1994.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She turned away from him. She’d already researched the building ready for an article on the London Underground she’d been commissioned to write. ‘And before Aldwych, it was Strand Station.’
‘Yeah, but the sign gives that away.’
She glanced at the ‘Strand Station’ sign on the red-brick wall above the closed metal gate.
‘So that’s kind of cheating,’ he said.
A smile flickered on her lips, as she aimed her camera.
‘Did you know it’s been used in films?’ he said.
‘Aha.’ She kept her eyes focused. ‘Atonement.’
‘Superman.’
‘28 Weeks Later.’
‘V for Vendetta.’
‘The Krays.’
He smiled through a brief silence, where they locked eyes, before saying, ‘So are you a professional photographer, or …?’ He stopped talking and took off his cap, glancing down as he brushed hair from his forehead with the back of his hand.
A feeling she hadn’t felt for a long time absorbed her body. A good feeling – a feeling she thought had died four years before.
‘Sorry,’ he said, turning and stepping away. ‘Being nosey … ignore me.’
Her instinct was to shove her camera into her rucksack and disappear into the London crowds. She was having good days now. More good than bad, since she’d accepted she would never be quite the same person she’d once been, and found ways of dealing with that. But she still avoided strangers – especially men. There was something about Jack though. Something about his innocent boyishness that she liked.
‘I’m a freelance writer and photographer,’ she said, pushing her camera into her bag, and he turned back. ‘Photography is my passion. It’s amazing how many fascinating and beautiful places there are in Britain.’ And the world, she wanted to add, but she felt her days of travelling abroad were over.
He smiled. ‘Yeah, I grew up in Dorset,’ he said. ‘Some stunning places down that way. Have you ever walked along Chesil Beach?’
‘Yes, I went last year.’ She’d done a series of pieces on the area for a travel magazine. ‘An amazing part of the country.’
He moved closer. Not so close that he invaded her space. ‘So, can I see your photographs anywhere?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve had articles published in magazines and Sunday supplements,’ she said. ‘But they’ve come and gone. Ooh, and I wrote a small guidebook on York that you can probably still get in … well, York.’
‘Cool.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Jack Green, data analyst by day, London film location tour guide by weekend.’ He paused, a smile dancing around his lips. ‘I’m guessing by your face you didn’t realise that was your cue to be impressed.’
She laughed again, taking his outstretched hand. ‘Isla,’ she said and, for the first time in four years, her guard lowered.
Within a month they were seeing each other every moment. He even gave up his tour guide job, so they could spend weekends together. The passion was great, but it was more than that.
‘These are amazing, Isla,’ he said the night she showed him the photographs she’d taken before everything went so wrong. Pictures of the Taj Mahal, Humayun’s Tomb, and the warren of back streets in India, and those she’d taken in Australia and New Zealand too. He read her words about her early travels, as she looked on, cross-legged on the floor, cradling a glass of wine, and finding herself wondering what their children might look like, whether they would have his amazing eyes. ‘You’re so talented,’ he went on. ‘You should put this together. It would make a great book.’
She laughed, embarrassed, but pleased. There was nowhere near enough for a book, and she wasn’t convinced her words and pictures were good enough. But still his excitement and enthusiasm washed over her, and the idea of her book took hold.
That’s when their adventure began.
Later, they travelled to America and Africa and many parts of Europe, Isla making notes and snapping pictures.
Something she thought would never happen.
Thursday, 27 October
‘Who’s Andy?’ Jack said, barely looking up, as Isla headed across the kitchen. He’d arrived home from work about an hour ago and plonked himself at the breakfast bar with a bottle of lager. He was watching film previews on his laptop, while Isla finished writing up an article that needed submitting. They would grab a takeaway later.
She stopped and stared at Jack, who finally looked up and smiled. ‘Andy?’ she said, moving on towards the fridge, and grabbing a bottle of wine.
‘Andy Fisher?’
She looked over his shoulder to see he had Facebook open. He only used it for pages on his favourite films and TV programmes, and only had Isla and a couple of mates as friends.
‘He’s commented on your last update.’
‘Has he?’ She sloshed wine into a glass. ‘You want some?’
‘No, thanks.’ He pointed at his half-drunk lager. ‘He’s put, “Miss you already. Had such a brilliant time with you.”’
‘Has he?’
‘Did you meet him in Canada?’ His tone was upbeat.
‘I met quite a few people in Canada, Jack,’ she said, putting the bottle back in the fridge, and slamming the door shut. ‘Most added me on Facebook. I can’t remember half of them, and I can’t remember him, if I’m honest.’ She paused. ‘Let me see.’
‘No point,’ he said. ‘His profile picture is a maple leaf. There’s nothing to see from my profile. You’ve loved his comment.’
‘Have I? Well you know me, I “love” everyone’s comments.’ She took several gulps of wine. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ she added with a half-laugh.
‘Of course not.’ He looked horrified. ‘If I was jealous, I wouldn’t let you go to that reunion.’
‘Let me?’ Her eyes widened with a mixture of playfulness and annoyance.
‘Oh, come on, you know what I mean. I’m just saying I’m not jealous. I trust you.’
She thought for a moment, not meeting his eyes. ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure Andy was one of a group of oldies at a hotel I was staying at. They knew how to have fun and joined me in. Made a fuss of me because I was young and on my own. That’s all.’
‘So
