The Greening (26 page)

I spent the next couple of days bringing myself up to date with events in East Timor. The brutal oppression by the Indonesian army
had intensified since the massacre at Santa Cruz Church in Dili, which Ismene and Paul had witnessed.

Many of those who had survived the army’s bullets and beatings were languishing in prison, facing long sentences and even death, simply for participating in the peaceful protest. Indonesia continued to defy ten United Nations resolutions calling upon it to end its illegal occupation. Nonetheless, the government – which had managed to ride the storm over the arms scandal revealed by Dr Newell, and even his death – was continuing with its programme of aid and cheap loans. And it was still allowing the sale of Hawk jet fighter aircraft, which were being used to bomb East Timorese villages. The more I read, the angrier I became.

As I stepped out of Westminster underground station into bright sunshine, I was looking forward to my assignment, though a little apprehensive about seeing Paul again. I passed through groups of tourists, who were busy taking pictures of the Houses of Parliament, on my way to the Queen Elizabeth Conference centre, where the event was taking place. Paul had arrived before me. He strode across and greeted me in a warm and friendly manner.

We worked well together. Paul moved unobtrusively among the delegates. It seemed hardly possible that he was getting good material with so little fuss. He never got in my way. Indeed, he helped interviews along with the odd word and welcoming smile. I enjoyed working with him. Occasionally he would direct me towards someone whom he knew to have a story to tell. At lunchtime we snatched a hurried sandwich, as we talked over the material we had so far and considered our coverage for the rest of that day.

At six o’clock delegates began to drift away to their hotels. Paul asked, “Shall we have a quick drink to plan our tactics for tomorrow?” I agreed and we walked to a nearby pub. I sat on the terrace, which overlooked the slow, grey River Thames, and waited for Paul to bring our drinks.

He joined me and we sat quietly together for several minutes, looking out across the river. I wondered what he was thinking.
The initial awkwardness when we met that morning had evaporated during the busy day. It was pleasant to sit together, sharing a companionable silence.

I glanced at Paul and saw a faraway look in his eyes.

“Are you tired?” I asked.

“Tired? Me? Never,” he replied, pulled suddenly from his reverie. “This is luxury, compared to what I’m used to.”

I realized that to ask a war photographer if he was tired after a day photographing a conference must have sounded quite stupid.

“I know you have an interest in East Timor, but this must be boring for you,” I said.

“Taking pictures is never boring. There’s always something new and different, something one has never seen before. I don’t even know sometimes why I take a particular photograph. I just know I have to. Later I find out why.”

We chatted for several minutes; then he suddenly looked embarrassed. He said, “I mustn’t keep you. You must have things to do.”

“Yes. I mustn’t keep my TV dinner waiting.” It was my tiredness that caused me to make the remark. I regretted it immediately. Why had I made myself an object of pity to Paul, of all people?

“Well, you’re welcome to share my boiled egg,” he said. “Now I’m waiting for you to shout at me. And if you don’t, I’m going to invite you to dinner.”

“You know, Paul, I simply don’t understand you. You’re married – happily, from what I understand. You’re not interested in me. You never have been. I don’t know if it’s some insecurity or whatever that makes you need to collect female scalps, or whatever it is you do, but it’s childish and silly, and frankly you should grow up.”

Paul looked dumbfounded. He said nothing. I thought I had said too much. There was a silence between us. We both stared across the river. Then Paul said, “This is very strange. It sounds as though you’re talking about someone else.”

“Come on, Paul; don’t be cute. How do you suppose your wife would feel if she knew you were having this conversation with me?”

“She would feel sorry.”

“Sorry?! I think she would put it rather stronger than that!”

“She would feel sorry that we’re arguing. Jo, I was happily married, it’s true. But my wife died three years ago.”

For the first time in my life I knew exactly what people meant when they said they wished the ground would open up under them. I did not know what to say. Eventually I said, “I’m terribly sorry, Paul. Please forgive me.”

Paul smiled his familiar smile and said, “Nothing to forgive.” He paused. “Shall we have that boiled egg?”

I said yes, because I wanted to be with him. He suggested going to a restaurant but because I was tired and we had an early start the following day we agreed that he would rustle up something at his house in Islington, a ten-minute drive from my home.

Paul lived in a three-storey Edwardian house. The house was quite sparsely furnished. There was very little clutter and a feeling of space and light. On otherwise bare white walls hung beautiful photographs, many of indigenous people from Third World countries. He led me into the kitchen.

“It’s a bit blokeish, I’m afraid,” he said. “But there should be something edible around here.” He peered into the fridge. “I seem to remember a scene in James Bond where he takes two eggs and a carrot from a lady’s fridge and serves her up a mouth-watering soufflé. I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.”

I laughed. “Just scramble the eggs.”

“I would if there were any.”

He peered further into the fridge. “There’s some smoked salmon. There’s also lots of salad. And there’s some soup, delicious home-made vegetable soup from the kitchen of Ismene Vale.”

“You’re joking.”

“She sent her maid over from Hampstead with it. She’s convinced I don’t eat.”

The thought suddenly crossed my mind that no woman, not even the brilliant and sensible Ismene Vale, was invulnerable to Paul’s charm. My mood was broken as I remembered how he had
stood me up all those years ago, how he had betrayed his wife and let Felicity down.

“What would you like to drink?” Paul asked. I accepted a glass of wine and wondered what I was doing there. Paul put on some music and started to prepare the food. Suddenly the telephone rang. Paul took the call.

“Paul Huntingford. Oh, hi, Felicity. Yes, very well. You’ll be pleased. Portrait stuff, and the interactive stuff you wanted of various delegates together.” I flashed Paul a warning look, to communicate that I did not wish him to tell Felicity that I was there.

“Isn’t she? No idea, I’m afraid. About three-quarters of an hour ago. I couldn’t tell you. Any message to give her in the morning? Will do.” There was a pause. “Absolutely fine, thanks. It’s nice to have some time at home. It has been a long while. Yes. Yes. Mmm. Well, yes.”

I affected not to be listening but was straining to hear. Paul’s expression was serious.

“Really? Well, I’ll be glad to do what I can. Yes, I was, very fond, and always will be. We’ll arrange that, then. Great. When this job’s out of the way. Great. Speak to you tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to look at the pics. I’ll give Jo your message.” He replaced the receiver and smiled. “Your reputation is safe. Felicity wants a word in the morning. She’s been trying to get you at home.”

I felt angry and uncomfortable. What was Paul up to? It sounded as though he was planning to re-establish his liaison with Felicity. I said, “I probably shouldn’t stay.”

“Now that I’ve gone to all the trouble of taking the salmon out of the fridge and putting it on a plate? You can’t go now. You’re hungry. What a changeable woman you are. But I’m not saying I don’t like it. Changeable is good.”

Paul continued preparing the food. I listened to the music. It was Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto… Why had he had to choose Mozart? Memories of that awful evening when I didn’t get to see
The Marriage of Figaro
came back in sharp focus. I decided I would eat the meal, say a polite thank you and leave. After all, we did have to
work together the following day. In my mind, I picked over Paul’s conversation with Felicity. It had sounded as though they might be getting back together again. What was Paul up to? I realized that none of this should matter to me. What was I thinking of?

I ate the meal, drank a couple of glasses of wine and then said I must go. Paul offered to drive me home. I accepted, having thought about catching a bus but not feeling much like it.

As Paul’s car drew up outside my house, I said, “Thank you, and thank you for feeding me.” He smiled at me, and in his warm, humorous brown eyes I saw the same old Paul, the one I had liked so much and fallen in love with. I thought:
If only Paul were what he appeared to be, what a difference that would make
.

“Thank you for a lovely evening and a lovely day,” he replied. “Being with you is always such fun.” We said goodnight and arranged to meet at the conference centre early the following morning.

Fun? I thought, as I turned my key in the lock. Was he being sarcastic?

Our second day went even better than the first. I was happy with my interviews and Paul was happy with his pictures. Felicity wanted to see us, so we took a taxi to the office. While Paul was downstairs in the dark room, getting the last of his pictures developed, Felicity and I discussed the piece I was to write.

“How did you find Paul to work with?” she asked.

“Oh, great.”

“Everyone does. I won’t pretend I wasn’t thrilled to get him to do this assignment for me. He may be a bastard – but what a photographer!” I was unsure how to respond, but was keen to get some information about Paul.

“So he’s a bastard?”

“’Course. Aren’t they all?”

I was perplexed. If she thought he was a bastard why was she arranging to meet him?

“Nice bastard, though.” She smiled her big, wide smile and wagged a long pink fingernail at me. “Very cute, don’t you think?”

“Oh, pff… in an obvious kind of way, I suppose,” I said.

“So you fancy him, too!” Felicity laughed. “Join the queue. We were an item, you know.”

“Really?”

“Bad timing, darling. But he’s available now,” said Felicity.

At that moment Paul walked in and Felicity gave him a dazzling smile. “Paul, darling – what have you got for me?” she asked. Paul handed her his contact sheet. She took it across to the window.

“Stunning, darling,” she said. “You’re a genius.”

I wondered why Felicity was being so nice to him after he had treated her so badly. She discussed with Paul the pictures she would use, standing much closer to him than was necessary. Then she tilted her head to look up into his eyes and asked, “Time for a drink?”

“I can’t tonight, I’m afraid,” said Paul. “But I’ll call you next week as we arranged, if that’s OK.”

As Paul and I walked out into the street, he said, “I wonder if you might like to come with me to a drinks do at the ICA? It’s a reception for my exhibition. Do come. There’ll be people I think you’ll enjoy meeting.”

I accepted the invitation and we took a taxi to the venue in the Mall, within sight of Buckingham Palace. The gallery where the party was being held was a hubbub of chatter. As we arrived, I spotted Ismene, and Paul took me across to join her. She greeted us both warmly.

Paul said, “Ismene, I think it’s time I entertained you. You’re always feeding me!”

I gathered that he was a frequent guest at her home. Paul invited us both to dinner the following week. We both accepted. In the circumstances it would have been rude to decline, I told myself.

On the evening of our dinner date, I picked Paul up; his car was at the garage. We dined at an expensive French restaurant. The food was delicious and it was a wonderful evening. It was inspiring to hear Paul and Ismene talk about the stories they had worked on together. I learned a lot about the independence struggles in Kashmir, Burma, Tibet and elsewhere. At the end of the evening I drove Ismene home, before dropping Paul off at his house.

“Will you come in for a nightcap?” he asked.

“Well, I – ”

“Oh come on. I won’t turn into a pumpkin. Though I might turn into a mangel-wurzel.”

“What is a mangel-wurzel?”

“Come in and find out!”

I parked the car and followed Paul into his house. I declined a nightcap, because I was driving, and asked for tea. Paul put the kettle on and went into the lounge. Moments later, as he returned to the kitchen, I heard the strains of Mozart. Having decided not to spoil the moment, I did.

“You seem to like Mozart,” I said.

“Mmm. Very much. He can usually lift my mood.” Paul dum-de-dummed along to the Bassoon Concerto.

“Do you remember, years ago, inviting me to the opera?”

He turned, teapot in hand, and said, “Yes, I do.”

“That was Mozart,” I said, feeling my anger beginning to bubble up.

“Mmm,” said Paul casually, pottering about with spoon and teacaddy. “
The Magic Flute
.”

“
The Marriage of Figaro
, actually.”

“No –
The Magic Flute
, I’m pretty certain. It was a very good performance for a small touring company, I recall.”