by Isabel Wolff
I laughed. ‘Of course we can.’
‘Great, I’ll be with you by seven.’
He turned up at ten past, grinning broadly, and enveloped me in a huge hug. ‘Mir-an-da,’ he said, drawing out the vowels. ‘I love that name. Mir-an-da.’ He kissed me, then rocked me in his arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re coming. We’re going to have a great weekend.’ Yes—except for the last bit. He peered at me. ‘Hey, don’t look so sad.’
‘I’m not sad, David.’ I’m just terribly worried.
He picked up my bag. ‘Come on.’
We headed south, David driving, through Vauxhall, Battersea and Putney, then down the A3. Then we saw the signs to Petworth and Pulborough.
‘We’ll be there just in time for dinner.’
‘And what’s the hotel like?’ I asked as we saw a sign to Amberley.
‘Well…it’s a bit old-fashioned.’
‘That’s okay.’ I had visions of a Lutyens-style country house, with mullioned windows and faded chintz. ‘I like old-fashioned things.’
‘Good, because it’s very old-fashioned, actually.’
‘Is it?’
‘Hmm. Extremely.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well—look.’
I stared. Ahead of us now were two crenellated towers flanking a huge portcullis. ‘It’s a castle?’
‘It is. Amberley Castle. It’s really a fortified manor—but the battlements are huge.’
Now we were turning in. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘They still lower the portcullis every night.’
‘And how old is it?’
‘Nine hundred years.’ An enormous, striped lawn swept up to the main entrance. On the right was a lake on which, in the deepening dusk, we could make out a pair of black swans.
We parked, took Herman for a short walk, then went through the circular courtyard into the hotel reception, where there were two suits of armour and a display of lethal-looking pikes.
‘You’re in Arundel, Mr White,’ said the concierge, handing him the key, ‘and Miss Sweet is next door in Amberley. What time would you like dinner?’
David looked at me. I shrugged. ‘In half an hour?’
‘Nine thirty? Very good.’
We followed the concierge up the wide wooden staircase, at the top of which were a pair of brass cannons. The bedroom doors were like church doors, and, as the concierge pushed mine open, I felt my eyes widen. Inside was a huge, mahogany four-poster bed, canopied and curtained in maroon velvet.
David let out a low whistle. ‘Very nice,’ he said as he put down my bag. He peered into the bathroom. ‘Hey, you’ve got a Jacuzzi here. The lap of luxury,’ he added. ‘Not that you deserve anything less.’
David’s room, next door, was similar, with a huge bed with barley-twist posts, but furnished in duck-egg blue. ‘I’m going to have a quick bath—as this is a clean weekend,’ he announced. ‘I’ll knock on your door in twenty minutes.’
As I unpacked my bag, I felt relieved that I’d brought my smartest things. I ran a brush through my hair, put on my white linen dress, with a lilac cashmere cardigan, then tipped a little Femme onto my wrists.
At nine twenty-five David knocked on the door. His hair was still wet and he looked gorgeous in his green linen suit and white tee shirt, and he smelt of bubble bath.
‘Very nice,’ he said appreciatively as he stepped inside. He glanced at the table by the window. ‘Hey—you’ve got a chess set. Shall we play after dinner?’
‘Okay.’
We went across the landing to the restaurant in the Queens Room. ‘The receptionist must have been a bit surprised by us,’ he whispered, as we were shown to our table by the huge stone fireplace. An attractive couple arrive together, but sleep in separate rooms. I shouldn’t think that happens very often.’
‘I don’t suppose many of the other guests would believe it,’ I whispered as I glanced at the barrelled ceiling.
‘Shall we ask them?’
‘No.’
‘Champagne, Miss Behaviour?’
‘That would be wonderful.’ As I studied the menu, I flinched. ‘David, is your client really picking up the bill for this?’ I said softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘My hearing’s not great this evening. I think I’ve still got water in my ears.’
‘I just hope this isn’t all on your tab?’
‘I didn’t catch that.’
‘Please will you let me get dinner?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re saying. It’s hopeless.’
‘It’s lovely here,’ I said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to.’
‘I wanted to.’
‘Did you?’
I smiled. ‘Oh yes.’
After dinner, feeling replete and slightly tipsy, we walked round the grounds with Herman. The moon was so bright that we could see our shadows.
‘This is bliss,’ I said, as we gazed at the ruined battlements silhouetted against the navy sky. We walked down to the lake, watching the moonlight glinting on the water. Then we returned to my room, and played chess.
‘I’ll play white,’ said David.
‘Of course.’
‘Are you any good at this?’ he asked as he moved his pawn forward two squares.
‘No. You’ll beat me in about five moves. Strategic thinking has never been my strong point.’
‘Hmm, I see what you mean. I really wouldn’t get your knight out quite yet, Miranda.’
‘No? Okay, then I’ll do…this…’
‘Yeah… Much better. Hmm…’ he said a few moves later. ‘You’re better than you said you were. But can we finish this tomorrow…?’ He stood up. ‘Because I must get to bed—I have to be up early.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘To bed?’ he smiled.
I felt my face heat up. ‘No. No, I…’
‘Of course you can. In fact, I wish you would.’
‘I meant—can I come with you to work. Tomorrow morning?’
‘If you want, but I’ll be leaving at five.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Really? Well, that would be great. Maybe you could even help me.’
‘Of course I will.’
He bent down and kissed me, then he held his face, for a moment, against mine. I was so attracted to him, I had to resist the urge to to pull him to me. ‘Sleep well, Miss Behaviour.’
‘I’ll try.’
Just before five, David knocked on my door. He was standing there in a white bathrobe with a cup of tea in his hand.
‘If you do want to come, I’m setting off in ten minutes.’
‘Fine,’ I whispered. I brushed my teeth, pulled on my clothes, and put Herman on the lead. Then we loaded David’s equipment into the car and sped towards Petworth. Soon we were driving past the walls of the estate.
‘They’re letting me in a side entrance at five fifteen,’ he said.
‘And what are you taking?’
‘They want one really great shot of the house and park. But it’s got to be absolutely top notch as it’s for an advertising campaign for the English Tourist Board.’
‘How did you get this commission? I didn’t think you did landscapes.’
‘I don’t normally, although I’ve always loved taking them when I have time. But they originally asked Arnie, and, as he was going to be away, he kindly recommended me. It’s all work,’ he added. ‘It’s interesting, plus it’s quite well paid, so I was more than happy to say “yes”.’ We parked by the east gate as the first light began to crack the obsidian of the sky; then we walked through the grounds in the dissolving dark. Ahead of us now was the lake, fringed by willows and thinly shrouded in mist. David skirted it, checking angles, holding his hands up to make an impromptu viewfinder; then he set up the tripod, close to the island.
‘This is the spot,’ he said as he screwed on the camera. It was large and square.
&
nbsp; ‘Aren’t you using your Leica?’
‘No, I’m using a Hasselblad for this. You get a bigger negative which gives greater detail and tonal quality. Could you pass me the Polaroid in the bag there? In the middle compartment.’
‘This thing?’ I held it up.
‘That’s the one.’ I handed it to him, happy to be helpful and involved. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He slid it onto the back of the camera. ‘And have you got a second hand on your watch?’
‘I have.’
‘Then time this for me, okay?’ I heard the deep click of the shutter. Then he slid out the Polaroid and handed it to me. ‘Stick that under your armpit, will you?’
‘Why?’
‘To warm it up—it’ll develop quicker. Then peel it off in exactly…two minutes.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s alkali,’ he warned, ‘so be careful not to burn your hands.’
I did exactly as David asked, then handed it to him. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured appreciatively, as he appraised it. ‘Yes… That’ll do it.’ He glanced at the sky, then squinted through his light meter. ‘We’ll start shooting in about ten minutes or so, as magic hour starts.’
‘Magic hour?’
‘The hour starting just after sunrise, or just before sunset, when the light is at its best. You don’t want the sun to be high—you want it to be low and slanting, as that gives depth and texture, and the colours are warm and soft.’ As David watched the sky, occasionally reading his meter, or trying out different lenses, I saw how passionate he was about his work, and how focussed, to the exclusion of almost everything else.
‘You love this, don’t you?’ I said quietly.
‘Yes,’ he replied, without looking at me. ‘I do. It’s what I live for. I’m glad you’re here to share it,’ he added, as he peered into the viewfinder again.
‘I’m glad I am too.’ And I was. I loved watching him work. I loved the intensity of it. I felt infected by his passion. I found it…yes, romantic. Decidedly. Sexy, even. And now, as the sky began to turn from moonstone to a luminous turquoise, I saw David stiffen with anticipation as the optimum moment approached. As we waited for the light to be perfect, I felt like Bronze Age man waiting for the sun to rise through the arch at Stonehenge. We sat immobile on the springy turf, listening to the geese on the lake, and the trilling of coots. Then we spotted a herd of deer coming over the hill.
‘This is it,’ David whispered. The light was pale gold by now, and the air so pellucid it seemed to sparkle. ‘If I can get them in shot too, this is it.’ He held up his right hand. ‘Keep very still,’ he mouthed. ‘They’re coming our way.’ And sure enough, they came within fifty yards of us, bending their heads to the water to drink. Suddenly a twig cracked under my foot, and the largest stag lifted its head and looked directly at us for about five seconds. I heard the soft click of the shutter, then again, then again. Then the stag moved slowly away.
David circled his left thumb and index finger. ‘Perfect,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody perfect.’
‘Thanks for not barking,’ I said to Herman.
David spent the next half hour shooting from the same vantage point, sometimes moving the camera forwards or backwards a little; then he set up nearer the house. As he finished a roll, he’d hand it to me; I’d seal and label it, then tuck it into a bag in the special pocket of his holdall. By a quarter past eight, he thought he was done.
‘That’s…it,’ he said. ‘What a fantastic morning.’ He tucked the last finished roll into his bag. ‘I know there are at least four or five really great shots there. We’ll go back to the hotel for breakfast, then I’ll do Arundel late this afternoon.’
I thought the early start would have exhausted David, and that, like me, he’d flop. Instead, he seemed energized, and, as we drove back, he talked non-stop about his work—he was on a high.
‘The exhilaration you feel when you know everything’s combined to produce a great picture,’ he said as we approached Amberley. ‘There’s nothing like it. Edward Weston, an American photographer, calls the art of photography “the climax of emotion”, because it’s about finding that split second when the light and what you see in the viewfinder and your own artistic instinct all come together to capture one moment in time, one unrepeatable moment, for eternity. That’s the essence of photography. And that’s the rush I got when that stag looked straight into the lens this morning.’
We had breakfast back at the hotel, then, exhausted, went to our rooms and slept for two hours. I love this, I thought, as I drifted off. I love being with David. Please, please, don’t let this stop.
At lunchtime we walked into Amberley and looked at the village church, then wandered round the graveyard for a few minutes, reading the stones. In memory of Sarah Hunt… Sacred to the memory of Richard Freeman… And now a particular inscription caught my eye. In loving memory of William Galpin, departed this life 10th May 1873, also of his beloved wife Alice, died 19th October 1875. United in life for forty-five years, now together to the end of time. And I was suddenly struck by this morbid—yet strangely comforting—thought, that I’d like to be buried with David. And yet I’d known him for only six weeks.
We went back to the hotel and finished our game of chess, then, at half past four we went to Arundel. David set up just below the castle.
‘I’m using a wide angle lens,’ he explained, ‘in order to compensate for the slightly giddying perspective. The light’s quite nice now,’ he added, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the sky. ‘There’s this lovely pinky-gold quality to it. Can you see?’
‘Yes, I can. So have we hit magic hour yet?’
‘Almost.’ He peered into the viewfinder. ‘I’m going to take my time. I want to get it just…right.’ He looked at the sky again, then bent his head to the camera once more.
‘Okay, here we go.’ Suddenly, a flock of crows took flight, and I heard the click of the shutter.
‘Yes,’ I heard him say as he clicked again. ‘Yes…yes. God, that was fantastic,’ he exclaimed softly. ‘The uprush of the birds, all that movement, against the solidity of the stone, and that glossy black against the gold.’ He took a whole roll from the same spot, then he unscrewed the camera and we walked down the hill to find another vantage point. I handed him the Polaroid again.
‘You’re a very good assistant.’
‘I enjoy it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s interesting. And you make me see things I wouldn’t have seen before. Like what colour the light is, for example—or the shape of the clouds, or which way the wind’s blow ing.’
‘But there’s a lot of hanging about with photography,’ he said as he peered into the viewfinder. ‘Don’t you find that boring?’
‘No, I don’t. Because I’m hanging around with you.’
He didn’t look at me, but I saw him smile.
By now it was seven thirty, and David was satisfied that he’d got enough shots.
‘I’ve taken four rolls, from three different spots. So we’ll go back now. What time do you want to eat?’
‘I don’t know? Eight thirty? I’d like to have a quick bath first.’
‘Sure.’
When we got back I filled the Jacuzzi, climbed in, poured in a tiny amount of bubble bath, then pressed the button to start the whirlpool. It was slightly complicated as it was an electronic panel, with icons to illustrate the various functions, but eventually I found the right one. And I was just leaning back into the jets of water, letting them massage my shoulder blades, when I heard my mobile.
‘Damn.’ I turned off the taps, then padded across the floor and flipped the phone open.
‘Miranda!’ It was my mother. ‘It’s about the llamas.’
‘I’ve told Daisy about the hen-party idea, Mum. She’s just having a think about it—she’ll let you know in a few days.’
‘No, I wasn’t ringing about that. I just wanted to tell you that I think I might have cracked the boys’ problems long term: there’s something which, if it takes off, should k
eep them gainfully employed during the week.’
‘And what is it?’
She told me. I rolled my eyes. ‘It sounds absolutely nuts. Honestly, Mum. Whoever heard of such a thing? Llama hen parties are one thing, but that’s just ridiculous!’
‘No, I think it’s a wonderful idea. And so, I may say, does your father, and—ooh, what’s that funny noise in the background?’ she suddenly asked.
‘Oh, it’s just the Jacuzzi.’
‘But you haven’t got a Jacuzzi.’
‘I know, but I’m staying in a hotel.’
‘Are you? Where?’
‘In Amberley.’
‘What? Amberley Castle? How lovely, darling, but why didn’t you tell me—you could have come over. It’s not far.’
‘Oh, I, er…’ I didn’t want to explain. ‘I had to see a client, and so you see—’ I glanced at the bathroom. ‘Oh…fuck…’
‘Miranda? Miranda?’
A tide of glistening white froth was advancing across the floor. I dashed into the bathroom, and, as the Jacuzzi jets roared away, the bubbles kept rising, pouring extravagantly over the edge of the bath, like the foam in an over-filled glass of champagne. I groped desperately for the switch, but it was submerged, and, when I finally located it, I couldn’t see which bit of it to press. And still there was the noise of the jets, and the bubbles were cascading over the side, covering the floor, and moving out of the bathroom now and over the bedroom carpet like a tsunami.
‘Oh shit!’ Panic-struck, I pressed the switch again and again, but still the jets were roaring away, whipping up the mass of white foam. I grabbed a towel, wrapped it round me and knocked on David’s door. After a moment he appeared in his bathrobe.
‘What’s up?’
‘The Jacuzzi,’ I panted. ‘I can’t turn it off.’
He came into the bathroom. ‘Oh bloody hell. Where’s the switch?’
‘There! On that side,’ I said.
He groped with it for a few seconds, as I tried, vainly, to repel the progress of the bubbles across the bedroom.
‘I can’t see how to do it—it’s not like the one on my bath and—oh shit, this is awful—ah!’ Suddenly there was silence. I clapped my hand to my chest in an ecstasy of relief.