Pictures of Lily

him. On the contrary, I’m now in deeper than I ever have been.’
    ‘But he’s twelve years older than you!’ she objects.
    ‘So? It’s not that ridiculous an age-gap. It felt like it when I was sixteen, but not now.’
    ‘Have you really thought this through? I mean, you don’t have a dad in your life . . .’
    ‘I do have a dad!’
    ‘Yes, but he hasn’t been around much. And your mum has always moved from man to man. Maybe you unwittingly went looking for a father figure?’
    ‘That is ridiculous,’ I snap. Isn’t it? I try to push the notion out of my head.
    ‘I don’t mean to interfere.’ Yes, but you are interfering. And it’s clear where your loyalties lie. ‘But you and Richard are so good together,’ she continues.
    ‘I know,’ I say, as sadness seeps through me. ‘I love Richard. But I love Ben more. You yourself told me, that – on paper – you and your ex were perfect together and Nathan was no match for him. But you followed your heart. That’s what I’m trying to do.’
    ‘I didn’t tell you that story to make you break things off with my husband’s best friend,’ she says miserably.
    ‘I know you didn’t. And it didn’t take you telling me that to help me make a decision. In fact, I haven’t made a decision yet. I’m still trying to.’
    ‘Oh, Lily, please come back and see him,’ she begs. ‘Please give your relationship one last chance. You could come with me now?’
    I politely thank her for coming to see me. But still I stay away.
    On Monday, Jonathan makes the announcement that Kip is leaving. The advertisement for picture assistant goes up on the company website immediately with an end-of-week deadline. He obviously wants to get things moving quickly. Bronte emails me to say cheers for covering for her on such short notice. I reply with a good luck message for her forthcoming job interview and ask how the shoot went.
    Brilliant location. The photographer was a dickhead though.
    Who was the photographer? I ask .
    Have you heard of Pier Frank? He’s into all this weird arty shit. Jonathan thought it’d be fun to get him to experiment with an editorial shoot, but it was a bloody nightmare trying to reel him in. Hopefully we pulled it off.
    For the first time I wonder how much I would enjoy working with photographers instead of as one. Is this what I really want to do? And let’s not forget, Bronte slugged her way through three years as an editorial assistant before she got her break on the picture desk. She’s only twenty-five. I’m twenty-six so if I work to her timelines I’ll be lucky to score a job as another assistant before I’m thirty. Do I really want to go down that long and winding road when my heart isn’t fully in it?
    Richard would say I’m mad not to.
    Ben would tell me to get onto those photography courses.
    That night, I go back to Mum’s and pull out all my old photos from ten years ago. I study the ones of Roy and Olivia and allow myself to dwell in the past for a while. I remember with a pang waking up on my second morning in Australia and begging Michael to take me to work with him. I never lost my enthusiasm for that job. I just couldn’t go on once Ben had left. It was the same with photography. My feelings for him overrode my passion for anything else. Now he’s back in my life I’m finding joy in the interests I abandoned years ago.
    All the signs point towards a life with Ben. But before I see him again, I need to face Richard.
    I go home after work the next day. I don’t call ahead to warn him, but his truck is parked in front of the house and my heart is in my mouth as I walk up the front path to the house I adore, knowing I’m probably going to be leaving it forever. I unlock the door and step into the hallway to find the house in a state of disarray.
    ‘Richard?’ I call. I poke my head into the living room, but he’s not in his normal place on the sofa, and then I see him outside on the deck, staring at the garden. I go to the door, trying not to notice my surroundings – the surroundings that I love and that I have made my own. ‘Richard?’ I say again more quietly so as not to startle him. I’m not successful because he jumps out of his skin and regards me with wide eyes.
    ‘You’re back!’
    I smile sadly, but say nothing. It depends on his definition of ‘back’. He gingerly gets to his feet, but I stay where I am inside the glass sliding door.
    He looks a mess. He hasn’t shaved in days and his face