The Photographer's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

of being human.”
    “I guess,” Brett says, doubtfully. “And you don’t carry any equipment?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “All my photographer pals have their cameras with them at all times.”
    “Oh, I have this,” Sophie says, pulling her Leica compact from her inside pocket, then dropping it back in again. “But I don’t carry the big one around unless I’m actually going on a shoot. Why? Did you want me to photograph you?”
    “Maybe,” Brett says, raising one eyebrow and shooting her another cocky leer.
     
    ***
     
    His flat is beautiful. They step from a dingy, external walkway that looks like it might feature in a Mike Leigh film, into a vast lounge that is so white, so chic, it almost resembles a gallery.
    “Wow!” Sophie exclaims, heading straight for the bay-windows. “A room with a view!”
    “Yes, you can see right down to the river,” Brett says.
    “I’m impressed.”
    “It’s a rental,” Brett says, “and shared. So don’t be.”
    “Right.”
    “I’m not sure I’m staying yet, so...”
    “Staying?”
    “Yeah. I might be going back home.”
    “And home is?”
    “Manhattan.”
    “Right. Well, I can understand the appeal of that.”
    “But London’s fine for now,” Brett says, hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, loosening his gold tie and undoing his top button. "So, Drink? Food? Kiss? A spot of fiendish rope-work perhaps?”
    “Let’s start with a drink,” Sophie says, “and see where it leads us.”
    “Sure,” Brett says. “Let’s do that.”

1941 - Shoreditch, London
     
    They can see the blaze from over three blocks away and as her mother’s hand tightens around her own, Barbara realises that something bad has happened. All three are thinking the same thing: Is that coming from our house? But as they trip along in the dingy morning light, no one says a word.
    As the corner of their street comes into view, they can smell the smoke and see the fire hoses. Minnie starts to run, dragging her daughter along beside her. Glenda is already in front.
    And now they round the corner and, just for a second, it’s as if they have made a mistake, as if they have come to the wrong place, because the street is unrecognisable. The house opposite – the Robinson place – is gone, just a pile of rubble. The house to the left of theirs, where the Smiths and the Havershams live, (lived?)is gone as well. And the house to the right of theirs, number twenty-six, is a red ball of licking, crackling flame producing a dark column of smoke which twists and turns as it rises into the sky.
    “Oh,” Minnie says – more an exhalation than a word. Because language has just failed her.
    Five blackened firemen are pointing hoses at the blaze. They have clearly been here for some time now, as there is no apparent urgency – just the noisy rush and hiss of water jets hitting the base of the fire, jets which, though massive, seem entirely insufficient for the job at hand. They might as well be spraying petrol on for all the good it’s doing.
    After a full minute of paralysis, Minnie says, “My tin!” and unexpectedly breaks free from the girls. “Stay!” she instructs as she starts to sprint towards their house, now skipping over fire hoses, now opening the gate to their front yard, somehow absurd amidst all this destruction. A gate to protect from what exactly?
    Imagining the building collapsing, Glenda shouts, “Mum! No!” and lets go of Barbara’s hand to run after her.
    The nearest fireman now turns to see what the commotion is and drops his hose, which snakes and buckles on the ground, then spins, briefly spraying Barbara with water, before backing up and lodging itself against the wheel of a fire-truck. He jumps over the small dividing wall between the two gardens and seizes Minnie’s arms just as she is trying to force the front door open.
    A struggle ensues – an actual fight – where Minnie, held from behind by the fireman, buckles and kicks and shrieks about her tin as