‘Myfault,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You just told me that people are more interested in photos than words. Andyouare a writer.’
‘I didn’t saymoreinterested. I definitely did not say that. I said that people look at the photos first, particularly online. And online is really important. If the magazine doesn’t have a great digital presence and make the advertising revenue work then there won’t be a budget for the print edition and I will start getting sent to locations much nearer to home and there won’t be any more remote and undiscovered reports.’ And with the way Frances was pushing this reindeer article was there a chance the print edition may be in trouble?
‘But, we talked about it; it’s the feelings, the sounds, the scents, the moments that you describe that hit harder than pictures.’
‘Most people need a visual to accompany those things. Like a prompt to open their understanding of what comes next.’
‘Like with these situationships?’
‘Maybe.’
‘But no in-person moments. No stopping to look and sense and enjoy. Just a photo and on to the next topic.’
She watched him put a finger in mouth and suck off the cheese like it was sexy fondue.
‘I don’t think you get it,’ Orla said.
‘Your magazine? Or this way of interacting with people?’
‘Both,’ she answered, putting her hands in the pockets of her coat.
‘So, tell me.’
His answer took her by surprise and she didn’t immediately know what to say.
‘Tell you what?’ she said.
‘Tell me what you think.’
She swallowed. Now she really didn’t know what to say. Why didn’t she know what to say? Because no one ever asked her to tell them things. It was her job to ask others. That’s what she did in her profession. That’s what she did with her parents and Erin. That’s what she had done with Henry…
‘I think we shouldn’t be out too long, no matter how respectful you think your brother is,’ Orla replied. ‘And I’ve scared away the foxes now and there’s no photographic evidence they were even here so…’
‘Orla—’
‘Is it me or is it starting to snow again?’
‘You like to change the subject when you are scared you will be the oneansweringthe questions instead of asking them.’
‘That’s just being a journalist.’
‘But I was not asking you as a journalist.’
He was looking at her with those dark, soulful eyes that seemed to speak a whole language of their own and one that apparently her whole body was desperate to interpret. And he was challenging her. To look inside herself. To talk from the heart. It was terrifying.
‘Well, then maybe I… just don’t have any answers,’ Orla said, her voice a little weak.
Then she turned away from Jacques and began walking back the way they’d come.
24
Orla had made small talk the whole walk back to his cabin and Jacques didn’t get it at all. This woman made her stories about habitats and humanity come to life with her words, yet when he’d asked her to tell him her thoughts and feelings on things she had seemedterrified. It didn’t fit with the type of person he’d assumed she was. Coupling that with the knots of stress he’d felt across her shoulders earlier, it didn’t make for a healthy mix. When they had arrived back she had greeted Erin and Tommy with smiles and a very basic version of seeing the foxes and then she had gone to the guest bedroom and closed the door. That was over an hour ago now and while Erin and Tommy were sat on opposite ends of the sofa slating YouTube videos and teasing Hunter, he had washed up the breakfast things and wondered what he was going to do to entertain his house guests for the rest of the day, let alone any longer. He wiped a plate with a tea cloth and put it back in the kitchen cupboard.
‘Could I borrow your truck?’
It was Orla in the kitchen now, her coat on.
‘To drive?’ he asked.
