The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,44

magic of seeing through a visitor’s eyes, for the very first time. When had he lost that wonder?

‘Do you know what, I think I’ll let you see it for yourself.’

A fizz of excitement bellied its way up from his stomach and he suddenly felt ten years younger, remembering that indeterminate sensation of always being on the cusp of discovering some amazing shot, the belief that possibility was always waiting around the next corner.

With a sudden jolt, he realised that he had taken the germ of her idea, pictures of tourists discovering the sights, but he was interested in her response. Yesterday he’d been reluctantly impressed by her ideas for the exhibition, even though he wasn’t convinced they were new ideas, but then it did depend on the interpretation of them. She’d talked intelligently about bringing them to life. As she’d talked, her slender butterfly hands had caught his attention, those long, slim fingers that conveyed everything with great animation. She had a habit of lifting her chin, almost as if she were daring the world to challenge her, a habit that exposed her long neck and the smooth expanse of throat. Not that he was thinking about her pale skin or the soft peach bloom on her cheeks, which in this morning’s sunshine appeared luminous and dewy fresh. It was the portrait photographer in him, he told himself.

Taking another look, he mentally framed her face; she’d make a good subject, when she wasn’t aware of the camera. There was a self-consciousness about her that he’d noticed the first time he’d seen her at the airport. It intrigued him and he’d almost considered photographing her then. Almost. He wasn’t in the market for a new subject or a muse. He didn’t do that sort of thing any more. He did the jobs he was asked to do. Earned the big bucks thanks to his reputation. If anyone guessed that he was just going through the motions these days, they were far too polite to say so. It was too much effort putting himself out there these days.

They walked through the heavily wooded park in silence accompanied by the trill of birdsong and the heavy scent of the trees. Sunlight stole through the leaves leaving intricate dappled patterns on the broad paths.

‘This is so peaceful,’ Fiona finally said. ‘Almost spiritual.’

‘Wait until you get to the shrine. It was erected as a memorial to the Emperor Meji who died in 1912.’

‘So not that old?’

‘Not old at all. It was destroyed in air raids during World War Two and completely rebuilt in 1958.’

The path meandered through the trees and then he paused, taking out his camera, before they rounded the corner of the path that would give them the first sight of the torii.

‘Wow,’ said Fiona, her face lighting up with simple wonder, and with the press of a button he was able to capture the stars in her eyes and the perfect ‘o’ of her mouth as she gazed up at the huge wooden uprights that held the cross bars.

‘The torii is a gateway marking the transition from the mundane world to the sacred,’ he explained and watched as she absorbed the information with a gentle smile that touched her almost-too-wide mouth.

She gazed up with awestruck silence as they passed between the two uprights and under the gate. ‘This is it. This is where I want to get pictures of people seeing it for the first time. It will be the perfect spot.’

‘Don’t you want to see the rest of the shrine before you make up your mind?’

‘No, this is it. It’s awe inspiring. Unique. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It says Japan. Although getting the scale and size of it will be tricky.’ She tilted her head further back. ‘I want that sky as well. And I want quite a few people, all looking up.’

She crouched down on the ground, the bottom of her jeans trailing in the still damp grass and angled her camera up. His mouth twitched, remembering himself years ago, contorting himself at strange angles, hanging off trees, perching on the top of fences trying to get the right picture in his viewfinder.

‘Don’t lie down,’ he warned as she began to lean forward. ‘You’ll get soaked.’

She grimaced up at him, ‘But …’

With a laugh that felt sort of rusty, he held up his hands, recalling the fervour that had once gripped him. ‘I know, I know. It’s the shot. But you’ll be sopping wet all morning. And