“What would you like to drink?” Paul asked. I accepted a glass of wine and wondered what I was doing there. Paul put on some music and started to prepare the food. Suddenly the telephone rang. Paul took the call.
“Paul Huntingford. Oh, hi, Felicity. Yes, very well. You’ll be pleased. Portrait stuff, and the interactive stuff you wanted of various delegates together.” I flashed Paul a warning look, to communicate that I did not wish him to tell Felicity that I was there.
“Isn’t she? No idea, I’m afraid. About three-quarters of an hour ago. I couldn’t tell you. Any message to give her in the morning? Will do.” There was a pause. “Absolutely fine, thanks. It’s nice to have some time at home. It has been a long while. Yes. Yes. Mmm. Well, yes.”
I affected not to be listening but was straining to hear. Paul’s expression was serious.
“Really? Well, I’ll be glad to do what I can. Yes, I was, very fond, and always will be. We’ll arrange that, then. Great. When this job’s out of the way. Great. Speak to you tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to look at the pics. I’ll give Jo your message.” He replaced the receiver and smiled. “Your reputation is safe. Felicity wants a word in the morning. She’s been trying to get you at home.”
I felt angry and uncomfortable. What was Paul up to? It sounded as though he was planning to re-establish his liaison with Felicity. I said, “I probably shouldn’t stay.”
“Now that I’ve gone to all the trouble of taking the salmon out of the fridge and putting it on a plate? You can’t go now. You’re hungry. What a changeable woman you are. But I’m not saying I don’t like it. Changeable is good.”
Paul continued preparing the food. I listened to the music. It was Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto… Why had he had to choose Mozart? Memories of that awful evening when I didn’t get to see The Marriage of Figaro came back in sharp focus. I decided I would eat the meal, say a polite thank you and leave. After all, we did have to work together the following day. In my mind, I picked over Paul’s conversation with Felicity. It had sounded as though they might be getting back together again. What was Paul up to? I realized that none of this should matter to me. What was I thinking of?
I ate the meal, drank a couple of glasses of wine and then said I must go. Paul offered to drive me home. I accepted, having thought about catching a bus but not feeling much like it.
As Paul’s car drew up outside my house, I said, “Thank you, and thank you for feeding me.” He smiled at me, and in his warm, humorous brown eyes I saw the same old Paul, the one I had liked so much and fallen in love with. I thought: If only Paul were what he appeared to be, what a difference that would make.
“Thank you for a lovely evening and a lovely day,” he replied. “Being with you is always such fun.” We said goodnight and arranged to meet at the conference centre early the following morning.
Fun? I thought, as I turned my key in the lock. Was he being sarcastic?
Our second day went even better than the first. I was happy with my interviews and Paul was happy with his pictures. Felicity wanted to see us, so we took a taxi to the office. While Paul was downstairs in the dark room, getting the last of his pictures developed, Felicity and I discussed the piece I was to write.
“How did you find Paul to work with?” she asked.
“Oh, great.”
“Everyone does. I won’t pretend I wasn’t thrilled to get him to do this assignment for me. He may be a bastard – but what a photographer!” I was unsure how to respond, but was keen to get some information about Paul.
“So he’s a bastard?”
“’Course. Aren’t they all?”
I was perplexed. If she thought he was a bastard why was she arranging to meet him?
“Nice bastard, though.” She smiled her big, wide smile and wagged a long pink fingernail at me. “Very cute, don’t you think?”
“Oh, pff… in an obvious kind of way, I suppose,” I said.
“So you fancy him, too!” Felicity laughed. “Join the queue. We were an item, you know.”
“Really?”
“Bad timing, darling. But he’s available now,” said Felicity.
At that moment Paul walked in and Felicity gave him a dazzling smile. “Paul, darling – what have you got for me?” she asked. Paul handed her his contact sheet. She took it across to the window.
“Stunning, darling,” she said. “You’re a genius.”
I wondered why Felicity was being so nice to him after he had treated her so badly. She discussed with Paul the pictures she would use, standing much closer to him than was necessary. Then she tilted her head to look up into his eyes and asked, “Time for a drink?”
“I can’t tonight, I’m afraid,” said Paul. “But I’ll call you next week as we arranged, if that’s OK.”
As Paul and I walked out into the street, he said, “I wonder if you might like to come with me to a drinks do at the ICA? It’s a reception for my exhibition. Do come. There’ll be people I think you’ll enjoy meeting.”
I accepted the invitation and we took a taxi to the venue in the Mall, within sight of Buckingham Palace. The gallery where the party was being held was a hubbub of chatter. As we arrived, I spotted Ismene, and Paul took me across to join her. She greeted us both warmly.
Paul said, “Ismene, I think it’s time I entertained you. You’re always feeding me!”
I gathered that he was a frequent guest at her home. Paul invited us both to dinner the following week. We both accepted. In the circumstances it would have been rude to decline, I told myself.
On the evening of our dinner date, I picked Paul up; his car was at the garage. We dined at an expensive French restaurant. The food was delicious and it was a wonderful evening. It was inspiring to hear Paul and Ismene talk about the stories they had worked on together. I learned a lot about the independence struggles in Kashmir, Burma, Tibet and elsewhere. At the end of the evening I drove Ismene home, before dropping Paul off at his house.
“Will you come in for a nightcap?” he asked.
“Well, I – ”
“Oh come on. I won’t turn into a pumpkin. Though I might turn into a mangel-wurzel.”
“What is a mangel-wurzel?”
“Come in and find out!”
I parked the car and followed Paul into his house. I declined a nightcap, because I was driving, and asked for tea. Paul put the kettle on and went into the lounge. Moments later, as he returned to the kitchen, I heard the strains of Mozart. Having decided not to spoil the moment, I did.
“You seem to like Mozart,” I said.
“Mmm. Very much. He can usually lift my mood.” Paul dum-de-dummed along to the Bassoon Concerto.
“Do you remember, years ago, inviting me to the opera?”
He turned, teapot in hand, and said, “Yes, I do.”
“That was Mozart,” I said, feeling my anger beginning to bubble up.
“Mmm,” said Paul casually, pottering about with spoon and teacaddy. “The Magic Flute.”
“The Marriage of Figaro, actually.”
“No – The Magic Flute, I’m pretty certain. It was a very good performance for a small touring company, I recall.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Er, yes – thank you.”
“And it was The Marriage of Figaro.”
“Is this important?” he asked gently. “This operatic performance that you didn’t attend?”
“No, of course not. Why should it be?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul.
“But just for the record, it was The Marriage of Figaro, OK? Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. Not The Magic Flute. Not The Barber of Seville. The Marriage of bloody Figaro.”
“The, um, Barber of Seville is by Rossini,” said Paul, scratching his head.
“I don’t care if it’s by Barry Manilow and his string quartet – ”
“Now I think you’re thinking of Mantovani – was that his name? Yes, Mantovani and his Music of the Mountains. My g
ran liked him.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking! God, I can’t even have a bloody argument with you without you interrupting!”
“Why are you angry with me?”
“Because you stood me up, you rat.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t,” said Paul.
“And now you’ve forgotten!”
“No I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t.”
“Can you stop sounding like the audience at a bloody pantomime?”
“Jo, I’ve never stood you up. You must be thinking of someone else. This other chap again, the one you keep thinking is me – or that I am,” he said.
“You invited me to a performance of The Marriage of Figaro.”
“I remember inviting you to The Magic – OK, OK, The Marriage of Figaro it was.”
“As you well know, we arranged to meet in the foyer fifteen minutes before the performance.”
“And you sent a note cancelling. Yes, of course I remember.”
“I did not send a note. Why would I send a note?”
“I don’t know. I got a note from you saying you couldn’t come because you had to visit a friend in hospital. You said you’d catch up with me some time in the next few days.”
“I didn’t send any such note.”
“Well, I got one and it was signed by you.”
“How did you get it? Where did it come from?”
“I think, um, yes, it was shoved under my door.”
“I would never shove a note under a man’s door. How could you think I would do such a thing? Really. Well in that case, how come you went with Marcie?”
“Marcie? Oh, Marcie, yes. Did I go with Marcie? I don’t remember. Yes, you’re right, I believe I did. You know how she was always going on about how homesick and lonely she was? She turned up at my door, quite tearful, I seem to remember. Some chap had let her down on a date and she was at a loose end. She asked if I was free. I’d just got back and picked up your note, it was quite late and I had a spare ticket, so I asked if she’d like to tag along.”
“Oh, God, no. Is this true?”
“Er, yes. I did always wonder why you were so distant with me after that. I assumed you’d decided you didn’t want to take things further. Do you mean to say you turned up for our rendezvous?”
“Yes. In shoes that were killing me.”
“How did we miss each other? We must have had a drink in the bar and gone straight to our seats. I think we did, she was still quite tearful.”
“She must have known about our arrangement,” I said. “Oh, God, Paul. I wish I’d known.”
“So do I. But looking on the bright side, does this mean you’re not angry with me any more?”
I smiled. “Well, I’m not angry with you at the moment.”
“Then you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“Will I?”
“Yes, of course you will. I’ll cook something here, with ingredients this time.”
Paul kissed me on the cheek as he saw me into my car. As I drove home, I began to imagine the following evening. My fantasy was brought up short by the thought that he seemed to have a date with Felicity the following week. I wondered what had happened between them, how close they had been and how he might feel about her now. I remembered, too, how badly he had let his wife down. That was something which he surely must regret, but it proved that he was capable of betrayal.
I arrived at Paul’s house on time at seven o’clock. As he opened the door I heard a loud crashing sound coming from the direction of the kitchen.
“Not to worry!” he said cheerfully. “Everything’s under control. Lovely to see you, Jo. You look gorgeous.” He kissed me on the cheek and I followed him to the kitchen. A couple of pots were bubbling furiously on the cooker and pan lids were scattered on the floor. Paul picked them up, saying, “I’m an explosive but effective cook.”
As I wondered what might come next, he offered me a drink and I accepted a glass of white wine. Paul turned his attention to his pots, saying, “This is chicken, one of my favourite recipes. You do eat chicken – God, I didn’t think to ask you, you’re not a vegetarian?” He looked so dismayed that I felt I must put him at ease without delay.
“Yes I do and no I’m not!”
Paul grinned. The pots behind him fizzed and popped away merrily. I observed that he had an interesting method in the kitchen of catching things just as they were about to boil over. Amazingly, when the food arrived it was cooked to perfection and mouth-wateringly delicious.
I said, “This is very good. You’ve got the job.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Next time I’ll cook you a curry – the best this side of Watford Gap.”
“That I’d love. I developed a passion for curry when I used to visit my parents in India.”
“When was that?”
“The late 1960s. My dad was there with the Welsh Guards.”
“What did you make of India?”
“Oh, vibrant, passionate, exotic, disturbing – but in a good way…”
“Sounds as though you liked it.”
“I loved it.”
“Me too,” said Paul.
“When were you there?”
“I was first there in 1979. That’s where I met Ismene, on a train in Hyderabad. I was a green young stringer with an American news agency, a few months into my first assignment. I helped Ismene with her bags and we got chatting. She was very knowledgeable about the political situation and, typically, generous with her time. When we arrived at Rawalpindi, we went for a meal. I was headed into Kashmir and she gave me some very useful contacts, including a leader of the separatist movement.”
“You lucky beggar. You got into interesting work straight away,” I said.
“What were you doing?”
“Covering council meetings for the Yorkshire Post.”
“I bet you winkled out some good stories of local corruption,” Paul said.
“Well, I had my sources. I used to get offered Brie and Camembert as a bribe by a councillor who owned a cheese shop. Everyone knew what he was up to because we journalists would leave the council chamber ponging of smelly feet.”
Paul laughed. I asked, “How did you get your start?”
“I was incredibly lucky. I got signed up with the agency straight out of Harvard and they liked to give people foreign experience as soon as possible. They assigned me to war photography early on. It seemed to be what I did best. They moved me around a lot, but always sent me back to Kashmir.”
The evening passed pleasantly. We talked about old times, work matters and human rights issues. I felt very relaxed and comfortable in Paul’s company.
“Did you always enjoy war photography?” I asked.
“I loved it. It gave me a buzz like nothing else. At the start I was scared. Untrue, I was always scared. But never bored. Boredom seemed to be the worst of all perils in those days.”
“Didn’t you mind the danger?”
“Didn’t think about it. You just get carried by the momentum from assignment to assignment. When you’re right in there, taking the pictures, the adrenalin seems to wipe out fear. The heightened feeling of aliveness you get when you don’t know if you’ll survive the day – it’s addictive. It becomes the only reality, so that the bits in between – normal life – feel unreal, dreamlike. Nothing in normal life matters. No one is dying in front of you, so how can it?”
“But – all the terrible things you must have seen – how did you cope?”
“Hmm, not terribly well – though it took me a long time to realize it. I thought I was doing great. People liked my pictures. I was on a roll. But then – it just goes to show how wrong you can be… This is boring. Am I boring you?”
“No, not at all. What happened?”
“Well, things were changing. A lot of things happened very quickly. I fell in love, desperately, madly,
totally – well, not desperately because luckily for me my feelings were returned. Sushila was the daughter of Ranjit Kadir, the contact Ismene had put me in touch with. Ranjit’s a human rights lawyer, a very old friend of Ismene’s. He was incredibly kind to me, bit of a father figure really. Life seemed perfect. I was young, I was doing work I loved, I was getting recognition for something I was good at, this wonderful woman loved me and I loved her and we got married. How could my life possibly be better? But things did go wrong, and I was to blame…” Paul looked terribly sad. He looked at me and said, “What went wrong was my fault.”
“Oh Paul, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“I wasn’t coping at all. I slept badly and would wake up screaming, in a pool of sweat. Awful. Sushila used to try to get me to talk about my work, but I thought it was a can of worms best left unopened.
“At home with Sushila, trying to have a normal life, I felt like an impostor. I’d be with friends and family, in a garden, drinking tea, making conversation, and all the while my mind was full of these unspeakable images; they invaded me night and day. I’d seen things you never forget. You can’t just take pictures and stay outside. You’re there, so you’re involved. The obscenity and stench of violent death – that was my normal environment. I was getting crazy. I was on a roller coaster and I couldn’t get off.”
“But – how did you survive?”
“I became someone else. I was getting more and more foreign postings and it got to a stage where I was glad to get away from my life with Sushila, because then I didn’t have to think about what I was doing and why. I didn’t have to pretend to be normal. I didn’t have to be. I just did my job and had a few beers in the bar at the end of the day. Then I started taking a bottle of whisky to my hotel room, to blot out the memories of the day. I used to think that if I drank enough I’d become unconscious and not dream – but you do dream. My life was starting to unravel, but I couldn’t see it. I started having affairs – pointless, passionless affairs that were something to do to convince myself that I was still alive.”
“Felicity mentioned – ”
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