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‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t said anything. ‘I’d have to upload a portfolio of fifteen or twenty shots.’
‘You have those?’
‘Yes,’ I said, quietly. ‘Probably.’
To him – to most people, in fact – it was probably a no-brainer. It was only a short course, it wasn’t like I was committing to years of study. And I could just about afford it. I’d have to give up all the little extras like my morning Starbucks and my glossy magazine fix. I’d take my own lunches in to work, that sort of thing. It was just that the idea of taking photography seriously, of thinking about it in terms of an actual career, felt like something that wasn’t meant for someone like me. And in some small way, chipping away at the back of my mind, I felt bad doing the one thing I knew Dad would have loved to do, if he’d only had the chance.
Léo stood up and I lifted the viewfinder to my eye.
‘Stay there,’ I instructed.
He did what I’d told him to, putting one hand over his eye, pretending to be shy about having his photo taken.
‘Relax,’ I said, adjusting the focus, taking five or six shots. ‘You look all stiff. Oh, and wipe your nose, there’s cream all over it.’
He laughed, swiping his hand across his nose and I caught him in a moment, looking relaxed and natural before he started posing and it looked wrong again.
‘Do I make a good subject?’
‘I don’t know until I get them developed, do I?’ I replied.
‘You like using film?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘I prefer it. I like the romanticism of not knowing what you’re going to find. Sometimes I leave it months before I get a film developed so that I completely forget what’s on there. Then I can look at the images with fresh eyes.’
I still got excited about collecting the old-school sealed envelope, its contents smelling of warm ink. The opening of it, the flicking through, glossy print by glossy print, making a pile of my favourites.
‘It is the same with my music,’ he said.
‘In what way?’
He hesitated, searching for something in his jacket pocket.
‘Actually, it doesn’t matter. Tell me more about this course.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, realising what was happening. ‘You’re not getting out of it that easily. I’ve just told you a whole load of stuff I’ve never told anybody. Now it’s your turn. What about your music?’
He tipped his head to the side. ‘You are good at reading people, aren’t you, Hannah?’
‘Yes I am. Now, tell me.’
Raking a hand through his hair, he turned towards the canal and then back to me again. It was the most uncomfortable I’d ever seen him look.
‘When I am working on a song …’ he said, rubbing his hand over his mouth.
‘Yes?’
‘I need to distance myself from it. For some time, if it is possible. When I have put it to the side for some weeks, a month or more, there is a chance I can hear what is not right with it. What is working and what is not.’
‘Ok.’ I nodded, encouragingly. ‘Go on.’
‘But this, of course, cannot be done if I have a deadline. If I have to follow somebody else’s timeline. Produce a finished product when somebody else says so.’
I tapped my fingernails on the bicycle rack.
‘Have you got a deadline at the moment?’
‘Kind of.’
