The Photograph by Penelope Lively Read Free Book Online Page A

had thought, has anyone kept Nick under control? I too should have seen the red light. From now on, there will be changes. She had felt older, harder, and, in some odd way, exhilarated.
    She collects her papers and clipboard from the back of the car. She goes into the house.
    Windows open to the summer evening. Music filtering from somewhere. Nick is in the conservatory with a drink in his hand and something emollient on the stereo. After his taxing day.
    Elaine goes into the office. Sonia has left a pile of letters for her to sign. There is another tray of letters and faxes that she must read. She gathers these up. She puts her notes from today into the appropriate file.
    In the kitchen, Pam and Jim have both left scrawled messages on the blackboard. Pam has finished tidying up the long border, but needs instructions about the box hedging and those fuchsia cuttings. Jim says the tractor mower has packed up again; he’s called in the mechanic and let’s hope he comes in time to get the grass done by Saturday.
    Elaine walks through into the conservatory, where the plumbago is a sight to behold. Beyond, the garden is glorious in the evening sunshine. Elaine is able to pay only token respect; her head is jangling from her day and her focus is on Nick, positioned precisely as she had anticipated. He has not heard her enter, but catches sight of her as she sits down.
    “Hi! You’re back. I didn’t realize.”
    “Naturally not. Do you think you could turn the music down a notch?” She starts to go through the mail.
    Nick does so. He gets up to refill his glass, then has a sudden thought. “Drink?”
    She nods.
    “We’re out of that nice Australian white you got. Let’s get some more.”
    “Thank you for reminding me,” says Elaine.
    The touch of frost in the air is apparent to Nick. He gives her a wary glance. “Poll rang. Says she’ll call back.”
    “Mmn.”
    Nick is now cheerfully concerned. “Don’t do all that wretched paperwork now, sweetie. Relax. Enjoy this gorgeous evening. Tell you what, why don’t I knock us up an omelette and a salad later on and then you needn’t bother cooking?”
    “Yes, why don’t you . . .” says Elaine. She returns to her letters.
    Nick’s concern hovers in silence for a while. He gives her a furtive glance. “Pesky clients?” he asks, with professional solicitude.
    “Many clients are pesky, as you put it. If I let that bother me I’d soon go out of business.”
    Nick changes tack. There is an element of self-preservation here.
    “I’ve had someone called a fact-checker on my back today. Nitpicking away about could I verify this, and give a reference for that. Remember that piece I did for the New York Times travel magazine?”
    “And could you?”
    “Well, here and there I could,” says Nick. “But, I mean—what a sweat! On and on she went—‘Now can we look at paragraph two on galley three—’”
    “An appalling imposition.” Elaine’s tone is level, inscrutable. She picks up another letter from the pile.
    Nick’s strategy is not working out quite as intended: the establishment of his own demanding agenda.
    “And of course I was wanting to get to the library. I need stuff on Isambard Kingdom Brunel. I’m really excited about this book project.”
    Elaine perceives that Nick will probably not be invited to contribute to the New York Times travel magazine again. His relationships with commissioning editors are frequently short-lived: he finds deadlines offensive and briefings tiresome. The book project will remain a gleam in his eye, which is no doubt just as well, since it is unlikely to thrill publishers, there being certainly a swathe of works already on Isambard Kingdom Brunel far superior to any contribution Nick might make.
    Occasionally, over the years, she has asked herself if she should feel sorry for Nick. But Nick does not invite sympathy, because clearly he does not feel that there is any problem. When one area of activity sputters to