A Step too Far

 

Joe Milton, photographer by profession, immediately recognised Professor Reginald Weer’s gleaming Jaguar-F. He felt jittery as he headed towards the tearoom to meet his ex-professor and his wife. He had graduated from Stirling University a year before, but no steady job was in sight yet. So, despite resenting Weer’s despicable request, he had accepted to do it, but only for the money, mind you. With the hefty sum that Weer had promised him upon completion of the task, he would settle the considerable debt with his outraged landlord.

            Weer looked like a fully-fledged aristocrat in his tweed shooting-coat and matching trousers. He was hissing at his wife over a small coffee table, his eyes glaring and contemptuous. The young woman had a doleful expression, and when she raised her watery eyes to look at her husband in the face, Joe’s heart missed a beat. She was the freckled version of Botticelli’s Venus. Joe swallowed a shot of pity for that young beauty and a long draught of jealousy for his most loathsome professor. Good looks and wealth were a deadly combination.

Reginald Weer’s wife endured her husband’s scolding with admirable dignity. Joe quickly murdered the touch of pity he had started feeling. He absolutely could not let sentimentality get in the way of business. He started walking towards the couple and as soon as he saw him, Weer gave him a wry smile and said, “Ah, Milton, here you are!” He turned to his wife. “This is the photographer.”

“Professor Weer, Mrs Weer!” said Joe in a deferential tone.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Milton,” said the wife in a cheerless voice.

“Come on now!” said Weer. “Let’s dispense with formalities. We’re not in the lecture theatre after all. You can call me Reginald and my wife Octavia.”

Joe nodded. Weer must really want to get rid of his wife badly if he was ready to stoop to a first-name basis with an ex-student, he mused.

“Shall we get going?” added Weer. “The first spot is less than half an hour’s walk from here.” He stood up abruptly, smacked a twenty-pound note on the table and strode out of the tearoom. Octavia heaved a bulky rucksack on her shoulders and followed him, smiling timidly at Joe when their eyes crossed.

The morning air felt even more crisp and chilly after the sweet-smelling warmth of the tearoom. Thick grey clouds hung precariously in the steely sky.

“My new book will be published soon,” said Weer, his boots squelching on the muddy track. “It’s a study about John Ruskin from a fresh angle.”

“I would be very interested in reading it, Reginald,” said Joe. The sound of Weer’s first name jarred inside his head like a piece of chalk screeching against a blackboard. He made a mental note not to use it again.

“Reggie has put in a lot of effort in writing this book,” said Octavia. “He has become quite obsessed with this Ruskin fellow.”

Joe stifled his smile when Weer glared at his wife. “What would you know, my dear?”  Dead-brained idiots bragging on TV are no food for the mind, I’m afraid.”

They walked on for some time in an uneasy silence. 

“I don’t mind watching a bit of TV now and then,” said Octavia to Joe, “but Reggie thinks it’s an awful waste of time.”

“You have a gift for that, dear,” said Weer. He quickened his pace so that Joe and Octavia fell behind.

As the path wound its way further into the woods, the river announced its presence with a fanfare of splashing and gurgling, though it was hidden behind the dense undergrowth.

Joe turned towards Octavia. “I like to watch TV too,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, mustering his most endearing smile.

Octavia smiled back briefly and sized him up through large, copper-coin eyes, until the sudden appearance of the rain-swollen river gushing powerfully around polished rocks, upstaged all their thoughts. 

“This is the exact spot where Ruskin had his portrait painted by Millais,” said Weer. “I want you to take some good portraits of me here, Milton.” He turned to his wife. “Hand me my notes.”

Octavia lowered the rucksack to the ground with a thud, fiddled through its contents and pulled out a thick hardbound notebook.

Reginald Weer struck a pose by the river, his right foot resting on a rock. “Shoot me,” he said to Joe. Head held high and haughty, he posed as if he was the subject for a 19^th century artist.

After a hundred snaps, Octavia got visibly bored. Joe sneaked a smile at her from time to time, and she always obliged him. He had beguiled her without too much effort, but instead of being content, he felt awfully rotten. Weer wanted to divorce her and he needed a good pretext for the court. Joe would provide him with that pretext.

 “Let’s go on to Glen Finglas now,” said Weer.

Joe tucked the camera back in its case and hurried to help Octavia lift the heavy rucksack. As he clasped one of the straps, her hand rested over his for a heartbeat and her touch felt electrifying. “Let me carry it for you,” he whispered.

“No, I’m fine.” She bent slightly forward under the rucksack’s weight as she followed her husband.

The footpath ran out of the woods into an open stretch of hillside moorland. Down below, Glenfinglas reservoir opened up before them. The steely stretch of water was dappled by the slight wind that blew down the glen.

“I love this lake,” said Octavia. “I want a picture here.”

Weer huffed. “It’s only a reservoir, woman. I don’t want to waste time here.”

“I could take a quick one,” said Joe. “It won’t take a minute.”

“Hurry up then and catch up.” Weer walked ahead.

As Joe looked in the viewfinder, Octavia let her hair lose in an auburn cascade. She looked at him with her endearing half-baked smile. With trembling hands, he pressed the shutter button.

She touched his shoulder briefly and said, “Thanks.”

They caught up with Weer where the path ran besides an isolated stone cottage. Weer had stopped abruptly, his bravado gone. Deep growls came from within a wire-mesh pen. Two enormous Irish hounds with shaggy grey coats were drooling and growling, staring at Weer through malevolent eyes.

“Don’t mind the dogs,” he said with bated breath. “They’re locked.” He walked on at a brisk pace.

The dogs growled at Joe too, but as soon as they saw Octavia, they stopped growling and even wagged their tails. “Good boys!” she said in a soft voice. She clasped Joe’s hand in hers and pulled him along the path. Weer was thirty yards ahead, his back towards them.

Joe felt very awkward walking hand in hand with Weer’s wife. When he looked sideways at her, she laughed and squeezed his fingers. He was relieved and at the same time disappointed when she let go of him. Octavia was heading blindly into her husband’s wicked trap, and he was his willing accomplice. Weer wanted to prove that she had been unfaithful so that she would not be entitled to any of his wealth according to the terms of the prenuptial.

After they had walked the length of the reservoir, they found themselves facing Glen Finglas, a wide green cradle hemmed in between two gently rising hillsides. Reginald Weer instructed Joe to take him some portraits here, and another interminable photo shoot ensued. Joe’s head was in turmoil after Octavia smiled openly at him a number of times. Weer pretended to look the other way, but from the twitch of his eyebrows, he could see that his ex-don was simmering with rage.   

The sky, though burdened by thick cloud had held. During the photo shoot, Octavia spread a thick picnic mat on the grass and laid out a cold platter. The three ate in silence – fresh buns, bacon, hams and sausages. All the while, Octavia stared at Joe shamelessly, her eyes longing and her breath shallow. After they had eaten, she started collecting the picnic stuff, when a plastic container slipped from her hands, fell on her husband’s trousers, and stained them with meat juices.

“Damn!” he said. “Are you drunk or what?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Octavia. “I feel terribly distracted today.”

Weer sat on a rock and scrubbed the stains with his handkerchief. “Milton!” he said.

Joe walked up to him, while Octavia was collecting the rest of the things.

“When we walk past the house, I’ll pretend to need a piss,” he hissed. “Take her to the back of the house and do what you need to do. I’ll sneak up and take pictures.”

Joe gave him a perfunctory nod. As they made their way towards the cottage by the lake, he purposefully slackened the pace, and, to his relief, so did Octavia. When Weer was about fifteen yards ahead of them, he whispered, “When he says he’ll take a piss, don’t come with me to the back of the house. Stay near him.” He had tossed his only chance to settle his considerable debt to the landlord.

Octavia furrowed her brow in a moment of thought. The valley breeze made strands of her long hair dance like twirling snakes about her face. She blinked twice and smiled at him – a fully baked smile that made his legs feel like melting butter. She then quickened up her pace and overtook her husband.

Weer was out of breath and had slackened. “Don’t hold back, Milton. Give the bitch a good rubbing. She’s all over you, already, the whore!”

Far ahead, Octavia had reached the dog pen and stopped. Joe could see her whispering to the two hounds. When they reached her, Weer said, “I need to relieve myself.”

Joe immediately said, “I’ll go round the back of the house. Give me a call when you’re done.”

“Good man,” answered Weer.

“I’ll come with you, Joe,” said Octavia.

Joe raised his brows at her as far up as he could in warning, but she just ignored him. He heard the dogs growling as he walked towards the back of the house. Once out of sight, Octavia flung her hands around his neck, and he felt her warm lips connecting with his. With an enormous effort, he pushed her gently back. “No, no,” he pleaded. “That’s what he wants.”

The dogs were now barking madly.

She kissed him again, a long intimate kiss that left him breathless. Again, Joe pushed her away from him. “He’ll divorce you and you’ll be destitute.”

Octavia caressed his face with the back of her hand. As she half closed her eyes, the wind blew bolder, and her tresses fluttered wildly around her pale, freckled face.”

“He will ruin you,” whispered Joe.

“I don’t think so, my dear,” she said in a bold, resonant voice that sounded almost like a growl. Her face had lost its softness, and her eyes were wide open; feral.”

The sky finally gave out, and large cold drops hit them. A flash of lightening lit them up for a heartbeat, followed by an agonised shriek that made his blood curdle. It was drowned by the frenzied growls of the hounds.

“That was the professor!” he said, in an alarmed tone.

“Shush, dear,” whispered Octavia into his ear in a cajoling voice. “It was just the howl of the wind.”

His heart beat savagely against his chest and he struggled to breathe.

Octavia caressed his face again. Her red fingernails looked like claws as they brushed lightly on his cheek. He trembled.

“Hush, my love,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. I will take care of you, my precious; till death do us part.”