Girl in the Dark by Anna Lyndsey Read Free Book Online Page A

Was it too much plastic surgery in his case, I wonder, or was he just worried about germs?”
    The appointment itself is an anticlimax. The dermatologist listens to my story and examines my face under her special magnifying lamp. “I do not like the look of this,” she says. “But this is not my area of expertise. I am going to refer you to a specialist photobiology unit.”
    It takes another few weeks. And when I first go there, it is simply for various biochemical tests. I provide samples of blood, urine and stools, wrapped immediately in silver foil to limit light exposure (they will bechecking for porphyria, among other conditions, and the relevant chemicals decay quickly on contact with light). They tell me that I will be sent an appointment for light testing, some time in the spring.

November 2005
    Pete has the first full week of November off work, because it is Tree Week—the period when autumn colour is at its most splendid, and therefore most worthy of a photographer’s time and attention.
    Of course, Tree Week can vary depending on climatic conditions—if it has been blowing a gale, most of the leaves can be gone. Or, if the weather has been mild, a number of trees may not have fully turned. But employers do not grant photographers spontaneous tree leave—everything has to be booked in advance. The first full week of November proves to be right more often than not.
    “How did you get on at Winkworth Arboretum?” I ask, when Pete returns one afternoon, humping tripod and camera gear in from the car.
    “It was great,” he enthuses. “There weren’t many people about, so I was able to get out my central column.”
    I laugh in a coarse and lewd manner.
    “Really,” he says severely. “The young ladies of today. That was a perfectly legitimate photographic remark.”
    As all serious photographers will know, the centralcolumn is the extra pole in the middle of a tripod which can be extended upwards, above the legs, to gain additional height. The language of photography is rich in such stimulating metaphors. It is not uncommon to talk about “taking a second body,” or “keeping my old legs but getting a new head.” Shooting in large format requires a rising front, whilst those who use digital boast about the spectacular size of their sensors.
    “My plan is to go to the New Forest on Friday,” says Pete. “Would you like to come with me, if your face is feeling up to it?”
    I eagerly accept. I’ve never been to the New Forest, apart from once to a wildlife park for the purpose of seeing wild boar, for which I have always had a soft spot, after reading all the Asterix books when young. The boar stalked about in a stately way, thrusting their long snouts into the churned-up ground. The interpretative board on the fence of their large wooded enclosure praised their high intelligence and low cunning, their ability to run fast, swim rivers and elude pursuit. Since ancient times, it went on, hunting them was considered an extremely hazardous and therefore highly prestigious activity. I was pleased to find myself a fan of such a superior creature.
    On Friday morning, however, we are on the hunt for other things. We bound down the A339 as it dips and surges between two smooth walls of trunks.
    “Look out for a turning on the right with a sign for Bolderwood,” says Pete.
    “There, there!” I shout.
    We swerve off on to a single-track road that tunnelsinto the trees. Inside the car, the light goes dim. The sounds of traffic on the main road die away, and soon all we can hear is the scrunch of our own tyres and the engine’s purr, loud in the leafy silence. It is as though we are being absorbed into an enormous living organism; if I were to look back and see the forest close in, amoeba-like, behind us, I would not be surprised.
    Time stretches. For what seems hours, but must only be minutes, there is nothing but our gentle forward motion under the upraised arms of the trees.
    Finally we stop in a small