Id boarded that flight thinking it could be the calm start of something simplea single plane, two seats side byby side, one destination. Im James Hart, a wildlife photographer whose life is a string of expeditions and gallery openings. She was Poppy Clarke, an architect who built not only buildings but her career with meticulous precision.
Both of us were independent, selfassured, each carrying a divorce that had taught us to value our own space.
The idea sparked on its own, like a flash in a dark room: why not keep this arrangement light, free of commitment and domestic fuss?
No one thought it would last, least of all my colleagues at the studio. In the backroom they kept an informal betting pool on how long the new elusive lover of the wandering James would endure.
Usually the tally stretched into months.
Women were often drawn to megood looks, a creative trade, never dull, not miserly. Yet my peers also knew the other side of the brilliant artist. I lived on whims of inspiration, was impossible at home, unpredictable in my moods, and liked a drink. Still, whenever I announced Id found love, they sighed with relief. A lovestruck James worked like a man possessed; my photographs pulsed with passion and life.
Then I met Poppy, my true muse. A woman who asked for nothing beyond the joy of meeting. Lets try it without that damned domestic routine, without the where have you been? and why didnt you call? I suggested. Lifes hard enough as it is.
She smiled and agreed. First, she was sure it would be a brief fling; second, after a bitter divorce she had no appetite to settle down forever. Our needs matched.
I could spend a week living in her cosy, perfectly arranged flat, then disappear for weeks into my cluttered studio, walls stacked with gear and rolls of negative. We flew together to Bath, then went weeks without seeing each other. We spent three days in a cottage in the Cotswolds and then three weeks apart.
A year later Poppy was the star of our creative gatherings.
Dreams do come true, she told her friends over martinis, a grin on her lips. As a child I devoured books about Arctic explorerstough, independent, forever on the move. My James is just like a polar guide. He sets off on an expedition behind the camera, then returns with flowers and bright eyes.
I was content.
Poppy is a breath of fresh air, I confessed to a mate over a glass of whisky. My life is chaos. Sometimes I crawl home and cant find a word to say. Other times I need someone to listen, to pity me like a child. Most of the time I just need a week alone. She gets that. If we lived together wed drive each other round the bend within a year. Instead, I always show up with flowers and a smile, as if on a date.
I indulged in fleeting side attractions, but always came back to Poppy. It felt like a karmic link, something sturdier than a dull marriage. To outsiders Poppy always seemed perfectly happy.
Five years slipped by. Then the gallery Id long worked with shut its doors, the magazine I contributed to went into a slump, and the little creative collective that had held us together started to crumble. Everyone set off to find their own path.
A couple of years later Poppy ran into Lena, an old acquaintance, in a coffee shop in Manchester. They chatted, reminisced, and inevitably the conversation turned to me.
Poppy gave a bitter smile as she stared into her cappuccino.
Yes, were still on the same seesaw. He pops up, disappears, and returns. Im honestly fed up. The moment anyone hints that its time to settle, the years are slipping by, he looks at me like a trapped animal and asks, Are we not happy? He even gets jealous of his own shadow, scared Ill slip away.
What about you? Lena asked.
Id settle down, want a child, but it feels like Im doing it alone, so Im not starting anything serious with anyone.
Does that mean you love him? Lena pressed gently.
Probably. Or its just habit, Poppy sighed. Or stubborn hope that someday, just a little longer, hell wake up, become the man I imaginedmy man.
Poppy, sorry, but people like that dont change.
My mother says the same. Everyone asks why I cling to someone who doesnt even know what he wants. I cant throw him away. Is this love?
Only you can decide, Lena shrugged. I never believed in socalled free relationships. But a free spirit is a free spirit, as they say. Lifes short, you cant get the years back.
Months later Poppy finally sought a therapist. She spoke of fear of solitude, burntout relationships, unfulfilled hopes. After a session she returned home, brewed tea and settled at the kitchen window. Her eyes fell on an old photo framea gift from me.
It held a picture of us laughing, arms around each other at sunset. She lifted the frame to dust it, and it slipped, shattering the glass. Behind the broken pane a tiny envelope fell out.
With trembling fingers she tore it open.
Inside was a candid snapnot a staged shot but a quiet one: her asleep, wrapped in a blanket, a lamp casting light over her sketches on the table. Id taken it while she wasnt looking. On the back Id written in my own hand, The only place the chaos inside me quiets. Sorry I never had the courage to say it aloud. Ive always been yours; I was just scared to admit it.
A week later, as usual, I knocked on her door with a bouquet of peonies. She opened it, but instead of a smile she handed me that old photograph.
I looked at the picture, then at her, and the usual sparkle in my eyes was replaced by a tired, lingering weariness from years of running.
It seems, I said quietly, our expeditions are ending. Its time to come home.
And this time I crossed the threshold not as a guest, but as a man who finally decided to stay.
