She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tims studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced around, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirt sleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise longue that was one of his favorite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. Jo! Hows life? He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
Beer or coffee, sweetheart? Im right out of champagne.
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the dark rooms. Coffee, thanks. Ill make it. Are you sober, Tim?
He raised his eyebrows, hurt. When am I not?
Frequently. Ive got a job for you. Six to be precise, and I want to talk about them. Then well go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.
Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé, handing one to Tim. Then she pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.
He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. Presumably its the approach thats going to be new, sweetie? Whens the deadline?
Ive got months. Theres quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?
He glanced up at her, his clear light-green eyes intense. Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff-whole foods and weaving-the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one especially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks shes Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing. He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. I saw someone being hypnotized a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.
Jos eyes narrowed. Faked, of course.
Uh-uh. I dont think so. The guy swore hed never learned German at all, and theres no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldnt manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.
Jo said, Do you think itll make a good article?
More like a book, love. Dont be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think theres a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? Thats the hypnotist.
Jo nodded. Please, Tim. I have a lot of information on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. Its incredible that people really believe that its regression into the past. Its not, you know. She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black-and-white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. Is that who I think it is?
He grinned. Who else? Like them?
Does her husband?
Im sure he will. Its the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. Id say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.
Jo looked back at him and laughed. Okay, Tim. You tell your Mr. Walton hes got to convince me. Right? She got up to examine the photos. Its something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. Youll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. Hes genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. Youve made her look really beautiful.
Thats what they pay me for, Jo. He was watching her closely. I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?
I know. She turned. So you know about it.
About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. Im surprised you took it seriously.
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. Its happened too often, Tim. And its getting to hurt too much. She looked at him with a small grimace. Im not going to let myself get that involved. I just cant afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and thats not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly. She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. Ruthless lady. Im glad Im not one of your lovers. He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?
Not if I can bring someone too.
He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. Someone?
Ill think of someone.
Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nicks-eye someone. He laughed. Course you can. He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. It could always be me, you know, Jo.
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. It couldnt, Tim. I like you too much.
He groaned. The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. I like you too much, he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. At least you didnt say I was too old though. Now scram. Ive got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.
Nick Franklyn walked into Bet Gunnings office. She was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven stories below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the center of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier toward the Tower.
What can I do for you, Nick? She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.
He grinned. Youre looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.
Meaning why the hell couldnt I see you three days ago when you called?
Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they cant see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts. He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.
She smiled. Dont give me that, Nick. Youre not here about the Wonda account.
Youre right. Ive come to ask you a favor. As a friend.
She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning around, About?
Jo.
She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.
Does Jo need any favors from me? she asked.
Shes going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.
He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. I think youd better explain, Nick.
Shes planning a series of articles that shes going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I dont want her to write it.
And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesnt write? Bets voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nicks face.
A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. I care about her, Bet.
Bet stood up. Not from what Ive been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jos life. If you ever had that right. She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?
Nick rose to his feet. I have good reasons, Bet. I dont know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because Im seeing someone else doesnt mean I no longer care about Jo. He was pacing up and down the carpet. Shes a bloody good journalist, Bet. Shell research the article thoroughly He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
Nick rose to his feet. I have good reasons, Bet. I dont know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because Im seeing someone else doesnt mean I no longer care about Jo. He was pacing up and down the carpet. Shes a bloody good journalist, Bet. Shell research the article thoroughly He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
And why shouldnt she? Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.
He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet, and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. If I tell you, Im betraying a confidence.
If you dont tell me, theres no way Id ever consider stopping the article.
He shrugged. Youre a hard bitch, Bet. Okay. But keep this under your hat or youll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject-that means if she gets hypnotized herself shes likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at the university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical program. She completely flipped. Jo doesnt know anything about it-they did that business of you wont remember when you wake up on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.
Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. Are you serious?
Never more so.
But thats fantastic, Nick! Think of the article shell produce!
Christ , Bet! Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. Cant you see, she mustnt do it?