My father impressed on me that I should look straight ahead, be on the alert and ready for the unexpected. He pointed out that I must keep my eyes peeled in order to spot danger, which could spring up anywhere, especially in a war.
It was from him that I learned how to dodge bullets when we were in the middle of a battle, how to make rapid exits from disaster zones, and seek the best possible shelter when bombs were dropping.
My father was a man the whole world seemed to love. People were immediately drawn to him, smitten, men as well as women, and he was fiercely intelligent and charismatic. My mother said that he gave something of himself to everyone, and that they felt better for having met him.
That he had good looks was immaterial. It was his charm and outsized personality that captivated everyone. Those who worked with him knew how dedicated he was to his job. He feared nothing and no one, plunged into danger whenever it was necessary to get the most powerful images on film. He was also helpful to his colleagues and those who worked with him in the field, a friend to all.
Over the past few months, as I’d done research for my biography of him, I’d talked to a great many people who knew him. Almost all of them told me that there was something truly heroic about Tommy, and I believed they were right.
I idolized my father, but during the course of the week, I had come to understand that I idealized him as well. And yet he was a man, not a god, with plenty of the faults, flaws and frailties all mortals have. In fact, being a larger-than-life character, I was quite certain he had more than most people.
But when I was growing up he was the miracle man to me, the maker of magic who forever took us captive with his charm; brought laughter, fun and excitement to our lives.
I leaned back on the sofa, closed my eyes, listened to the quiet in this tranquil room. And in the inner recesses of my head I heard my own voice, and words I had spoken to my sisters twenty-one years ago. I could hear myself telling them that our father was Superman, a magician, a miracle maker all rolled into one.
I saw Jessica and Cara in my mind’s eye, as they were then, staring back at me as if I was a creature who had just landed from some far-distant planet. Disbelief flickered in two pairs of dark eyes, focused on me so intently.
At the time I was only nine, but I recalled how I suddenly understood that they viewed Tommy differently than I did. That’s why they were puzzled by my words. They couldn’t see inside our father the way I could; they didn’t know the man I knew.
Our mother had been with us that afternoon. She had been seated under the huge umbrella on the terrace of the house in the hills above Nice. She had laughed and nodded, ‘You’re right, Serena. What a clever girl you are, spotting your father’s unique talents.’
The twins had jumped up, laughing, had leapt away in the direction of the swimming pool. They were boisterous, athletic, sports addicted. I was the artistic one; quiet, studious, a bookworm, paying strict attention to every detail of my photographs, like my father.
It was Jessica and Cara who physically resembled Tommy, something that had always irked me. They had inherited his height, his dark hair and warm brown eyes; I didn’t look like him or anyone else in the family. Certainly not my mother, who was very beautiful.
Once my sisters had disappeared and we were alone on the terrace, my mother beckoned me to come and join her. I had flopped down in the chair next to her, and she had poured a glass of lemonade for me. We had talked for a while about my father, the magician, as I called him, and then unexpectedly she had confided a secret … she told me that he had enchanted her, captivated her the moment they met.
‘I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and I’ve only ever had eyes for him since. You see, I fell under his spell. And I’m still under it.’ Then she had abruptly turned, stared down the length of the terrace.
My father had suddenly arrived with Harry, and, as usual, there was a flurry of excitement. They had hurried towards us carrying lots of shopping bags from posh boutiques, and when they came to a standstill my father had announced, ‘Presents for our girls.’
He had rushed to hug my mother and then me, and so had Harry. And later Harry had taken pictures of me with my parents. One of them was deemed so special by my mother she had had it framed.
I opened my eyes, came out of my reverie and stood up. I found that remarkable photograph on the bookshelves at once. There we were, the three of us. My father stood behind my mother’s chair. He was bending forward, his arms around her shoulders, his face next to hers. I was crouched near my mother’s knee and she had her arms around me, holding me close to her.
We were all smiling, looked so carefree. My handsome father, my lovely mother and me. ‘My little mouse,’ she used to call me sometimes, and with great affection. It was her pet name for me. Often I’ve thought that I am a bit mousey in appearance, with my light brown hair and grey eyes. But in this picture, taken so long ago, I realized that I looked rather pretty that day, and certainly very happy.
Picking up the silver frame, I stared at the image of us for the longest moment, marvelling yet again at my mother. The camera loved her. That’s what my father used to say, and everyone else, for that matter. She was truly photogenic, and it was one of the secrets of her success. As usual, she looked incandescent.
My mother, a movie star in the same league as Elizabeth Taylor, had been beautiful, glamorous, beloved by millions, a box-office draw, fodder for the gossip press. One of a kind, actually, and, like the other Elizabeth, larger than life. My mother had remained a huge star until her death.
In the kitchen I was attempting to do three things at once: heat a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, toast a slice of bread and phone my sister in Nice, when the other line began to shrill. I swiftly ended my message to Cara and took the incoming call.
Much to my surprise, it was my sister Jessica.
‘Hi, Pidge,’ she said, using the nickname she had bestowed upon me when I was a child, a nickname no one understood except me. ‘What’s up? How are you?’
‘Hey, Jess! Hello!’ I exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I’m pretty good, and where are you? You sound as if you’re just round the corner. Are you in New York?’ I was hoping that she was; Jessica and I had a very special relationship and I hadn’t seen her for some months. When she was with me, I was immensely cheered up.
‘Not exactly, but kind of … I’m in Boston on business. Meetings yesterday and this morning. Now I’m done I thought I’d jump on a shuttle, spend the weekend with you, if you’re not caught up with a lot of other stuff. I can’t be this close and not see my darling Pidge.’
‘I’m not doing anything special, and I’ll be mad at you if you don’t come. What time will you get here?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ll head out to the airport now, get the first flight available. I’ll probably be there in a few hours, but I’ve got my door key, so don’t worry if you have to go out.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. Hightail it to the airport and get here as fast as you can,’ I ordered, bossing her for a change.
‘I’ll be there in three shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ she shot back, using a familiar expression we’d grown up with. Our English grandmother, Alice, had been unusually fond of it, had used it constantly – much to our irritation most of the time.
There was a small silence and then we both burst out laughing before we hung up.
The toast had gone cold, the soup looked congealed, so I threw everything away and started again. I made some peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, a childhood standby,