Behaving Badly Read online

  ‘Hmm?’ he said, as he continued to peruse the menu.

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked up. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear. I’m so sorry,’ he added, pulling a face. ‘This is just about the worst place I could have brought you then.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I should have warned you. But I didn’t know the restaurant was quite so meat-orientated. It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I mean, I used to be a vet. I’ve seen plenty of chitterlings and spleens in my time—but they were usually attached to live animals I was doing surgery on.’

  ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I could just have…’ I glanced down the menu. ‘The Welsh rarebit.’

  ‘That’s not very much.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, I won’t have anything too ghastly. I’ll have the widgeon—that’s a duck, isn’t it, could you stand watching me eat that?’

  ‘Yes. In any case, I’m not that strict. Usually, going to a restaurant doesn’t bother me because there’s normally a pasta or rice dish I can have, but here it’s nearly all meat.’

  ‘It is—and their speciality’s unusual cuts. In fact, it’s absolutely offal,’ he quipped. I smiled. ‘Why did you go vegetarian?’ he asked as he caught the waiter’s eye. ‘Was it an animal welfare thing for you?’

  I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

  ‘So you’re a veggie with a sausage dog!’

  I smiled. The waiter came back and as David spoke to him I glanced again at his damaged hands, resting on the table, and had to fight the sudden urge to cry.

  ‘Is white wine okay for you, Miranda?’ I nodded. The waiter returned with a bottle of good Chablis. I had a large sip and began to relax. Then our first course arrived—mozzarella salad for me, and potted shrimp for him—and I noticed that David held his fork in a slightly odd way, as though he couldn’t grip it properly. Now he was asking me about my work. And that made the conversation go well because I always have lots of good stories. Then it was my turn to make enquiries about him.

  ‘Did you always want to be a photographer?’ I asked, my heart pounding.

  ‘No. I was going to be a doctor, actually.’

  ‘Really? You mean, you read medicine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was that then?’

  ‘At Cambridge.’

  ‘You went to Cambridge?’ I said. You went to Cambridge and you had to leave early—because of me.

  ‘But I went off medicine,’ he explained as he put down his knife.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, innocently. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, well, I had to leave university halfway through my course.’ Now I remembered his neighbour saying that he’d ‘left early’. ‘I had an…accident,’ he said. He nodded at his hands. ‘You probably noticed.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘So I had to take several months off. And the college were very understanding about it, and they told me I could do the year again. But by the time I was, well, better—if that’s the right word—I wasn’t sure about medicine any more.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked quietly. I could feel my heart race.

  ‘Well, I just didn’t want to be a doctor after that. Maybe because I’d had to spend a lot of time in hospital. Having skin grafts. It takes ages—well, you’d know all about that,’ he added.

  My breathing suddenly tightened. ‘How? How would I know?’

  He looked slightly puzzled. ‘Well…because of being a vet.’

  ‘Oh…yes…of course.’

  ‘Anyway, that was quite a big…set-back. I had to adjust.’

  I felt that I could look at his hands openly, now that he was talking about them. I wanted to take them in mine, and stroke them and make them better.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I murmured. I’m so, so sorry.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not your fault.’ But it is my fault. ‘They’re not very pretty,’ he went on, ‘but at least they work. I hope it doesn’t, well…bother you,’ he added. Yes, it does bother me.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said.

  ‘Anyway, it was ages ago now.’

  ‘Sixteen years.’

  He blinked. ‘You’re good at maths.’ I looked at him, shocked. ‘You worked that out quickly.’

  ‘Oh…well…you said you were halfway through university, so you must have been about twenty then,’ I said, my heart banging, ‘and you said on Tuesday that you’re thirty-six.’

  ‘Did I?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember telling you that.’

  ‘Yes, I think you did… I’m pretty…sure that you did…’ Shut up, Miranda!

  ‘Well, I must have done. Anyway, I took some time off to convalesce. And I went to San Francisco to stay with this friend of mine whose parents had moved there—I told you we lived in the States when I was a kid?’ I nodded. ‘And this guy’s big sister was a photographer on the San Francisco Examiner. And I remember how amazing I thought she was. She’d go out and get these incredible photos, and she’d work half the night to develop them—she was so passionate about it—then we’d see them in the paper the next day. And I had time to kill, so she showed me how the camera worked, and she’d let me come into the dark room and watch her develop them, and so, to cut a long story short, I got the bug. So I decided to leave Cambridge…’

  ‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘You left Cambridge early.’

  ‘Well, there was no point in going back. So I went to the City Poly to study photography, and luckily my hands were healing by then. And I got some financial compensation for my injuries, a sort of insurance payout. So I bought this really good second-hand Leica—the one I used to take your photo the other day. And, luckily, I was fine holding it. The grip on the left hand’s not great—there was tendon damage—but it’s the right one that matters more. I don’t think I could have done it—at least not then—if I’d had problems with the focussing and winding on. Anyway, I got my diploma, then I became an assistant photographer for a couple of years, then I got taken on at Reuters, which was a really good break.’

  ‘So you became a photojournalist?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you want to be, say, a landscape photographer, or a fashion photographer?’

  ‘Well, I do love taking landscapes actually, and I did wonder about doing that; but the fact is I’d suddenly become more interested in politics. I wasn’t before, when I was a teenager, but in my early twenties, I became…’ he shrugged, ‘…more politicized, I guess.’ I knew exactly why that was. ‘You know, you’re so easy to talk to,’ he said, with an air of surprise. ‘I’m usually a pretty poor conversationalist, but I feel I could talk to you for hours—I’m not sure why. I think it’s because you seem to be a very sympathetic person.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. You seem to be very…compassionate. I mean, the way you reacted just now when I told you about my…accident. I found that very touching.’ And I was just wondering what on earth to say, when the waiter appeared and took our plates. ‘I wasn’t sure that you’d agree to come out this evening,’ David added. ‘I was worried that you thought I was rude.’

  ‘I was worried that you thought I was mad.’

  ‘We did get off on the wrong foot, didn’t we?’ I nodded. Then a silence descended. ‘Shall I tell you why I asked you out?’ he said suddenly. I looked into his eyes, and noticed that they had amber and green flecks.

  ‘Okay,’ I murmured. ‘Why did you?’

  ‘Because you looked so crestfallen when I couldn’t stay for a beer.’ He fiddled with his spoon. ‘It was really sweet. Your expression. You seemed so…disappointed, if I’m not flattering myself, which I probably am. In fact, you looked quite upset. And I was really touched by that, so I decided that I’d ask you.’ He suddenly smiled. And as he did so the tiny crescent-moon-shaped scar—which I had almost certainly caused too—disappea
red in his laughter lines.

  Now, over the main course, the conversation became more personal. And I realized with happiness, and a kind of horror, that he liked me—he wouldn’t for long. He told me that he was divorced.

  ‘How long were you married?’ I asked disingenuously.

  ‘Just over a year.’

  ‘Not long then.’

  He shook his head. ‘It was a mistake. We didn’t have enough in common,’ he went on. ‘Plus I travelled a hell of a lot, and so did she.’

  ‘What did she do?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘She’s a model. Lots of photographers date models,’ he said. ‘We seem to move in the same circles so it’s easy to meet, and we both have these high pressure lives. And Katya and I were very attracted to each other, but we made the mistake of getting married when it should only have been a fling.’

  ‘Did you break up with her?’

  ‘No. She left me. She said I didn’t treat her well, which is probably true. She said I didn’t talk to her enough and that I was selfish—which I guess I am. Photographers often are selfish, because we’re so driven.’ He poured me some more wine. ‘And what about you, Miranda? You’re single, aren’t you?’ I nodded. ‘And has there ever been a Mr Miranda?’

  ‘No. Or rather, not…quite.’

  ‘Not quite?’

  I fiddled with my wineglass. ‘I was engaged for a while.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘It ended in May.’

  ‘Not long ago then. I’m sorry. That must have been very hard.’

  ‘It was. It still is, actually.’ I chewed on my lip. ‘But I know it’s for the best.’

  ‘Why? Was he…?’

  ‘Unfaithful? No.’ I absently smoothed my napkin. ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘Were you…incompatible then?’

  I shook my head. ‘We got on incredibly well.’

  ‘So what was the problem—if you don’t mind my asking—which you probably do.’

  I looked at him. ‘He…behaved badly towards me.’

  ‘Was he aggressive?’

  ‘Aggressive?’ I smiled. ‘Oh no. He just…did something that I couldn’t forgive. But I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind, because I don’t even like thinking about it.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. It’s a recent hurt. Maybe that’s why I found you a little strained when I first met you on Tuesday.’

  No—it’s got nothing to do with it. I fiddled with my pudding fork. ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘Now,’ David said as the waiter appeared again. ‘Would you like a dessert?’

  ‘I don’t think I could. But I don’t suppose they do petits fours with the coffee, do they?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. But I tell you what—I’ve got some Belgian chocolates at home, so if you felt brave enough to come back with me, we could have coffee there. It’s only two minutes away and I promise you I’m not going to show you my portfolio!’ I smiled. Coffee and chocolates? In his flat? Yes. Then maybe I could say what I needed to say. I glanced at the other diners, chatting in low tones. It would certainly be much easier than doing it here. ‘Would you like to do that?’

  I nodded. David paid the bill, then we walked out into the warm night air. We crossed over St John Street, then turned right into Benjamin Street where there was a row of brown-brick warehouses.

  ‘It’s in an old jam factory,’ he explained. ‘I bought it last year, after I got divorced. I’m on the top floor.’ We ascended in the dimly lit lift, then he unlocked his front door. I was expecting to find a vast open space, like an art gallery, with exposed iron girders and frosted glass bricks, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was spacious, but properly partitioned, the rooms pleasantly proportioned. There was pale wooden flooring throughout.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said. On the wall next to me was a black and white photo of two tiny boys working on a banana plantation. Something about the composition, and the expression of tragic resignation in their eyes, drew me into it. I found it hard to look away. ‘Is this one of yours, David?’

  ‘Yes. Have a seat while I fix the coffee.’

  I sat in his large sitting room, which seemed to double as a study. The shelves behind me groaned with the weight of photography books. I turned and looked at the names. Robert Capa, Sebastiao Salgado, Cartier-Bresson, and Irving Penn. Martha Gellhorn, Ansel Adams, Inge Morath and Man Ray. On the table was a Magnum compilation, a biography of Lee Miller, and a box file marked ‘Colour Negs’. On a side table was a framed Press Photographers’ Award and a photo of a blonde woman in her late twenties, smiling seductively. Then David reappeared with a tray.

  ‘Is this your wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Ex-wife.’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘She is. She’s Polish. Though that had nothing to do with our communication problems as she’s totally bilingual. Anyway, shall we have the coffee outside?’

  ‘Outside? Is there a balcony?’

  ‘No. I’ll show you. Come with me.’ I followed him down the hallway to the back of the flat and up a white spiral staircase, at the top of which was a hyacinth-blue door. He pushed on it, and, as we stepped outside, low spotlights came on, illuminating a huge roof terrace.

  ‘Come into my garden,’ he said.

  It was elegantly decked, and as flower-filled as a nursery in springtime. Several varieties of clematis wound their way through and over the railings. Geraniums sprouted from every pot. There were petunias spilling from troughs and baskets, and fuchsias dripping their pink and red ballerina buds. There was even a summer jasmine-smothered trellis. The scent was heavenly.

  ‘Wow. You did all this?’

  ‘I wish. I inherited it when I bought the flat. I keep it going as well as I can, but I’m not exactly green-fingered. I just water everything and hope for the best. Don’t trip over the hose, by the way.’ We made our way to the edge of the terrace, where there was a wrought-iron table and four chairs. We sat there, looking out over the lights of London, spotting landmarks.

  ‘That’s the Barbican, just there,’ David said, twisting in his chair, ‘and there’s the Nat West tower; to the left of it is the Gherkin, with those green lights; and then, over there, the OXO tower, and along a bit you can just see the Eye.’ As we sat there, sipping our coffee, I was aware of the nocturnal cacophony of the capital: the distant roar of cars, the swish of tyres on the road, the insistent wailing of sirens and car alarms. Then we heard a nearby church clock strike ten.

  ‘That’s St John’s, just down the road. And there, that one, just starting, that’s St Paul’s. This is nice, isn’t it?’ he said happily. ‘I’m enjoying myself. The view’s so much nicer when shared.’ There was silence between us for a moment, and I wanted to tell David what I knew I had to tell him—but the words seemed to be jammed in my throat. Then he started telling me about his latest documentary project, in Indonesia, photographing illegal logging for an environmental agency. Child labour was also a concern of his.

  ‘I’ve photographed four-year-olds in Guatemala, cutting sugar,’ he said. ‘Their machetes were bigger than they were. They should be in school, not slaving in the heat.’

  ‘You must have seen terrible things,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I have. Terrible. And at the same time strangely fascinating. The vile things that we humans are capable of doing to one another.’

  I felt a wave of shame. ‘What was the worst thing?’ I said. ‘I know it’s a crass question, but I can’t help wondering.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m often asked that. I’d say the retreat from Basra in 1991. The aftermath of Omagh. And Kosovo was pretty disgusting, as you can imagine—I was there for a year. I still have recurring nightmares from Rwanda. Then last year I went to Israel. And that’s what finally did it for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’d been a suicide bomb in this café in Jerusalem, and I went over there and began taking pictures. And there was this woman, on the othe
r side of the street, just screaming with grief. And I began photographing her, and she suddenly saw me. And she ran right up to me and she hit me. Hard. She really walloped me. And she was right to. And I knew then that it was time to stop. That’s the worst of it,’ he went on, as he looked out over the city. ‘The way the camera distances you and numbs you emotionally. So there can be people lying there with terrible injuries, or even being shot right in front of your eyes—yet your own human sympathy is temporarily suspended. You’re just thinking “that’s a great shot…there…that one…and that one”. You’re framing and focussing and clicking, because in that moment that’s all you care about. The picture—not the people. But, later, you’re filled with self-disgust.’

  ‘But the pictures are very important.’

  ‘Of course they are. And that’s what you’re trying to get—an important picture. One which transcends its context to become a profound metaphor. But photographers pay a high price for that. Many suffer from depression. A few commit suicide. I’d been doing it for ten years and needed to quit.’

  ‘And that’s why you switched to documentary work?’

  ‘Yes. Also, so that I could choose my own subjects—rather than just having to rush to where the dead bodies are.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it more?’

  ‘I do. But it’s not as lucrative, so I do some commercial stuff as well to pay the bills. Company reports for example—as long as they’re kosher—and recently I’ve been doing a few magazine shoots. I did a couple of development stories for Marie Claire, and then I got that call from Lily Jago.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I still don’t understand why she thought of me to take your pictures.’

  ‘Well… I think…she thought it would give it a bit of an edge. That’s what she said actually. That it would make it “edgy”.’

  ‘Well, my photos do have a certain look. There’s a lot of movement in them, so maybe she just fancied a bit of that. How did you meet her then?’ I told him. He laughed. ‘I can imagine. She’s an animal nut.’

  ‘She said she’d met you once or twice.’