I almost missed it. Best
opportunity I’ve had for months and I was half asleep in
my car, fretting over unpaid bills.
I heard the thump
of her falling, but didn’t register it. It was the familiar
sound of her cursing that clued me in and I looked up to
see I’d got a winner. Jessie Payne, stark boob naked, and
no-one in sight to take her but myself.
She was in a bad
way. I could see that as I advanced on her, camera clicking.
I circled round to get a full frontal, took some close ups
while she struggled upright, then backed off to pan out and
get some background: the street, her red front door with
its famous number 69 glistening in the rain. OK, so I backed
off to steer clear of her, too. She could be vicious when
she was out of it—and whilst I could have stopped her wasted
frame with my little finger, I didn’t want her getting hold
of my camera.
When I’d covered
every angle, I took out my phone.
“Operator,” a
woman answered. “Fire, police or ambulance?”
“Ambulance,” I
said as usual. “Jessie Payne’s off her head outside her house.
Hypothermia, toxic poisoning, getting run over—you name it.”
“Stay on the line
please. Your name, sir?”
I broke the connection.
I’d stay until I heard the siren, but I didn’t have time
for more. It was just gone four a.m. and I needed to get
these photos to the highest bidder.
It was near seven
when I finally turned into my driveway. I pulled up to the
garage, turned off the engine and sat there, too tired to
get out of the clapped-out Ford I’d bought two months back.
“Finally discovered
the Lotus is too flashy, eh?” Ted had joked. “Celebs getting
jealous when they see you coming?” It was an assumption I
encouraged by keeping the garage door shut and the Fiesta
in the drive. The only people who knew the Lotus wasn’t inside
were my wife and the kids, and only my wife knew why. Just
like she knew why we no longer had a 42” flat screen TV or
Bosch music centre. But even she didn’t know about the house—and
if I could get a few more photos like tonight’s, I was hoping
it would stay that way.
One of the few
advantages of a Ford Fiesta however, is that it’s too uncomfortable
to sleep in, and after a few minutes I got out and stumbled
round the side to the back door. A thin line of pale grey
was just beginning to lighten the sky, birds were chirping
in the damp air and I paused at the corner to absorb the
moment, feeling almost good. If I was lucky, I thought, I
could even grab a cup of tea before the kids came tumbling
down for breakfast.
Instead I found
myself pushed up hard against the drain pipe, face crushed
into pebbledash, someone’s hand tight around my throat.
“Wha-a-a,” I said.
I wasn’t too worried.
I imagined this was just a warning—Mickey’s pals reminding
me that the debt still hadn’t been paid. They knew as well
as anyone there was nothing to be gained from doing me serious
harm. I was in the hands of debt collectors, for christ’s
sake, not drug barons. But as my eyes got past the spots
and I saw his face, I changed my mind: I’d never seen this
guy before.
He was medium
height, medium build and medium age with an office worker’s
face—all metal spectacles and furrowed brow. But what he
lacked in muscle he made up for in rage.
“Le-me-go,” I
said, my breathing getting harder. “Tel-me-wha-u-wan.”
“I’ll tell you
what I want, you cold-hearted bastard,” he hissed. “I’ll
tell you what I want all right.”
But he didn’t.
Instead he stood there, staring at me, until I went light-headed
and my legs started to buckle.
“Shit.” He let
go and half-supported my fall onto hands and knees, then
stood over me while I gulped in air. “Shit. I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to…”
“Didn’t mean to
what?” I staggered upright, hands ready, head poised to nut
him. But instead of trying to attack me again, he took a
furtive look round that would have been funny if he hadn’t
just killed my sense of humour, and said:
“We need to talk.”
God help me if
it wasn’t contagious. Looking back towards the kitchen door,
holding my breath in case the light snapped on, I murmured, “Not
now. Not here. I’ve got kids.”
“I’ve got kids,” the
man said bitterly. “But no-one gives a shit about them.” A
look came into his eyes. It was hard to see clearly in the
dawn light, but I’m a professional photographer. I make my
living out of the human face—or used to before the mobile
phone cowboys flooded the scene—and I trusted what I saw.
This guy’s eyes had a touch of madness in them, along with
an edge of desperation that made me wish him very far away.
“How about lunch
time,” I tried. “Down the Queen Anne.”
He shook his head. “I
need to talk to you now. Here. In private.” Adding, bizarrely, “I
want to do a deal.”
“Ha.” I rubbed
my throat. “Strange way to go about it.”
A light snapped
on round the corner. Ella had come down to start breakfast—and
Ella’s ears were of the sensitive kind. It would be better
to humour the guy than have her witness another scene. I
jerked my head back the way I’d come. “All right then, but
not here. Come into the garage.”
The garage was
mostly empty, the space released by the Lotus not yet filled
with broken furniture, old toys and the other junk I was
doing my best to keep at bay. He looked round, distracted.
“Where’s the fancy
car, then?”
“In for a service.
Now what do you want?”
“I want…” He stopped,
his rage suddenly uncertain. “That is, I want you to…” He
closed his eyes then snapped them open and stared into my
face. “I want you to help me kidnap my daughter.”
I know you’re
not supposed to laugh at lunatics, but I couldn’t help it.
When I’d finished I perched my bum on the workbench, spread
my arms so that my right hand fell near the wrench, just
in case—and prepared to enjoy the show.
“And who’s your
daughter?” I asked, “when she’s at home.”
“She’s never at
home,” he answered, “as you bloody well know. My daughter’s
Jessie Payne.”
That wiped the
smile off my face.
“I was going to
do it last night,” he continued. “She was there on her own
for a bloody miracle. All the other filth had left by three.
It would have been perfect. Except for you—bloody Nat Smith—fucking
paparazzo extraordinaire—the man who always gets his shot.
The man who can’t leave my daughter alone. And now it’s too
late and she’s back in hospital again and who knows when
I’ll get another chance—and it’s all your sodding fault.”
I blinked. I’d
been accused of a lot of things in my time, but preventing
a kidnapping was a new one. That, though, wasn’t the only
odd thing going on here.
“Let me get this
straight. You’re Jessie Payne’s father?”
He didn’t answer,
which was good enough for me.
“You’re the guy
who walked out on her when she was just a kid? The estranged
father who ran off with another woman, leaving her and her
family—your family—without two pennies to rub together?
The arsehole who wanted nothing to do with her? And now you
want to kidnap her?”
He didn’t seem
disturbed by my way of putting things and suddenly it made
sense. An arsehole like him would be interested now she had
money. He probably wanted to force it out of her before she
died and left it all to the local horse dealer. But why the
hell did he think I’d play along? Then, before I opened my
mouth to ask him, that made sense too.
“You think I’d
do anything, don’t you?” Now it was my turn to get angry. “You
think we’re all just scum—paparazzi filth with no morals
at all. You think I’d—”
“Morals,” he interrupted. “Morals.
You have the—the nerve to stand there talking about
morals, when only three hours ago you were taking advantage
of an innocent girl. Instead of helping her in her hour of
need, you were taking photos of her—of her fanny.
Don’t pretend to me you’re not the scum of the earth. My
god, I’ve seen gutter rats with more integrity.”
“I called the
ambulance.”
“Oh, and that
makes it so much better.”
“Yeah, it does,
actually.” He wasn’t going to get me on the defensive. “Or
did you think I’d just let her die on the pavement?”
“And lose the
fatted goose? That’s not morals, you—you…” He couldn’t find
a word bad enough. “The only pure thing about you is your
self-interest.”
“Whereas you’re
white as the driven snow. Only out for her good.”
“Precisely.”
I sighed. This
was going nowhere. “Whatever.”
“Look.” He shut
his eyes again and massaged his face. I knew how he felt. “Look,” he
repeated. “We’ve got off on the wrong footing. Let’s start
again.” He looked around and spotted the garden chairs folded
neatly against the side wall. “May I?”
I waved my hand
expansively. “Be my guest.” So long as I got some photos,
I didn’t mind what he did. The more surreal the better.
“My name is Thomas
Wainwright,” he started. “Not Ted Payne. And if you think
I abandoned my kids by choice…” He broke off. “What do you
care? Why let the truth interfere with a good story—all those
lies that sell so well.”
“My camera doesn’t
lie.” I was touchy about that one. “I didn’t make her walk
around outside in the nude. I didn’t make her off her head
on drugs.”
“Didn’t you?” He
fumbled inside his jacket and for a second I thought he was
packing a gun. I picked up the wrench and started forward.
“No!” He pulled
out his hand looking scared and surprised, as if I’d no reason
to be wary. “A photo. That’s all. Inside my wallet.”
“I’ll get it.” This
guy was too much of a loose cannon for me to take any chances,
but it felt weird putting my hand inside his overcoat. They
did it in the movies all the time, but the movies never made
it seem intimate—vulnerable—they didn’t give you the warmth
of his body, the pounding of his heart. Christ, the next
thing I knew he’d be having a heart attack. I handed the
wallet over to him, backed off and put the wrench down. I’d
called enough ambulances for one day.
He took out the
photo. It was of a young woman—dark hair, good skin, pretty
smile—a younger Jessie maybe, or an alternative reality version
where she was healthy and fit.
“My daughter Anna,” he
explained. “Anna isn’t famous. That’s because she’s a maths
genius.” His voice went proud as he said it. “Maths is not
a sexy subject. The press leave Anna alone. Anna gets on
with her life. Anna has not been pushed into drugs and anorexia
and self-harm. Anna is all right.”
He grinned at
me, a twisted sneer that I could see clearly now the light
was beginning to filter in. “Still think you’re not responsible?”
I tensed to answer
then relaxed again. What was the point? What did he care
that if I didn’t do it, someone else would, that we all have
to make a living?
“So, you’re her
dad.” I brought him back to the point. “And now…?”
He shook his head.
His smile was bitter. “Seeing your dad again after seven
years doesn’t make for an instant rapport. Doesn’t make you
run to him for sanctuary when the going gets tough. I thought
I could use my living abroad—the fact you guys didn’t know
me—to give her shelter from the storm. I thought I could
be her safety net…”
I nodded, starting
to understand. “Only your safety net was full of holes.”
He shrugged. “I
hadn’t calculated how vicious it would get. How remorseless.
How impossible it is to give fifty photographers the slip
at once. Especially when she’s out of it—which she always
is these days—pigheadedly determined to ruin everything,
just like her mother…” He stopped, took a deep breath. “So
now, when I’m trying to help her, she’ll have nothing to
do with me. I never dreamt of that.” He stared at me. “And
I hadn’t calculated on you.”
I held his gaze. “What
she needs,” I suggested finally, “is rehab.”
“If she stayed
there,” he nodded, with a ghost of a smile. “Which she doesn’t.
She’s been to rehab ten times in the last two years. I don’t
think that’s quite how it’s supposed to work.”
It was a fair
point. “So this kidnap…What exactly did you have in mind?”
“That you turn
a blind eye. That you see nothing. That you keep out of the
bloody way for thirty bloody minutes so I can get her off
to safety. I want to get her somewhere quiet,” he explained,
a pleading note entering his voice. “I want to get her into
a rehab she can’t check out of—to get her healthy again and
give her a chance to think things through. I can’t change
her, I know that. If she wants to self-destruct, she’ll self-destruct.
But I don’t believe she wants to. I can’t. I have to believe
she just doesn’t know any better, that she’s too caught up
in it to see her way clear. She’s my daughter, for god’s
sake. I have to do what I can.”
If the speech
was for me he was wasting his time. Every day I saw the pressures
on the people I tracked down, I prayed it’d never happen
to my kids. Lauren was thirteen and reassuringly normal.
Kitty was ten: precocious, pretty and desperate to be a pop
star, a film star, any kind of star so long as she shone.
To date I’d refused to pay for acting lessons, singing lessons,
elocution lessons, deportment lessons and modeling shoots.
I let her do football because, let’s face it, no matter how
good a girl is, no-one gives a shit. So far it was working—no
fame, no glory, no drugs. Which brought us back to Jessie
Payne.
“And if I help
you? What’s in it for me?”
He stared at me,
his fingers clenched. I reached back for the wrench.
“How about the
knowledge you’ve helped save a life?”
“I got that tonight.
It doesn’t pay the bills.”
If looks could
kill I’d have been long dead, so his just bounced off me.
Then he nodded and opened his wallet. “How much?”
“The scoop. I
want access to her during her ‘kidnap’, all the photos I
can take, and I want the exclusive afterwards.”
“No.” He didn’t
even think about it. “The whole idea is to get her away from
all that. How do you think she’ll recover with—”
“I can be discrete,” I
snapped. “Telephoto, long lens, hidden camera. She doesn’t
even need to know I’m there.”
“And see your
photos of her recovering when she comes back out? That would
really keep her on the straight and narrow.”
I could see his
point. I swallowed. “You can have the veto.” I’d only offered
that once before. “Just give me enough to prove I was there—normal
shots of her that set the location, coupled with the exclusive.
Nothing more.”
He thought about
it and I knew I had him hooked. The sun was angling through
the side window now, dappling him with a patchwork of light.
Digital would come out too dark, but I still had high grain
film in my manual.
“OK,” he said
at last.
“Good.” I got
off a couple of shots before he could react, then another
few as he stood up in astonished rage. “Smile for the camera,” I
told him. “I’ve just sealed our deal.”
Then I picked
up the wrench, just in case, and saw him out.
It was late, dark
and cold, and my back ached. So far, so much the same. For
once though it didn’t bother me. Instead of feeling grey
with tiredness, head pounding from too much coffee, I felt
energised, hope pulsing through my veins. If this worked—and
it would work—I was on a ticket to more than catch up. I’d
be home and free.
I looked at my
watch—3:30 a.m. The others had peeled off to catch the night
clubs and only I remained, doggedly doing what I always did.
As far as the others were concerned, it was business as usual.
Except that tonight, bang on time, I heard a car coming round
the corner. She’d actually had the nous to do as she was
told.
One of Mickey’s
lads half-saluted me as Jessie got out, then drove off quickly,
money on the side, no questions asked. That should keep Mickey
off my back for a while. Jessie teetered on the edge of the
pavement, looking around as though expecting someone—and
right on cue her father drove up. He got out, dressed all
in black, hat down over his eyes, opened the back door and
began to help her inside.
Jumping out of
the Ford, I started shooting: one of Jessie looking out the
back window, another of the registration plate covered in
dirt—then one of the back of Wainwright’s head. He jerked
round at that, angry and afraid.
“No problem, mate.” I
showed him the take—black on black—it could have been anyone. “I
need this, you know I do.”
We’d been over
it already. Mr. Thomas genius Wainwright had just wanted
to snatch her—no frills, no plan B. Fine, so long as you
didn’t mind kidnapping charges if things went wrong. I minded.
Instead, I’d argued, we should set up a bogus deal and get
her to step in the car of her own free will. Make her think
she was heading for a trade. As for the photos—I didn’t just
need them for an exclusive—I needed to cover myself for the
police. Nat Smith always got his picture. Then Jessie
disappears and suddenly I’ve got nothing to show? They’d
be laughing all the way to the interrogation room.
Wainwright stared
at me a moment, not liking it, but knowing it was true, then
he nodded curtly, got in the car and drove off. I threw myself
onto the pavement to get a dramatic angle as if I’d been
knocked over, and took a few more of wheels and the back
window and nothing that meant a damn, then got up, brushed
myself off, and sauntered over to my car.
“Police,” I said
after I’d dialed 211. At least it made a change from ambulance. “Something
funny’s going on.”
The next week was the hardest.
Long meaningless nights where I had to look bewildered,
haunt Jessie’s bars and clubs, and generally wander around
like a man who’d lost his cause. Meanwhile Jessie would
be doing cold turkey, shivering and shaking, erupting bright
red spots on a dead white skin, moving aimlessly like a
jitterbug on ice, stopping only to throw up until her ribs
were bruised and her stomach raw. It was the stuff of valuable
photos, photos the discerning British public would have
paid generously to see. And not just the British either—her
last CD had won a Grammy and she was just beginning to
break into the States. Those photos would have made my
fortune. Instead I’d got nothing but a promise, and only
payment for the ‘get away’ shots to keep Mickey off my
back until the next stage.
I knew I had to
do it. I knew that although the police had decided to believe
me for now, the other paps would be watching closely, not
quite believing I didn’t have something up my sleeve. Convincing
them I was on a losing roll was what this week was all about,
but it was still hard to look despondent—especially with
Ella.
Ella had heard
the ‘good times are just around the corner’ line once too
often. It was going to take more than my latest plan to bring
a smile to her face, so I’d decided not to tell her. I was
going to wait until this was done and dusted, then take her
and a bank statement out to dinner in the reclaimed Lotus,
and show her the balance as the waiter opened the champagne.
Then I’d take her and the kids for a holiday. A proper holiday
where the only photos I took were family snaps. Somewhere
the stars never went so I wouldn’t be tempted—maybe camping
in North Wales. Lauren would love that and Kitty was still
young enough to be knocked into shape. Just. Or maybe we
could do one of those Parc things where Ella could enjoy
some pampering. The kids could go off on their bikes or whatever
they did these days, and I could sleep. Sleep. Imagine that.
In fact I did more than imagine it, I did a lot of it for
real, catching up while I mooched outside Jessie’s old haunts.
I think it was that as much as my acting skills that persuaded
the others I was on the level. How could I sleep if I was
sitting on the deal of a lifetime?
How could I not,
more to the point? I’d been running on empty for too long,
black nights fading into grey dawns so that the time of day
meant nothing more than a backdrop to the shot. Sleep had
been a few minutes snatched behind the steering wheel, interspersed
with a deep daytime coma in an empty bed—and Ella and I hadn’t
had sex since before I could remember.
The deal was that
Wainwright would ring me before the week was up. If he didn’t,
I’d go to the police with my other photos and the story.
I was worried he’d call my bluff, but he was a man too close
to the edge to work out a double deal—either that or he was
just plain stupid—and he called on the sixth day, catching
me outside Maddison’s as the early evening crowd went in.
“Come to the service
station on the M40 tomorrow,” he told me. “The one near Angleford.
I’ll meet you there at noon.”
“How is she?” I
asked. “Where are—” But he hung up on me, just like a pro,
and for a moment I had a bad feeling. I knew he was her father,
I’d checked up on what he’d told me, but that didn’t mean
he really cared. What if it was all a con? What if I was
walking into something far bigger than I’d ever meant to
handle? I put the thought to one side: not even Johnny Depp
could act that well. Besides, he hadn’t told me where at
Angleford—northbound or south—whereas real kidnappers paid
attention to that kind of detail. No, he was amateur all
the way. The fact that it was amateurs who made the biggest
mess of things was an aspect I decided to ignore.
I waited at Maddison’s
until all but the dregs had left, then drove straight there.
My cred had lowered a lot over the last week, but I might
still get tailed if I left London for no obvious reason just
as the celebs were starting their day. Besides, it meant
I missed the traffic, getting an easy run through a cold
clear night, and I turned into the northbound service station
just after 6:30, ready for a full English breakfast. It wasn’t
as good as a truck stop but it did the business, and by eight
I was back in my car, seat reclined, back complaining, to
catch up on some shut-eye while I had the chance.
I woke at 11:30,
the alarm pinging into my dreams, the sun slanting down into
my eyes. I got out, kneaded the kinks from my body, then
looked around, seduced by the stillness of the day. The skies
had stayed clear, turning powder-blue with that hint of yellow
that comes with spring and the warmth in the air bounced
off the tarmac straight into my bones. For a moment I felt
almost good; then a car started up nearby, blasting exhaust
fumes into my face, and I headed off to the toilets to clean
up before meeting Wainwright.
He tracked me
down on the overpass, five minutes late.
“There you are.” There
was a scold in his voice. “I couldn’t find you.”
“Then next time
be more specific before you hang up.” I turned round from
the window and leant against the hand rail, watching him
for clues as to how it was going. “Where is she?”
“I’ll drive you
there.”
“No.”
He looked put
out. “Why not?”
I sighed. “Firstly,” I
showed him my middle finger, childish but satisfying. “Because
I don’t trust you not to take off and leave me stranded.
And secondly,” my index finger joined the first one, “because
I have a strong suspicion that you’ve got some idiotic idea
in your head—like blind-folding me to try and keep the location
secret—am I right?”
I was right. Jesus,
this guy had planned the whole thing via the movies.
“Were you going
to stuff me in the boot?” I asked out of curiosity, “or stick
a sack over my head and wave at the police as we drove past?”
He blushed, then
shrugged weakly. “Actually, I was going to lie you down on
the back seat and cover you with coats.”
“At least I’d
have been warm.” I shivered. The overpass was not where they
wasted money on heating. “But you wouldn’t have liked the
result.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “I
get travel sick.”
He looked surprised
then snorted with laughter. “I never thought of that.”
“Look.” I took
advantage of his mood to try and lay some ground rules. “You
don’t trust me and I don’t trust you, that’s the way it is.
But although you think I’m the scum of the earth, actually
I’m just an ordinary bloke doing my job and if you play straight
with me, I’ll play straight with you. Get it?”
“And if I don’t?”
I shook my head. “You
don’t want to go there. Believe me.”
Apparently he
did, because he stopped playing silly buggers, agreed to
me driving, him navigating—and told me to head for Sutton
under Wold, a little village in the Cotswolds.
At first we drove
in silence. I was pissed off at having hours added to my
route when I could have come straight up the M4, and I guess
he thought he had nothing to say to a man like me. After
a bit though, curiosity got the better of him.
“So,” he started. “What
makes a man want to be a paparazzo? Fame? Glory? Money? Getting
to see all those fresh young tits?”
I swerved onto
the hard shoulder.
“I can take you
there in one piece, or I can take you there in bits,” I told
him. “Your choice.”
He shrank back.
I haven’t been in a fight since my twenties, but he didn’t
know that. The kind of man he thought I was, he’d believe
every word.
“All right.” He
looked away and I swung back into the slow lane. He was too
nervous to keep quiet for long though, and he started up
again after less than five miles. “Seriously, I’m interested.
What made you choose that as your career?”
“Bankruptcy.” Not
a lot of people know that. It’s not something I’m proud of.
But if this guy was going to keep asking stupid questions
then he could have the stupid frigging answers.
“Bankruptcy?”
I sighed. “I owned
a little photographer’s shop in Wandsworth. Did all right
until digital came along, then custom dropped off big time.
Why pay me a fortune for a wedding when all their friends
could swap snaps for free? With fewer customers my prices
had to go up until…well.”
“So, taking photos
for the tabloids was the only other career path?” His sarcasm
was heavy. I ignored it.
“The only other
quick one. I had a wife and two babies to support and a house
that was going to be repossessed if I didn’t do something
smartish. I wasn’t the only photographer out on the streets—what
happened to me was happening all over the country. The job
centres were crawling with us. Then I happened to see Jimmy
Hudson puking up in a back alley, on my way back from the
dole queue. The cheque I got for those photos paid the arrears
on the house. After that…” I trailed off. After that I hadn’t
thought about it, just got stuck in and paid the bills. And
created new ones for a while, when life was good.
“After that, you
never looked back.”
I didn’t need
to look at him, I could hear the sneer.
“Those photos
I took of Jessie,” I said, keeping my cool. “The ones of
her wandering around naked. How much do you think I got for
them?”
“In the thousands?” he
guessed after a moment. “Maybe two? I don’t know.”
“You don’t, do
you.” I sped up, angry. “You haven’t a clue. Try two hundred
and fifty and see where that gets you.”
“Two hundred and
fifty? For my Jess!” It would have been funny if it hadn’t
been insulting. He was as put out about how little she was
worth as he was about the pictures. “But—why?”
“I think it’s
called economies of scale—but you’re the smart guy, Mr. Wainwright,
you should know about that. All I know is that when I started
out in this game, your guess would have been closer. But
with the cameras out now, any Tom, Dick and Harry can join
in the game—and they do, believe me. The mags are inundated
with so many photos they don’t know which to choose from.
Quality no object. Subject matter not much object either.
Give them the photo and they’ll make up the headline. And
you know what, Mr. Wainwright—the Great British Public will
buy it. They can’t buy enough. Without them, people like
me wouldn’t exist and you know it. But with them, if I quit
the game another twenty will take my place—and you know that,
too. So I had two choices—get out, or specialise. I had a
run of luck on Jessie Payne and—well, here we are. You’re
trying to save your daughter and I’m trying to save my marriage,
which sure as hell won’t survive another bankruptcy—not to
mention save my neck from some loan sharks whose understanding
is very close to running out.”
He was silent
for a while and I was glad of it. Thirty miles down the road
though, he carried on as if we’d only just stopped talking.
“If you changed
careers,” he asked, “what would you do?”
I laughed. I couldn’t
help it. He spoke as if it were easy.
“I left school
at sixteen with Art and English,” I told him. “I guess if
I’m lucky I might stack shelves.”
“What about films?
TV?”
“What about physics
GCSE before they even let you touch a camera?” I shook my
head. “Thank you for your concern, but you don’t exactly
have a great pedigree when it comes to providing for your
kids. How about you sort out your problems and I’ll sort
out mine.”
He shut up for
real after that, and twenty minutes later we hit Sutton-under-Wold.
He directed me
to a small cottage about three miles past the village, set
back from the road. There was no sign of a car, which meant
that given rural bus services she was pretty much stranded—unless
she walked. The thought made me smile.
“Nice place,” I
said. It was, too, with that soft Cotswold stone, sash windows
and a cottage garden. Everything but the thatch roof.
“Yes.” He was
nervous again now. “Just wait here a minute while I go and
prepare them. I haven’t told her you’re coming and—”
“Them?”
“Her therapist.
You don’t think I’d leave her here on her own, do you?” He
looked so shocked my fears about any double dealing faded
away. This was a father who cared. One thing was bugging
me though.
“Posh country
cottage, private therapist—this must be costing you a bomb.
What kind of accountant are you? Head of the Fortune 500?”
“I re-mortgaged
my house if you must know. And my business. Whether this
works or not, I shall almost certainly lose everything.” He
smiled tightly. “Strange, eh, Mr. Smith. Your marriage can’t
risk another bankruptcy, whereas my conscience can’t survive
my staying solvent.”
It was a good
line to walk out on and he made the most of it, slamming
the car door behind him and walking up to the house without
a backward look.
I followed him
into a large kitchen-cum-living room where Jessie sat in
an old wooden rocker by the fireplace. The afternoon had
warmed up pretty well, but she’d got a blanket around her
shoulders and a fire in the hearth. She was stick thin, her
skin white and blotchy, her wild black hair in greasy rats’ tails.
But her eyes looked alive for the first time in a long while,
and as she saw me a smile played on her face.
“Well, well, well.
If it isn’t Nat Smith,” she greeted me. “I sure am pleased
to see you. Sit down, Nat, and tell me the news.”
Her dad was put
out. He’d been worrying how to explain bringing this pariah
into her life, and here she was greeting me like a long lost
friend. I felt for the guy, but not much. I’m only human.
Rubbing someone’s face in their preconceptions is pretty
satisfying—and it was about time he realised that the star/paparazzi
link was more than parasitic. You don’t photograph someone
for five years without building up a rapport.
Our chat was superficial
though, soon petering out under Wainwright’s awkward attempts
to join in. Whatever his and Jessie’s relationship was, it
wasn’t easy. After a bit, Jessie sighed, turned to him, and
came out with it straight.
“Dad, do you think
you could give us some time together? To reminisce? I know
this isn’t really your scene.”
“Oh.” He looked
hurt and relieved in equal measure. “Um, sure.” He sounded
anything but. “I—er—I need to…I’ll just go and touch base
with John.”
He got up from
the kitchen chair, hesitated, looked as though he wanted
to say more then turned and left. Too late, I understood.
He hadn’t wanted to say something, he’d wanted to do something—touch
her, or kiss her, or hold her hand—but he didn’t dare, too
scared of her rejection. I thought how I’d feel if Kitty
started treating me like that and suddenly I felt sorry for
the bugger.
As soon as he
was out the door Jessie took a packet of fags from under
her blanket and lit one with trembling hands.
“John?” I asked.
“My therapist.” Her
tone said it all. She took several strong sucks, then let
the smoke trickle out of her nose and leant forward.
“Get me out of
here, Nat,” she said. “Man, I don’t care how you do it, but
for fuck’s sake do something. I’m dying in here.”
“You were dying
anyway,” I pointed out. “At least lung cancer’s slower.”
“Prude.” She puffed
smoke in my face. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” I said.
“No, you don’t
understand, or no, you won’t do it?”
“I won’t do it.”
She was still
a minute then crushed the cigarette out on the arm of the
chair, jabbing it in clumsy rage.
“Bastard.” She
had an idea and looked up in hope. “I’ll let you have the
scoop. Make it an exclusive.”
“I already have
the exclusive.” I gestured around me. “And I’ll make a lot
more money off you if you stay alive.”
“Is that why you
won’t do it? ‘Coz I promise you, from here on in, Nat, I’m
staying clean—”
“Actually it isn’t.” I
cut her off. “Well, not much anyway.” I grinned, but the
humour escaped her. “The main reasons I’m saying no are—one,
your dad probably has this place bugged.” She raised her
eyebrows. Thick, dark and expressive, they said it all. “OK,
he’s listening at the door with a glass, more likely. Coz
let’s face it, while your dad has the best intentions, he’s
not exactly a pro.” That raised a smile.
“He’s a fucking
amateur,” she confirmed. “Crap.”
“Two.” I paused.
How best to put this? “I have kids,” I said at last. “Two
girls—ten and thirteen.” Again with the eyebrows. “Hopefully
they’ll never get themselves into the mess you’re in—they’ve
no talent, no looks, and nothing but stubborn pig-headedness
to see them through—although come to think of it, bar the
talent, that’s pretty much like you.” I grinned again. She’d
always needed the best angles I could get her. “I don’t care
if they never amount to anything much, so long as they use
what they’ve got, don’t fuck up more than average, and are
happy. But if they did fuck up, as badly as you have, I wonder
if I’d be brave enough to do what your dad’s doing. Because
without him, babe, you won’t be dying in here, you’ll be
dead out there, fact.” I leant into her face and lowered
my voice. “Face it, kiddo, this is your last chance, so why
not let him help you? What really, do you have to lose?”
She was silent
a while then said: “Which one do you like best?”
“What?”
“Your daughters.
Which one do you prefer?”
“Christ! Neither.
I like them both just the—” But then I realised I’d never
thought about it. “I’ve never thought about it,” I said.
“So. Think about
it.”
“Well.” I considered. “I
get on easiest with Lauren. She’s like her mum, sussed and
low profile. Doesn’t cause me much grief.” I thought some
more and had a revelation. “Actually, I guess she’s pretty
good at wrapping me round.” I waggled my little finger. “Lets
me think she’s doing what I want, whereas in fact…” I trailed
off, seeing it in my mind’s eye. It was time her mother and
I had a talk. “Whereas Kitty and I fight all the time.”
Jessie looked
up, interested.
“She never does
what I tell her to, always argues, always answers back. She’s
a smart arse, basically, like you. And yet…”
“And yet?”
“We have more
fun together, too. She’s a doer, Kitty, always in the thick
of things, the thick of life—even if it’s a blazing row.”
“So you love her
best?”
“I think I love
her more fiercely,” I admitted slowly, wondering if I’d just
damned my soul. “But no-one would guess it. Lauren’s the
one they’ve always called daddy’s girl.”
“Huh.”
She didn’t say
anything after that. She lit another cigarette and sat staring
into the fire, the ash growing down to the filter then falling
off in little jerks as her hand shook. It was only then I
remembered about Anna. So that was what this was all about.
I didn’t say anything though. Instead I slowly reached for
my camera, trying not to break her mood. Her face like that,
so sad and introspective, would make a great shot.
She started at
the sound of the shutter, but didn’t seem pissed off. Instead
she said: “Pretty tame, huh, compared with lately.”
“Variety is the
spice.” I took a few more photos since she didn’t seem to
mind, but there was no more conversation and I got the impression
she was far away. The shaking was getting worse too, heralding
in her next methadone fix or vomiting session—whichever way
she was doing this—and suddenly I didn’t want photos of that
anymore. The photos I’d just taken seemed so much better,
so much closer to capturing her depth. They were more like
the work I used to do, work that needed craftsmanship, maybe
even a little skill—photos that needed me to use what I’d
got.
When I was done,
I put the camera down and went to get her father.
“Come back,” she
said as I opened the door.
I went over to
her, not sure what she meant. Behind me, I could hear the
sound of someone coming down the stairs.
“Come back and
see me. Please. You understand things. You’ve seen…You and
me, Nat—we’re old friends.” She stopped and tried to get
out another cigarette. She was shaking so much now I did
it for her, then lit it. “Christ,” she said, sucking on it
in gasps. “I’m a mess.”
“You noticed.”
“I’ll go mad,” she
said, looking suddenly trapped and wild. “If I can’t talk
to someone outside that sanctimonious pig and dad…Please
Nat, please.”
“I’ll come back,” I
told her. “I promise. As long as you hang on in there, Jessie,
I’ll hang on in there with you. Deal?”
Her eyes opened
wide, hope flaring in the dark pit of her pupils. “Deal,” she
said.
“Old friends?” We’d been
traveling for an hour and it was the first thing her father
had said to me. “Old friends?”
“Sure.” I tried
to make it easier for the guy. “I can even remember her last
words of friendship. Something like: ‘Fuck off you wanker,
before I shove your camera up your fucking arse.’”
We laughed.
“She always did
have a mouth on her.” His smile grew fond before trailing
off. “But you will come back?” he asked. “You’ll see her
through?”
“The thing you
have to understand about me,” I told him, “is that I always
see things through.”
I went back two
days later—dropped the kids off at school then never went
home. Ella was used to me taking off, and none of the others
would be working or watching me at that time of day; all
the stars were either still in bed or at the gym.
Spring had arrived
for real, the air crisp and sunny with a pale watercolour
sky, everything clear and in focus as I drove past—sycamore
buds, road kill, daffs waving on the slopes above the hard
shoulder. I hadn’t done landscapes for years but found myself
looking for camera angles, tempted to stop and play with
such perfect light. Now that I had caught up on sleep there
finally seemed room in my brain for other ideas than just
grabbing the next scoop. They were stupid arty-farty ideas,
guaranteed not to bring in a penny, but they kept me occupied
and it made for an easy drive. I didn’t snap out of it until
I got there, dying for a coffee and wishing, too late, that
I’d stopped at a service station before coming off the motorway.
Somehow I doubted Jessie would be the perfect host.
John let me in,
a weedy guy with a sandy beard, just like you’d imagine.
He nodded hi, then went back upstairs and I went through
to the kitchen.
Jessie was sitting
in the same chair as before, huddled in the same old blanket,
fire burning despite the warm day outside. The only sign
of change was her clothes, the red jumper of Sunday replaced
by a lemon yellow that did nothing for her skin. As I sat
down she reached out a skinny arm and handed me a piece of
lined paper.
“Here,” she said. “Read
this.”
It was dog-eared
and scrawled but the message, once I’d picked it out, was
clear.
“Hmm,” I said,
handing it back. “Strong stuff.”
“I’m calling it Daddy’s
Little Girl.”
“Yeah, I got the
picture. How does the tune go?”
She hummed me
a melody, beating out the counter rhythm on the arm of her
chair. Even raw like that, it sounded good. There was an
acoustic guitar in the far corner of the room, dusty from
lack of use.
“Here,” I handed
it over. “Try with this.”
She stared at
me.
“Come on.” I was
fairly sure I knew what I was doing. “You’re hardly shaking
today—you could strum something basic. Or make it all staccato,
what the fuck. It’s only me and what do I know?”
“True.” She took
it with a grimace and settled it on her knees, fumbling at
its weight.
Half an hour later
she’d got the basics down pat and I’d got a fantastic set
of photos: Jessie Payne working on a song; Jessie Payne thinking,
trying things out, lost in concentration. Jessie Payne alive,
doing something other than scrambling around on all fours
with no clothes on. They wouldn’t sell of course, not in
the same way as my usual stuff, but I still felt good about
them. There’s something about having time to work, to think,
to catch a person in the process, so that the shot shows
them centred in their activity…I’d been taking snapshots
for so long, snatching startled faces and five-second poses,
that I’d forgotten how it felt to be a part of something
more than grab and run.
I left soon after.
Half an hour is a long time for a drying out junkie and a
discordant twang on the guitar signaled her concentration
slipping down the scale. She swore in frustration and threw
the guitar to the ground with a force that made me glad it
wasn’t aimed at me. I called for John, hoping that he wasn’t
as weedy as he looked, and headed for the door. It was what
he was paid for, after all, and I still hadn’t had my coffee.
I came up a couple
more times that week, getting some good shots each visit.
Not of the hissy fits so much—they were old hat—but the stuff
that came afterwards, that normally went on behind closed
doors. The pictures of her weeping like a baby, exhausted
and all used up, despair etched deep into her face. The second
lot, when her dad was there, were even better. He gave his
permission gladly, thinking I was capturing moments of their
growing bond. He didn’t understand that what I actually got
was their fragility—of them both failing at the happy families
game—giving themselves away with brittle movements, fumbled
touches and wide nervous eyes.
These were proper
photos, pictures that told a story, and if I hadn’t been
a pap—if I’d been an ‘artist’ with a double-barreled
name, Saatchi would have paid proper money to hang them on
his wall. As it was, I knew they wouldn’t sell. I seemed
to have got caught up in something outside my market and
altogether different from my usual scoop. Sure, I’d got enough
for a decent exclusive and would get a decent fee, but I’d
lost my joy of that initial session—that sense of doing what
I was meant to do. Instead, back in my dark room, surrounded
by prints of Jessie Payne, I felt a growing sense of waste.
Here she was, the real person behind the image, and no-one
really gave a shit.
Things got worse
on Friday night. We’d finished eating, the kids had gone
upstairs to their Facebooks or whatever they did these days,
and we were lingering at the table over a bottle of wine
when I told Ella I might stay away for the weekend.
“No,” she said.
“What?” She’d
put up with my coming and going for so long, never saying
a word, that I couldn’t quite believe my ears.
“Look,” she spat
out the word. “Staying away all hours to shoot the stars
is one thing. It’s your work. I don’t like it, but it goes
with the job. But you’re not doing that any more. You’re
not doing anything anymore as far as I can see, except wandering
around like the cat that’s got the cream. The weekend is
the kids’ time and you are not—” she stopped and I realised
she was close to tears. “You are not…” She took a deep breath. “If
you’re going to have an affair, you are not having
it at the kids’ expense.”
I burst out laughing.
When I’d finished, I held my hand out across the table. She
slapped it away.
“Look, honey—”
“Don’t you honey
me.” Her face had a tight, fragile look I hadn’t seen since
the bankruptcy and I realised she was serious. For a moment
I was furious—how could she think that of me? Then I realised
how things must look from her perspective and the energy
ran out of me. How could she not, given the way I’d been
carrying on? What other woman would have given me half the
leash?
“Ella.” I sighed,
shook my head, and made up my mind. Some secrets could be
kept too long. “Come on up to my darkroom.,” I said. “There’s
pictures there I guess you need to see.”
A picture may
be worth a thousand words, but Ella wanted explanations and
by the time she’d finished with me it was two in the morning.
“Nat,” she said,
once I’d told her everything. “Nat, Nat, Nat…”
The sigh that
followed was deep, but not completely discouraging and I
watched her closely, trying to gauge which way she might
turn. I was fairly sure she believed me, but whether kidnapping
and blackmail would strike her as better than an affair or
not was a close call.
“So?” I asked,
when she didn’t say anything. “What d’you reckon?”
She shook her
head and got up, manoeuvring herself out of the black leather
la-z-boy I still hadn’t paid for.
“I reckon it’s
time for bed.”
“Oh.” I hesitated,
wondering whether to push my luck. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she
pursed her lips and a look glinted in her eye. It was not
a look to be messed with. “Tomorrow we are both going
to see Jessie Payne.”
In the end we
all went. We couldn’t leave the girls alone all day and dumping
them on friends would have needed explanations. Besides,
I reckoned they were of the age when seeing a strung out
smack head would probably do them good. I knew Wainwright
wouldn’t like it, but when it came to facing down him or
Ella…well, no contest.
The girls were
stroppy at first—Kitty sulking over a missed football practice,
Lauren complaining she wanted to go shopping with her friends.
Anything, they made clear, would have been better than wasting
a day with their parents.
Once we were on
the road though, and I’d filled them in on the details, their
contempt turned to a fascinated disgust.
“Will she puke
up while we’re there?” Kitty asked.
“Yuck.” Lauren
hadn’t thought of that. “Gross.”
“If she does,
I swear I’ll be sick, too. I mean—”
“If she’s too
ill to see us, we’ll leave,” Ella cut in, using her ‘that’s
enough’ tone.
Kitty thought
about it, then said, “But won’t she want someone to stay
with her? I mean, when I had that food poisoning, mum, I
was really glad to have you around.”
Ella’s lips twitched.
Praise indeed. I tried to remember when Kitty was ill.
“Jessie’s got
a sort of nurse,” I told her, “and her dad. They’ll take
care of her if she needs it.”
The thought of
other people turned them shy, both of them quieting down
as I pulled into the driveway and hanging back as we walked
up to the door. Ella didn’t look too comfortable either and
I realised just how much courage it was taking for her to
be there.
I took her hand—this
time she let me—and knocked on the door.
I’d been hoping
Jessie’s dad would be away, that I’d only have to deal with
the silent John—so of course it was Wainwright who answered,
the welcome on his face freezing into astonishment as he
saw the others.
“Mr. Wainwright.” I
decided to brazen it out. “I’d like to introduce you to my
wife—Ella Smith—and my two daughters. Lauren, Kitty, this
is Jessie Payne’s dad.”
The girls muttered
small hellos while Ella stuck her hand out.
“Mr. Wainwright.” She
mustered a smile. “Thank you so much for letting us come.”
“I—er—well…”
She shot me a
look. “You didn’t ask him?”
I shrugged. Like
that would have worked.
“I am so sorry.” She
shook her head and turned to leave. “Come on, girls. Wrong
place, wrong time.”
“M-u-m.” They
both chorused their resistance, shyness forgotten as she
tried to bundle them back into the car. Wainwright put his
hand up, flustered.
“No. Wait.” He
glanced back into the house then made up his mind. “You’ve
had a long drive. At least come in for a cup of tea.”
Jessie was still
in the same old chair, wearing a green jumper this time and
faded blue jeans.
“Well, well, well,” she
said as we trooped in. “What’s this then? The Nat Smith family
workshop? Do you all have cameras, too?”
“I’ve got my mobile.” Kitty
wasn’t too strong on sarcasm. She got it out as she spoke,
to show Jessie.
“No photos,” I
said.
“Dad.” She turned
to me with that stubborn look I knew too well. “You take
photos.”
“What I do—”
“You tell him,
kiddo,” Jessie interrupted. “Why should he get all the fun?” She
lifted her skinny arms into a model’s pose. “Come on—let’s
see if you’ve got any of your old man’s talent.”
“Dad’s got talent?” Kitty
looked at me uncertainly and Jessie burst out laughing, a
harsh staccato that quickly turned to a hacking cough.
“He’s only one
of the best,” she said when she’d recovered. She turned to
sip some water from a glass on the mantelpiece and Kitty
shot me another look, this time impressed. When Jessie struck
her pose again, Kitty walked forward, lifting her phone obediently.
Lauren edged closer
to me and glanced up— shorthand for ‘what about me?’ Jessie
caught the movement and gestured for her to come and join
them. Then, when they were lined up before her she stared
at them both, her eyes flicking from one to the other, narrowing
in concentration.
My guts clenched
in fear as I realised what she was doing. She was remembering
what I’d told her—and now she was going to give me away.
“Right.” I said.
I didn’t know what to follow it with—anything to break the
moment—but before I could say more Jessie turned her gaze
on me.
“Wrong,” she countered.
Her eyes seemed calmer today, I noticed, more in control. “Relax,
Nat. No worries.” She smiled and winked, suddenly almost
pretty. “No worries at all.”
Turning back to
Lauren, she picked up the guitar now leaning against her
chair, and held it out. “Can you play?”
Lauren shrugged. “No.”
“Come on, then.” Jessie
jerked her head to invite her closer. “I’ll teach you.”
We watched for
a few minutes as they settled in, then when things seemed
to be going smoothly, Wainwright remembered his invitation. “Tea!” he
exclaimed as though it were a big deal, and rubbed his hands
together. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Nat can do that,” Ella
suggested, throwing me a look. “I was wondering, Mr. Wainwright,
if you and I could have a talk?”
“Oh,” he said. “Sure.
That is, I’ll just…” He looked at me, checking my reaction.
I smiled back.
“Go ahead,” I
said. “No worries,” And suddenly I felt almost giddy with
lightness, at knowing she was back there by my side. “No
worries at all.”
After that it
became a regular thing. I never left the girls with Jessie
for long and never alone, but she was generally patient with
them, letting them pester her for songs and anecdotes and
showing them chords on the guitar. When she’d had enough,
Ella would take them off to Chipping Sodbury, while I sat
down and listened to her rambles. Or sometimes, increasingly,
I took the girls and Ella stayed. She and Ella seemed to
get on fine. In fact, Jessie seemed to be getting on fine,
her body gaining a little strength, her eyes beginning to
sparkle instead of glitter. Meanwhile, I was clicking away
in the background, capturing it all, building up far more
photos than I’d ever sell.
“You should write
a book about her,” Ella said after we’d got back one night,
the girls in bed, us following on their heels.
“Me?”
“Why not? You
can write, can’t you?”
“I can’t even
spell.”
“Well, I could
do that for you.”
I looked at her. “What
are you saying?”
She hesitated
then met my eyes. “I’m saying, Nat, that maybe it’s time
to move on. You’ve got a book’s worth of pictures from this
thing—and those pictures tell a story, you know they do.
A story worth telling. Why not add the words and make it
happen?”
“Jeez.” I didn’t
know what to say. Half of me was thinking it was impossible,
that people like me didn’t do things like that, the other
half was taking off. I imagined the words to Daddy’s
Little Girl surrounded by the photos I’d taken when
she first played it. We could put Thomas Wainwright and her
together on the cover—that was it, the title—Daddy’s
Little Girl: A father’s fight to save his child. I could
even co-write it with Jessie—my observations, her turn of
phrase—she was the artist, after all. It would give her something
to do whilst regenerating a few brain cells. Shit, if the
tabloids could do it, how hard could it be?
“You’re a genius,” I
told her.
She sighed. “Fifteen
years of marriage and you’ve only just noticed.”
I kissed her. “You
realise you’re never going to get away from me now.”
This time her
sigh ran deeper. “I don’t want to, Nat. Not really.” She
kissed me back. “We’ve had some hard times, eh? We’ve been
stretched so thin…” She broke off.
“Maybe they’re
behind us now?” I suggested, pulling her close. “Maybe it’s
just good times ahead, happy ever after.”
“I hope so, Nat,” She
brought her hands round my back and turned her face up for
another kiss. “I really do.”
The kiss turned
into something more and I kicked the bedroom door shut, suddenly
wide awake. Things hadn’t been like this for far too long.
Sure I wanted
happy ever after. So did Jessie. So did her father. So did
the whole fucking world. But for tonight I’d take what I
got and be happy with it, trusting that if we all muddled
along, making the most of what we’d got—somehow, sometime,
things would work out.
