The Pornographer's Wife Read online

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  “Okay, and lean back a bit. Yeah, that's good. Okay... There.”

  Stopping in the hallway, with the bags of groceries still in her hands, Mary listened to Donald's voice as his earnest tones drifted through the house. She'd only just got home after a busy morning in town, and although she'd expected the place to be empty, she could hear that Donald was up to something. She could always trust him to come up with another get-rich-quick scheme, although this was the first time she'd arrived home to hear someone else in the flat.

  “What about this?” asked a female voice suddenly.

  “A bit more with your hips,” Donald replied. “Yeah, that's it, perfect.”

  Mary opened her mouth to call out to them, but something stopped her. She didn't recognize the woman's voice at all, but her mind was already racing as she tried to work out what her husband was doing.

  “Maybe lean back even more,” Donald said after a moment. “Puff your chest out a bit.”

  Setting the bags down, Mary stayed in the hallway for a moment and listened to what seemed to be the clicking of a camera. She was certain that there was no way Donald would be cheating on her, but she also knew him well enough to understand that he could be secretive from time to time, and that he often came up with little plans that he liked to develop without informing her in advance.

  “Okay, now start touching yourself,” she heard him say finally. “Put your other hand up here like this, and thrust your tits in the air. Perfect!”

  “What on earth is going on in here?” Mary called out finally, marching along the hallway and pushing open the door to the front room, only to find Donald on his knees with a camera while a naked girl lay on the sofa with her hand between her legs.

  “What are you doing home?” Donald asked, jumping up.

  “I finished work early. What are you doing with this... this... naked girl?”

  “Taking photos!”

  “Should I leave?” the girl asked, closing her legs and placing an arm across her chest to cover her small breasts.

  “Who is she?” Mary glared.

  “Don't you recognize her?”

  “No!”

  “It's Sarah from last month,” Donald explained with a sigh. “Remember we helped her home? She's the one who kept vomiting.”

  “Thanks for that,” Sarah said with an embarrassed smile.

  “I remember helping her home,” Mary replied, “but I most certainly don't remember arranging for her to come over and take her clothes off so you could...” She stared at the camera for a moment, as finally she began to understand. “Oh, Donald, no, you're not trying to copy Andy, are you?”

  “If he can do it,” Donald replied firmly, “then so can I. He's just a used car salesman, for God's sake, and he's wearing a bloody Rolex.”

  “You're not a pornographer!” Mary replied, struggling not to raise her voice too much. “You can't just so taking photos of this girl and expect to sell them! What are people going to say when they find out? What will the local club think about all of this when you're trying to get selected for the election?”

  “No-one's going to find out anything,” he told her. “Sarah's promised to keep schtum!”

  “I'm just doing it for the money,” Sarah added. “I don't care about anything else.”

  “Let's talk in the kitchen,” Donald said, setting the camera down as he joined Mary by the door. “Come on, I should have told you about it all sooner, but I wanted to get things up and running first. I was worried you'd try to talk me out of it.”

  Mary stared at Sarah, who smiled back at her.

  “Just wait here, Sarah,” Donald said as he steered Mary out of the room. “I'll be back in a few minutes. Just try to keep your nipples perky for me.”

  Although there was plenty she wanted to say and to ask, Mary allowed herself to be led all the way to the kitchen. So many thoughts were jostling in her head, she could barely work out which of them to bring up first, although it had occurred to her that smacking her husband around the side of the head might be a good way to start.

  “Nothing happened,” Donald said finally as they reached the kitchen. “That's the most important thing, it's a purely business relationship with that girl.”

  She stared at him.

  “You have to believe me,” he continued. “Mary, please...”

  “I...” She paused. “I believe you, of course I do, it's just...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “I just figured, if Andy can do this then so can I. I'm sick of struggling for money, sweetheart, and if we can make a bit on the side with some photos, then personally I don't see the problem. It's not illegal.”

  “It's pornography!”

  “Look,” he replied, grabbing his briefcase from the table and opening it to remove some A4 photos, “these are the ones I did a few weeks ago.”

  “A few weeks ago?” She stared in horror at the images of Sarah in various states of undress. “You mean today isn't the first time?”

  “I got started the day after that party,” he replied, seeming almost proud as he leafed through the images. “I found out which magazines Andy was advertising in and I started undercutting his prices. Look, I've had cheques coming in from all over the country, I've made seventy quid so far!”

  “What are you talking about?” she replied. “People aren't going to send you seventy pounds for a bunch of photographs showing some girl with her knickers down!”

  “They are,” he said with a smile, “and they do. That's just from the first ad, too. If I'm making this much already, think how I can be doing in a month or two. This isn't some kind of idea I've got, Mary, it's something I'm already turning into a success! Can't you be happy for me?”

  “Let me see those,” she said, grabbing the photos from him and looking through them. Some were fairly chaste, showing Sarah wearing underwear, but others were extremely explicit, including some very close-up crotch shots. “You've been doing this behind my back in our front room?”

  “Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he replied. “I think it's coming together nicely, actually. I can already sell new shots faster than I can set them up. I pay Sarah twenty quid a time and usually I come away with a hundred photos. Getting them developed has been a bit tricky -”

  “Where do you get them developed?”

  “The photography place down the road.”

  “Oh, sweet Lord,” she replied, setting the photos down and walking over to the window before turning back to him with a hint of desperation in her eyes. “You say no-one will ever know what you're doing, and yet you're getting these things developed at a shop less than half a mile from our front door?”

  “I pay cash,” he said hesitantly, “and the guy doesn't ask questions. Just small-talk, really.”

  “You're serious about this, aren't you?” she asked. “You actually think you can make a career out of this... this... pornography!”

  “Not a career,” he replied, “just enough money to get us on our way.” He paused for a moment. “Aren't you sick of being skint, sweetheart? I'm a man, I should be providing for us so we can think about having kids, but instead we have to watch what we spend at the supermarket. It's humiliating. I mean, aren't you tired of struggling?”

  “Of course, but...” She looked toward the door. “That doesn't mean I want to do something like this!”

  “You're not doing anything. It's all me.”

  “It reflects on us both, Donald...”

  “Only if people find out. I'm not like Andy, I'm not going to go around telling people at parties.”

  “And what about your ambitions?” she asked. “You can't enter parliament, maybe even government, if you've got a history like this!”

  “Which is why I'm being doubly careful to make sure that no-one ever knows,” he replied, making his way over to her and putting his hands on her waist. “I can't run for parliament if we're scraping together money for food, can I? I need money from somewhere, and this
is as good a source as any other. Do you think I'd jeopardize our future together? Do you think I'm that stupid?”

  “I think you've always been prone to these get-rich-quick schemes,” she said sadly, “and this time you're going too far.”

  “The difference is, this one's actually working. Check our joint bank account if you want proof. I'm making money, and this is just the beginning.”

  She sighed, but she was already losing the energy to fight him. She knew full well that he'd just have to keep going until he realized for himself that the idea was foolish. After all, she'd never been able to dissuade him from any of his money-making ideas, and she was already too tired to argue.

  “Trust me,” he said finally, kissing her on the cheek. “I'm not an idiot.”

  “You're a dreamer,” she replied. “It's one of the reasons I love you, but Donald, this... This is too much. It's not like when you tried selling stamps, or when you thought you could run a market stall, this is something else altogether. How do you think it feels to come home and suddenly learn that I'm married to a pornographer, for God's sake?”

  “This will work,” he whispered, kissing her again. “No-one will ever find out, and one day when we're rich and successful we'll look back on the whole thing as our own private little secret. Come on, think about it,with all the technology in the world today, it's just becoming easier and easier to keep things from getting found out. We have to do whatever we can in order to get where we want to get, and if that means dabbling in a few low-brow professions, then that's fine with me. Everyone does it. Okay?”

  She paused, wanting to beg him to stop but finally realizing that – yet again – he was winning her round.

  “Okay,” she said finally.

  “I should get back in there,” he continued, “and finish up with Sarah, but we can talk some more later.”

  She nodded.

  “Don't be sad, Mary. This is a good thing. It's money in our pockets, and its easy money that means we'll have more time to focus on the things that are important.” After kissing her one more time on the cheek, he turned and headed back through to the front room, and after a moment he could be heard talking to Sarah once again.

  Standing alone in the kitchen, Mary reached out and picked up the pile of A4 photos. Leafing through them, she couldn't help but feel shocked by the explicit images, but after a few minutes she began to notice little things that were wrong, just small production mistakes and poor framing choices. She knew she could never dissuade him from one of his hare-brained ideas, but she could at least make sure he did it properly and without getting caught. Life with Donald meant constantly adapting to his latest schemes.

  Sighing, she set the photos down and made her way through to the front room, where she found that Sarah was now flat on her back with her legs wide open as she masturbated for the camera. She was moaning, too, although it was hard to tell whether she was faking the whole thing.

  “You're doing it wrong,” Mary said finally.

  “Well how do you do it, then?” Sarah asked.

  “Not you,” she replied, before turning to her husband. “You. Do you have any other types of lens?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I studied photography, remember?” she replied. “I've got a much better camera than that in the loft, and it has better lenses.”

  “There are different types of lens?”

  “Your photographs are too flat,” she told him, glancing briefly at Sarah. “I'm sure they sell, but if you want them to sell well, you need...” She paused, before accepting the inevitable. “I'll get the camera and show you. It's really not that difficult.”

  TODAY

  “You'll have to forgive Sophie,” Mary said as she and Tom sat alone at the dinner table. “She was very fond of her father, and sometimes it can be a little overwhelming.”

  “I noticed,” he replied, glancing over at the door that Sophie had raced out of a moment earlier.

  “His death hit her very hard,” Mary continued. “I don't know how much she's told you, but there was a time when I worried she might...” She paused for a moment. “It's nothing. Just a mother's worries, you know? I'm not saying that Sophie's vulnerable, exactly. In many ways she's an extraordinarily resilient and tough young woman, but I'm afraid a lot of that strength is rooted in her love for her father. His death was so sudden, it really knocked her for six.”

  Tom smiled politely.

  “Don't tell her I said anything,” she added, “I only wanted you to know that she'll calm down eventually. It's only been six months, so she's still processing her grief.”

  “How did he die?” Tom asked.

  “She hasn't told you?”

  He shook his head.

  “That's strange.”

  “She's told me everything else about him,” Tom continued, “even down to what type of socks he wore, but she always avoids talking about his death.”

  “Donald had a heart attack,” Mary replied, with a flicker of emotion in her eyes. “He'd been under the weather for quite some time, but we all thought it was stress. He'd retired early from Whitehall and he was supposed to be resting up, but instead he became very distracted, as if he was troubled by something. If you ask me, he wasn't suited to all that free time, it was bad for him. And then one morning he was simply dead at his desk. He was so young, he'd only just turned fifty-five.”

  “Who found him?”

  “I did.” She took a sip of wine. “Well, someone had to, so it's probably better that it was me.”

  “I'm sorry,” he replied, as Sophie could be heard running back downstairs with whatever she'd gone to fetch.

  “It was a shock,” Mary said, “but one mustn't dwell. He's at peace now.”

  As Sophie came bounding into the room, she set a blue folder down in front of Tom, pushing his dirty plate out of the way in the process.

  “Do you want to see some photos?” she asked, sitting next to him.

  “What photos are those?” Mary asked cautiously.

  Grinning, Sophie opened the folder to reveal a black-and-white landscape image.

  “Oh, he doesn't want to see those,” Mary said, reaching out to take the folder but having her hand swatted away by her daughter.

  “Mum used to be a photographer,” Sophie explained, turning to another landscape shot, and then another. “Sorry, Mum, I don't want to embarrass you, but I felt that I'd gone on so much about Dad earlier, maybe I'd made you feel left out.”

  “I just dabbled,” Mary explained, as Tom looked through the folder.

  “She studied photography for three years,” Sophie added.

  “A lot of landscapes,” Tom commented.

  “Landscapes are less political,” Mary replied. “I mean... I'm referring to the politics of human interaction, of course, not the politics of Whitehall and Westminster.” She looked at the old photos as Tom turned from one page to the next. “I used to so enjoy going out with my camera and finding something to study. It's a very relaxing past-time, but... Where did you even find these old things? I haven't seen them for years.”

  “Why don't you take it up again?” Sophie asked.

  “Oh, I don't have the time -”

  “You have nothing but time.”

  “Still -”

  “With digital cameras, you don't even have to worry about the cost of processing them.”

  “I don't want to learn digital stuff now,” Mary replied. “I find it hard enough turning the television on these days, what with all the cables and wires going into the back of the cursed thing. All this digital business goes right over my head, I'm afraid.” She paused for a moment, still looking at the photos that Tom was flicking through. “Anyway, I always liked using real film. There's something about it, something very visceral and real, as if it's part of the landscape. Digital doesn't excite me the same way, it's just computer gadgetry.”

  “Did you only do landscapes?” Tom asked.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the
words seemed to catch in her throat.

  “That's true, actually,” Sophie said with a frown. “Mum, I've never seen a single photo you took of a person.”

  “Well, I suppose they must all be lost,” Mary said cautiously. “I did take some many years ago, but...” Her voice trailed off for a moment, before she forced herself to stop thinking about the past. “Landscapes are safer,” she said finally. “They offer less resistance. Donald and I had a clear-out a few years ago, we got rid of a lot of old boxes.”

  “These are really cool,” Tom replied as he reached the end of the folder. “You should take it up again.”

  “If you've got nothing else to do...” Sophie added.

  “I've got plenty to do, thank you very much,” Mary replied, taking the folder and closing it before looking down at the blank cover. “Still, I might dig out my old camera from the garage. If I've still got it, that is. I used to develop my own photos after a while, too. You should have seen our old flat, it was full of processing chemicals at one point, the place was probably a terrible fire hazard.”

  “I don't know why you stopped in the first place,” Sophie told her. “Dad always said that you used to love photography before I was born.”

  “He did, did he?” Mary replied with a faint smile. “Well, yes, I suppose he was right about that. I even tried to give him a few pointers now and again.”

  “Seriously?” Sophie laughed. “I loved Dad, but I never saw him as the artistic type, that was more your kind of thing. What the hell were his photos like?”

  She waited for an answer.

  “Mum? What's wrong? You seem really distracted.”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head as she tried to forget about the threatening letter, “I'm fine, I just... Talking about your father has brought back some rather strong memories.”

  “Yeah, but you look -”

  “Sophie, please!” she said firmly, almost raising her voice. “I'm fine. Stop asking all the time. I'm absolutely fine.”