Photographic, page 32
A couple of days after their arrival back home, Ian was on his computer when Tor messaged him.
Tor69: these bastards driving me nuts
Eire13: stan?
Tor69: interfering with the creative process etc
Eire13: signed contract
Tor69: want to handcuff artist, make schlock
Eire13: indie movie better for you
Tor69: why can’t I get my bloody picture way I want it shown in theaters everywhere? if not afraid of honest sexuality why hypocrisy?
Eire13: things are changing, making the picture you want to make anyway, aren’t you?
Tor69: ya, but they give me so much trouble you wouldn’t believe they think it’s going to roll nc-17 if I keep cut way I want it (still rough cut they’re so damn anxious already predicting this) and will cut profits up to 30 or 40 percent.
Eire13: got to concern you as well.
Tor69: fuck, I’m already rich man I make film I want to make. first nc-17 film everyone wants to see has to see and change fucking stigma forever. how about that? will show hypocritical ingrates what real effort by great talent can do
Eire13: least you go forward with firm grasp of your limitations.
Tor69: as americans say, bite me
Eire13: leave that to the press.
Tor69: too busy sniffing around dead corpse of your reputation. ha ha
Eire13: ha
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
JANE AND TAM were out for the afternoon, at a party for one of Tam’s friends. Their absence provided an opportunity for a téte-a-téte, arranged by Ian.
He hadn’t believed Beezer for a second, about Marta being the source for the scandal. If Angus were capable of living a double life all these years, playing a subterfuge on everyone who trusted him, he was as easily capable of selling the story and blaming Marta for it. Beezer had been the one on location. Marta had been upfront. Beezer was conniving.
They lazed about the kitchen in the afternoon sun, Marta and Ian. An unlikely reunion. She’d been happy enough to be flown in at his suggestion. Marta had something Ian wanted. Time at home had given Ian and Jane the chance to fill in some of the blanks during the past few months. One of these was the fate of the pictures of Tam and Jane from the day of Marta’s accident. Jane thought Marta had kept some.
Then there were other photos, ones it was harder for Jane to tell Ian about. The day she’d been another person: wild, wounded, and angry, and Marta all too present with her camera. Jane told Ian she didn’t know what the photos were exactly, she’d been too undone at the time, but Marta had left with camera intact when she threw her out.
Without even seeing them, Ian knew he didn’t want them published. Not for his sake, but for Jane’s. Jane had described to him what she could remember of that day. When she told him what she’d been wearing, one thing he knew for sure. The dress was transparent. The only other time she had worn it had been after they were first married, to a charity auction, and she had a sheer long slip underneath. If Jane were an actress, the situation would be different. In many photo shoots, an actress nearly nude was de rigueur. It only upped resale value, negotiations, the ante for their careers.
The pictures of a non-famous wife of a celebrity, on the other hand, normally wouldn’t make a ripple on the waters, but now the case was different. The scandal was full-bore, making everything concerning the Reillys fresh fodder. Secondly, Ian sensed Marta had a personal stake in exposing Jane, or bringing her to the public’s attention, that he didn’t wholly understand, despite his guess at her feelings for him. He sensed a bond between them, but couldn’t trace its origin or meaning. He entertained the idea that Marta wanted to make Jane famous. A better word might be infamous. For what end he couldn’t fathom, other than to show him up as a cad, with Jane, the innocent wife, a foil or a dupe.
He was rather anxious to see the pictures himself. They sounded unusual, from what Jane had dropped about that day. He had told her he was going to get the pictures back. He didn’t announce his speculations about Marta’s feelings.
Marta and Ian sat drinking coffee, the preliminaries before the first bout Marta didn’t even know was coming, Ian thought about his wife on film. Jane had a face that drew him in, invited him to examine it, understand its planes and angles. To look at pictures of her was to discover the eccentricities that made it work as a whole, beyond the stark bone structure, the deep-set eyes, dark silver glimmers shining out of stone.
When they met, once he saw her work, eyes wide and unprotected as she did his makeup, revealing herself to him unconsciously, he fell for her in one stroke. He studied and longed to touch those hard planes and valleys of her face, the slopes of her body. She reminded him of home.
He put his cup back in its saucer, the heat from the sip he’d taken warming him inside.
Marta lolled back in her chair, tipping it dangerously. “So we’re all friends, when I can do something for you.” She thought he had called her for an interview, though he hadn’t said a word regarding what it was really about. She hoped for much more than an interview.
Ian’s grave, still face. She searched it, memorized it. He looked at her, and seemingly through her, until she scrunched her head into her shoulders a bit.
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it like?”
“I do like you, Marta.”
She huffed and looked away, her neck flushing.
“It’s true. I’ve become quite fond of you, for some inexplicable reason.”
She glanced back at him, unable to move for a moment in time, watching the revelation of his easy smile, and she started to laugh. Tears squeezed out of the squeezed-up corners of her eyes as she let out great chest-shaking cries. His eyebrows drew together a bit in concern, but he smiled more widely at her, and she didn’t forget to wipe her eyes, because she loved his smile so, and he joined her in her laughter, but with a head-shaking amazement.
When she had calmed down, with only the occasional hiccup, she said, “I can smell you.”
He frowned and lifted one arm to check.
“You’ve had sex today, haven’t you?” She wiped her eyes, looking at him.
He studied his right boot. “Yeah.” Expression open, his eyes met hers, searching.
She looked down then. “I thought so.” Her voice neutral. I’m like a scientist, she thought.
“I am married, Marta.”
“Things going well in that department, are they? I suppose they must be.”
“We’re doing better.”
“I suppose the sex helps.” She couldn’t stop herself.
“It does.” He said it in the calm way he had. “That it does.”
There was a tension in the air between them, unacknowledged but felt. She wondered if she dared speak of it. Why didn’t he say something, do something? Either act or take the final shot, put the dumb beast out of its misery. “You’re so fucking honest. That’s your downfall. You know that, don’t you?” She watched him lean back in his chair, as she had in hers.
He used his deadly weapon, the one that did things to her, that could make her cry, make her say things, want to throw herself on the floor and beg. He looked into her eyes, knowing her, and he smiled just a little, a smile for her, no one else. She could feel there were only the two of them, and everything else was a lie. Because he made dreams true.
“There isn’t much of summer left.” His raspy voice was soothing. “Where’d it go?”
This was no special assignation. Not even an interview. It’s telepathy, she thought, and laughed again, a few more tears trickling out. When the following silence had added its leaden weights to a pack heavier than she could bear, she said:
“It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Ian.” It took all the strength she had. “Even for such a short time. I won’t forget you.” She sniffed, tried to disguise it as allergies.
“Thank you.” He cocked his head. “You’ve taught me quite a lot, Marta.”
She thought he might smile, but he didn’t.
“It would be nice if we could see each other again.” Her accent fell into the cadence of her early youth. There was that connection between them, too, a U.K. childhood. Now she clung to any link, holding to a bit of flotsam as the ship sailed out of sight.
“You never know. Things do have a way of coming back around.”
“Would you recognize me, if we did meet, in some public place?” She held one hand over her eyes, blinking at the table.
“I’m not so fickle as that, luv. You might have learned that from Jane.”
“I have the photos.” The last bit of business between them. She took out a manilla envelope. Memory cards, every existing print, the whole shebang, it was all inside. She’d deleted her hard drive copies. For once, she’d played it straight. “In here are the ones I kept back from Jane when we did the interview. They’re very innocent. Just Jane and Tam playing. Would have brought me a pretty packet, but there you are. When I like someone.” She stopped. “Then the others.” She hesitated. “I hate to give them up. They’re quite something. Some of the best stuff I’ve done. Who’d have thought it would’ve been in someone’s bathroom, no lighting, and a reluctant subject. But they’re just so…I don’t know. I guess you’ll see for yourself.”
“How did you know what I wanted?”
“Even millionaires don’t send private planes for the likes of me without a very good reason. I got three A-levels; just ask my Mum. It could only be the pictures. I’m being straight with you, Ian. Just so you know, there’s not a single other paparazzi in the business who wouldn’t keep his own set on hard drive, flash drive, somewhere, for his own protection or future aggrandizement. So you do have something to thank me for.”
“I do thank you, Marta. Truly.”
He held out his hand to her and she clasped it. She held it and looked at their hands on the table, and she said, “It’s all been worth it, to meet a man like you.”
He squeezed her hand and withdrew his. She left hers resting on the table. After an silent moment, she said, “The only thing I might ask is maybe sometime…”
“Yes?”
“If I ever do make my way out…get away from the money and start doing the arty stuff, if you might let me have one of those for a show. I could blow one up, or use a head shot. I think they’re amazing. It’s interesting, because she isn’t really…”
“What?”
“Well…pretty. In the usual way. That can be so boring, you know. She’s wild underneath. Different. I know why you chose her. I didn’t quite understand, at first. But you have to admit, your life would be easier with someone else, who wasn’t so naive.” Marta took her hand and wobbled it back and forth. “I’m better suited. You like honesty. I’m honest. I could handle anything. Any kind of life. I’ll be around, you know, if things don’t work out. I like Jane, but sometimes things don’t work out. It’s no one’s fault.”
“I’m figuring her out as I go. I like…” he wobbled his hand back and forth; made a motion as if he were catching a firefly and brought it to his chest. “But you’ve made a mistake, Marta. It’s me you’ve described. Not Jane. She’s as even as they come. It takes a depth charge to blow her up. I’m very lucky.” He smiled to himself, thinking of her.
Her time was up.
Marta grimaced by way of a smile, allowed herself to be guided outside to her car. He opened her door for her; then in one breathtaking moment before she got in, when she was wedged in the corner of the open door—he swept her into a quick, hard, hug—then kissed her: once on the left cheek, once on the right.
The next thing she could remember she was driving away, toward the gates, and she felt a faint imprint on each cheekbone, where he’d marked her with the sign of his approbation, a sign of belonging. She knew he would open the gates for her just as she approached, at the right moment. As she rolled closer to the entrance, the symbolism of the intertwining Celtic knots struck her for the first time, like a blow to the stomach. The knots were two, essences bound up together in endless swirls and concentricities, and what they stood for she did not doubt, even as the blush faded from his kisses.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
AS IAN ATTACKED the defunct garden out back, hoeing up the matted weeds and grass that had grown over the deep rich soil, he saw Jane come out of the barn with a pitchfork in her hand. He paused in his labors to watch her, in her tied shirt and cut-off shorts, tromp across the gravel drive and through the waving uncut grass to where he stood. She had large suede gloves on her hands. Propping the pitchfork in the dirt, she leaned on it, regarding the large patch of overgrown earth. With a smile and a good-humored lift of the eyebrows, she hefted the pitchfork and dug into a corner of the earth, untangling strands of growth from the dirt. He watched her a while, then returned to his work with the hoe.
After about an hour they’d accomplished a good portion of the garden dethatching. They had worked from opposite sides; about a third in the center remained to be done. They took a break, again leaning on their garden implements at first, then by unspoken agreement taking a seat a little away from the large pile of vegetation they had pulled up. It felt good to sit down, even on the hard ground.
Propped on arms outstretched behind them, they looked off in the direction of the lake. Little glints were visible through the white oak screening it.
“I have Bourbon Street in September.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m wondering if either I could get out of it, or if you and Tam could come with me.”
“Oh. Gee.”
“It’s one or the other.” He rolled forward and sat cross-legged “I don’t know which is a better option.”
“Tam will be in second grade. Are you thinking for her to go to school somewhere else, or what?”
“New Orleans. A tutor or we could find a school, maybe, if we think that’s better. She’s pretty darn adaptable.”
“I know. I don’t want to take advantage of that, though.”
“Yeah, but Jane, it’s more important for us to be together than for us to worry about scarring Tam by moving her around.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes, I do. And I say that as the child of parents who moved us around. It would have been better to be in one place, but parents are more important. You and me. We’re what she’s got.”
Jane had a little stick and she scraped lines in the bits of dirt visible through the silky grass. “That sounds right. But when she’s sixteen and needs psychotherapy I’m sending her straight to you.”
“Oh, no. Blame equally shared in this nuthouse.”
She pressed the point of the stick into her palm, hard, not looking at him. “I know it can’t be how it was. That’s unacceptable. So together has to be better. I’m scared. I’m really scared to leave here. I don’t know what it will be like every day, you know? But I’m more afraid of every day being the same, and going along numb, than being scared and finding out what happens now I’ve started to feel things again.”
“I know. We’ll take a chance.” He paused for a moment, squinting off toward the lake. “After I’ve fulfilled this, I don’t have anything concrete I’m signed on for yet, since that Western fell through, so I have options. I can decide how much I work. We can really change things if we want to. I can work one time a year or only in the summer, so we can all travel together and she won’t have to miss school. Of course, I’m counting eggs here. I don’t know how my career’s going to be affected. I might need to follow up on my old dream, and start up a playhouse. Develop and grow a repertory company. I’d love that.”
“It’s not movies.”
“No, it’s not movies; but movies aren’t the stage. There’s nothing like rehearsal. The luxury of that, when it’s your own company, being able to do it right, prepare the whole thing right, choose the material. It would be a joy.”
Jane broke her concentrated stare at the ground and looked up at him. She nodded. She broke the stick in half and laid down the pieces. “I don’t mind being a little scared. It means the unknown. It means I don’t know what tomorrow is going to be. It means my circle is expanding. It reaches wider than I ever thought it could. London showed me I could be comfortable there, with Tam. She could fit in and be happy there, and I could, too. Our circle of comfort could reach that far and wide. All the way across the globe. It made me wonder. Maybe wherever we are, it just reaches out beyond us, out in every direction, like this invisible forcefield. It’s a ray of joy outward, around the world and back again, and it zooms as quick as thought, keeping us safe, like gravity keeps us pulled close to the earth. It encircles us like a band of light.” She shrugged. “It makes me feel good to think of it that way.”
Ian took the hand where she’d pressed the point of the stick and kissed the indentation in her palm. “It’s a beautiful thought. Maybe that’s why they called people “stars” in the first place. Because they seemed to radiate light.”
“Speaking of radiating light and joy, time to go inside and see what Miss Tamsin Seraphim is up to.”
“Before we do, there’s something I want to give you.”
“Oh?”
She pulled something out of the back pocket of her jeans pocket. It was a crumpled piece of paper. She handed it to him and looked away. He frowned in puzzlement, at her awkwardness in giving it to him. He blinked at the handwritten words on the paper.
