Photographic (36 page)

A few delicious minutes later, she heard someone say her name. She opened her eyes and saw Ian standing over her, his shadow cast over her face. She closed her eyes again. It felt too good to wake up.

The next time she opened her eyes, after another score of minutes had slid by, she thought she was alone. But when she turned her head, she saw Ian lying next to her in a patch of sun, napping. The sun was sliding off of her and onto him. She rolled over on her side. He opened his eyes as if he could feel her watching. He smiled. 

Stretching his arms over his head, he yawned. “Guess who I talked to?”

“Who?”

“Tor.”

“Really? How awful for you.”

“Yep. He called me.”

She mulled this over. “Why?”

“He wanted to see how we were, commiserate, sort of. He’s concerned for us. And that’s not all.” He dragged the words out for dramatic effect.

“Do tell.” Jane, curled up into a fetal ball, held her knees.

“He asked if we wanted to go on Martin Grosbek’s show with him.”

“Oh. Sounds fantastic.”

“Yeah. You’re an old hand now. Should be easy.”

“Who’s Martin Grosbek?”

“He’s a big deal over here. Has a big show. Interviews and stuff.”

“Tor wants you and me to go on it? He might have reconsidered a few things if he wanted to ask me for any favors.”

“He doesn’t see much outside his vision, does he? Look. I’m sorry about how I blew up earlier. Tor has the same outlook you do. He wants to brave it out and tell people how it really was at the time. The kind of thing you were talking about. To tell you the truth, it’s confusing for me right now. I don’t know how to talk about it. I just don’t know.”

Jane unclasped her hands from around her legs and sat up. “Um, what if Beezer were right? What if Tor did spill the beans to Marta? Now he wants to do an interview about it. It’s weird.” 

Ian lay staring at the ceiling, his face a blank. “I know he wouldn’t have told. I was there that day. It was a vow among the three of us. No one would tell.”

“You told me.”

His faraway eyes turned to focus on her and he smiled. “Yes. I did. But it wasn’t the same. You’re my life. I had to tell you. They would understand that.”

Jane hugged her legs. “I’m so touched you needed to share your experience with me that much. What a thoughtful guy. So what’s Tor’s motive?”

He winced. “I got some of it just now, but I can’t tell you, exactly. All about some new step he’s trying to take. It’s the kind of thing he talked about when we discussed the scene originally. About authenticity.” He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes for a moment.

“What do you think about going on the show?”

“I think it’s your decision.”

Jane imagined being on a television show and answering questions about their life, about everything that had happened. What had been her idea, but now…for real. She pictured running away, hiding from the questions and the answers she didn’t want to hear. She thought about turning over the stones with the ugliest facts underneath. What it meant not to be paralyzed by her fears. Who was she to stop, now the whole howling mess was unleashed at once? 

“We’ll do it,” she said. “I’d rather turn my face to them than let it overtake us from behind.”

Ian nodded his head wearily. “Yes. That’s one way.”

A too familiar yowling roar rose outside and shortly thereafter the doorbell rang. 

Tam appeared at the head of the stairs. “Marie-Renée is here!” She bounced down the steps, backpack looming behind her head, doubtless stuffed to breaking point with prehistoric reptiles.

Jane caught her onward march as Ian went to the door and squeezed the fortunately narrow Marie-Renée in. Marie-Renée swore in rapid French under her breath before Tam ran up and gave her a bone-crushing hug. 

Jane smiled. “Ready?”

Marie-Renée, eyes wide and disbelieving as she patted Tam, shook her head. “Animals.” She shrugged. “Let’s go!”

At least Marie-Renée was up for it, fighting Québéçoise blood rising to the challenge. One woman on each side of Tam, they made their to the door and opened it wide.

Ian wandered around the house once the little battalion had left, looking for something to do. He felt all right about their safety, knowing the driver cum bodyguard he used in London would be looking out for them, wise from a call he’d placed earlier. Desperate for an occupation, he swept the kitchen floor, started a load of laundry, and was about to vacuum when the doorbell rang. Thinking Jane might have forgotten her key, he hurried to the front door and opened it without looking through the spy hole. The expected flashes exploded in his face, but he could tell it wasn’t Jane. It took only half a second to see it was Marta, the owner of the flat, standing on the threshold. For a moment he was speechless. Marta smiled. 

“Hello, Ian! I’m in town!” When he didn’t say anything in response, she followed it up with, “May I come in?” As it was her flat he had no other recourse, no matter what Angus had told them the day before. 

“Forgive me.” His smile was tight. “I’m shocked to see you. Please come in.”

“Thank you.” She walked in gingerly, peering around the hallway as if looking to see who else might be in the flat or how it might have changed. He allowed her to go before him into the living room. She stood in the center of the room and turned a slow three-sixty. “The place looks good.” 

Perhaps she was ignoring Tam’s toys spread over half the living room floor and their coats and books all over everywhere else. He shoved the vacuum cleaner back in the closet.

“Have a seat.” He gestured towards the couch against the far wall. She perched on the edge of the couch. She was dressed all in cocoa color, an elegant short coat and trousers, offset rather well by the ivory décor of the living room, only disfigured by the pack over one of her shoulders. 

“So, how are you?” She glowed.

“Good.”

“Good.” She glanced toward the bay windows, where the shades Jane had drawn let in the afternoon light, with a glimpse of the street. “You seem to be very popular right now.”

“Yes. You may have heard. There’s a story.”

“I have heard, yes.” She nodded. “It’s a shame when people are more interested in sensation than in the good work an actor does.”

Ian scratched his nose. “Yes, it is.” 

“I’m glad we have a chance to talk alone like this.”

“Oh?”

“I might be able to help you. I think I know a way to make it all stop.”

“Truly.” He folded his arms and leaned back, propping his legs in front of him and crossing his ankles.

“Yes. You have a great deal of credibility with your fans and with your viewing public. There’s all this good will built up by your career. You’ve spent the last ten or more years building it. Now is the time to use it, spend it.”

Abandoning his comfortable pose, Ian leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Marta. “And how do you suggest I spend it?” 

Marta leaned toward him, lowering her voice until it was a husky whisper. “You tell them it didn’t happen. You say it was simulation, that the acting was so good people mistook it for the real thing. And if it comes up, as far as any evidence goes, that you wore a condom to be safe, that’s all.”

Ian’s fixed gaze on Marta didn’t falter. His eyes burned into her so hard she blinked. “Evidence, huh.”

“Not that there is any.”

Marta dropped her eyes and fumbled with the slide adjuster on her pack strap, tightening it. 

“Who are you more like, your mother or your father?”

His question had caught her off guard. She snorted. “Neither. I’m like neither.” She saw his half-smile and continued, “Lucky, isn’t it?” she laughed, a deep, gut-wrenching laugh, so hard that for a moment he thought she might be having a coughing fit. When it subsided, she said, “You know why? I created myself. I’m the child of myself.”

He nodded. The thin veil of dusk descended between them. “I know something about that.”

“Ian. I can help you. If you’ll let me.”

“Hmm. ”

“You only have to do one simple thing.”

“What’s that, he asked, in fear of his eternal salvation.”

“Lie. Just lie.”

“About what?”

“What happened in the cave! Say it was acting, it was simulacrum, great method work, whatever you like. Not the real thing. One interview, or, say, two or three, and you’re off the hook.”

“And what does this gain me, at this point, my dear Marta?”

She shook her head like a dog getting water out of its ears. “Everything! You’re back in the fold, the acting fold. You haven’t done anything shameful. You haven’t broken your marriage vows. People can relate to you again.”

He sucked his lips and studied Tam’s animal toys on the floor. They seemed to be going on some kind of journey: they were all lined up in rows of three. “And what does it gain you?”

“Me? Nothing. It’s a way to help.”

“And you’re known for your altruism,” Ian ran his hand over his unshaven chin.

She sat back. “Thanks a lot. I fly over here, come to you with a suggestion I hope will improve your, frankly, pretty desperate situation, and all you can do is insult me. I don’t know why I bother. Never mind the fact that you’ve been living in the flat I freely offered to your wife so
she
could get away from
you
, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Ian felt rather sick by the time she’d finished. “You’re right about the flat. I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m going stir crazy in here. I don’t care about the bloody photographers. Let’s get out of here.”

After stewing about it for a minute, he called a car to pick them up. The little mopeds could go almost anywhere—it would hardly matter if they were on foot or in a car—but he called for a car anyway. He called a driver he’d used before, who knew how to lay down the rubber. They were just going around the corner, but the photogs didn’t know that. 

Twenty minutes later, when the two of them were walking in Kensington Gardens, followed by an interested handful on foot, he wondered what the tabloid headline would say about Marta and him. His wife and child were in the same park playing. He should probably find them, to stop any rumor in its tracks. Why did his mind have to think like this? 

He cast a glance at Marta, who looked stiff and out of sorts. “Have you ever been on the other side, photographers snapping you? How does it feel?”

“Fine, fine.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth.

“You can talk normally, you know. They don’t have us wired.”

“Uh-huh.” Her face was a plummy shade. She appeared to be sweating. Her eyes kept darting around, and she looked over her shoulder every dozen strides or so. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Marta, can you hear me?”

“What?”

“Don’t pay any attention to them.” He reached out and took her hand. Her head swung around toward him as if he’d grabbed her by the chin. He shook her hand in a big motion, to loosen her whole arm. “Relax. We can have a normal conversation.”

She grinned awkwardly, her color starting to fade. “Okay.”

He dropped her hand. “You’re suggesting I use up any credibility I’ve developed with my audience by telling them a lie.”

“You’re looking at it the wrong way.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You need to look at it like a cost-benefit analysis. The benefits to telling that little fib will be enormous. Greatly worth the little downside of it being a tiny falsehood.”

“Not that tiny.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Expression bland, Ian said, “You may be interested to know that there’s another rumor floating around. Namely, that you leaked this rumor in the first place.”

“Oh, really.” 

“Indeed.”

“In one guess I can tell you who said that. A Mr. Angus Beezer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources. It would be unethical.”

“Oh, you’re a hoot. You know why I know it’s him? You’re a sharp blade. I’m sure you can figure it out.” They continued to walk along the path, but Marta was now exercised with passion, gesticulating to make her point. “He was on set for
Odysseus
, wasn’t he? How do you think the rumor about you and Delaney got started? It was Beezer who took those pictures. He was the one sniffing around the set for hints of scandal. Did you never think how someone found out about the Calypso scene? It was a closed set. I wasn’t there. Ask Mr. Beezer and you might be enlightened.” 

“If you know, tell me. Then I might believe you.” 

Marta snorted. “That hound is out for whatever will earn him the most florins, period.” She sucked on the inside of her cheek, considering, pacing with one arm folded now, the other hand rubbing her pointed chin. “If I tell you, it’s only so you’ll understand it was him, not so you’ll go after anybody with the law, right?” She glanced over at him. Ian nodded once. She lowered her voice. “He bugged the cave. Beez has lots of skills that come in handy. He wired the cave soon’s he knew it would be a closed set. The rig was voice-activated. He heard everything you all said. It wasn’t spelled out exactly, but enough for him to know.” She shook her head. “No flies on Beezer.”

“Bloody hell.” Ian put his hand to his forehead, as if feeling for a lump, or a map of what to do, a move he’d had more and more cause to do lately.

Marta patted Ian’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. He would have done it to anyone in your place.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Ian.” Her voice was different, high and plaintive, “I want to help you. I don’t want you to get dragged through the dirt. Take my advice and save yourself. Please.”

“And why, my dear Marta, would you care?” Ian said, his hands now shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, expression shrouded.

“Oh, well, that’s…you know how…Jane…but I…oh forget it.”

“Well put.”

“You don’t want to help yourself.” Marta was furious. “Fine! Just go to hell, then, for all I care!” She turned on her heel and stomped back the way they’d come, splitting the pack of paparazzi in two, who gleefully snapped their parting, including Ian’s puzzled study of her back as she exited their conversation stage left.