Untold Story by Monica Ali

got Spanish, I got Italians, I got English. My European wetbacks. They can shove a lens up someone’s nose, but they got no finesse, you know what I mean?”
    Grabowski knew. The art was going out of the business. “I left London. I’m in the States. I’m on my way.”
    “Fucking-A,” said Tinny. “The beers are on ice, the chicks are on fire. What the fuck’s been keeping you?”
    “I’m supposed to be putting a book together. Not just pictures—the definitive book, you know. It’s taking some time.”
    “What? Ten years? You’ll do it here. I’ll put you on two, three days a week. Grabber, I gotta take a call. You know where to find me, right?”
    Yeah, he knew where to find Tinny. They’d met on that Necker Island trip when Tinny had been working for one of the American news agencies. He’d set up his own shop shortly afterward and got himself some scoops straightaway. They’d stayed in touch. Tinny had offered him a job—payroll, decent split on the sales—and Grabowski and Cathy had gone out there for a week to get the lay of the land. Cathy said she couldn’t stand it. It’s all so false, she said. Said they’d be getting a divorce if that’s what he wanted. Then she wanted a divorce anyway.
    It was a good thing his mother was dead. Divorce, in her view, was a sin. Something a Protestant like Cathy would never understand. At the wedding his mother wept into her handkerchief, and they weren’t tears of happiness.
    He opened up another file on his laptop. A ski trip. No use for the cover shot, that’s the one he wanted to find today. If he did that at least he would have achieved something. Another file from a polo match that she was watching from beneath some trees. She was wearing a horrible hat. It wouldn’t do.
    This was more promising, a charity gala at the Ritz. She wore her favorite pearl choker and a killer little black dress. He cropped in to head and shoulders. Then he zoomed in again to head and neck. He got in closer on her face. The picture was still clear and sharp. He stared into her eyes, looking directly back at him.
    “Knock, knock,” said Mrs. Jackson, opening the door without actually knocking on it.
    “If you were hoping to catch me naked, Mrs. Jackson, I’m afraid you’re just a few minutes too late.”
    She appeared not to catch his drift. “All decent?” she said. “Great. I’ve had a telephone call about vacancies. Now, will you be wanting the room tomorrow? You said you weren’t sure when you registered.”
    “I’ll be . . .” He turned to close down the image. It was about time to have some lunch. “I’ll be going in the . . .” He stared once more at those eyes. How many hours had he spent, over seventeen years, looking at them, either through a lens, or in person, or in a photograph? Thousands and thousands, he reckoned. A great deal more time than any lover she ever had.
    “In the morning?” said Mrs. Jackson. “Oh, Otis, you bad dog. You know you’re not allowed in here. Scram!”
    Over the years, thought Grabowski, she had changed so much. She grew into her beauty when she cast off the frumpy Sloane of the early years. She started off big and awkward, then became frighteningly thin, before filling out again. Her hairstyle changed and when it did it was cause enough for another front page. Her clothes and the confidence with which she wore them developed every year. But her eyes remained the same. They were mesmerizingly beautiful, and he’d never seen another pair that was half as striking. Until today.
    “In a few days,” said Grabowski. “I’ll be leaving in a few days.”
    Mrs. Jackson had Otis, who had not scrammed, tucked beneath her arm. The dog looked frantic to escape and Grabowski decided he could not blame the little fellow. It was not a clinch in which he would like to find himself.
    “We’ll be happy to have you,” said Mrs. Jackson. “Excuse us, I think someone is desperate to go potty.”
    “I won’t keep you