The Dead Ex(60)

‘Very curious, aren’t you?’

I shrug. ‘It’s part of a photographer’s job to know the subject.’

My eyes deliberately turn to a picture on his desk. It shows a pretty young woman with long dark hair, leaning confidently against a doorway, oozing with confidence.

‘Is that your wife?’ I ask, even though I know it’s not.

‘That’s a bit of a presumption.’ His face returns to me. Sharp and keen. ‘Actually, that’s my daughter.’

I hold my breath. ‘By your previous wife?’

Instantly I know I’ve gone too far. His mouth tightens. Eyes harden. ‘Thought you were a photographer. Not a journalist.’

‘I am,’ I say quickly. ‘But our tutor says that we need to know about our subjects in order to capture their souls.’

He puts his head to one side as if considering this. ‘What an intriguing concept.’

I click. This is exactly the expression I’ve been looking for.

‘Let me see that,’ he demands.

‘My tutor says it’s not always a good idea –’

‘To hell with your tutor.’

He holds out his hand for my camera. I have a distinct feeling that if I don’t give it to him, he will snatch it from me.

‘You need to press this button,’ I explain. ‘Then you can go through the frames.’

We are standing so close that I can smell him. It’s a combination of lemon and something stronger. An intriguing mixture, rather like the tweed jacket and the jeans he’s wearing along with the formal shiny brogues.

His hands brush mine. It feels deliberate on his part.

‘You’re good for someone so young,’ he says slowly. ‘We might actually consider using these for our next brochure.’

‘You’d be welcome to buy them from me. They’d look good on your blank office walls.’

He shoots me another look. I am about to apologize and say that of course I will allow him to use them free of charge. But he gets in first.

‘Ambitious, aren’t you?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

Something happens then. It’s hard to describe. But there is a definite reaction there. Nothing visible. Nothing audible. The kind that only someone like me, who has had to learn to read others, might notice.

‘Actually,’ he says, rubbing his chin. It’s as if he has an itch and is massaging it into submission. ‘I’d like to know more about you, Helen. May I take you out for dinner tonight?’

‘No thanks.’

But inside I am jumping up and down with excitement. Isn’t this just what I wanted?

‘Is that it?’ He puts his head to one side, as if flirting. ‘Aren’t you even going to give me an excuse, like a previous engagement or washing your hair?’

‘No.’ I pick up my camera.

‘You don’t care for my company.’

‘That’s not true either.’ I glance at the picture of the daughter. ‘I … it just doesn’t feel very professional.’

‘Then take it as part of your induction, if you like. I’ll meet you here in the foyer at, say, seven. OK?’

‘We’ll see.’

I am twenty minutes late on purpose. Treat them mean. Keep them keen. It’s a piece of advice I was given years ago.

And it’s worth it. David looks relieved to see me even though there is a touch of annoyance there too.

‘Sorry,’ I say smoothly. ‘I decided I’d go home to change.’

David takes in my short black skirt and boxy denim jacket. I sense his approval.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Deptford.’

He does one of those sideways nods as if recognizing it’s what politicians might call ‘an area of diversification’ but doesn’t say anything.

‘The car’s outside,’ he says, gently touching my elbow. Dirty old man. Doesn’t he care I am at least twenty-five years younger?

I’d expected a chauffeur but instead, he leads me to a two-seater red sports car parked round the corner. ‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ I say. ‘Wow, the seats are low.’

He seems to find this funny. ‘Just what I thought when I bought my first.’

This man must be loaded. But it’s not his money I’m after. He drives carefully, constantly checking his rear-view mirror, almost as if he’s expecting someone to be following him. I think of the security guards back at the office. Is this man scared of something?

I try to make conversation but he cuts me short. ‘I like to concentrate on the road.’

We pass Pimlico Tube station and then the Tate Britain. The river runs alongside us. It looks prettier in the dark, lit up like this. I usually walk in London or take buses but David drives through each street with a sureness that can only come from experience. This man knows what he is doing. That’s reassuring in one way but scary in another. We pull up on a corner. A man in uniform is waiting for us. David opens the passenger door for me (how gallant!) and then tosses him the car keys.

He touches my arm briefly, indicating a red brick house that, as we get closer, turns out to be a restaurant even though it doesn’t have any shiny signs outside. ‘Do you like steak?’