A Division of the Light by Christopher Burns Read Free Book Online Page A

think that all women want to be photographed?”
    â€œYes, and men too. Most of us are vain in some way or another. But most don’t have a face made for a camera.” Gregory paused only for a second before going on. “Maybe your partner hasn’t got the insight to recognize that you have.”
    When Alice did not answer, he spoke again.
    â€œSometimes it’s difficult to see the obvious.”
    Still she did not reply.
    â€œI know you told me his name,” he said. “I’m sorry but I’ve forgotten it.”
    She wondered if this were true; Gregory had easily memorized other things about her.
    â€œHe’s called Thomas.”
    â€œAnd his surname?”
    Partly as an avoidance tactic, Alice crossed to the shelves. In front of her were boxes with coded labels, a plastic tray overflowing with what looked like random objects, and a row of large-format photography books along with some on painting.
    â€œLaidlaw,” she said.
    Gregory’s speech ceased to be discursive. They had reached the point he had wanted to reach.
    â€œAnd if this partner of yours doesn’t realize the potential of your looks, will he object to me photographing you? Do you need his agreement?”
    â€œI make my own decisions,” she said.
    â€œOf course you do,” Gregory said calmly, as if he had always known that for a fact. “The Weston is on the far right, after Stieglitz,” he added, “they’re alphabetical.”
    Momentarily Alice did not know what he meant, but then she read the name on a dust jacket spine and quickly realized that this was the man who had photographed the seashell. That was another thing that Gregory had remembered without effort—the postcard she had sent.
    She had not deliberately sought it out; instead it had seemed fortuitous that she should chance upon a card that a professional photographer would find pleasing. She had not consciously intended the card to carry any message other than the few words that she had written. But now she wondered if Gregory believed that she had chosen it to demonstrate her taste and, by inference, an interest in him.
    Alice took the book from the shelf and leafed through its pages. Here were shells that gleamed like silver, trees with bark furrowed as deep as a field, pebbles speckled like eggs, landscapes infused by dawn light, and discreet middle-distance nudes whose bodies had the cool texture of marble. And here, too, were unashamedly graphic shots of a thin young woman stretched out naked on grainy sand with her arms and legs apart to show dense black stars of pubic and axillary hair.
    She closed the book and returned it.
    â€œI thought you liked Weston,” Gregory said, and she wondered if the studied neutrality of his voice was in itself a kind of challenge. “Or maybe you know all the contents,” he added.
    â€œTell me, Mr. Pharaoh: is it just my face that you’re interested in?”
    â€œOf course it’s not just your face. But whatever we did, and however you posed, it would be by agreement.”
    Alice looked up through the skylight. High above the city a plane cut a thin white line across the sky, the vapor widening and dispersing behind it.
    â€œMaybe your friend Thomas doesn’t even photograph you. Does he?”
    He had done, but Alice had decided that she looked undistinguished, with no trace of individuality, and ever since then she had avoided standing in front of a lens. But at least she now had an opportunity to lessen the tension by talking about Thomas.
    â€œHe takes photographs of archaeological sites. Wherever we go on holiday, he goes to see old forts, stone circles, barrow mounds. Things like that.”
    â€œI see. Is it interesting to live with someone who is so bound up with the past?”
    â€œIt would be if he could get a decent job.”
    â€œAh. Problems.”
    â€œThomas lives on short-term contracts and low-grade work. He does some