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Authors: Karen Swan
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you do it. Right now. In front of me.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll destroy the photographs another way.’ His eyes flickered to the thundering surf behind them. Ro got the point quickly.
‘That would be criminal damage!’ she shouted, taking another step away from him, her knuckles white as she grasped the camera strap in a death grip.
‘And
this
is an invasion of privacy,’ the man shouted back. ‘Do it now!’ He took a step towards her.
‘All right! All right!’ Ro cried, holding up her hand. ‘Jeez! I’ll delete the bloody pictures.’
‘All of them.’
‘Yes, fine. God! All of them.’
‘Now.’ He took another step closer, but his voice was fractionally calmer again, his body language marginally less threatening.
She stared at him for a moment, then looked down to do as he asked, but the sun was so bright she couldn’t see the images playing on the screen. She turned her back to the sun and bent her
head down, brushing her hair forward to shade the screen. She started, disturbed as the man came and stood right by her, actually moving her hair on one side so that he could see the screen
too.
‘I said I’d do it,’ Ro snapped, but unable to turn her head without her face being centimetres from his.
‘And I’m just making sure you do,’ he said, his voice a low growl over her shoulder.
He smelt of limes and salt, this stranger, his hair tickling her neck as they stood side by side, and she rubbed her neck ostentatiously, tutting and showing her revulsion at his proximity.
She scrolled back through the images, which were clearly visible now in the shade the two of them were creating. Her heart almost broke as she saw her own work – the photographs were
beautiful: the children standing in profile, truly anonymous, as she’d said, perfectly backlit by the early evening sun, their snub noses and rounded tummies, even their long lashes picked
out against the glittering bleached water behind them, the dunes rising like mountains in the distance. Ro felt her breath hitch – there was a poignancy to them that was almost tangible.
Ambassadors of childhood they certainly were. Little did this fool know he’d ordinarily have to pay £2,500 for the privilege of getting her to photograph his beloved children.
‘Delete them,’ the man said beside her ear.
There were eighteen images and she reluctantly pressed ‘delete’ as she scrolled back through each one. It was such a waste. Even in this light she could tell these photographs were
some of her best work – that happy collision of finding the perfect subjects in perfect shooting conditions. But he wasn’t a photographer; he had no idea how difficult it was to marry
those two things together, she thought resentfully as each one disappeared into the ether, and all because he was some overprotective parent who didn’t know any better.
She came to the last image, her finger hovering above the button. The children were holding hands in this picture, the little girl’s dress caught like a sail by the wind. It was the best
one of the bunch: she didn’t want to delete it. It was almost unbearably beautiful, and a flash of defiance streaked through her as her finger hovered in mid-air. Could he make her delete it?
What legal right did he have to control what she photographed on a public beach? Would he
really
throw her camera in the water if she refused? She hesitated, quickly assessing her chances
against him. He was only a bit older than her – maybe mid-thirties – tall at over six feet, but of slim build, certainly lighter than Matt anyway, and she was used to wrestling him
(well, after a fashion). And that was if he caught her. He wouldn’t be expecting her to run, and if she could get a head start, he couldn’t very well chase her down the beach and
abandon his kids . . .
‘Do it,’ he said more forcefully, as though reading her mind.
‘No!’ Ro snapped, her temper quicker than she was – but not quicker than him.
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll destroy the photographs another way.’ His eyes flickered to the thundering surf behind them. Ro got the point quickly.
‘That would be criminal damage!’ she shouted, taking another step away from him, her knuckles white as she grasped the camera strap in a death grip.
‘And
this
is an invasion of privacy,’ the man shouted back. ‘Do it now!’ He took a step towards her.
‘All right! All right!’ Ro cried, holding up her hand. ‘Jeez! I’ll delete the bloody pictures.’
‘All of them.’
‘Yes, fine. God! All of them.’
‘Now.’ He took another step closer, but his voice was fractionally calmer again, his body language marginally less threatening.
She stared at him for a moment, then looked down to do as he asked, but the sun was so bright she couldn’t see the images playing on the screen. She turned her back to the sun and bent her
head down, brushing her hair forward to shade the screen. She started, disturbed as the man came and stood right by her, actually moving her hair on one side so that he could see the screen
too.
‘I said I’d do it,’ Ro snapped, but unable to turn her head without her face being centimetres from his.
‘And I’m just making sure you do,’ he said, his voice a low growl over her shoulder.
He smelt of limes and salt, this stranger, his hair tickling her neck as they stood side by side, and she rubbed her neck ostentatiously, tutting and showing her revulsion at his proximity.
She scrolled back through the images, which were clearly visible now in the shade the two of them were creating. Her heart almost broke as she saw her own work – the photographs were
beautiful: the children standing in profile, truly anonymous, as she’d said, perfectly backlit by the early evening sun, their snub noses and rounded tummies, even their long lashes picked
out against the glittering bleached water behind them, the dunes rising like mountains in the distance. Ro felt her breath hitch – there was a poignancy to them that was almost tangible.
Ambassadors of childhood they certainly were. Little did this fool know he’d ordinarily have to pay £2,500 for the privilege of getting her to photograph his beloved children.
‘Delete them,’ the man said beside her ear.
There were eighteen images and she reluctantly pressed ‘delete’ as she scrolled back through each one. It was such a waste. Even in this light she could tell these photographs were
some of her best work – that happy collision of finding the perfect subjects in perfect shooting conditions. But he wasn’t a photographer; he had no idea how difficult it was to marry
those two things together, she thought resentfully as each one disappeared into the ether, and all because he was some overprotective parent who didn’t know any better.
She came to the last image, her finger hovering above the button. The children were holding hands in this picture, the little girl’s dress caught like a sail by the wind. It was the best
one of the bunch: she didn’t want to delete it. It was almost unbearably beautiful, and a flash of defiance streaked through her as her finger hovered in mid-air. Could he make her delete it?
What legal right did he have to control what she photographed on a public beach? Would he
really
throw her camera in the water if she refused? She hesitated, quickly assessing her chances
against him. He was only a bit older than her – maybe mid-thirties – tall at over six feet, but of slim build, certainly lighter than Matt anyway, and she was used to wrestling him
(well, after a fashion). And that was if he caught her. He wouldn’t be expecting her to run, and if she could get a head start, he couldn’t very well chase her down the beach and
abandon his kids . . .
‘Do it,’ he said more forcefully, as though reading her mind.
‘No!’ Ro snapped, her temper quicker than she was – but not quicker than him.
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