(continued)
By SteveO
By SteveO
“You know, you were right. I must have dropped them in there when I put the groceries away” This was the start of our psychic relationship. But there was nothing else in it. She wasn’t my type at all; she was loud, opinionated and Australian!
Eventually she moved away to be closer to her mother, who was not too well. Something to do with her heart, I recall. But Trish still kept in touch and would ring me every couple of months or so.
Then one day I bumped into her in the lingerie department at Farmers. I know you’re probably wondering what I was doing in the lingerie department. I’d called into Farmers to get some more socks and undies, and was taking a shortcut through the lingerie department because I knew the meter was running out on my carpark. As I was racing though the aisles not looking left or right I heard my name called. I turned to see Trish standing there holding up a pair of very small, frilly undies.
“What do you think of these?” she says.
“…Umm. Very nice” I say, kind of not thinking beyond these frillies under my nose. “That’s what I thought. I might get these” she says.
We wait in line to buy the $63.99 pair of knickers, and talk about what’s been happening. Alfred is now seven and enjoying his new school, she tells me, and her Mum, unfortunately, is worse than before.
“Got time for a coffee?” she asks.
“Sure”, I lie.
We sat down with our coffee. Trish got herself a muffin as well. I watched as she cut it in half and slapped a huge swath of butter across it, and before you know it she’d shoved a huge hunk of it into her mouth. From what I could make out, through the butter and the crumbs, she had recently moved into her Mum’s place and spent a lot of time looking after the old dear. I’d met Trish’s Mum just the once when Trish was living next door, and even then she seemed to be a frail old lady. Her name was Beatrice, I think, and she had a slight Scottish accent. No, that’s not true. It might have been Irish.
Eventually we got around to talking about me. I told her how my job was still as boring as ever, but I was making more money. And how my wife (soon to be my ex-wife) had broken up with her boyfriend, and was now onto another boyfriend called Richard. Another lucky Dick, I suggested.
“You still taking photos?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’d go insane if I didn’t have my studio”.
I was lucky. Unlike Trish’s old place, I had a double garage. I’d converted one half into a proper studio, even gibbed and painted all the walls myself. It was a real studio, with all the backdrops, lights and props. Word traveled fast - I think I must have photographed all of the local brides who’ve got hitched in the last six years, and then their kids. And, in some cases, their next wedding. I’ve shot quite a few girls wanting to be models, (my wife hadn’t been keen on that), some families and a number of couples. It gave me a little bit of extra cash to spend on my favourite pastime: fishing. Sometimes I’ll spend a whole weekend up north fishing with a mate. Great fun, and between the beers and the yarns, we’d catch a bit of tucker to bring back and throw in the freezer.
“I might need you to take my photo” said Trish.
“Sure. Just let me know. I wont even charge you”. I smiled.
“Maybe I’ll bake you a cake” she said.
“…Umm. Thanks”
I’d tasted her cooking before. Overcooked cabbage, undercooked potatoes and too much salt. I’d smelt her cooking across the fence many times. I remember she had to call the fire brigade once when one of her cooking adventures got out of hand. Fortunately, Mister Pilkington was an understanding landlord.
But I know she made great cake. Carrot cake was my favourite, and a week before she left Croall Avenue she’d baked me a carrot cake, complete with delicious icing. I scoffed it all within a few days. It’s the only time I missed her.
Three weeks later to the day, Trish rang me. Could she come around on Saturday to get her photo taken? I told her that was okay with me. My mate was away on business so there’d be no fishing this weekend anyway.
“ okay with you?” I asked
“You mean in the morning, right?”
“…yep”
And so it happened. At precisely her old dunger turned up in my driveway. I watched her get out. Had she lost weight? Maybe it was trick of the light.
Maybe her diet had improved. I doubted it. I put the jug on and we had a cup of coffee together. I could tell she was really excited about getting her photograph taken. After we’d finished our coffees and I’d rinsed the cups in the sink, we went out to the studio. It looked like any garage from the outside, except I’d blacked out the small window in the door with a dark cloth.
“Come In”
She stepped into my world. Trish had never been to my studio before – it was by invitation only. I turned the lights on and I could see she was impressed. There was an audible gasp. Along one end wall I’d a set of six large portraits – and they were big – framed and hung in a row. There was a small desk in the far corner under a portrait of a girl, maybe six or seven and her bicycle. The bicycle had been a present from her father who died a week before the photo was taken. You could see that sadness in her eyes. On the desk was a computer with a large monitor. Just by the door, as you came in was a small refrigerator. It used to hold all my rolls of film, but now I was all modern and digital, it kept my beer cold. It got a lot of use over summer.
At the other end of the studio was the work area. Two large metal stands stood either side, and between then a metal rod was secured. This held a giant roll of white background paper, which curled down and out from the floor. A few metres in front of that stood two tripods either side, with great big black umbrellas on top. The umbrellas were turned facing towards the paper background. Cables came out from each umbrella and snaked across the floor to a powerbox somewhere towards one side. Around the sides of the studio were a couple of spare chairs, a large electric cooling fan, a big aluminium case that contained spares for my lights and a full length mirror.
Trish stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. I realized she’d spent a bit of time getting her hair nice, and she was wearing makeup. I’d only ever seen her wearing makeup maybe once or twice before, and that was when she had to attend a wedding of one of her old school mates, or a funeral. She was wearing a nice floral summery dress with a few buttons down the front and quite a tight waist that made her figure a little slimmer than it probably was.
While she checked herself out in the mirror, I assembled my camera gear. I own a trusty Nikon D300x camera and a few lenses. They weren’t cheap to buy, but I’d saved up for a while and paid cash for them. I knew that I’d have to get serious equipment if I was going to take my photography seriously. My latest purchase was a wireless slave unit attached to the camera, so I didn’t have to worry about cables all over the place.
“What would you like me to do?” asked Trish.
“We’ll start with you sitting, then we’ll see how we go.”
And so the photo session began. I took a number of photos of her almost side onto the camera – “shoulders back, chest out” - leaning back – “chin up please” – leaning forward – “up straight”
“Awesome! Now let’s do some standing now”
Same routine as before. As she stood up, I gave her the quick once over, as you do. I hadn’t realized how tall she was in her heels. She must have noticed me looking at them.
“Do you like them? I got them especially for the photos.”
They were pink; almost shocking pink, with a glittery finish. Very nice, I thought.
“Shiny” I said. “They make you look taller”
She smiled.
“Can you make me look sexy? I’m going on one of those dating websites and I want to snare myself a man….”
Good luck with that, I thought.
“You’ll meet another Barry and get married!” I said.
“I doubt it”. She didn’t look too happy with me. Barry had been just one of her few boyfriends that had stayed more than one night, but it hadn’t lasted, ending in lots of tears.
“Well, we’d better have a button undone. A bit of cleavage might do the trick”, I said with a smile.
She undid all three buttons, and lent into the camera.
“Is this what you mean?” she asked.
Her bosom wasn’t the biggest I’d seen, but she knew how to show herself off.
I took a whole series of shots. I was sure one of them should entice a man into her life.
By now we’d been in the studio for more than an hour, and I was sure I’d captured the real Trish.
“Let’s take a break, and we’ll have a look at the photos. Come with me and grab a seat”
I walked over to the computer in the corner, sat down, and pushed a cable into the side of the camera. A couple of seconds later there was a beep and the photos started to appear on the screen.
As each photograph appeared on the monitor, I could see Trish’s smile get bigger and bigger.
“These are awesome. You’re a great photographer!” She grabbed my arm.
“Thanks....”
After we’d looked at them – twice – she seemed most pleased, and I burnt a copy of them all on DVD for her.
We went back to the house for a coffee and she told me her plans for her future.
“When my Mum goes – and I reckon that’s not far away – I’ll sell her house and move up North for a while.” She said it matter-of-factly, but I couldn’t help feeling there was an underlying sadness.
“Alfred’s having a bit of a hard time settling in at school, and I think a new start would do us both good....”.
She told me all about her Mum’s illness and how she was saving for her funeral. Next year Trish was seriously thinking of going to Polytech to study nursing. And after that?
“Maybe I’ll become a Doctor?” We laughed. We both knew that was unlikely to happen.
Four and a half months passed before I next heard from Trish, which was quite a long time. It had started out as a normal day. I’d cleared the mailbox, and there were the usual mail. Bills from the phone and the gas company, a “special offer” on something or other. But in amongst all of these was a bright green envelope with a handwritten address on the front. I opened it, expecting to be disappointed, but it was an invitation to a wedding.
I immediately telephoned Trish. I didn’t need to tell her who it was, we’d spoken on a regular basis so she recognised my voice.
“What’s the story?” I asked. I wasn’t going to beat around the bush.
“You know how I put my photo on the internet dating site? Well, I got quite a few replies.
After what you said about me meeting a Barry, I was determined to never date a Barry! I went out with a few blokes, none of them called Barry. I had some interesting dates. One guy even took me to the opera! Imagine that. Nice chap he was, too..
Anyway, eventually I met my best friend. A lovely, caring guy called Tony. We hit it off like a house on fire. We went to a lot of movies; he even took me away for the weekend to Rotorua. We had a great time!”
I could tell by the tone in her voice that she was excited. This was the most animated I’d heard her for a long time.
“So why aren’t you marrying Tony?” I asked.
“ You noticed...”
The invitation read “PATRICIA JANE MATTHEWS and BARRIE JOHN SMITH invite you to their wedding”. I wondered who this Barrie
“As I said, Tony and I were getting on really well, having some laughs, you know. Well, one Saturday a mate of his was celebrating his thirtieth birthday, and Tony asked if I would be his “date” for the evening. Naturally, I said I would.”
“At the party there were about twenty or so people, mainly couples. There were a few single guys, and one of these singles was a tall lanky guy called Barrie Barrie
“You woke up next morning in this strange guy’s bed!”
“But he was really sweet about it. He even made me cooked breakfast. I wrote it off as one of those things that happen. We shared a coffee and I left.”
“...But...” I said
“But – and this is the strange bit” Trish said “ I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Should I call him, I thought. After a day of this, I decided it was time to do something about it So I rang him. He was not surprised I’d called. You know what he said to me?”
“What?”
“He knew I was going to call. He said he had had a premonition!”
