‘That’s right, she was. Jessica reminded me on Saturday. And here’s the weird thing, Harry. I don’t recall this incident. That troubles me a lot.’
‘You more than likely wiped it out, because you didn’t want to remember. It was obviously painful … you were so close to your mother, and she adored you, Serena. She was obviously a bit panicked when she thought you were going to go off to the frontlines. Because of the danger to you. But Tommy reassured her, and she calmed down eventually.’
‘And let me go in the end.’
He gave me a faint smile. ‘You’d come of age. You could do what you wanted, and she knew that. Better to acquiesce than throw a fit. And we promised her we’d look after you. Make sure you were safe at all times. And I had to call her every day, as well as Tommy.’
Before I got a chance to respond, plates of delicious-looking food started to arrive, along with a bottle of white wine.
‘Come on, take some of the red peppers,’ Harry said, smiling encouragingly as he helped himself to the salad. I did as he suggested, and as we ate we chatted about other things, and in particular Global Images.
‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Harry suddenly said. ‘Something important.’
His voice was normal but his expression had turned very serious and there was that worried look in his eyes – a look I knew. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’
‘Sort of …’ His voice trailed off, he took a sip of coffee, and stared into the distance for a moment.
‘Harry, please tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.’
He took hold of my hand, which was resting on the table, clasped it and gave me a penetrating look. ‘When you told me you wanted to write a biography about Tommy, do you remember what else you said?’
‘I said I wanted to write it because I needed to honour my father. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yeah I do. Now I want you to do something else to honour your father.’
‘What?’
‘Let me explain something first. Years ago your father came and got me out of Bosnia. He’d left before me, because Elizabeth was sick and she needed him. I’d stayed on, and then I just wouldn’t leave, even though I should have. He came and took me out … forced me to come out before—’
‘You want me to get somebody out of a war zone, a danger zone,’ I interrupted, my voice rising slightly. I stared at him intently, felt a chill running right through me as it suddenly hit me where this was leading. ‘You want me to go and get Zac. This is about Zac North, isn’t it, Harry?’ Before he even responded I knew it was.
He took a deep breath, squeezed my hand tighter. ‘It is. But I don’t need you to get him out of Afghanistan. He’s out—’
‘If he’s out, then he’s safe,’ I cut in again.
Harry nodded in agreement. ‘But he’s in very bad shape, Serena. On his last legs, strained, exhausted, anxiety-ridden. I sent Geoff Barnes in from Pakistan to get him out, and he did manage it. But Geoff says Zac’s in a deep depression; not well, in need of care. He thinks Zac is at an emotional low. As he put it, Zac’s a dead man walking.’
‘Where is Zac now?’ As the words left my mouth, I knew exactly where he was. I exclaimed, ‘He’s in the bolthole, isn’t he?’
Harry nodded, his eyes still clouded with worry.
I blew out air, shook my head. ‘I can’t go. I don’t want to go. Besides which, he’ll bang the door in my face the moment he sees me. We haven’t spoken for eleven months.’
‘He won’t do that, Serena. I promise you. It was Zac who asked for you. He said there was no one else who could do it, who could help him.’
‘He’s got a family on Long Island, Harry. And you know that. Parents, a sister, a brother.’
‘They can’t help him … he needs someone who’s been there, who knows about war, who’s suffered through it, lived through the sheer hell of it, seen the death, the blood, the devastation …’ His voice trailed off, and he sighed.
‘I can’t go. I just can’t,’ I said, my voice tearful, wobbling. ‘That row we had in Nice after Dad’s funeral was horrendous. He was so very violent, verbally. Angry. I’m sorry, Harry, but I still blame him. It was Zac’s fault we missed the plane from Kabul. And all because he wanted to get a few last pictures.’
‘I’m sorry, too, honey, I shouldn’t have even asked you to do it. That was very stupid on my part. You don’t need this right now.’ He took hold of my hand again. ‘I’ll think of something, talk it through with Geoff Barnes, come up with a solution.’
I nodded, bit my lip. ‘Let me think about it,’ I murmured against my better judgement. ‘Let me sleep on it.’
Harry was silent for a moment, staring at me. Then he said in a low voice, ‘No, honey, I don’t want you to go. It was wrong of me to suggest it, to load this responsibility on you. It’s my problem, and I’ll solve it.’
Much later that evening, back at the apartment, I discovered I couldn’t sleep. Nor could I think straight. I was far too agitated and distressed about Zac, and about myself and my reaction to Harry’s request.
Zachary North needed me and I’d said I wouldn’t go and help him. And yet he was the only man I’d ever been in love with. Even though he had broken my heart.
I was aware, deep within myself, that Harry really did want me to go to Zac’s aid, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. He had changed his mind when he had seen my reaction and my reluctance.
My father would certainly want me to go, I knew that without a doubt … because of the camaraderie, the dependency and the loyalty that war photographers shared. They were always there for each other. But I couldn’t go because I was afraid of Zac, the effect he had on me.
I was afraid of my own emotions. But I should go. I would go.
Personal Close-Ups: Venice, April
There is nothing new except for what is forgotten.
Attributed to Mademoiselle Bertin, milliner
to Marie Antoinette
Only I discern
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
Robert Browning, ‘Two in the Campagna’
I had been wrong to refuse Harry, who had actually spoken the truth when he had said I was the only person who could help Zac, because I was accustomed to wars, knew what it did to those who lived in the middle of them on a regular basis.
Zac’s family couldn’t help; no one could except another veteran of wars … another photojournalist.
And that was me.
And so I went.
I put aside my qualms and fears, packed my carry-on bag and took a night flight to Italy on Wednesday afternoon. Alitalia at 5.30 p.m. out of JFK, with a stopover in Rome the following morning. I would be arriving in Venice at 11.25 a.m. European time.
I glanced at my watch, which I had changed to local time before dozing off during the night.