Poppyland by Raffaella Barker

lost her. Her world swallowed her up in a dazzle of flashing cameras and the white walls of the gallery which seemed to Ryder to do the exact opposite of creating a sense of space. One moment they were holding hands and then she was gone. He left withoutsaying goodbye, though he left a note with the gallery owner: ‘Dear Grace, I . . . you . . .’ Crossed out. Rewritten. Crossed out. Finally, he just put his name and number on the match book in his pocket. She never called.
    In the tedious delay while Ryder’s plane doors do not open and everyone stands expectantly in the aisle, their briefcases and hand luggage gripped for the fray, night creeps across the sky above the orange glow of the airport lighting, and Grace’s jet taxis off, twinkling like a decorated Christmas tree. Ryder feels wildly, absurdly elated. The connection he made with her is palpable. It may have been dormant for five years, but it has sprung up again and he is run through with it – the energy and the optimism of sexual chemistry surges in his veins and he is amazed. He has not felt this love struck for years. It’s like a drug, but the drug has just got on another plane without him actually touching it. Finally the plane doors open and the passengers trudge off and out along miles of carpeted corridor. Ryder sleepwalks through the terminal. Why has she been in Denmark again? Who will know? How can he find out? In the queue for passport control he notices that the woman in front has an international edition of a Danish newspaper under her arm.
    Without knowing what he hopes to find, he taps her on the shoulder, ‘Could I look, please?’
    She smiles and hands it to him. He smiles back. It must be a sign of something important that everyone is so nice, he thinks, flicking through to the arts pages. It is senseless to think the answer will be inthe newspaper, but never mind, it’s good to start somewhere. He is not sure what he is looking for in among the album reviews and interviews with illustrious film-makers. Not bad coverage, in fact, for a small-scale paper such as this. And suddenly, she is there. In a photograph with a lot of people.
    Oh my God, thinks Ryder, I’ve lost the plot. This is like those moments in the tabloids when people find Jesus in a pizza or the Virgin Mary in an olive growing on an olive tree. OK, so this is in a newspaper, where information is generally supposed to be. But the chance of it happening . . . It’s a million to one for sure. He shakes the paper and holds it closer. It’s a terrible mug shot, the colour has run, and all the faces are pale green. Grace does not look her best, pale green, but undoubtedly it is her, looking unhealthy next to the Mayor and behind the right shoulder of the Queen of Denmark. She should never wear black, she looks like a ghost. Or else she should make sure she doesn’t have green photographs taken. He must tell her. How can he tell her? He has not seen her for five years, he just saw her leave the country and he has no idea how to get in touch with her.
    Ryder buys his own newspaper and gets into a taxi, his thoughts uninterrupted. It’s usually a mistake telling girls that a photograph is not flattering. They do not take kindly to anything less than superlatives about photographs. A girl sees it as criticism, not realising that what it is, in fact, is fascination in every tiny thing about her. One of the things Ryder finds most difficult to come to terms with in breaking up with agirlfriend, and it has happened more often than is strictly desirable or necessary, is the sudden absence of daily female minutiae. He loves the intimacy of everyday life shared with a woman. Her cosmetics on the bathroom shelf, the ritual of her bathing and getting ready to go out. Her shoes kicked off in the hall. The subtle scent of her on her clothes and at home. It is his pattern to forget how much he loves these small things until they are gone.
    Growing