‘Actually,’ I said wryly. ‘When you put it like that, you’re right. That’s not brave at all and I can’t believe you waited this long to do it.’ Molly laughed and elbowed me gently on my forearm. ‘Have you really no clue what you would do next?’
‘I’d like to do something for Declan,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what, yet. But that’s my first goal. I’ll do something to honour his memory and to…’ She turned to glance at my tattoos as she continued, ‘to memorialise him for the person he really was. I’m trying to think of a gesture I can make for him. Maybe then I’ll be ready to start my own life.’
She flashed yet another smile at me and took a long, slow sip of her wine as she turned back towards the water. I watched her lips connect with the glass and noted the way that she licked them after she’d swallowed the wine. As she lowered the glass back to the table, I realised what I was doing and felt a flush creep up my neck. My close observation of her movements was instinctive and I was struck by that odd way an attraction can make every innocent physical gesture seem somehow sensual. Even so, I was surprised by how quickly my thoughts had shifted from the very serious matter of her grief. I stopped myself, drew in a deep breath and tried to keep my whole focus on the conversation.
‘So, once you’re back at work, will you go back to Libya?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was unexpectedly rough, and I cleared my throat before I continued, ‘We need to go back to finish what we started.’
‘We?’
‘I work closely with a photo-journalist; his name is Brad Norse. We’ve done most of our work together over the last few years – we co-won that Pulitzer together, actually.’
‘Which article won the prize? I remember seeing you on television but don’t remember the details.’
‘It was a series of articles about the impact of war on the life of four Iraqi families.’
‘I’ll have to look it up. It sounds amazing,’ she murmured.
‘Apparently we did an okay job of it.’ I tried to make a joke, but I was startled when Molly burst out laughing as if I’d actually succeeded in being funny. I saw several people around us turn to look at her. The laugh was back – the riotous, inappropriately loud laugh that had defined her as a child. She twisted a little in the seat, turning to face me more as she asked, ‘So what inspired this series?’
‘The whole thing started with some photos Brad took of children playing in rubble in Fallujah while the war raged around them. But what inspired Brad was his son waiting back home. Sometimes it’s like that – you have to run two lives almost, there’s the adrenaline-fuelled life in the field and the ordinary “pick up the groceries and do the laundry” life back home. And every now and again, like with Brad and those Iraqi kids, you see this fragile link develop where you see the common ground, and then you see the difference. They’re the best stories because they really connect with readers.’
‘I just realised what I want to do with my life,’ Molly said suddenly.
‘If you say “war journalism”, I’m pretty sure Laith will hunt me down and kill me.’
‘No,’ she laughed again. ‘I prefer my overseas trips to end at a luxurious five-star hotel in a peaceful country, thank you. It’s not the thing you do, Leo. It’s the way you talk about it. Like you genuinely love it. You talk about your job the same way people talk about their partner or their kids – there’s pride and passion and real drive.’
‘I couldn’t stop doing it even if I wanted to,’ I agreed quietly. ‘It’s not a job to me, it’s a calling.’
‘Yes!’ she said, and with so much enthusiasm that once again, heads turned to look at us. I wondered what they were thinking when they saw me sitting beside her. We were sitting close together, talking intently at a table on the water at a fancy bar, sharing a drink and staring at one another. Would people assume we were on a date? I liked that idea very much indeed. A young guy in a suit at the table behind Molly had turned when she made her exclamation and his gaze lingered. I stared at him long enough to catch his eye, then let my stare sharpen until he looked away.
I had no claim to Molly – no right to any feeling of possessiveness – but even so, if he was going to gawk at her, he wasn’t going to do it while I was sitting right beside her.
‘That’s what I need,’ Molly continued chatting, completely oblivious to the eye-contact power struggle that had just happened right behind her back. ‘I need a calling. What made you realise that you wanted to be a journalist?’ She tilted her head as she stared at me, and I stared right back, altogether distracted by the deep ocean-blue of her eyes and the intense focus she was directing at me. After a moment or two, she raised her eyebrows and the hint of a smile hovered over her lips. ‘I’m in no rush. Do you need to be somewhere?’