by Ellen Berry
‘Glad you like it,’ she said with a smile.
‘Of course I do. You’re so thoughtful. I love you, babe.’ He kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I love you too, darling,’ she murmured, beaming with pleasure. ‘Look, there’s something else too.’ She leaned over and turned to the book’s inside front cover, on which the photographer himself had written: Happy 50th birthday Sean, with all good wishes, Laurence Grier.
Sean stared at the inscription. ‘It’s signed! Is this for me?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, laughing, ‘unless it’s a remarkable coincidence.’
His eyes widened. ‘How on earth did you get this?’
‘I bribed him with enormous amounts of money,’ she said with a grin.
He closed the book and placed it on top of a muddle of magazines and newspaper supplements on her coffee table. ‘Seriously? You actually met him?’
She nodded. ‘Yes – when I was in Paris for the shows.’
‘Really? Wow. You planned ahead …’
‘It was just luck really,’ she said quickly, a little embarrassed now: Paris fashion week was back in October. Did it seem overly keen to have planned Sean’s birthday present seven months ago – and only two months after they’d started seeing each other? ‘He was staying at my hotel,’ she added.
Sean kissed her again. ‘You’re amazing, Rox. Gorgeous, sexy and amazing …’
She smiled and pushed back her tangled hair. ‘And I noticed that he liked to sit with a gin and tonic in the hotel bar every evening, so I went out and bought a copy and hoped he’d be there, just one more time …’ She omitted to mention that it taken visits to four different bookshops before she had managed to track down a copy, and even then, it had a torn cover so they had to order another for her to pick up the next day.
The intercom buzzer sounded. Sean leapt up to answer it. ‘That’ll be Tommy!’ he exclaimed.
She stared before scrambling up after him. For a moment, it seemed as if the excitement over the joiner’s arrival had surpassed that of the photography book.
Sean hared towards the front door ahead of her in order to greet him. ‘Hi, mate, that was quick …’
‘Only three streets away,’ Tommy replied with a grin. He had cropped ginger hair, a soft Liverpool accent and scratched at his stubbly chin as he examined the door. ‘Whoa, that’s some mess you’ve got here.’
‘Yep, think the whole door needs replacing?’
‘Yeah, for sure – but I can do a temporary patch-up right now, make it secure …’
‘… And fit a new door at some point?’ Sean enquired, as if this was his flat, and he was in charge here.
‘Uh-huh, I can get you some prices …’
‘That would be great,’ Roxanne said firmly, forcing the man to register her presence. ‘A temporary patch-up, I mean. It’s actually my flat.’
‘Oh, is it? Right …’ Tommy darted a quick look at Sean as if to say, Is that okay with you, her expressing an opinion? before starting to unpack his tools. Roxanne gave them a cursory glance, then strolled away to get on with the business of chipping the brandy snap mixture off the tray, to the soundtrack of the two men bonding.
‘My missus once left the iron on,’ Tommy was saying. ‘On our way to the airport, we were, in a taxi. “Christ, Tommy,” she screams, “I think the iron’s still on!” So we had to turn around, get the driver to take us all the way back …’
‘God, yeah,’ Sean sympathised. ‘I know that feeling …’
What feeling? Roxanne wondered, using a bendy kitchen knife to hack at the charred confectionery. She didn’t recall that she had ever subjected Sean to an iron-left-on incident – although she supposed after tonight’s episode she could hardly occupy the moral high ground.
‘… And d’you know what happened?’ Tommy crowed. ‘We get all the way home and the iron’s stone-cold …’
‘It was off all the time? You’re kidding me!’
‘Nah, isn’t that typical?’
‘Did you miss your flight?’
Tommy snorted. ‘’Course we did! Cost us over three hundred quid for new tickets.’
Their laughter rumbled through Roxanne’s flat as the two men revelled in that hoary old topic: the idiocy of womankind. Oh, what fun they were having. Roxanne understood what was going on here, as shards of black stuff pinged off the tray, occasionally hitting her cheek and landing in her hair. Sean spent most of his life in the company of rarefied fashion types. Most of his conversations were about whether the model’s hair should be up or down, or if a necklace was required to finish the look. His professional life was all about capturing beauty, which was fine; there were far worse ways to make a living than photographing the world’s most breathtaking women wearing exquisite clothes. Yet, despite Sean’s creative talents, he was a pretty down-to-earth bloke, who had grown up with a ferocious single mother in an area of Dublin he always described as ‘lively’. Opportunities to flex some masculine muscle were few and far between.
‘So, what’s your line of business?’ Tommy was asking now.
‘I’m a photographer,’ Sean explained.
‘Oh, right. Weddings, portraits, that kind of thing?’
‘Well, I’m more kind of—’
‘Would you do one of our Jessica? She’s a right little character – just turned eighteen months. Me and my girlfriend, we’d love a proper picture of her to have framed for the living room.’
‘Er, that’s not quite my—’
‘You know – looking cute, sitting on one of those sheepskin rugs?’
Roxanne chuckled to herself as she sensed Sean struggling to remain on his new best mate’s good side. ‘Uh, yeah, I know the kind of pictures you mean, but I’m actually more of a—’
‘She’s just adorable,’ Tommy added fondly. ‘D’you have a card or anything, so I can contact you?’
‘Uh, not on me, no …’
‘Aw. Well, I’ve got your number.’
‘I called you on my girlfriend’s phone,’ Sean said quickly.
‘Right. So, will you text me yours, so we can arrange to do the pictures?’
‘Yeah, ’course I will …’
No, of course he won’t, Roxanne mused as she sanded off the last of the burnt crust with a Brillo pad. He happens to be a top fashion photographer whose latest campaign for a high-street chain is currently gracing enormous billboards all over Britain. Sean O’Carroll does not photograph babies on fluffy rugs.
Drilling and hammering curtailed their conversation, and once Roxanne had finished cleaning the tray, she found Sean lurking in her living room. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’ she teased him.
‘I’m not hiding,’ he murmured defensively. ‘I’m just letting him get on with the job.’
‘Right. It’s just that, a few moments ago, it sounded as if you were about to arrange a holiday together.’
Sean’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
She laughed, just as Tommy called out to say he’d finished.
‘So that’s it secure,’ he remarked as she inspected his work. Sean had failed to reappear from the living room.
‘Brilliant, thanks so much – and, yes, I’d like to go ahead with the replacement door, please. Could you send me an estimate?’
‘Yeah, no problem.’ He seemed disappointed at having to deal with her now.
‘Shall I pay you for this now, or will you invoice?’
‘Now would be great, if you don’t mind …’
‘Sure, no problem.’ She fetched her purse from her bedroom and doled out a bunch of tenners. Sean remained in hiding, perhaps hoping that the matter of baby photography would be forgotten as soon as Tommy left Roxanne’s flat.
After he’d gone, they curled up companionably on the sofa together. Sean was drinking wine, while Roxanne sipped chamomile tea – not because she enjoyed it especially but because it seemed like the right thing to do the night before a meeting with one’s new boss. She rested her head
on Sean’s chest, once again picturing them together in her childhood village, with her showing him around, delighting him with its quaintness. After nine months together, it seemed important for him to understand where she was from, and get to know the place that helped to shape the person she was now. Plus, it would be fun to share a bottle of wine in the Red Lion, where she was occasionally allowed a Coke and a bag of crisps as a little girl. Sean would love its olde-worlde charm.
‘So, what d’you think about that weekend in Yorkshire with me?’ she ventured, turning to study his reaction.
‘What’s the date of the party again?’ Sean asked.
‘The ninth of June. Couple of weeks away.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I told you, darling – I’ll have to check what’s on. You know how crazy-busy it’s been lately …’ Of course, Sean was never merely busy, like a normal person; he was always crazy-busy.
‘I’d just like to show Della some support, and I think it’d be fun,’ Roxanne added, hating the pleading tone that had snuck into her voice.
‘Sure, we can go away sometime. I’m just not quite sure about this time, okay?’ He smiled and kissed her.
‘Okay,’ she said flatly, realising her suggestion was being treated in the same way as Tommy’s request for a baby-on-fluffy-rug photo, in that it was clearly not something Sean wanted to do. She wondered then, as they settled in front of the TV to watch a late-night music show, whether their relationship would ever progress from how it was now. Of course, compared to Ned Tallow and the other reprobates, Sean was an absolute saint. Yet they still dated as if they were in that tentative early stage (‘So, how are you fixed this week?’), their time together dotted in amongst their numerous other social engagements. Roxanne’s evenings were often taken up with work-related events, and Sean was often shooting on location and didn’t return until late. Around half the week, he stayed alone at his own sparsely furnished warehouse apartment with its bare-brick walls and enormous red fridge. But what more did she want, or expect from him?
Although she hadn’t brought it up, she sensed that he wasn’t exactly itching to live with anyone. He had twice before, each time for a decade or so – first with a model (naturally!) called Lisa who had, by all accounts, left him broken-hearted when she had fallen in love with a fellow model on a shoot in the States. Then had come Chianna, a jewellery designer from whom he had simply ‘grown apart’; she now lived in Devon with a brood of wild-haired children and a famous drummer. Sean had never been married, had no children and didn’t seem saddened by the fact.
As for Roxanne, a few boyfriends had moved in with her for brief periods – although usually due to their own shaky financial circumstances rather than any real desire to cohabit with her. She had never had any yearnings for marriage and, obviously, children were out of the question now – which was fine. Yet, deep inside her – and it irritated her to even think this way – she needed to feel as if things were moving on. A few weeks ago, she had had the audacity to leave her spare toothbrush in the porcelain holder in Sean’s bathroom, plus a small pot of night cream on his shelf. ‘I think these are yours, Rox,’ he remarked next time she’d stayed over, looking rather startled as he handed them to her, as if they were her false teeth. The more she felt he was keeping her at arm’s length, the more commitment she craved. Roxanne had never felt so needy before, and she despised herself for it.
Later, at around 12.30 a.m., she found herself unable to sleep as they lay curled up in her bed together. He was spooning her, with one arm resting gently on the soft curve of her stomach. Roxanne stared at the glow of the street lamp through her cheap white Ikea curtains, failing to be soothed by Sean’s rhythmic breathing.
This was happening more frequently: an inability to drift off and, instead, a tendency to fixate on a whole raft of worries – such as, why had Henry found it necessary to call the fire brigade tonight? Which segued neatly into growing panic over the meeting with Marsha in a few hours’ time – and the realisation that, really, the one person Roxanne wanted to talk to right now was her sister, up in Burley Bridge. Of course, she couldn’t call Della now; it was the middle of the night. However, she fully intended not to just go to her party, but to spend time with her sister beforehand to help her prepare.
Would Marsha let her have some time off? she wondered. She would have to. Roxanne was still battling with residual guilt over the period leading up to her mother’s death from cancer two years ago, and she was keen to make up for it. She knew she should have spent more time up in Yorkshire. Pretty much all of Kitty’s care had fallen to Della. Della’s ex-husband Mark had been useless; he had left her for another woman soon after Kitty’s death, just as Sophie, their daughter, had flown the nest for art college. Roxanne was well aware that several Burley Bridge villagers assumed she had been flouncing from fashion show to fashion show whilst her mother had been dying in the hospice.
In truth, a lurking sense of ineptitude had kept Roxanne away. ‘You need to get yourself up there,’ Isabelle had chastised her, ‘and help that poor sister of yours.’ And so Roxanne had eventually driven north – but felt, just as she had as a child, that she was merely getting in the way.
One of her visits after Kitty’s death had coincided with her brother Jeff and his wife Tamsin descending on Rosemary Cottage. As they had grabbed what they wanted from the house, so it had looked as if Roxanne, too, was only there to snatch her share of the pickings. She had taken an emerald felt hat with a short net veil, a string of jet beads and the pretty rose-pattered tea sets, which until recently had resided in her unused oven – and that was all. She had watched, feeling faintly disgusted, as Tamsin breezed past with boxes piled high with silverware and, at one point, a vast fur coat. Roxanne hadn’t wanted the coat – she never wore fur, and refused to feature it in the magazine. She had principles, although it hadn’t seemed like that, as Jeff, Tamsin and their twin sons had swarmed like locusts all over the house, cramming their estate car with Kitty’s possessions while Roxanne just stood there, feeling helpless.
‘Can I do anything to help with the funeral, Dell?’ she’d asked.
‘No, it’s all organised. There’s nothing left to be done.’ Her words had been delivered with a note of bitterness.
‘Can’t I make sandwiches, help with the food—’
‘We’re fine with the food, thank you!’
Well, her sister hadn’t seemed fine. She had launched herself into scrubbing and packing up their mother’s house, and announced that all she wanted was Kitty’s vast collection of cookbooks. Even more startling, Della then decided to use them to stock a clapped-out old shop she had decided to rent, and subsequently bought, along with the flat above and then the vacant shop next door – how crazy was that? Not at all crazy, as it turned out. Eighteen months down the line, Della’s bookshop had been featured in numerous magazines and even on TV. On the other hand, Jeff was still working in banking – and clearly despising it – while Roxanne had almost burnt down her flat and endured a stern ticking-off from a fireman who looked about nine years old.
Looking at it that way, she mused, still wide awake at 1.47 a.m., who ranked highest on the craziness scale?
Chapter Four
On a bright-skied Friday morning, Roxanne opened a bleary eye and watched as Sean pulled on his jeans. Even his back view was lovely. She took in the curve of his lightly tanned neck, his firm upper arms, the graceful lines of his shoulders. She yearned to touch him, to coax him back to bed just for a few more minutes. There was time; it was just 7.30. However, Sean’s attentions were now directed elsewhere as his assistant, Louie, was already on the phone about some small drama concerning the party at Sean’s studio that night.
‘Foie gras canapés?’ he exclaimed. ‘Britt showed me the menu and they definitely weren’t on it. Has she been running away with herself again?’ There followed some urgent muttering. It was obvious to anyone who met Louie that he was clearly in awe of his employer, and Roxanne could picture the eager twen
ty-one-year-old’s pale face flushing, his forehead beading with sweat. ‘I don’t care if they’re on sticks – if they’re lollipops,’ Sean barked. ‘I’m not having canapés made out of force-fed ducks or whatever the hell that stuff is. It’s disgusting. Just cancel them, all right? Get onto Britt, say we’ve spoken. Okay, good. Catch you in a bit – and remember we need to be right on the nail with today’s job. I want to be finished by five so the DJ can set up for tonight.’ He finished the call, turned to Roxanne and rolled his eyes as if his fiftieth birthday party had been foisted upon him – which, in a sense, it had. ‘It’s a monster that’s grown out of control,’ he groaned. ‘What’s wrong with a big bowl of sour cream and onion Pringles?’
She laughed, slipping out of bed as he pulled on his white T-shirt. She knew the party really wasn’t Sean’s style, but that his agent had convinced him that this friends and contacts in the industry would love it. ‘Why not make a big splash? You’re only fifty once!’ Britt had insisted, having breezed into his studio when he and Roxanne were in the midst of a shoot for her magazine a few months ago. He could afford it, of course. Sean was at the top of his game right now. Whilst magazine shoots were moderately paid, he could command thousands per day for an advertising job.
‘Gotta go,’ he said now, kissing Roxanne softly on the mouth. ‘Cab’s on its way. See you tonight, sweetheart.’ There was the toot of a car horn in the street below, and he was off.
Roxanne showered quickly, reassuring herself that of course he meant to wish her good luck for the meeting; he’d just been in a hurry, that was all. Anyway, it was no big deal, and it would soon be over, and tonight she’d be clutching a glass of perfectly chilled Chablis (Britt would insist on the best of everything) at his party and having a little dance. Even aside from the fire brigade incident, it had been a long, hectic week, with problematic shoots to arrange, all under the watchful gaze of Marsha in her little glass cube at the end of the office. Roxanne needed to kick back and have some fun.
Dressed for work now, she surveyed her reflection in her dressing table mirror. With today’s meeting in mind, she had chosen her favourite cream calico top with embroidery around the neckline, plus a knife-pleated black skirt, low patent heels that would also do for Sean’s party, and a blue topaz necklace she had bought on holiday last summer with her friend Amanda. They had gone for four days to Ibiza together – Amanda’s first trip without her daughters, who were then six and eight years old and had stayed at home with their dad.