Free A Division of the Light by Christopher Burns Page B

that his voice was dulled, like that of a man interrogated for hours who finally confesses.
    â€œI’m not a failure. It’s just that success hasn’t happened yet.”
    â€œAnd until it does? Until then I work at jobs that I don’t particularly like and sometimes hate. You should try lowering your standards like I have to do—it gives you real insight into how things are.”
    Thomas turned away.
    â€œDon’t turn your back on me,” Alice shouted.
    He was sure she had become so strident that she would be heard in the neighboring flats. There was a self-serving streak of drama in Alice. He decided he must say this, and turned back to face her, but then he stopped.
    Thomas thought that he simply did not care any more. His apparent resolve was as false as it was momentary; he knew it was impossible for him to walk out on Alice. Just as he knew that he would always be hopelessly, helplessly in love with her.
    He forced himself into extending the confrontation. “Why shouldn’t I turn my back? You’re not worth listening to.”
    â€œBastard,” she said, and clenched her hand into a fist.
    â€œIf you hit me,” Thomas said, “I’ll not respond. I’ve done enough of that.”
    Alice seemed poised on the edge of striking him. He could see the strain in her face, the dilation of her eyes, the slight trembling of her arm.
    He had to do something.
    Suddenly confident, Thomas reached out and put his hand round her fist as a restraint. Alice turned her head to one side, either in acknowledgment that the instant had passed or because she could no longer bear to look at him. He was momentarily lost between rage and appeasement, but then he forced himself to calm down.
    â€œThis is crazy,” he said.
    Alice did not answer, but stood still before him: a frightened yet stubborn captive.
    â€œAfter all this time, we should learn not to tear each other apart,” Thomas continued. “We should know each other’s personality well enough by now.”
    Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBut you don’t. That’s the trouble.”
    He was puzzled. “Don’t what?”
    â€œDon’t know me.”
    It was the kind of complaint she made often. Thomas would have liked to consider it worthless, but he knew that it was true.
    â€œOf course I do,” he told her, but he knew his confidence was hollow.
    â€œIt’s not a failing,” Alice answered. “Often I think I don’t even know myself.”
    Thomas waited for a second, and then impulsively becamemore conciliatory and put his arms round Alice. Like a third invisible figure, a sense of desperation embraced them both. Alice did not move away but she was rigid and unyielding, and even when Thomas hugged her tighter she would not raise her face to look into his eyes.
    Alice thought of the men who had loved her as rungs on a ladder whose top could still not be seen. When each relationship was over, she felt that she had moved higher. Anger, distress and recrimination were consequences she knew how to deal with. They were transitory and left no wounds. The next affair was always more exciting than the last.
    She could never see where she was going, but she always knew that she was climbing.

5
    At first Alice Fell is able to reject the lens, to nullify its inquisition, so that the earlier portraits will reveal almost nothing of her personality.
    She has chosen sensible clothes—a black blouse, gray trousers with a subdued fleck, little black boots with side zips and wedge heels. Gregory has asked her to take off her watch and bracelets. A high-backed wooden chair is placed in the center of the studio with a neutral backdrop of very pale blue. Natural light enters from windows and skylight, tall lamps with adjustable panels provide additional illumination, and circular reflectors are stationed just outside viewfinder range.
    As