Posted on the wall in her room was a quote from the poet Byron: Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company. The observation greatly appealed to her, even more so with her extension: Reading a letter is the only device for combining solitude with good company. So what was she now doing, traipsing up to her room with this girl in tow?

She stopped on the narrow stair: she couldn’t go through with it. She twisted around and looked down at Galina. Her expression must have said it all, for Galina reached up and placed her hand on the bare skin of her wrist. ‘Perhaps another time,’ the girl said. She turned and led the way back down the stairs into the body of the house, and Sylvie followed, the print of Galina’s hand sparking on her skin.

An understanding had passed between them.

To fill in time they lingered in the sitting room, the everyday room that housed the TV and stereo, and, on a circular side-table, an array of photos. Sylvie, her heart still pounding, attempted to restore herself. ‘We’re so happy you’re here,’ she said, pleased to hear the warm, motherly tone in her voice. ‘Andrew has told us all about you.’

Again, Galina wondered what exactly Andrew had told them, and then decided it really didn’t matter. She turned her attention to the photos. They showed Andrew as a baby, as a toddler, as a schoolboy, as a youth; they showed him as the man he was today; they showed him against a backdrop of different places and different interests. Andrew liked the beach; Andrew liked animals; Andrew liked the company of his parents. There were photos of people Galina assumed were the grandparents, and photos of Leonard and Sylvie with friends, photos with Andrew, and several of the two of them alone. The largest photo in the display was a framed portrait of Sylvie and Leonard on their wedding day, the petite bride in a patterned white satiny gown with a long train, and Leonard in formal clothes, looking like a Hollywood movie star.

‘What a handsome couple,’ Galina said, holding up the photo. She smiled. ‘You still are.’

Sylvie gazed at the familiar picture, and it occurred to her, for the first time, how deceptive photos can be. They capture just a moment, a snapshot, in what are usually complex and on-going situations. And even the moment itself is distorted for the camera: Turn this way, tilt your head, clasp your hands, say cheese. Not that this picture actually lied — she had been happy, and it had been a happy day. But the girl in the picture had anticipated a future very different from that which had eventuated.

8 A GOOD MARRIAGE

8

A GOOD MARRIAGE