In the Shadow of the Trees Read Online Free PDF Page A

and spat out, more like.’
    ‘Do I detect a note of self-doubt?’
    ‘No. Just terror. At least you’ve given me a good excuse to escape. I can’t stay here looking like this so I suppose I should be grateful. It’s OK, you can let go now.’
    Instead he twisted me round, looking me up and down. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
    This time I was dragged into the ladies’ room where the lights were blazing and the mirrors showed the full effect of the disaster on my outfit. He released my arm at last and started taking off his coat.
    ‘Take your shirt off,’ he said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Take your shirt off. You can wear mine. It’s a tad on the big side, but if you tuck it and button the sleeves tight so the arms drape loose it’ll look good.’
    ‘And what are you going to wear?’
    ‘I’ll just button up my jacket. It’ll look cool. We’ll both make a fashion statement.’
    I didn’t have much option. A few moments later we were standing side by side in front of the mirror. I barely came up to his shoulder. He was right, I did look good. The shirt I was wearing was a gentle silk and the same colour as his eyes. His hair was sun-bleached corn and his jacket lapels revealed a chest still too smooth to be a man’s. The camera slung round his neck was all the explanation he needed.
    ‘See? No problem.’ He grinned at me from the mirror. ‘You look great.’
    ‘I wish I felt as good. I’m sorry I got so uptight earlier. I’m feeling a bit anxious.’
    ‘Oh, really? I’d never have guessed. One piece of advice: when dealing with the press, always swing with the right arm. Oh, and never drink red wine when wearing a white shirt.’
    I shot him what I hoped was a look of pure venom and headed for the door. As I went through I was stopped by his hand on my shoulder. He whispered so close I could feel his breath, warm on my neck. ‘I’ve seen your work. I think it’s wonderful. Don’t be afraid. You’ll be great. They’ll love you.’
    I was and they did. And that was the last I saw of him that evening.
    Three days later he rang me. I asked where he got my phone number and he said it was a trade secret. Then he asked if he could have his shirt back. He was at the café around the corner and I could deliver it to him there. He said he would shout mea coffee if I promised not to spill it, as he was running out of clothes.
    I thought, thank God I’ve washed the shirt. I’d felt I ought to just in case I saw him again. I’d actually ironed it, something I don’t normally do with my own stuff. I dropped everything and ran all the way to the corner where I slammed on the brakes and strolled casually up to his table. He was seated under an umbrella on the pavement. In the light of day I saw how young he was and almost faltered. But, then, I was only returning his shirt.
    I ordered a cappuccino with heaps of chocolate and three sugars, which he seemed to find amusing. Of course it spilled over into the saucer and then I dripped it all down my chinos. I explained that getting stuff spilled on me is a recurrent theme in my life. He said he had to have a record of this and clicked his camera before I could protest. We talked about the exhibition and he asked about my work, the sort of questions that showed he understood and led to further questions, which forced me to probe deeper. By the third coffee I had learnt a lot about my creativity and myself, things he seemed to have known all along.
    As we talked he held up his camera and looked at me through the lens. He did this constantly as if he saw the world more clearly through that third eye. If something caught his attention he would click the shutter. He took several shots of me. At first I found this disconcerting, but after a while it became a part of his body language and I accepted it as naturally as if I were watching him blink. I was to learn that his camera was always with him, like an extension of his ego. He told me he worked freelance and, although I didn’t