Remember. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office, an expression of deep concentration on his face.

      After a couple of minutes studying the pictures, he turned to Jean-Claude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. ‘I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, Jean-Claude. Damned good, as a matter of fact. So let’s get the guy to come in and see me, and the sooner the better. We can certainly use another world-class photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.’

      Jean-Claude looked pleased. ‘Marc Villier is really terrific, Clee. Very bright, aggressive, yet sensitive. And he possesses the unflinching eye, as you do. You are going to like him, he is … how shall I say … very personable.’

      ‘Good. And if these photographs are anything to go by, his work is more than excellent. It’s brilliant. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?’

      Jean-Claude shook his head. ‘No. Everything is under control. The assignment sheet is on your desk. Everyone is booked out for the next few weeks. Except for you. I’ve kept you free.’

      ‘That’s great. I could use a few days respite after Beijing and Moscow,’ Clee exclaimed, his face brightening at the prospect of some time off. Turning around, he collected the transparencies which lay on the light box and handed them to Jean-Claude.

      ‘Thanks,’ Jean-Claude said as he slipped them into a large envelope. ‘I shall go and call Marc, ask him to come in tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?’

      ‘Sure. By the way, where do we stand with my assignment for Life?’

      ‘They need you for about three weeks, late July and early August. They want you to go to Washington first to photograph the President and Mrs Bush, this is their priority.’

      ‘Yeah, that figures. Congress is still in session through July, and Bush is probably going to be gone in August, either to Camp David or Kennebunkport. And who am I doing after the President and Mrs B?’

      ‘They have not said, Clee. But they want you for a few specials. I told them I would give them the date of your arrival as soon as possible. They need to confirm with the White House. So, when will you go?’

      ‘About the fourteenth, I guess.’ Clee walked over to his cluttered desk and sat down. ‘Ask Marc Villier if he can come in early tomorrow, around seven thirty, eight.’

      ‘I will.’ Jean-Claude crossed the floor to the door, paused before leaving and looked back at Clee. ‘There will not be any problem, he will come whenever you wish. He wants nothing more than to work with you, Clee. You are his … idol.’

      Clee merely smiled, made no comment. He knew all about idols and what having one could mean.

      Jean-Claude nodded and left.

      Clee’s eyes automatically strayed to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures, and he felt a little stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at it. His one and only regret in his life was that he had not known Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely, far too soon.

      After a moment, he swung his gaze and dropped his eyes to the papers littering his desk, shuffled through them without paying much attention, which was quite normal for him. Paperwork was not his strong suit; in fact, it bored him. He clipped the letters together, scrawled across the top one: Louise, please deal with this stuff any way you see fit, and dropped the pile into the tray in readiness for his secretary the following day.

      Glancing at the clock he saw that it was almost six. If he was going to cancel the dinner with his close friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry was a writer and worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialled his direct line. It rang and rang then was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, ‘Allo, oui?’

      ‘Hank, it’s Clee. How’re you, old buddy?’

      ‘Jaysus, Clee, don’t tell me you’re cancelling!’

      ‘I have to, Hank. Business, I’m afraid. Look, I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.’

      ‘Oh hell, Flo has invited this Lacroix model, whatever-her-name-is. Stunning girl. You wouldn’t want to miss meeting her, would you?’

      ‘I wish you two would stop trying to fix me up!’ Clee exclaimed a bit impatiently, then he laughed and continued swiftly, ‘There’s really no way I can make it tonight. This meeting just came up and it’s important.’

      ‘I’ll bet it is. Knowing you, I suspect you’ve suddenly got a hot and heavy date with a beautiful blonde. Or redhead. Or brunette.’

      ‘If only. From your mouth to God’s ear,’ Clee retorted and chuckled. In a more serious voice he said, ‘Look, I wouldn’t pass up Flo and you and what’s-her-name for some hit-and-run date with a dame. Never. Come on, Hank, surely you know me better than that.’

      ‘Don’t I just,’ Henry shot back and cackled wickedly down the phone.

      Ignoring this, Clee said soberly, ‘Flo usually hedges her bets and invites a couple of single guys as well as me, so I’m sure the Lacroix lady won’t be short of flattering male attention this evening.’

      ‘That’s quite true. On the other hand, Flo really wanted you to meet her, Clee.’

      ‘I will. Another time. Tonight I’m stuck. How about lunch tomorrow?’

      ‘No can do. I’m flying to Nice. I’m working on a piece about the Grimaldis of Monaco, and I have to do some interviews in Monte Carlo.’

      ‘Then call me when you’re back and we’ll catch up.’

      ‘It’s a deal. And Clee?’

      ‘Yes, Hank?’

      ‘We’ll miss you tonight.’

      ‘I’ll miss being there. Give my apologies to Flo, and kiss her for me.’ As he hung up Clee made a mental note to send flowers to Florence tomorrow morning. Flowers from Lachaume, no less. That ought to do the trick in the apology department.

      Picking up the phone he dialled again. A female voice answered immediately. ‘Is that you, Mel?’

      ‘Hello, Clee. What’s wrong?’

      ‘Nothing’s wrong … Mel, I -’

      ‘You’re СКАЧАТЬ