes. Dawn had come so gradually that inside the mess tent she hadn’t noticed.

  ‘The blessed daylight returns,’ Lukas said behind her.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ George breathed, for once failing to rise to his irony.

  Lukas followed her gaze. ‘Yes. I suppose it is. But it’s cool now. By mid-afternoon you’ll be wishing the sun to blazes.’

  * * *

  It didn’t take that long. Piling up tyres to make a throne for Amber—She Who Must Be Obeyed—at any time of the day under an African sun was not George’s idea of relaxation. Despite the early hour she was sweating from her exertions and she knew, without the benefit of a mirror, that she had smeared the oily grime from the tyres on to her face. She had broken one fingernail and was sure that she would lose several more before she had finished the job to her satisfaction. She pulled a face. Rather, to the satisfaction of Lukas. At least she hadn’t got him breathing down her neck, making sly comments about her appearance. Or anything else that took his fancy.

  She hauled another tyre into place with unnecessary force and it bounced playfully away. A soft giggle halted her mid-expletive and she turned to surprise a small girl watching her from behind a tree. ‘Jambo, toto,’ she said, smiling and, following Lukas’s example, she fished in her pocket for a packet of sweets that she had bought at the airport, but never opened.

  The child took one, then clambered aboard the half-built throne. ‘All right, princess,’ George laughed. ‘Stay right there.’

  She had been awake enough to remember to bring her own camera equipment with her, and now fitted her favourite zoom lens and loaded a film. The child stared at it with interest from her high perch, but when George pointed it at her she began to wriggle down in panic.

  Quickly George produced another sweet. The child hesitated, but with much encouragement finally settled down. Within a minute George found herself crowded by models eager to pose for this reward.

  ‘Kwisha,’ she said at last, showing them the empty bag and then her empty pocket. The gesture was clear enough. No more sweets. Most of them drifted away, but her first friend had collected the wayward tyre and was waiting with it.

  ‘Asante, toto,’ George thanked her and the child smiled before running off to join the others.

  George returned to her task, renewing her efforts to control the heavy tyres, until the throne matched the sketch she had been given. She fetched the box of spares from the Land Rover and a skin rug, which she laid in front of the throne.

  Hot and thirsty, she leaned against the Land Rover and snapped open a cold drink. No one could say she wasn’t a fast learner. She wouldn’t be relying on anybody else to make sure she had enough to drink today.

  As she sipped, a group of youths began clowning for her benefit, gesturing that she should come and take a picture of them, too. Laughing, she turned her camera on them and focused, but it was Lukas who grinned down her lens. The boys had scattered.

  ‘I assume everything is set up,’ he said, walking towards her and taking the camera from her hands, ‘as you have the time for a little freelance work.’ He put it to his eye and turned slowly though an arc, surveying the village, until it came to rest on her. He pressed the shutter release and the motor wind whirred. Crossly George reached for her camera.

  ‘I’ve no wish to be one of your pin-ups, Mr Lukas,’ she snapped.

  ‘Who’s asking, sweetheart?’ One dark brow arched in query, and George flushed, mortified at the unexpected surge of temper that had led her into making such an idiot of herself. It had been a simple snapshot, nothing more. She swallowed, hard.

  ‘Don’t you want to look at the set?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for. Lead the way.’ He stood back to allow her to pass and George walked stiffly to the result of all her hard work. ‘Looks about right,’ he conceded, giving the
structure a kick. It held firm and Lukas nodded. ‘I suppose it’ll do.’

  ‘It’ll do! I’ve sweated blood …’ Too late she saw his smile. George began to assemble the hated tripod that seemed to have a life of its own, most of it spent trying to trap her fingers. It would help if they would just stop shaking.

  ‘Hop up, George, will you?’ Lukas pointed to the tyre throne. ‘I want to check the light.’

  ‘Me?’ She straightened sharply. ‘Couldn’t Peach do it?’

  ‘She’ll get her clothes dirty on the tyres. Yours are beyond worrying about. Besides, you’re the right colouring. Come on, up you get, there’s a good girl.’ She fought back an acid comment as she saw Peach watching her with amusement. She was dressed in an exquisite pale peach T-shirt, and tailored cream trousers, and looked as if she had just stepped out of a limousine. She seemed to repel dust and dirt.

  George climbed up without further argument and perched primly on the throne she had worked so hard to build, keeping her eyes firmly on Mark as he began to paint Amber. Lukas was not fooled by her careful avoidance of his eye only inches from her own. ‘Mark would paint you, if you asked nicely,’ his voice caressed her like velvet.

  She lowered her lids and glanced sideways at him. ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘He’d make a better job of it than you at any rate.’ His thumb grazed the streak of oil across her cheek. ‘I’m not sure which I prefer, the green warpaint on your nose, or the oil.’ She rubbed at it furiously with the sleeve of her shirt. Lukas grinned. ‘Just stay there.’ He went back to the camera and focused on her.

  ‘You look quite at home up there, George,’ Walter called out teasingly.

  Contenting herself with a quelling glare at Lukas, she replied lightly, ‘Oh, I am. Just ask Lukas. All I lack is a teapot and a parasol.’

  Walter raised a questioning eyebrow at Lukas, whose expression did not alter as he concentrated upon the camera. But she was near enough to see his mouth twitch and the flicker of laughter deep in his eyes.

  ‘What about your bible, Georgette?’ he asked softly, so that only she could hear.

  ‘It’s in my bustle,’ she hissed, and he gave a shout of laughter that drew six pairs of eyes in their direction.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Amber asked.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Lukas spluttered. ‘It wouldn’t translate.’

  ‘Try us, dear boy,’ encouraged Walter.

  ‘It was just something about missionaries …’ His voice trailed away as he saw Walter smirk. ‘Mark! Is that going to take all day?’

  ‘Nearly finished, boss,’ he called. ‘I know a joke about a missionary …’

  ‘We don’t want to hear it,’ Lukas snapped.

  ‘Please yourself. There, all done, duchess.’ Suzy inspected Mark’s handiwork and, apparently satisfied, tied a skin cloth around the girl’s hips and placed a dramatic shock-absorber pendant over her head on which the legend ‘MotorPart’ was clearly stamped.

  After all the preparation, the actual photograph session was brief, and they were soon packed away. Walter, Mark and the models clambered back into the jeep, leaving Lukas and George alone.

  ‘Kwisha, bwana?’ the village elder asked.

  ‘Kwisha kabisa, mzee,’ Lukas affirmed. ‘The tyres are all yours.’ He indicated George. ‘The memsahib would like to see this school you are building,’ Lukas told him and the old man plucked at her sleeve with bony fingers.

  ‘Come, come.’ George threw a questioning glance at Lukas, surprised that he had remembered. His smile told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking and with a broad gesture he invited her to follow the old man.

  ‘Harambee!’ the old man said with a great flourish, indicating a concrete foundation. ‘Harambee school!’

  Lukas obliged. ‘The local people raise the money. No government help.’ The old man rattled away in Swahili and he translated for her. ‘Mzee says that the tyres will buy enough blocks to build the school this high.’ He held his hand against her waist and grinned. ‘He wants to know if you would like to come on Sunday morning to help with the building.’

  George was delighted with the invitation. ‘Can we come?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘I had planned to drive to Nairobi, read the Sunday papers over a leisurely lunch, and spend the afternoon at the races.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you’d rather do this …’

  ‘You can have a leisurely lunch any old Sunday. This will be fun,’ she encouraged.

  ‘Really? Do you promise?’

  ‘Be serious!’

  ‘Oh, I am being serious. I promise you. And what about my Sunday lunch? It’s Cook’s day off.’

  ‘You could cook it yourself,’ George pointed out.

  ‘I could,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m not going to. I’ve never yet had to cook for myself and I don’t intend to start now.’

  ‘Chauvinist pig,’ George muttered under her breath, wondering why she was surprised. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll see you get some lunch.’

  ‘Roast beef?’ he enquired, delicately. ‘Yorkshire pudding?’

  George threw a glance heavenwards. ‘Whatever you say.’

  Lukas smiled in satisfaction. ‘In that case who am I to deny you the pleasure of laying concrete blocks on your day off? Perhaps one day you’ll tell me what you do for fun? Dig latrines for Boy Scouts, perhaps?’ He nodded to the old man. ‘We’d be delighted to come. Now, George. Drive me home.’ George stared in surprise, to the apparent satisfaction of Lukas. ‘I am not, despite everything you believe about me, a chauvinist—pig or otherwise. I am making an effort to prove it.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t make me wish I hadn’t.’

  George tilted her head and regarded him with interest. ‘I don’t actually believe you, Lukas, but I’ll be happy to drive.’ She climbed into the driving seat, started the engine and engaged the gear. Glancing at him from under thick dark lashes, she released the clutch with extreme care. The Land Rover shot forward and stalled.

  ‘Oops, sorry. Wrong gear.’ She glanced at Lukas, whose expression remained passive. George found neutral and re-started the engine. Once more she selected a gear but this time Lukas seized her hand and re-directed the gear lever into the right slot.

  ‘Once was quite enough,’ he assured her. She grinned and set off through the bush at a cracking pace. Twice she saw Lukas clutch at his seat to save himself. ‘You have an interesting driving style, George. You must be a favourite with London cabbies.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t drive in London,’ she declared fervently. ‘I should be scared to death. I just potter about at home sometimes.’

  Lukas raised an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s my turn to say I don’t actually believe you, Georgette. You are going out of your way to make this ride as uncomfortable as possible. If you rarely drove you would be too nervous to do that. But never mind.’ She had plaited her hair in the absence of her hairpins, and he was toying with the end of her plait, twisting it around his fingers. ‘Tell me what else you do when you’re at home. Apart from pottering about.’ There was a carelessness in his voice which didn’t quite ring true.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she countered nervously, slowing down.

  ‘Modesty doesn’t quite become you, George. You’ve already admitted to a quantity of young relations and animals that take up all the time you’re prepared to devote to photography. Do you have a job? Do you live at home with your father?’ He paused. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I … share a house in London with some friends. But really, I don’t drive there. It’s too slow, don’t you think? I have a bike.’

  ‘What else?’ He threw a glance heavenwards. ‘And is one of the friends you share your house with a boyfriend?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask what you really want to know?’ she said waspishly, wishing he would come to the point.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ he mocked her.

  ‘Am I sleeping with one of them?’ She stopped the Land Rover and turned to face him.

  ‘I’m sure
that’s none of my business,’ he murmured. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Are you?’

  ‘You said it, Lukas. It’s really none of your business.’

  ‘And if I wanted to make it just that?’

  She took a deep breath, wanting him to make it his immediate and urgent business, but it wouldn’t do. ‘Don’t be silly, Lukas. If you want a flirtation to pass the time you have three of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen within arm’s reach.’

  Lukas drew one side of his mouth down in a deprecating little smile. ‘Perhaps, my dear George, but you are already installed in my tent,’ he said with perfect truth.

  ‘In that case I’ll sleep in the Land Rover.’

  ‘On your own? In the dark?’

  ‘You’re impossible! If I had thought you would take advantage of this situation—’

  ‘I didn’t invite you in, George. You gate-crashed, remember?’

  ‘I wasn’t given any choice. If I had known …’ She hesitated. If she had known she wouldn’t have changed anything. That was the truth.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Georgette. Say what you mean. What would you have done? Gone home?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s something that’s keeping you here, making you put up with everything I’m throwing at you.’ He waited for her to reply. Furiously she reached for the ignition. It had just been another ploy to get rid of her.

  ‘This is an entirely silly conversation.’

  ‘Why? Are you too high-principled to indulge in a mild flirtation? Does everything have to be deadly earnest?’

  The engine turned but refused to catch. Furiously George tried again. ‘Mild flirtation? I don’t happen to think that hopping into bed with someone constitutes a mild flirtation! This is the nineties, Lukas. The century is catching up with us; didn’t you know? Life is deadly earnest. High principles are back in fashion.’

  ‘You’re flooding the engine.’

  Furiously she turned on him. ‘No, I’m not!’ But she stopped turning the engine over and the silence was broken only by the stridulation of the insects in the undergrowth. ‘Well,’ George finally demanded, ‘what do we do now? Walk?’