by Jaq Hazell
“Impressive, aren’t they?” I said. “Oh – hi, Graham.” I hadn’t noticed him amongst the groups of circulating people. But I should’ve known he wouldn’t stray far from his work.
“They’re good,” Tam said, and she wasn’t one for paying compliments.
“I really appreciate that,” Graham said. “There are some serious collectors here, did you notice?” I shook my head. “See that man talking to Mike Cherry?”
We all looked over at our tutor, deep in conversation with a bald-headed man.
“That’s Nicholas Drake. Mike Manners is convinced he’ll buy a few pieces.”
“He’s a complete sleazeball,” I said. “You know when I worked at Saviour’s, he turned up with two prostitutes.”
“Typical short man,” Tam said.
I downed my drink. “More wine?” I said, and Tam pushed ahead to the makeshift bar at the end of the studio. Two women were laughing nearby, while people on either side were pushing past me to the bar. Tam reappeared through the crowd. “Hold these, I need the loo.” She handed me two glasses of wine.
I walked round to my space, curious to see if anyone was looking at my work. Emily was giving her parents a guided tour, while an older couple paused, said nothing and moved on. Spencer nodded at me through the crowd.
“I’m not enjoying this,” I said.
“At least you haven’t had to listen to Beth’s parents telling her how fucking ‘marvellous’ she is.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t vomit.”
“Your parents coming?”
“I told them not to bother as it’s all going to London later on.” I finished my second glass of wine and contemplated drinking Tamzin’s. “Come to the bar?”
“You’ve still got a drink.”
“It’s Tam’s, she’s in the loo.”
The bar was manned by a couple of girls from second year, one of whom Spencer had once dated. “I’m not going near that bunny boiler,” he said.
“Here, hold Tam’s drink a minute.” I made my way over to get a drink for Spencer and yet another for myself, and as I did so, I turned and saw Flood – over to the left with the two Mikes, he was there in a black suit, holding a camcorder. What the fuck? As far as I was concerned, Flood was now permanently ensconced in The Sun’s Bizarre column – busy attending high-profile functions with that pop star Pax. No way was he supposed to be here, back in Nottingham, at my bloody show.
Hold on – does it matter? Don’t you want him to see your work?
I took two glasses of wine, drank one and grabbed another before searching for Spencer. I had to squeeze my way through the crowd, glancing back to check on Flood’s whereabouts and sure enough, he’d broken away from the Mikes and was coming round the corner towards my space. He’d dyed his hair darker than before, and it was flopping over his right eye, casting a shadow over his pale face. He had heavy eyeliner on above and below his eyes. He looked weird, which was surprising because in the papers he had looked so well.
“Stop there a minute, Spence?” I said, so I could hide behind him.
“What are you doing?”
Flood was in my exhibition space. He’d spotted my photograph pinned by my work, and directed his camera lens towards it. He filmed my entire show.
“That bloke’s nicking your ideas,” Spencer said.
“It’s not that. It’s more like he’s part of it.”
“What?”
But I wasn’t ready to answer, or perhaps not even able to, as I had to watch.
Flood let his camera drop, so as to stare close up, and then moved further back and studied the work one piece at a time.
There were eleven separate works in a series. The first showed the street from my window: the waiting-for-a-trick-wall with the bricks falling from one end and the scrawl of white graffiti and Girl-with-braids, arriving for her stint.
Number two detailed the same street, the same wall, the same girl, this time on her mobile and the arrival of another girl, the stocky blonde, in a miniskirt.
Number three: Another woman in short skirt and ankle boots joins them.
Number four: A car pulls up. Half the number plate is visible.
Number five: There are only two women.
Number six: Another car, this time blue; a girl leans in to negotiate at the driver’s window.
Number seven: One girl is left, the one in skirt and boots.
Number eight: A third car arrives, this time white with lettering on the side. Again, the number plate is only partly visible.
Number nine: The street is empty. There is only the wall, and the gate to the Asian family’s house across the road can now be seen.
Number ten is the river on a beautiful summer’s evening.
Number eleven shows flowers – a spontaneous floral shrine by the river, where Jenny was found.
They were based on sketches I’d made looking from my window or down by the river, and then further developed to become more delicate and feminine with the use of silk embroidery thread on cotton. For the river piece, I’d made the water sparkle as if in the sun by sewing on sequins in gold, greens and blues.
Flood studied each piece and read the title – printed on a small white card attached to the left-hand side that said, in eleven little words: ‘I Came to Find a Girl and That Girl is You Embroidery on cotton by Mia Jackson’.
Each separate work had one of the words in sequence embroidered at the bottom. Flood stepped back, almost as if he’d faltered, and looked at the eleven pieces as a whole. He stooped down and reached for my comments book.
I could hardly breathe as he flicked through, stopped, closed the book and placed it back down where he found it. He was about to move, I could tell, so I left Spencer and walked round to the other side of the ten-foot boards.
What am I doing? Why should I hide? This is my college, my show.
As he spotted me, Flood paused, shifted a little, then started to work his way through the crowd.
“There you are.” Tamzin caught up with me. “Where’s my wine?”
“Oh.” I sounded vague because I didn’t want to talk. “Sorry, I’ll get you another – just give me a minute.” I had to watch him.
“You bloody drank it, didn’t you?”
I almost told her what I was doing, who I was watching, but Flood was approaching, and I couldn’t look away.
“I hope they haven’t run out. I presume you want one?” Tamzin said.
“Yeah, whatever, if they still have any.”
Tam rolled her eyes and walked off to the bar.
I was on my own and Flood only feet away. The two of us in such a small, confined space, between the ten-foot boards, trapped in a corridor of art.
I stepped back as Flood drew parallel, and he gave me a look I’d never seen on him before. Something had shifted, I was sure of it. He couldn’t hold my gaze, and kept walking, his camera down. He didn’t even film as he exited the studio. I stared after him. And I remained like that for a minute, watching the swing door through which he’d disappeared.
Back at my space, I checked my comments book: ‘Loving your interpretation of our dodgy neighbourhood, awesome work, Kelly x’, ‘Weird shit, housemate – Slug’, ‘Could try harder – LOL, love Tam xxx’.
Apart from my friends, the pages were blank. I looked back up at my work, at the eleven intricate pieces. I unnerved him? Did I pick up on something?
Kelly came over, once her family had gone. “Did you see Flood?” I nodded. “Are you all right? Did he say anything?”
“He made a pretty swift exit.” I laughed.
“Did he see your work?”
“Yep.”
“How did he react?”
“Minimally.” I smiled. “I could be fooling myself but I think it bothered him.”
We went on to Ruby’s and then Lost and Found after that. I knew Flood could also be out somewhere in Nottingham but I didn’t care. If I saw him, I could deal with it.
My time in Nottingham wa
s nearly over, and perhaps that brought out a brave side in me, as it did in other people. Take Adrian, for example. He was someone I had rarely spoken to in three years, and he had never hit on me before. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed him. He was beige from his hair to his skin to his choice of clothes and he used to share a house with Emily and Beth – enough said. Even so, now for some unknown reason, he decided he wanted to try his luck.
I was by the bar with Kelly and Tamzin when he sidled up and told me how much he liked my show. “What inspired you?” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“It’s what I see from my window.”
He looked as if he didn’t believe me. “People say you’re mixed up.”
“Is that what Emily and Beth said?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“It was them, wasn’t it? Well, they would say that.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t have to explain myself,” I said, although if he’d been good-looking, I might have told him a few things.
He didn’t give up though. “I’ve heard a lot about you, as in Mia the Myth – I’d love to know the reality?”
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I don’t know anything about you.”
“What can I say? I like average things: beer, football, rock music, motorbikes, cycling and my mum.”
I was almost asleep standing up. “I really need the loo.” It was the easiest excuse. I knocked back my drink and left him alone as I went back to the chill-out room. The music was pounding as I waited to get served. Someone was next to me. I sensed them looking.
“Hello Mia, how you doing?” It was Brett, one of Slug’s friends. I didn’t normally bother with Brett, though he was fit in a blonde, sporty, alpha male kind of way – that wasn’t my thing, and besides he had a lousy reputation.
“You know, you frighten me,” he said, with a sexy, lopsided smile.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re smart.”
“OK.”
“But I’m smarter,” he said.
“I doubt it.”
“I hear you’re pretty screwed up,” he said.
No way, first Adrian and now Brett?
“Are you a lesbian?” he asked. “That’s what Slug thinks.”
“Every woman with an opinion gets that one thrown at them at some point. What about you? I’ve heard some pretty dodgy stuff about you.”
“All lies.”
“What about your girlfriend’s sister? Slug said you got back late one night and found her drunk and half-comatose and that you took advantage.”
“There are some crazy stories going round about us. I’d like to know the truth.”
The city felt too small, and I realised I’d leave sooner than I had thought.
We did kiss, though from my point of view it was out of boredom and a lack of any better alternative. We moved away from the bar to a dark corner and kissed again. It wasn’t bad.
“You’re the attractive face of Millie Tant,” he said.
“Milli-tant?”
“It’s a cartoon character in Viz. She’s a fat, ugly lesbian feminist who doesn’t shave her armpits. I’m not saying you look like that, but I can tell you haven’t got much time for men.” I turned away. Why am I even talking to him?
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“What? What do you want from me more like?”
“I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you long and hard.”
“No chance.” I moved away, but he followed.
He was behind me saying, “Bad boy; bad, bad boy.”
“Bad?”
“Have you got a boyfriend?” he asked.
“No.”
“I’ve got a girlfriend – bad. Bad.”
Kelly and Tamzin were no longer in the chill-out bar. I’d look downstairs. Everything was blurred. I’d drunk too much.
“Have you got any money?” Brett was still following me.
“What for?”
“A packet of balloons.” He smirked.
“That’s presumptuous.”
“Give us some money. Come on, give us some money.”
I spotted Kelly and Tamzin on the dance-floor and joined them. We danced for the rest of the night, only pausing once for another drink. As the club closed, we linked arms and left, stepping out together to begin the walk home.
“Mia, wait up!” Brett shouted from the club doorway. “You coming back with me or what?”
‘As if,’ I said. And we laughed, and continued walking home.
Thirty-five
Interior, Flood’s studio: in the large open-plan area, twenty or thirty large canvases are lined up against the wall, turned away so the paintings cannot be seen. On the floor: paper, card, paint pots, rubbish and splashes of paint – while the walls have been used to daub excess paint.
It’s a mess. He’s falling apart? The thought makes me smile.
Marcus Hedley and Flood are standing in the middle of the room with rubbish at their feet. “I’m excited about this,” Marcus says. “Is it ready to go?”
Flood squats down by a bank of four TV screens – two black box sets placed on top of two others. “Take a seat.”
It’s not immediately apparent where the seating is. “Oh, there it is.” Marcus lifts a pile of dust sheets from the retro leather sofa.
Across the four black screens words appear in white script: ‘WHEREVER I GO, WHATEVER I DO.’
The first screen plays a speeded-up version of Flood’s night-time filming around Nottingham, while the second screen is more colourful with a single pole dancer in pink-sequinned knickers twirling and gyrating round the thick metal pole as she shakes her hair extensions, feigning ecstasy. Things slow down in screen three, with a naked woman face down across a satin bedspread, the camera taking its time to linger over every dip, curve and crevice.
Is that me? I clench my fists. Don’t let it be. Panic rises within me and I want to be sick but I also want to watch because I have to know everything.
The final screen shows a dark, damp alley. It’s all in greys, black and blue, with a continuous drip from faulty guttering.
The four screens are like a giant flickering Rubik’s cube.
Marcus sits forward in his seat. “I like the juxtapositions: the drab city streets, the neon of the girly bar, the naked body and then the wet alleyway. It makes you conjure stories in your head.”
More words fill the screens: ‘WHEREVER I GO, WHATEVER I DO, I THINK OF YOU.’
Marcus taps his chin and says, “I’d like more of a soundtrack. Music in a gallery always attracts attention. Source something moody and atmospheric.”
The video begins again. Flood stares at the screens.
“The girl on the bed – it’s not Pax, is it?” Marcus asks.
“No.”
“Pity – could we not suggest it might be? The press would be all over it. It’s just an idea, Jack.” Marcus notes Flood’s horrified expression. “You know since you hooked up with this Pax woman, well, you wouldn’t believe the heightened interest in your work. Enquiries have increased tenfold. Your association with her has established you as an absolute brand. You’re a household name. I can shift almost anything with your signature on it. It could be time to employ some help. You’re not going to be able to keep up with demand otherwise.”
The doorbell chimes, making Flood jump.
“It’s only the door,” Marcus says.
Flood kicks through the rubbish to the video-entry phone. “I’ll be right down.” He turns back to Marcus. “I have to sign for a package.” He exits the studio and quickly returns bearing a small brown parcel. He closes the door to the studio and rips it open; causing decayed brown flowers to fall amongst the refuse already on the floor.
“What is that?” Marcus asks.
Flood scowls, as he squats down and picks up a handful of brown petals.
He’s pissed off. I got to him – all the times I thought sending him stuff was silly a
nd puerile, I needn’t have worried – it got to him.
“What is this?” Marcus asks.
Flood crushes the powdery flowers and rubs his hands together, making the flakes float to the floor. “Someone sends me stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
Flood sighs and shakes his head. “I’ve had impotence pills, incontinence pants and colostomy bags. I even had a salesman from Stannah Stairlifts show up.”
“Why would anyone go to so much trouble?” Marcus asks.
Flood wades through paper and detritus to the far window. He leans on the exposed brick wall. He looks tired.
“Have you upset someone? Do you have a stalker?”
Flood stares out the window towards lush green leaves.
“I suppose that’s the downside of being in the public eye; you start to attract unwanted attention. Not a jealous ex, is it?”
Flood shakes his head.
“Why rotting flowers?” Marcus asks. “What does it mean?”
A look passes over Flood’s face. He knows why it’s brown flowers. He knows because he saw my show.
“I don’t know what to suggest,” Marcus says. “It’s unpleasant and yet juvenile. I wouldn’t pay much attention. Whoever it is will soon get bored of such silliness.”
No, not bored, I simply moved on.
Film cuts to Flood’s studio on what I assume must be another day. It is even more crammed with art materials and litter. There are stacks of brown paper packaged canvases by the wall, thirty or so pots of paint, discarded DVD cases, screwed-up paper and other debris strewn across the floor.
Marcus rubs his hands together. “What have you got for us, Jack?”
Flood, his complexion grey, is tidying sketches away in a folder.
“Nicholas has taken time out to come and see your new work, Jack. He’s come over especially.”
Nicholas Drake is by the breakfast bar in the only patch of clear floor. “It’s good of you to let me drop by,” he says.
Flood doesn’t look up. “Nothing’s ready,” he says.
“Oh, come on, Jack, you always have something to show.” Marcus sifts through a pile of sketches heaped on the floor. “These are interesting – they’re like storyboards.” He studies a large sheet broken up into panels.