S. Watson - Second Life

I climb the stairs but the door is closed. I hesitate outside it. Now Im here, I dont want to go in. I want to turn round, go home. Try again later.

But this is my last chance. The exhibition has been on for weeks and closes tomorrow. Its now or never.

I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as I can. I concentrate on filling my lungs, I straighten my shoulders, I feel the tension in my body evaporate as I breathe out. I tell myself theres nothing to be worried about, I come here regularly to meet friends for lunch, to catch the latest exhibitions, to attend lectures. This time is no different. Nothing here can hurt me. Its not a trap.

Finally I feel ready. I push open the door and go in.

The place looks exactly as it always does off-white walls, a polished wooden floor, spots in the ceiling that hang off tracks and though its early there are already a few people wandering around. I watch for a minute as they pause in front of the pictures, some standing further back to get a better view, others nodding at a companions murmured comment or examining the printed sheet theyve picked up downstairs. The atmosphere is one of hushed reverence, of calm contemplation. These people will look at the photographs. They will like them, or not, then they will go back outside, back to their lives, and in all likelihood they will forget them.

At first I allow myself only a glance at the walls. There are a dozen or so large photos hung at intervals, plus a few smaller ones between them. I tell myself I could wander around, pretend to be interested in them all, but today theres only one photograph Ive come to see.

It takes me a moment to find it. Its hung on the far wall, at the back of the gallery, not quite in the centre. Its next to a couple of other shots a full-length colour portrait of a young girl in a torn dress, a close-up of a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes smoking a cigarette. Even from this distance it looks impressive. Its in colour, though it was taken in natural light and its palette is mostly blues and greys, and blown up to this size its imposing. The exhibition is called Partied Out, and even though I dont look at it properly until Im just a few feet away I can see why this picture is in such a prominent position.

I havent looked at it in over a decade. Not properly. Ive seen it, yes even though it wasnt a particularly well-used photograph back then it had been featured in a couple of magazines and even a book but I havent looked at it in all this time. Not close up.

I approach it obliquely, and examine the label first. Julia Plummer, it says. Marcus in the Mirror, 1997, Cibachrome print. Theres nothing else, no biographical information, and Im glad. I allow myself to look up at the picture.

Its of a man; he looks about twenty. Hes naked, shot from the waist up, looking at his reflection. The image in front of him is in focus, but he isnt, and his face is thin. His eyes are narrowed and his mouth hangs slightly open, as if hes about to speak, or sigh. Theres something melancholy in the photograph, but what you cant see is that up until the moment before it was taken the guy in it Marcus had been laughing. Hed spent the afternoon in bed with his girlfriend, someone he was in love with as much as she was with him. Theyd been reading to each other Isherwoods Goodbye to Berlin, or maybe Gatsby, which shed read and he hadnt and eating ice cream from the tub. They were warm, they were happy, they were safe. A radio was playing rhythm and blues in their bedroom across the hall, and in the shot his mouth is open because his girlfriend, the woman taking the shot, was humming along and he was about to join in.

Originally the picture had been different. The girlfriend was in the frame, reflected in the mirror just over the mans shoulder, her camera raised to her eye. She was naked, blurred out of focus. It was a portrait of the two of them, back when photographs taken in mirrors were still unusual.

Id liked the shot like that. Preferred it, almost. But at some point I dont remember when, exactly, but certainly before I first exhibited it I changed my mind. I decided it looked better without me in it. I took myself out of the picture.

I regret it now. It was dishonest of me, the first time I used my art to lie, and I want to tell Marcus Im sorry. For everything. Im sorry for following him to Berlin, and for leaving him there, alone in that photograph, and for not being the person he thought I was.

Even after all this time, Im still sorry.

Its a long time before I turn away from my picture. I dont take portraits like that any more. Its families now, Connors friends, sitting with their parents and younger siblings, jobs I pick up at the school gate. Pin money. Not that theres anything wrong with that: I put my best effort into it, I have a reputation, Im good. People will invite me to their childrens parties to take shots of the guests to be emailed as souvenirs; Ive even taken the pictures at a kids party arranged to raise money for the hospital Hugh works at. I enjoy it, but the skill is technical; its not the same as making portraits like this one its not art, for want of a better word, and sometimes I miss making art. I wonder if I still could, whether I still have the eye, the instinct to know when exactly to trip the shutter. The decisive moment. Its been a long time since I really tried.

Hugh thinks I should get back into it. Connors older now, hes starting to live his own life. Because of his difficult start we both threw ourselves into looking after him, but he needs us less than he once did. Theres more space for me now.

I look briefly at the other pictures on the walls. Maybe I will, soon. I could concentrate a little more on my career and still look after Connor. Its possible.

I go downstairs to wait for Adrienne. Originally shed wanted to come with me, to see the exhibition, but Id told her no, I wanted to see the picture alone. She hadnt minded. Ill just meet you in the caf, shed said. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat.

Shes early, sitting at a table by the window with a glass of white wine. She stands up as I approach and we hug. Shes already talking as we sit.

How was it?

I pull my chair under the table. A bit weird, to be honest. Adrienne has already ordered a bottle of sparkling water for me and I pour a glass. It doesnt feel like my picture any more.

She nods. She knows how anxious Ive been about coming here. Therere some interesting photos up there. Will you go and take a look? Later?

She raises her wine. Maybe. I know she wont, but Im not offended. Shes seen my picture before and isnt bothered about the others. Cheers, she says. We drink. You didnt bring Connor?

I shake my head. Definitely too weird. I laugh. Hes busy, anyway.

Out with his mates?

No. Hughs taken him swimming. Theyve gone to Ironmonger Row.

She smiles. Connor is her godson and shes known my husband for almost as long as I have. Swimming?

Its a new thing. Hughs idea. Hes realized his fiftieth is next year and hes dreading it. Hes trying to get fit. I pause. Have you heard from Kate?

I look down at my drink. I hadnt wanted to ask the question, not so soon, but its out now. Im not sure which answer Id prefer. Yes, or no.

She sips her wine. Not for a while. Have you?