Still Image Read online

  Still Image

  By Allie Parker

  Title: Still Image

  Copyright by Ellie Mason, 2017

  Kindle Edition 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the permission of Ellie Mason, [email protected].

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Prologue

  Flames licked at tree trunks and raced through dry shrubs with effortless speed. An old weatherboard shed creaked and groaned before slowly leaning and crashing to the ground.

  Click, Click.

  Meg could feel the heat, even while at a safe distance. You’ll need to move soon, she thought, the wind is changing directions. The flames ignored boundary fences, devouring posts as it crept along dry ground. As the fire approached the grazing fields, Meg was glad to see that farmers had cut the wire to allow animals through.

  Click, click.

  Meg tightened her grip on the camera and moved along the fence line to capture the dry, dead foreground. It was a spectacular sight, with the solid wall of flames slinking down the hill towards it. She lay on her stomach to capture the picture; the flames were visible through the dead grass and the rolling storm clouds above added to the electric atmosphere.

  Click, click, click.

  A crash of thunder rumbled a couple of kilometres away. Meg rolled over onto her back, clicking off a few shots of the grey storm clouds, as they mixed with plumes of dirty brown smoke. Two of Mother Nature’s forces were about to battle for control. Meg stood and turned back to face the fire, which was now rapidly approaching her position. She strapped her bags over her shoulders and made her way to a clearing where, even if the blaze changed direction again before the rain fell, she would be relatively safe. She knew the fire fighters would reprimand her for being so stupid, but the images she was capturing were worth the risk. She wasn’t one to take pictures of the devastation after the fact; houses burnt to the ground and treasured possessions reduced to ashes. Or crying faces of grown men and children covered in black soot. She’d leave that to the journalists and wanna-be internet reporters. It was the action and adrenaline that Meg liked to capture. The heart and soul of Mother Nature that, every once in awhile, overwhelmed the regular and the every-day. The ordinary rustic setting turned extraordinary by a pure force, as a reminder of her power and strength.

  As the first fat drops of rain began to fall, Meg studied the landscape through the camera lens and thought how good her life was. She was so certain about her talent and passion for photography; she was happy in her relationship, which admittedly over-lapped with her work; and she had many great friends to share her life. But most of all, she loved her independence; her ability to work for herself and remain solvent was both challenging and rewarding. Life was turning out great, she thought, smiling to herself. She zipped the waterproof sleeve over the camera equipment and kept her water resistant camera ready for the next instalment of Mother Natures’ battle of the elements.

  Chapter One

  Six months after taking what turned out to be award-winning photographs of the bushfire, the only thing Meg felt certain about was change. It was alarming to know that everything you know to be true in life could shift and change in a jarring, shocking instant. All she wanted was to feel normal again. She wanted to relish and rely on her independence, not feel trapped and frightened by it, as she did now. And maybe even one day she could learn to trust again.

  Alone and driving through rain that seemed to come down in sheets rather than individual drops, the windscreen wipers were no match for the winter evening. Halos of red, orange and green surrounded the traffic lights as she entered suburbia.

  Meg turned up the heating and thought about the boring but relatively successful day she’d had. She recalled the vivid colours of the autumn leaves swaying in the breeze and looked forward to getting back to her dark room to see the results. She had only missed the rain by minutes as she was putting the tripod, lens cases and camera bag in the boot of her car. She congratulated herself on the weather reading skills she seemed to be fine tuning with all of the landscape work she’d been doing lately. Though once she would have embraced the rain and stayed around to see if nature put on a show for her. Now, she just wanted to go home.

  The harsh sound of gravel crunching under tyres was welcome, as she pulled swiftly into her driveway. The footprint of the house was relatively small but it was tall with glass walls jutting out here and there. Although it held three different levels, the house stood just over two stories high. An old school photographic darkroom, bathroom and laundry were on the ground floor, the kitchen and her studio come lounge room occupied the second. Her bedroom, with a mezzanine that looked over the lounge area, was tucked into a loft and had an en-suite that protruded out the side of the building. Like the kitchen on the other side of the house on the second floor, the en-suite had glass walls so when you stood in the corner you were outside the rest of the house. The bottom half of the glass was frosted and the top half tinted for privacy.

  Thankful to finally be out of the rain, her body relaxed and a familiar heavy tiredness washed over her. After letting herself in and going up the first flight of stairs, she switched on a couple of lamps and opened the fridge door. A healthy dinner once again, she mused as she poured herself a glass of wine, grabbed a wedge of cheese and some water crackers.

  It occurred to her when, out of habit, she switched on the small, wall mounted TV for background noise, that she felt utterly alone. She had felt lonely before, even when she was surrounded by people, and she’d been alone before, but then she’d loved her own company and the freedom that came with it. The loneliness which crept in now seemed dark and unforgiving.

  However, the rainy night seemed more comforting than the late news and she decided not to let herself be dragged down with the despair of the events that seemed to batter the world every day. She flicked the TV off and turned the stereo on. Music was a much better option to end such a productive, if not lacklustre, day.

  She carried her wine a
nd cheese to the massive desk, sitting prominently in the tidy space, and started to download the images from her day’s work. They wouldn’t quite pay all the bills but they were safe and kept her shutter clicking. On a whim, Meg clicked open the folder containing the photos she’d taken since the incident that had crippled her confidence a few months back. The images on screen captured light, tones and steady composition – the key elements of her craft. Yet they held little purpose, little meaning other than being nice photos of landscapes, flora and fauna. They were certainly a long way from the bushfire she had chased in the summertime. As Meg continued to scroll through them, she noticed the lack of pride and achievement she used to associate with the images. She realised with a heavy sigh that yet another characteristic of who she was had drained away. She also knew that she would need to address that in the near future if she wished to continue working in the same field. She physically shuddered at the thought of finding a new profession. She just didn’t seem to have the strength to give it the attention such a topic needed at that moment. So she fell into the rhythm of renaming and cataloguing the images on her computer, while a welcome numbness washed over her.

  After five hours of broken sleep, Meg was up and working by seven. Following a couple of hours in the red glow of the dark room, she surfaced and turned on the computer and large, dual screens on her workbench. While they were booting up, Meg grabbed a jar of choc-hazelnut spread and a long handled teaspoon, then moved back to the computer. Spooning out the chocolaty indulgence, she sifted through the usual array of invoices, corporate newsletters and general spam which filled her inbox. Then she noticed an email from Byron Cassidy of Cassidy Designs. Sipping her coffee she skimmed through the polite conversation and finally got to his point. Byron wanted to meet to discuss a new project. Tapping her fingers on the desk, she decided to shut her email down and open the editing software instead.

  While waiting for the latest batch of images to load, she swirled her chair and studied the open-plan space. Would a home make-over help her regain some control in her life? That was probably too much to ask of some paint and throw rugs. The scattered pieces of furniture felt more like works of art on display than home furnishings. With the smiling faces and rich, atmospheric images and canvases clinging to every available surface, with all those colours and textures, she had no choice but to leave the walls a blank, white backdrop. The images reminded her of what she used to be, the smiling faces reminded her of who she might be able to be again. She knew she had to breach the carefully guarded wall she had built around herself in the past six months, if she had any hope of regaining the happiness and laughter reflected in those photos. But for now that all seemed too hard so she swung back to her desk and got to work, the only constant in her life.

  Deep in work-mode, Meg was digging through a computer folder looking for an artificial colour filter when a strangled breath caught in her throat. She stared at the distinct initials of her former partner. She thought all the programs and files he had added to her computer had been removed through the police instigated formatting process. But there they were, hidden in her meticulous filing system. She hovered the curser over the file names. Light Adjustment Filter_PH, Contrast Adjustment Filter_PH. She had often wondered why he felt he needed to differentiate his programs with hers. Now, looking back with the clarity of hindsight, she shuddered and closed out of the folder. For a moment she wondered if she should contact the police detective with this new information. But she selected the whole file and pressed delete. She didn’t hesitate to click OK when asked to clarify the deletion. Meg felt sullied and numb and decided that cleaning out her kitchen cupboards was a better option than working in close proximity to old memories and recent ghosts. She may not have had the energy to deal with PH, but all of a sudden she certainly had the stamina to scrub the pantry out.

  Chapter Two

  Byron Cassidy clicked ‘send and receive’ for the fourth time in ten minutes. She was avoiding him and he knew it. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair in frustration. She had to talk to him sooner or later. He clicked out of his email and back into the Ferguson account brief. Just as Byron started to focus on the project details, the front door of the Cassidy Designs studio opened. He glanced up at the tall, tanned figure in the doorway, then down at his watch.

  ‘Hard at it, I see.’ Simon Cassidy ignored Byron’s obvious glance at his watch.

  ‘Someone has to be,’ Byron retorted. ‘Please tell me you’ve been working from home this morning.’

  ‘I had a late business dinner last night, so I’m clocking in a little late this morning.’ Before Byron could comment, Simon continued as he hung his jacket on the back of the door. ‘So have you heard from that chick yet, the photographer about the new ideas? She seemed interested the first time you met, what, a couple of months ago. What’s the deal? You didn’t try to pull the moves and scare her off did you?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ Byron rolled his eyes. ‘I know she liked the pitch I gave her and even started on the sketches. I wrote to her again yesterday about Bella’s project but I still haven’t heard anything back. She’s probably gone away for a few days on a shoot or something.’ But for some reason Byron doubted that would be the only reason for Meg’s avoidance. He had to stop obsessing over it, so he changed the subject back to Simon. ‘Your business dinner last night wouldn’t happen to have been with the lovely Bella, would it? One of the only consistent clients we have, on retainer I might add, but we seem to do very little work for her money. Well, I don’t anyway,’ he added looking pointedly at Simon.

  ‘She wanted to discuss a new idea,’ Simon answered without elaborating.

  ‘And does her husband know about this idea?’

  Simon paused. ‘So what’s this meeting about this morning,’ he asked, opting for evasion rather than argument.

  ‘Bill Ferguson, of Ferguson’s Real Estate, is coming in to discuss the power of advertising and we need to have a tight pitch to offer, so we can discuss the power of money.’

  ‘Oh yes, that elusive thing that you’re always investing for us. Us creative types, to use mum’s words, never seem to have much cash in the bank. Why is that?’

  ‘Just being cautious. I think that comes with the territory, and it’s not just us creative types, it’s us small business owners, who decide to go out on their own and break away from the job security and financial stability that most people crave.’

  ‘And remind me again - why did we want to do that?’

  ‘The power of freedom.’ Byron smiled at his brother.

  They worked on the Ferguson account for a few hours until Byron had a thought. ‘Simon, I think it’s about time to invest in that new multimedia software you’ve been banging on about.’

  Simon looked over and stretched his aching shoulders. ‘I know that, but what’s changed your mind?’

  ‘Well, since the last tax bill wasn’t what we’d predicted, I think we can afford it and it’ll be good for business. An investment, as you keep telling me, and a way to diversify. Send me the link detailing the promotion and I’ll have another look.’ Byron picked up the ringing phone on his desk.

  As Simon sent Byron the link, together with some YouTube promo clips, he wondered where the change of heart had really come from. Simon had been pestering Byron for months about the software upgrade. And what was with the comment about diversifying, he thought. Business was good, but there were only the two of them. They could only handle so much work at once. However Simon wasn’t going to argue the point. After all, the new software was his idea in the first place.

  Byron studied the website Simon had sent him and searched for product reviews. By the time his stomach rumbled, to let him know lunch time had passed him by, he had a full understanding of the software package and was ready to purchase the licensing rights. Byron loved their business; it was his passion and his livelihood. What he hadn’t told Simon, yet, was he was itching for a change, and thought an upgrade to their business struct
ure would be just the ticket.

  *

  Meg unscrewed the lid off an insulated mug and filled it with freshly brewed coffee. Grabbing her keys, she glanced at the computer and closed the door behind her. Meg knew she couldn’t hide from Byron Cassidy forever, but another couple of days wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t want to burn all of her bridges; just take the long way around getting to them.

  She finished her coffee as she pulled up outside an old weatherboard house. She grabbed the portfolio off the back seat and walked up the overgrown front path to the veranda, which circled the entire house. The garden was a delightful mess of vibrant flowers and shrubs, with tones of purple and pink mixing with shades of green and brown, in a charming and graceful disorder.

  As her friend swung the door open in greeting, her large dog, Chadwick, bounded out and had his paws on Meg’s shoulders before Avery could mutter a sit.

  ‘Hey boy, how are we today? Had tuna for lunch I smell,’ Meg mused as the large, brown, lump of fur tried to lick her cheek.

  ‘Sorry, Meg. CHAD – DOWN!’ Avery was a vision, as usual, in her colourfully striped long sleeve tee-shirt, soft flowing floral skirt, and deep green leg warmers. She hip-and-shouldered Chadwick out of the way and threw her arms around Meg. Meg breathed in the familiar clean, fresh fragrance of jasmine and leatherwood radiating off Avery’s blazing red mane.

  ‘I have the goods,’ Meg said, patting her portfolio.

  ‘Great, I’m ready to start something new. This commercial account is driving me insane.’ Avery led Meg down the hall into the kitchen. The bright hues of burnt orange filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling would have startled most. But Meg was immune to the rich pallet. She went to the cupboard and retrieved cups made of thick green glass with tiny bubbles suspended, where they were captured for eternity by a local glass blower. Avery filled the glasses with freshly squeezed orange and mango juice, and then led Meg out to the back veranda. Here an old couch and armchairs were layered with threadbare rugs and plump mismatched cushions. Dotted around were empty bottles of various sizes, with candles in the tops and wax melted down the glass.