Free The Photograph by Penelope Lively

like some wayward older brother. She bustled around him: “Dad, your desk is a shambles, I’m going to do something about it.” She would contemplate him, her mouth knotted with disapproval: “You cannot wear that tie with that shirt.” There was affection here; when Polly did not care for people she did not bother to sort them out. And Nick, congenitally disposed to delegate anything that did not appeal to him, made no objection. Nowadays Polly deals with his income tax for him, such as it is. She prescribed Chinese herbal medicine for his hay fever and has chivied him into membership of a health club. That undertow of irritation has been replaced by a sort of protectiveness, as though he were some flawed but valued institution. Elaine finds this attitude both annoying and perverse.
    The thing about coming home, says Polly, when she dashes down for a night, or a meal, is that everything’s always got to be exactly the same. Don’t you see? I mean, you can have some new curtains occasionally, if you like, within reason, but basically it’s got to stay put. I’ve got to be able to touch base. Totally self-centered, I know, but you don’t mind , do you? The occasional innovation I will allow—actually, a makeover of the bathroom would be no bad thing—but basics have to stay the same, right? No blue rinses, Mum, OK? And if Dad ever goes in for gray flannels and a tweed jacket I’ll slaughter him.
    Whenever Elaine hears this mantra, she is both touched and slightly mutinous. All right, all right, she thinks, I take your point. But you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you? Oh dear me, no. Any radical steps taken around here are to do with planting schemes or office equipment, with which presumably you would be in sympathy.
    Nick has finished his coffee. He is now leafing through the newspaper in search of the television programs. Elaine picks up her address book and pulls the phone towards her. She must call a client who is only available in the evenings. Nick glances across the table.
    “That reminds me. Glyn rang. Said he’d try you again tomorrow.”
    “Glyn?” she says. “Oh . . . Glyn.”

Elaine and Glyn
    Why this restaurant? Why not come to the house? Why, hy this restaurant? Why not come to the house? Why, anyway?
    Elaine drives into the car park behind the Swan, finds a space. She tidies her hair, checks her face. It is a long while since she saw Glyn; longer still since she ate a meal alone with him.
    The Swan is apparently a halfway point, as near as makes no odds. Thirty miles for each of them to drive: Glyn, brisk and practical—“So, thanks for your kind offer, but if you don’t mind . . . It’ll be good to see you.” And the phone is put down without further explanation.
    So here she is. And as she walks into the Swan’s dining room—dark paneling, red-checked tablecloths, limited clientele on this weekday lunchtime—she sees that here too is Glyn. He rises to greet her: the polite kiss. “You’re looking well, Elaine.”
    Glyn is surprised. Elaine must be sixtyish, for heaven’s sake, but she does not look it. Any more than one does oneself, come to that.
    She sits down, making a crisply critical comment about the hotel’s garden, which is visible beyond the window. He takes note of her: becoming haircut, clothes that are casual but smart. There was always a compelling vigor about Elaine; she still has it. Fellow eaters glance at them. If things were otherwise, he could be enjoying this occasion—a pleasant get-together with a woman he has known for many years. But this is no indulgent arrangement. There is an agenda; it is smoldering in his pocket, distracting him as the waiter proffers menus, as Elaine asks some question.
    So what is this lunch about? Elaine knows at once that Glyn is in a heightened state. Mind, you need close experience of Glyn to be aware of that—not a man who was ever less than charged. But there is something up today. She can sense it: an absence of