A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(22)
“Don’t plan on a lengthy lie-in,” Deborah told the dog, who watched her mournfully, making her eyes go diamond-shaped in that way she had when she wanted to look especially pathetic. “If you don’t go out right now for me, Dad shall take you on a march to the river. You do know that, don’t you?”
Peach seemed willing to risk it. She deliberately lowered her head to her paws and let her eyes sink closed. Deborah said, “Very well,” and shook out the cat’s daily allotment of food, placing it carefully out of the reach of the dog who, she knew, would appropriate it the instant her back was turned, feigned sleep notwithstanding. She made her tea and carried it upstairs, feeling her way in the dark.
It was frigid in the study. She eased the door shut and lit the gas fire. In a folder on one of the bookshelves she’d been assembling a set of small Polaroids that represented what she wanted to photograph next.
She carried this to the desk, where she sat in Simon’s worn leather chair and began to flip through the pictures. She thought about Dorothea Lange and wondered if she herself had what it took to capture in a single face that was the right face one unforgettable image that could define an era.
She had no 1930s dust bowl America whose hopelessness etched itself on the countenance of a nation, though. And to be successful in capturing an image of this, her own age, she knew she would have to think beyond the box that had long been defined by that remarkable aching arid face of a woman, accompanied by her children and a generation of despair. She thought she was up to at least half of the work: the thinking part of it. But she wondered if the rest was what she really wanted to do: spend another twelve months on the street, take another ten or twelve thousand photographs, always attempting to look beyond the mobile-phone-dominated fast-paced world that distorted the truth of what was really there. Even if she managed all that, what would it gain her in the long run? At the moment, she simply didn’t know.
She sighed and placed the pictures on the desk. She wondered not for the first time if China had chosen the wiser path. Commercial photography paid the rent, bought food, and put clothes on one’s body. It didn’t necessarily have to be a soulless endeavour. And despite the fact that Deborah was in the fortunate position of not having to pay the rent, buy the food, or put clothes upon anyone, the very fact of that caused her to want to make a contribution somewhere else. If she wasn’t needed to assist in their economic situation, then at least she could use her talent to contribute to the society in which they lived. But could turning to commercial photography actually do that? she wondered. And what kind of commercial pictures would she take? At least China’s pictures related to her interest in architecture. She’d actually set out to be a photographer of buildings, and professionally doing precisely what she had set out to do was not in any way selling out, not as Deborah would consider herself selling out if she took the easier route and went commercial. And if she did sell out, what on earth would she take pictures of? Toddlers’ birthday parties? Rock stars being released from gaol?
Gaol...Lord. Deborah groaned. She rested her forehead in her hands and closed her eyes. How important was any of this, measured against China’s situation? China, who had been there in Santa Barbara, a caring presence when she needed one most. I’ve seen the two of you together, Debs. If you tell him the truth, he’ll take the next plane back. He’ll want to marry you. He wants to already. But not like this, Deborah had told her. It can’t be like this. So China had made the necessary arrangements. China had taken her to the necessary clinic. Afterwards, China had sat by her bed so when she opened her eyes, the first person she saw was China herself, simply waiting. Then saying, “Hey, girl,” with such an expression of kindness that Deborah thought in the span of her life she would never again have such a friend.
That friendship was a call to action. She could not allow China to believe, any longer than possible, that she was alone. But what to do was the question, because—
A floor board creaked somewhere in the corridor outside the study. Deborah raised her head. Another board creaked. She got up, crossed the room, and pulled open the door.
In the diffused light that came from a lamp still lit outside on the early morning street, Cherokee River was removing his jacket from the radiator, where Deborah had placed it to dry overnight. His intention seemed unmistakable.
“You can’t be leaving,” Deborah said incredulously. Cherokee whirled round. “Jeez. You scared the hell out of me. Where’d you come from like that?”
Deborah indicated the study door, where behind her the lamp shone on Simon’s desk and the gas fire dipped and bobbed a soft glow against the high ceiling. “I was up early. Sorting through some old pictures. But what are you doing? Where are you going?”
He shifted his weight, ran his hand through his hair in that characteristic gesture of his. He indicated the stairs and the floors above. “Couldn’t sleep. I swear I won’t be able to again—anywhere—till I get someone over to Guernsey. So I figured the embassy...”
“What time is it?” Deborah examined her wrist to discover she’d not put on her watch. She hadn’t glanced at the clock in the study, but from the gloom outside—even exacerbated by the insufferable rain—she knew it couldn’t be much later than six. “The embassy won’t be open for hours.”
“I figured there might be a line or something. I want to be first.”