Page 66 of In at the Deep End

Owen stood with half a dozen men, and everyone was laughing. One guy was kissing Owen’s cheek, someone with bunny ears standing behind him. No one was posing. It was pure chaos caught on camera.

Matt smiled. “You look happy.”

Owen stared at it for a long time. “I was. Again, I thought I was.”

Now Matt could see the differences in the Ben era photos. There was no leather, no nights out. Instead, there were pictures of a garden. Ben cooking. Christmas. The two of them walking out in the countryside. Walking. Ben reading. Ben sleeping.

Matt’s breathing hitched. “You stopped taking photos of crowds.”

Owen nodded. “I’d found the person I wanted to photograph.”

Matt glanced at the last box in the pile, number thirty-two. Which made it 2020.

He glanced at Owen. “And then you stopped taking photos altogether.”

Another nod. “I stopped carrying a camera.”

That one line said so much.

Matt held up another photograph. Four men sat on the bonnet of an old Mini outside Brighton Pavilion, all wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky. One had an arm slung around Owen’s shoulders. Another was laughing so hard he’d almost fallen off the car.

“Who are they?”

Owen smiled. “Friends.”

“Still?”

“Some. Others drifted away.” He shrugged. “But that’s life.”

Matt studied the picture for another moment before gazing at the next. Then another. Then another.

Finally he glanced up. “You should publish these.”

Owen laughed.

Matt shook his head. “I’m serious.”

“Matt…”

“No, hear me out.” He could almost read Owen’s expression, a sort of this-should-be-good look. Matt spread several photographs across the floor in front of them. “Look at them.”

Owen frowned. “I am.”

“No, you aren’t. These aren’t snapshots—they’re portraits.” He picked up another print. “Look at the way you’ve framed him. The light. The expression. Half these men aren’t even looking at the camera.”

Owen gazed at the photograph as though seeing it for the first time.

Matt continued. “Do you want to know what I see? History. People think the history of gay Britain is marches and protests and politicians.” He gestured towards the photographs. “But this…” He smiled. “This is what people actually looked like. How they laughed, how they dressed, who they loved… how they found each other.” He looked Owen in the eye. “I’d buy that book.”

Owen blinked. “You would?”

“Absolutely.” He started turning pages in his mind. “Hardback. Large format. Glossy paper. One photograph per page. And maybe opposite each photograph, a paragraph. ‘Brighton, 2012.’ ‘The first Pride after I’d finally stopped pretending.’ ‘Steve always laughed before anyone else did.’ ‘We thought we’d stay friends forever.’ That kind of thing.” He met Owen’s gaze. “That’s not just a photo album. That’s a life.”

Owen didn’t answer.

“Obviously you’d need permission,” Matt added.

He nodded slowly.