Apart from Marilyn, Grace Kelly was the Hollywood star everyone wanted to capture. We’d all imagined what it would be like to see our picture on the front page of the Times, or the Washington Post. We’d all written our Pulitzer acceptance speeches in our heads. One perfect shot from the hundreds we took. One image captured on film, and our reputations—our careers and futures—could change instantly. It was the ridiculous simplicity of it that kept us showing up time and time again, even when our puce-cheeked editors tossed our latest efforts into the bin in a rage, and threatened us with one more chance, or we were toast. While I didn’t enjoy the thrill of the chase like I once had, I couldn’t easily give it up, either. Like a stalker hunting its prey, I was on high alert: eyes wide, ears pricked, hands as steady as iron rods as I held my camera, took aim, and pressed the shutter.
Except, I didn’t.
I froze.
As Grace Kelly stepped from the car, all I could do was stare. There was something about the way she moved—glided, almost—the way her smile lit up her face, the way she held her head at the perfect angle to catch the sunlight against her cheek. She was the epitome of femininity, gloriously photogenic, and I was captivated. I wanted to study her. Frame her. Light her. Get closer to her. And in my moment of hesitation, everyone else got the shot. By the time I’d gathered my wits and pressed the shutter, she’d turned to walk inside, and it was over.
Walsh whistled through his teeth. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Did you get a good one?”
I slung my camera strap over my shoulder, ran my hands through my hair, and lit a cigarette. “Didn’t get a sodding thing.”
Walsh laughed as he packed up beside me. “What? How? She was right there!”
I took a long drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke skyward. “Camera playing up again.” Walsh rolled his eyes. He’d heard me blame my camera too many times recently. I tipped my head back, releasing the tension in my neck and shoulders, narrowing my eyes against the sunlight. “I could get used to these blue skies,” I remarked. “They make England seem so bloody miserable.”
“England is bloody miserable.” Walsh stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “Is everything all right, Jim? You seem a bit bloody miserable to be honest. More than usual, I mean.”
I sighed. “It’s Emily, mostly. I feel like a rat for missing her birthday. Again. Apparently it’s a big deal turning ten.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Girls need their mothers. It’ll be all pretty dresses and tea parties. I’d say you’re better off leaving them to it.”
I smiled, but I couldn’t agree. Emily wasn’t like other little girls of ten. She preferred to read stories about scientists and explorers than to sip tea from china cups and play princesses. She needed a father. And I was doing a marvelous job of proving myself entirely inadequate for the role.
“And there’s the small matter of my employment,” I added, changing the subject. “Sanders will burst a blood vessel when I turn up with a few out-of-focus shots of the back of Kelly’s head.” I tossed my cigarette onto the ground, and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink?”
Walsh hesitated, torn between commitment to me and dedication to the job. “Sorry, pal. Can’t. Have to get these back to the desk. I’ll catch you later for dinner. And go easy on that wine. You’re becoming far too French!” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about Emily. Children are far more forgiving than adults. You’ll make it up to her.”
I was grateful for the reassurance. Teddy Walsh was like a brother to me—always there to offer good advice, always looking on the bright side.
We’d seen things during the war that nobody should ever see, let alone young men away from home for the first time. Teddy was all optimism and silver linings. He lived each day for the sheer surprise of it and had a way of focusing on the present that I envied. Like looking through a good-quality lens, being around Teddy made things clearer, sharper. Even Marjorie (the former Mrs. Henderson) conceded that Teddy was good for me, and Marjorie didn’t often dwell on the good in people.
Teddy was right, of course. Emily would forgive me. Even if I had been in London, taking her out for the afternoon would have become complicated. Marjorie would have made certain of that. And yet a familiar pang of guilt settled in the pit of my stomach. Was this life of chasing news stories and starlets around the world a symptom or a cause? Was I really a bad father, or was I simply afraid to try to be a good one? A few days ago, I’d woken up in my flat in Clapham, wondering if there was anything in the refrigerator for breakfast as I listened to the rain pelting the windows. This morning, I’d woken up in a beachfront hotel in Cannes, the sun glistening on the water as I breakfasted on an omelette and croissants. Life as a press photographer took me to some surprising places, but it was what it took me away from that appealed to me. It took me away from the lingering shadows of war. It took me away from the spectacular mess I’d made of my marriage. It was, after all, easier to focus my lens on something, or someone, other than myself. But my job also took me away from the one thing I really cared about. It took me away from my daughter.
As the press pack dispersed, I wandered along La Croisette, stopping at a tabac to buy a picture postcard. I took lunch alfresco at the Hôtel Barrière Le Majestic and wrote the postcard over a café crème. Emily enjoyed my weekly phone call home, but it was the postcards I sent that she looked forward to the most. She kept them in a treasure box under her bed, tied with a lemon-yellow ribbon.
I sat for a long time, people-watching, listening to the incomprehensible babble of French conversation around me, wondering how it was that everyone here appeared to be so much happier and relaxed and in love than people did in London. People touched and kissed and caressed here, not caring who was watching. Maybe it was the weather, or the sea, or the cheap wine. Maybe it was that indefinable French je ne sais quoi. Whatever it was, it made my dour Englishness all the more apparent. I wondered if a person could change if they lived somewhere like this. Would Riviera life rub off on me?
While I wondered if I could improve myself by becoming more French—and tried not to think about how bad the reprimand from Sanders would be when I told him I’d missed the shot of Grace Kelly—I saw a familiar face across the street. Sophie Duval. She was standing outside a small arcade of designer boutiques beneath the hotel, struggling to stop her skirt from blowing up above her knees in the breeze. I pushed down the brim of my hat and watched her for a moment, amused by her annoyance. Or perhaps she was more upset than annoyed, I couldn’t quite tell. Either way, I decided to go over and offer an apology for my rather abrupt manner in her shop. Perhaps I would pick up a bottle of Duval perfume for Emily as a belated birthday present.
Leaving a suitable amount of francs on the table, I grabbed my camera, but I kicked the edge of my chair as I stood up and sent it toppling over. The clatter caught Miss Duval’s attention. She looked over to the restaurant, spotted me instantly (I was difficult to miss), turned her back to me, and walked briskly away. I followed, threading through the tightly packed café tables as quickly as my gangling limbs would allow, but by the time I’d pushed past a couple who stopped inconveniently in front of me for a passionate kiss, she’d ducked down a narrow side street and disappeared into the shadows.