by Norman Wills
Marie felt guilty but only for a short time, she soon realised there could be no way that David had known about Simon, she only knew it was going to happen herself shortly before it did. She had been completely faithful to him beforehand, he couldn’t have known. He just decided to choose that night to kill himself, selfish bastard! She thought she would have probably left him anyway in the next two years, get Lucy through her exams without the upheaval of a divorce then take him for everything she could get. As it was he had saved her the bother of a messy divorce.
The mortgage wasn’t an issue, when they’d moved North they hadn’t needed one, they were able to buy their new house with cash and still have a sizeable amount left over. Marie had inherited a large house in Aldershot when her mother died six years ago and David had been good at making investments. Fortunately for Marie most were in her name, so as not to lose the extra tax David would have paid at the highest rate.
The company David had worked for had been very understanding. Because David had committed suicide any insurance policy wouldn’t pay out but they hadn’t wanted to leave Marie and Lucy with nothing. David had been well thought of within the organisation and so a decision was made, and a payment was eventually made equal to the sum David had been covered for in the event of his natural death. His pension would also be paid to Marie for the rest of her life. Thirty five thousand pounds each year, index linked. Marie wasn’t sure whether it had been the fact that they thought they had worked David into a suicide or the bad publicity they might get if it ever came out that someone so high in the organisation had killed himself by overdosing on their own drugs.
The two hundred thousand-pound ‘hush money’, as she called it, had been most welcome and helped her overcome completely the small amount of guilt she’d been feeling about his death. She didn’t ever have to work again, she thought she would definitely continue the interior design course; after all, she didn’t want to lose touch with Simon. Guilt free sex, it was as if she had been reborn.
Lucy had also been able to get over her father’s death very quickly. She’d never seen a dead body before in her relatively short life and this was what affected her more than anything, that and the fact that he had chosen to take his own life only feet from where she herself had been asleep. When she’d sat down later in the day with only herself and her mother left in the house it dawned on her that any move to Scotland would never now take place. Sally-Anne had wanted Lucy to come to this conclusion without any help so had been quiet all day long. It was only when Lucy saw the upside of her father’s premature death that she heard Sally-Anne’s voice in her head.
Oh my God Lucy. I never would have taken your dad for someone who’d just jump ship. I must have misjudged him badly. Still if there is any good side to this at least now the move to Scotland won’t happen. That’s a good thing isn’t it?
Yes it is, I suppose. It’s just very hard to take it all in at the minute. I spoke to John earlier he was really shocked about it, he said it would have been much easier to take if he’d just had a heart attack or been killed in a car crash, anything but suicide. I know what he means, you think you know somebody but apparently you don’t know them at all, don’t know what’s going on in their head.
I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that’s rich coming from you. I know about your call from John, I was there, remember, still it sounds like he’ll be home soon for a couple of weeks, support for you and your mum and he’ll be here for the funeral. I can’t remember when you last saw John for so long without a break in between, you must be looking forward to seeing him again. I know your mum will need yours and John’s support.
Yes of course I’m looking forward to seeing him, I always love seeing him. I just wish it wasn’t because dad killed himself. It’s awful. I don’t know what to think at the moment. I think I must be in shock.
Every cloud has a silver lining, Lucy. Just look at it like that. Don’t get too upset; he was about to pack you all off to Scotland. Or have you forgotten about that? Everything must happen for a reason and now you don’t have to go. Your mum seems to be coping well; she’d cope even better if you could be strong too.
You’re right, mum needs me to be strong she must be really hurting just now. She’s hiding the pain because of me I’m sure. I’ll be strong for her.
That’s my girl.
John came home, and the body was released after the autopsy had been carried out to establish the cause of death. Instead of it being assumed that David had killed himself with an overdose, they now knew for certain that he’d killed himself with an overdose. Whichever way you looked at it though the same conclusion was reached, David had committed suicide, pure and simple, and this was the most difficult thing to accept for anybody left to cope with it. What a selfish act to carry out. Once again, Lucy thought, her dad hadn’t given a shit about her feelings; he only cared about himself, selfish, selfish man!
The funeral passed off without a hitch. There were very few relatives to make much of a show of grief, both Marie’s and David’s parents had passed away over the past twenty years and Marie had been an only child. She’d received a letter from David’s brother expressing his sorrow and deepest sympathy but explaining how he couldn’t make it over for the funeral because of other work commitments. Marie understood, it must have been a family trait, they had never been very close even when they’d lived in the same house, she could hardly expect him to drop everything and fly from New Zealand to attend his funeral.
Of course there was a good turnout of his colleagues, Marie thought this was handy, and otherwise there would have been a very poor show for a man who had lived for fifty-two years. If Marie felt any grief on the day it was that this was all a man amounted to when he died. She thought that must be what came of chasing the glory, trying to get better results than last month, improving production figures, pleasing the corporate wage payers, wanting the next move onwards and upwards. What had it achieved for David? Being lowered into a seven foot by three foot by six-foot hole on a cold, wet and windy day between Christmas and new-year in a miserable, cold, bleak cemetery in Manchester.
The death of his dad had seemingly affected John more than anyone else; he just couldn’t believe he’d picked up none of the inner turmoil that must have been going on deep inside his dad’s head. He’d been struck down with remorse at how he’d apparently lost touch with the everyday aspects of family life. He thought he might have been able to help, maybe even prevent what had happened, if only he’d kept closer contact.
He felt guilty at the fact that he’d planned to go skiing this Christmas and had only been planning on visiting the family for the new-year. Some Christmas this was turning out to be. He couldn’t change what had happened, it had been his dad’s choice, but it was no easier to accept than if he’d been innocently caught by a stray bullet from a street shooting. In some ways that option would have been less distressing for him, at least he could have felt no blame for what had happened. Shit just happens sometimes, and sometimes being helpless to stop it happening makes it much easier to accept.
He’d done what he could for his mum and Lucy, tried to comfort them when they needed comforting. In reality it was John who needed the comforting arms around him, mum and Lucy were getting on fine. He spent days trying to make sense of why anyone would decide to take his own life, the one thing a person has the ultimate control over. For a twenty-one year old, just getting into his stride on life’s journey, it was impossible to understand.
Problems in the marital bed had been dismissed as a cause for the suicide when he’d found his mums lilac lingerie set in his bedside cabinet, she’d obviously been making an effort to keep the fires burning in that department. She’d blushed so deeply when he mentioned it in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he thought her head was going to burst open.
After days of torment he decided to stop beating himself up trying to find an answer and just accepted the fact that he would never learn why it happened, the one person
who could have told him was now dead. It was time to move on.
It had been good to spend time with Lucy; he’d noticed straight away how she was changing from little kid sister into something resembling a much younger version of Claudia Schiffer. The tragedy had brought them even closer; he felt much more of a need to protect his sister, be even more the big brother figure, now that she had no dad to look out for her.
His mum was doing okay, she just said she needed to keep busy, not dwell for too long on what had happened. She said she thought the full force of what had happened would hit her later when things had settled down a bit. John suggested she should get right back into college and evening classes after the Christmas break and she quickly agreed.
John had been pleased his mum had taken up his suggestion of an interior design course; he thought everyone needed to satisfy his or her creativity in some way. Little did John realise, however, that his mum’s creativity was currently being used on thinking of how many different ways she was going to fuck Simon senseless the next time they were together again. As for learning about fabrics, colours and styles her mind was buzzing, she’d seen how powerful a combination lilac, silk and lace could be now she was thinking about a red basque, maybe some leather or maybe even PVC in pink with the finest silk stockings she could buy. The possibilities were endless.
It was good for John to see his mum coping so well, especially at what must obviously have been a terrible time for her.
Nine
John had stayed in Manchester until 4 January when he’d had to get back to London for a photo shoot. At the age of twenty-one John had landed his dream job at the Stein studio in Soho. He was an assistant to Patrick Stein, one of the top London fashion photographers. The role was going to keep him busy, Stein was often called upon to shoot the covers for the top fashion magazines such as Vogue and Elle, as well as covering the major fashion shows in all the major locations.
Stein was a major player in the world of fashion, the work was plentiful and as with everything at the top end of the fashion industry he could demand a top fee for his art. Stein demanded a lot from his assistants but he ensured that they were well rewarded, both financially as well as educationally. John would learn the latest techniques, use the best equipment available, mix in all the right circles and get all the fringe benefits that go with that lifestyle.
Stein had seen a quality in John’s work which he felt he could nurture. The raw talent was most definitely there. When John took a photo shoot he was able to get beyond the mask that most people tend to wear in front of camera, he could get to the very essence of someone’s personality by capturing a particular gesture or a certain peculiar look. John could see the allure in every subject and worked well in order to bring it to the wider audience.
The fact that Stein chose John, a relative novice at his trade, was no gamble on his part, Stein was a master. He saw things with a clear eye. He could sense the passion in John’s work. It was the same passion he himself had possessed at John’s age. He had some rough edges but over time these would be smoothed away. John would learn his trade at the hands of a master; Stein believed that in time John’s talent would even outgrow that of his own.
Stein was also looking at John with an eye to the future. Stein had been diagnosed with a brain tumour; it would soon enough be affecting his work. The specialists couldn’t tell him how long he had left; all they could tell him was that it was unlikely to be any longer than 3 years. It was inoperable and relatively slow-growing but he didn’t know how long he would be able to continue. He might have twelve months, two years, five years he just didn’t know. His future was down to an irregularity in his brain and how well it could cope with the consequences of the tumour. Stein was quite the optimist but in this circumstance he felt he should be a realist. Stein wasn’t holding his breath. He had led a hedonistic lifestyle; his life may end up being cut short but he’d packed an awful lot into it up to now.
Stein worked with a lot of male models and a far greater than average percentage of these models are so gay it would make most straight girls weep for days at the waste of it all. During the eighties and nineties Stein had photographed some of the gayest amongst them, these men would do anything for the man who had the power to make them look just that little bit better than the next man. The world of the female model can be a bitchy one, but that is nothing compared to the bitchiness in the world of the male model. Competition for contracts is fierce. Stein was a sucker for a nice arse on a man and when that same arse was being offered up as homage to his particular talent he just didn’t have the heart to refuse it.
Patrick Stein wanted to leave a legacy when the deadly growth in his head did finally take him; he didn’t want people just to look at his past work and see his art, a talent that died when he died. He wanted people to look at John Kirkpatrick and see a Patrick Stein creation; a photographer with Stein’s blood running through his veins. He wanted his reputation, his name and his art to live on, and in John he was sure he’d found the right person to allow his art to thrive long after his death.
John met Stephanie Wilkins on 15th January 2005 in the Soho studio. He’d met lots of models since he’d become Stein’s assistant six months previously, but none of them had had the same affect on him as she’d had. It wasn’t that she was the most beautiful; he’d seen other girls that were considered in his world to be more beautiful. It was her uniqueness. She was just so different. She seemed so much more complete. She had a beauty that went far beyond the normal boundaries. Stephanie Wilkins had an allure that was like a blinding white aura all around her. Every gesture, every expression, the way she spoke, the way she looked at you, John had never met anyone who came remotely close to having what she had, whatever it was seemed to ooze out of every pore.
Steph, as she’d insisted he should call her, was twenty-eight years old but could have been taken for anything between eighteen and thirty-five. She had a face that would keep you guessing her age until she showed you a copy of her birth certificate as proof positive.
Stein would let John set up the studio for the shoot, commissioned by Vogue for a front cover. He would adjust the background lighting, flash lighting and screens to achieve a particular mood for the session. Stein only made minor adjustments where he felt genuine improvements could be made; this was becoming less frequent as John was honing his skill. As with each session, he would have John take the first part of the photo shoot, to get the subject relaxed he’d say, concentrate their mind on the job at hand before he took over. Stein had never worked this way before, he’d always liked total control, but John was on a fast track, and a swimmer would never become Olympic champion without being able to dive in at the deep end.
The session went like a dream, John and Steph seemed to bond into a single entity, and it was as if they could read each other’s minds. John was lost in the moment, for him no one else existed, just Steph. He had needed this after the past three weeks, he needed to forget, concentrate his mind on something else other than his dad’s death. Stein watched his pupil work and was loath to put an end to it, but it was, after all, his name on the credits that meant he could demand such a huge fee for the shoot.
Looking at the results later in the day with John, Stein had had to admit that John had produced all three images that he believed the final cover shot would be chosen from. His own work had looked tired in comparison. John at twenty-one years old would be the youngest photographer to be credited with a Vogue cover shot; he was about to become a name in the industry.
Any guilt that Marie might have felt over David’s suicide was quickly forgotten. She was fifty, looked good and felt like a teenager who’d just discovered the joy of sex for the very first time. She wanted more, and she was now free to have it. With only Lucy to look after and college on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and evening class on Wednesday, she decided to join a gym. If she was going to enjoy herself why shouldn’t she look her best? She would test the water; see what reaction she could
arouse. After all that’s just what some men went to a gym for, the chance to flirt with a pretty lady and maybe a bit more, if they got lucky. That’s all some of the ladies were there for too.
Towards the end of January both Lucy and Marie received a large brown envelope through the post with the Patrick Stein studio Logo in the bottom left hand corner. They opened them together over breakfast and discovered a copy in each of the February edition of Vogue. The cover of Lucy’s was signed - to my little sis Lucy, love John. Marie’s was signed - Thanks for everything mum love John. They both sat there confused as to why John should send them signed copies of Vogue and it was only when they turned the cover and saw the credits that John had highlighted in yellow marker pen that they understood.
Front cover
Model: Stephanie Wilkins
Photographer: Patrick Stein studios.
(John Kirkpatrick)
“Wow, mum, look at that, John’s got his name in Vogue. He’s photographed the front cover.”
Wow yourself, Lucy. Just look at that girl, she’s a complete goddess; I wonder how well he knows her. Do you think he knows her intimately? Is that big brother of yours having his wicked way with her? Let’s face it Lucy, he’d be hard pressed to say no, I certainly wouldn’t, given half a chance.
“Let’s call him tonight and congratulate him. I was thinking we should visit him soon anyway, let’s aim for your next school holiday, Easter I think. We could make a week of it stay in a hotel, see the sights spend some time with your brother without funeral arrangements getting in the way. What do you think?” Marie said.