Shooting Butterflies (28 page)

‘Look at this one,' she said now, wiping the toast crumbs from her fingers and pushing the proof for the exhibition catalogue over to Angelica's side of the table. She pointed at a picture from the 1930s of a woman standing, surrounded by her four children, on the striped lawn in front of their solid suburban home. ‘Maybe she was perfectly happy,' Grace said. ‘But all I think is, thank God I'm living now. If now had been then, I'd still be with the Abbots, being slowly suffocated by heartless do-gooders whilst outside, life happened without me. Women like this one had the same big world outside their windows as we do, but they couldn't get out there. Think about it; think about the wasted lives of women, generation after generation. They weren't heard, they weren't seen. God knows what passions and talents they might have harboured that were never given vent and space to grow. We all know that, but looking at some of those faces for the first
time I actually
feel
inside me what it must have been like. Look at her; look at that blank expression, those lips set tight as if they were holding back a scream. I look at her hand resting on one daughter's neck, and I feel she wants to squeeze. She's thinking if I have to brush that hair into a perfect little parting with a tiny bow like the two princesses wear one more time, I shall go mad. If I have to listen, one more time, to my husband saying yes, I did have a good day at the office, thank you dear, I shall claw his eyes out. If I have to listen to one more Ovalteenie, or read one more article about how to make my home a perfect haven for my tired family, I shall slit my throat.'

‘I don't see that at all,' Angelica said. ‘I'm thinking what a nice-looking family. I envy that woman. Look at her, the adored centre of a happy family. No pressure to go out and fight in the workplace every bloody day. No commuting on filthy underground trains. She's got a husband and she knows he'll stay put or he'll probably lose his chance of promotion at work, not to mention his Rotary membership. There would be lots of other women living the same kind of life so she wouldn't be isolated. She'd have had a cleaner and maybe even a cook. In the afternoons, if she wasn't having tea with a friend, she might do some gentle shopping, no lugging heavy groceries obviously, but a new hat or some gloves.'

‘So should that picture be captioned or not?' Grace wanted to know. ‘Because my caption would read:
Woman in gilded cage on the verge of breakdown
. And most likely that's what people would then see. Yours would say something like
Mrs Charles Phillips and her happy brood in front of their comfortable Wimbledon home
. In both cases we would be steering the viewer in our particular direction. With some pictures and in some circumstances, that has its place. But then it ceases to be a partnership and the picture has no life beyond that one view.'

‘So I'll tell the gallery you won't caption your pictures.
Now
can we go to Harvey Nichols?'

Grace enjoyed shopping with Angelica who tended to buy what Grace secretly hankered after – the soft pink things, the velvet stuff,
the nipped-in-at-the-waist and lace-trimmed items; everything that turned Angelica into a golden goddess of Boho chic but made Grace look like a Grenadier Guard in a frilly shower cap. ‘Simple lines in grey or navy,' Mrs Shield always said as Grace grew up. ‘Nothing fussy or pink.' She was right. Grace had substituted black for navy but otherwise she had stuck to her stepmother's advice. If you opened her wardrobe you would find three pairs of black straight-legged trousers and two black jackets: one linen, one in a wool and cashmere mix. There was a knee-length black leather pencil skirt, one white cotton shirt, two black T-shirts, four white ones, a black poloneck jumper, two black V-necks, both cashmere, and one red cotton sweater for the days when she wanted to make out that she did not always wear black and white. She compensated for the lack of variety in colour by indulging her love for soft fabrics. She wore her cashmere jumpers as armour. Cashmere spoke. It said,
Don't fuck with me
. Her underwear was pretty routine. If
it
spoke, Grace supposed it said,
All right, so fuck with me then but don't expect me
ever
to wear a thong
.

Trailing behind Angelica on a shopping trip – watching as she tried clothes on, holding up the jumpers she pointed at – Grace's yearnings for pinker fluffier things were satisfied by proxy. Maybe this time she had an especially longing look in her eyes because Angelica thrust a jumper into her hand and gave her a shove towards the changing rooms. ‘Try it on.'

‘It's baby blue.'

‘I can see that.'

‘It's got little puffy sleeves and a frilly neck.'

‘Yes, Grace, it has.'

‘I'll look like a Beatrix Potter animal.'

‘Don't be stupid. You're a very good-looking woman.'

‘Jemima Puddleduck was a very good-looking duck but she still looked jolly silly in that blue bonnet.'

‘You don't look like a duck and that's not a bonnet. Come on, I can see you like it.'

Grace did as she was told and tried on the jumper. As she expected, she looked stupid although she appeared from the changing room still wearing it, just to prove her point. ‘Wow,'
Angelica said. ‘Wow, wow, wow.' She paused, head tilted. ‘Actually, maybe not. No, you're right, it's not your kind of thing, is it?'

Grace was about to say,
told you so
, when she saw him, Jefferson McGraw, across the shop floor, standing by the till, a heap of women's clothes in his arms. This time it really was him; not a delusion or a fantasy but the boy she had loved the summer she was eighteen, the boy who had so nearly been the father of her child; a man to whom she probably meant nothing. She stepped closer. ‘Shut your mouth,' Angelica said.

‘It's Jefferson.'

‘I thought you'd stopped that.'

‘No, really.' Grace's voice was shaking and she paused, took a deep breath and tried again. ‘It's funny, isn't it?'

Angelica looked over to the till. ‘Hilarious. He's cute, whoever he is.'

‘Jefferson.' Grace stared as he handed the clothes to the assistant and watched as he smiled that big guileless smile she had captured in countless photographs.

‘So don't just stand there.' Angelica gave Grace a little shove in the small of the back. ‘Go up and say hello.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘Why not, for pete's sake?'

‘I just can't.' Grace took her eyes off him for a moment, turning to Angelica. ‘You're right, it can't be him. I mean, what is it with us and retail? The first time I met him I was coming out of a fur shop.'

‘Don't stall.'

Grace sighed, pulled back her shoulders and … ‘Where is he?'

‘I expect he's gone where all good phantoms go, up in a puff of smoke.'

‘It
was
him.'

‘So run after him. He won't have got very far, unless he flew.'

Grace gave her a look and then she ran for it. She was still wearing the angora jumper. The store detective stopped her as she reached the escalator. By the time she had convinced the floor manager that she had not intended to steal – ‘Please, put
yourself in my place; would you wear
this
?' – Jefferson, if it was him, had vanished.

‘After Tom and I divorced I kept seeing him everywhere,' Angelica said to Grace who stood by the escalator with a look on her face as if she had missed the carnival. ‘I even saw him in the breadbin. Well, his head anyway.'

Grace relaxed and smiled at her. ‘You're right. It could never have been him; he looked too much like himself.'

‘I'm sure that makes sense, to someone.'

‘And what would he be doing at Harvey Nichols of all places, and with his arms full of women's clothing?'

Angelica winked. ‘He's
your
friend.'

For a hallucination, Jefferson McGraw had strong powers. There was Grace's flat for a start. She returned that afternoon to find it had changed. Instead of being on just the right floor above street level, it was now far too high up. If Jefferson were ever to walk by, he wouldn't be able to see her sitting reading by the window. Old Mrs Blenkinsop with her bald patch and her velour lounging suit would be clearly visible as she sat by her ground-floor window smoking her pipe, but Grace, far up there, would be as indistinguishable as one pigeon from another. The phone was too far from the bedroom should he – who was not Jefferson, who had forgotten all about her, who did not know where she lived – decide to phone. Should he appear on her doorstep unannounced, the comfort-sag in the sofa and tea stains on the armrests would not say cosy but slut. She stood in the middle of the room, her hands to her face, thinking she must be going mad. There was nothing for it but to kick some furniture. She started with the sideboard that Mrs Shield had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She moved on to the pine coffee table. (What had possessed her to buy pine?) And finished off with three high kicks to the side of the sofa as she hummed some show tune she had not even been aware she knew.

She mixed herself a mug of whisky and hot lemon and went to bed early that night, her toes aching … and her heart.

The day she had moved into her new flat she had walked along the busy street, smiling at the unconcerned strangers in her path,
people who might or might not smile back, but who basically did not give a damn what she was doing as long as she did not take their parking space or queue jump at the bus stop. She had listened to the hum of traffic, the roar and singing of engines, the calling of sirens; she had drawn in the cool fume-filled air: she was back and she was free.

For a while, after her marriage ended, she had been angry – at Andrew and herself, for failing. There had been sadness too, but it had come in such manageable gulps and sniffles it could hardly count as suffering.

And her work was going well. Lately she'd had to pass on commissions to colleagues because she had too much work herself. And then, when all seemed to be going so swimmingly, the sightings had begun.

‘Do you know what I like best about living on my own?' Angelica said. ‘Being able to fart in bed.'

‘So don't move in with Whatshisname.'

‘His name's Nick. Can you at least try to remember?'

‘I don't know if I want to. It's like naming your car; next thing you know you endow them with feelings.'

‘That's so funny, Grace. But seriously, don't you ever miss … you know … having someone?'

‘No,' Grace said. ‘I'm not very good with possessions.'

It was just over a week since her hallucinatory experience on the second floor of Harvey Nichols and her flat had begun to return to normal. On Monday morning she got up early to catch the light of a fine London day, that special light of the sun fighting through the pink-edged orange haze of pollution. One of the big photographic magazines was running a series of special features on the theme of the Family of Man. Each week featured the work of a different photographer. Grace had been asked to contribute to the Christmas issue. The lead-time was about four months so she needed to get on. None of the shots she had taken the previous week had been exactly what she wanted, what she had already seen in her mind's eye. Although there is no need for an artist's hand to hold the camera, there should be an artist's eye behind the lens; and it seemed that her eye had got tired lately, letting
down the equipment. But this morning she was wide awake, the way you are when you're in love and have the energy and curiosity of a puppy or a young child.

For a photographer, Grace travelled light. As often as not she would use the Leica M4. It had no inbuilt light-meter and no flash; with the latest equipment she could shoot for as long as her eyes could see, although obviously some light was better than others. But she did carry three lenses. For portraits, the Hasselblad camera was still the best, but it was not one for informality, more an acquaintance to invite along respectfully; it had none of the easy camaraderie and go-anywhere style of the Leica.

This Monday morning she wandered the streets in search of a picture. One would present itself eventually but, as is common with hunting, you had to be patient. She took some colour shots but knew none of them was strong enough. As the morning wore on, the haze lifted. She reloaded with black and white.

More and more she thought how much of what mattered came down to something as simple as distance. Show a picture of a crowd at a funeral, getting them all in, every single person there, and watch the punters walk on by. Come in tight on one weeping pain-distorted face and hear the plucking of heart-strings. God had not only given us the Dumb-chip to protect us, Grace thought, but myopia as well. Part of the photographer's role was to provide the glasses.

From a distance the street was busy with busy people. A little closer you could see the beggar slumped on a filthy sleeping-bag, a raggedy mongrel on his lap, his dirty hand outstretched. You noticed his pallor and the sores on his face and neck. A young woman comes towards him. She has a spring in her step and her soft brown-leather boots shine. Her face is an immaculate oval of clear skin, her lips are glossy red, her smooth hair bounces off her shoulders. They look a different species; the beggar and that woman. A young man swooshes past on a skateboard, a can of Coke in his hand. A dog leashed to an elderly woman wags his tail at the raggedy mongrel and sniffs a greeting. It seems a better day for the Family of Dogs than for the Family of Man. Grace watches and waits. The young man on his skateboard passes the other way. Without slowing, he raises the can to his lips. The next moment
he's collided with a lamp-post and fallen flat on his behind. The young man begging raises his head. The glossy girl meets his gaze and then they both laugh. Different lives, same laughter. She had a picture.

The next day, developing the film, Grace saw him again, Jefferson McGraw, at the edge of one of her shots. Angelica suggested she see a grief counsellor. ‘Don't be ridiculous,' Grace said. ‘Whatever it is I'm going through it can't be grief, not over a love affair that ended fifteen years ago.'