A true gentleman, Marcus lets us retire to the sitting room while he stays ‘in his kingdom’ washing up. Sophie tells me about their trip and a house they found near Nantes.
‘You’re not going to abandon me here!’ I’m only half joking.
‘Oh, come on. EasyJet flies from Gatwick to Nantes and from there it’s just a half-hour drive. You could practically live with us there. The house is huge. It needs work, but . . . Kris, what’s the matter?’
I don’t quite know what has hit me but I find myself sobbing into my wine glass. Sophie puts her arm round me, which makes my sobbing worse.
‘How about a drop of Jurançon with your coffees?’ Marcus stops when he sees us huddled on the sofa and quietly retreats to the kitchen.
‘What’s going on?’ Sophie pushes my fringe from my eyes. ‘Is it Voxel?’
‘I felt so lonely when you two were gone.’
‘When is Anton back?’
‘Soon . . . he says . . .’
‘When did you speak to him last?’
‘Yesterday . . . or the day before . . . I don’t remember.’
‘Did you two fall out over something?’
‘No. No, it’s not Anton.’ I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt.
‘What is it then?’
Sophie knows me well enough to want to dig for the truth. She knows I don’t have a habit of bursting into tears for no reason. And so I tell her about ‘Exposure 1’ and ‘Exposure 2’, about the KiddyKraze mess and the fake email to the Fugitives.
‘Bloody hell. Maybe you should report it to the police?’
‘And tell them what? That someone is having fun with my porn? Or trying to scare me with Photoshop?’
‘Do you have any idea who could be doing this?’
I shake my head.
‘Could it be fallout from Cubic Zirconia?’
‘I don’t think so. No one cares about Cubic Zirconia any more.’
‘A mad ex? You’ve had your share of weirdo boyfriends . . .’
I shake my head again.
‘What about that creepy guy who stalked you when you worked for the Met?’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, you know, the Frankenstein guy.’
‘Oh, Walter. No, he was harmless.’
‘Harmless? I nearly had a heart attack when you showed me his picture. In those white wellies and overalls splattered with blood . . .’
‘He was an APT at the mortuary, Sophie. It was his work uniform.’
‘He used to tie his apron with a chain. A chain. Does that sound normal to you?’
‘He was eccentric but the guy was OK. Asked me to go out with him, I said no, end of story. There was never any bad feeling between us.’
‘If you say so . . . but I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘I’m sure. I haven’t seen him for years.’
‘Maybe you’re right. If it was him you’d be hanging off a hook in some freezer by now.’
‘Sophie!’ I punch her playfully. Her sense of humour can be very dark sometimes.
My tearful moment has passed and I don’t feel like talking about it any more.
‘How about that coffee Marcus has been promising?’
‘And some Jurançon. You have to try it.’
We join Marcus back in the kitchen. I tell them about my Discreet Playthingz gig and they reciprocate with stories of Bretons who carry magnets in their pockets to protect themselves from bad vibes.
‘Maybe I should get a magnet . . .’
As we all laugh I feel tension leaving my body at last.
But when I get home around midnight, my anxiety is back. Everything seems to be fine – there are no new emails in my mailbox, Pixel is asleep in his bed, the Peeping Tom’s vantage point across the street is empty. No one has been to my loft when I was out and yet there is a palpable menace in the air, a quiet hum as if the electricity current creeping along the wires has been flipped to produce a harmful field. Perhaps those magnets are not such a bad idea after all . . .
11
Anton is coming back tonight. He’s arriving at Heathrow at 5 p.m. on an Iberia flight from Buenos Aires via Madrid. As usual, he doesn’t want me to meet him at the airport. He’ll hop on the tube and will be home for dinner, he tells me. I rarely cook, so in my excitement I book a table at St John’s in Spitalfields. He’ll probably be totally beefed-out after his long stay in Argentina so let’s treat him to something quintessentially British – a whole suckling pig, a roast wood pigeon or a Stinking Bishop.
Sophie’s back and I’ll have Anton with me by tonight – things are looking up! In a burst of jubilant energy I tidy up the loft, wash a pile of dirty dishes that has accumulated over the last few days, change the bedding and shave my legs. Straight from the shower, I tiptoe naked through the loft and fling the wardrobe door open. I fancy wearing something sexy today, something that will reflect my mood. As I go through my summer dresses, Spotify web player, which has been quietly piping out my favourite tunes through the iMac speakers, decides to play Emilia Mitiku’s ‘So Wonderful’. I drop the dress I was looking at, crank up the volume and do a little dance, watched by a perplexed Pixel. Life suddenly does feel wonderful. At the end I choose the Superdry sleeveless skater dress with the crochet top and the flowy jersey skirt. It’s black and it makes me feel damn sexy.
An email pings in my mailbox, its sound magnified by the speakers. It’s from Heather. She loves the pictures! Perhaps I should try my Mapplethorpe idea after all. Her email confirms my theory: if you put positive energy out into the universe, it instantly pays you back in kind. I got myself into a rut these past few days but the dark mood is definitely over.
My mailbox pings again. Another email, this time from someone called R. B. Stein. Professor Stein? I haven’t heard from him since my college days. I click on the email, unsure what to expect.
Dear Kristin,
I am putting together a show based on works created in the photographic medium by some of my former students. It will launch at the Light Vault Gallery, a visual project I am the curator of. Its aim is to introduce cutting-edge works of lesser-known artists to a wider audience, culminating in taking the show to this year’s Paris Photo and next year’s Paris Photo Los Angeles, the US edition of the world’s most celebrated fine art photography fair.
Kristin, you are probably aware I consider you one of my most gifted students. I have followed your development with great interest and am somewhat dismayed by your recent creative silence. Please do reassure me you are not wasting your talent on easy mediocrity. I want you to be part of the Light Vault.
Yours,
Robert B. Stein
Is this another internet prank? Incredulously, I reread the email. I can almost hear Professor Stein’s voice: wasting your talent on easy mediocrity. It has to be from him, as baffling as it seems. One of his most gifted students? I am amazed he remembers me at all. It’s true, Erin and I used to hang out at his beautiful riverside flat with a bunch of other students, talking art and philosophy while depleting his impressive wine collection. But I’d never noticed him paying me any more attention than others. He says he’s been ‘following my development’. What was there to follow? After the brief success of Cubic Zirconia, I more or less disappeared from the art scene. Perhaps he’s mixed me up with Erin? It would make sense, everyone knows her stuff. But me? If it is me, what could I offer him for his show?
I get up from my computer table and go to Anton’s coffee machine. As it splurts out an espresso I think of how to respond to Professor Stein’s email. First of all, check discreetly if he’s not confusing me with someone else. That would be highly embarrassing. Secondly, find out if I have something worth submitting to the Light Vault. I can’t think of anything apart from a project I did when I was a forensic photographer. With the help of Walter, the anatomical pathology technologist Sophie mentioned only yesterday, I documented the job of an APT and the process of reconstruction of the dead body after a post-mortem. It wa
s a series of gruesome but beautiful pictures, so intimate in their starkness that I abandoned the idea of ever making them public. It was probably the right decision, so I shouldn’t be thinking of rehashing them now. If you discount ‘In Bed With Anton’, a handful of concert photographs and my landscape portfolio from California, I really don’t have anything to show for myself. How sad. Unless . . . I look at the sex toys scattered on my light stage . . . unless I have a go at the Mapplethorpe idea.
Fired up, I inspect the toys closely. I pick up the purple vibrator. It’s beautifully designed, the flowing lines of its body resembling an exotic plant or flower. How would it look in extreme close-up? I position it on the black Perspex display stand and set up the lighting. I choose an EF 100mm macro lens, which will give me a great close-up with a blurred background thanks to its large aperture. I try various angles and distances, monitoring the photos on my iPad as I go along. The effect is nice, but ‘nice’ is not enough. I swap the reflective Perspex surface for black cloth. I like the change, but something is still missing. I persevere, trying out different lighting combinations and different lenses. When I look at the time, it’s already 5 p.m. I still haven’t come up with an image that would capture my imagination. I feel disappointed and annoyed. It’s ridiculous, this sudden urge to find a new form of expression. It doesn’t happen just like that, because Professor Stein said so. It’s a process that should take years to master. I’m going to write back to him and say I have nothing to offer. Easy mediocrity is my field of expertise.
Five o’clock. I check Heathrow Live Arrivals. There it is: Iberia flight from Madrid, landed at Terminal Five at 17.10. Anton should be home in a couple of hours. I try his mobile but it’s still switched off. I can feel excitement building inside me, pushing out the depressive musings of a failed artist. He’ll be here soon, loud, passionate, irresistible. Without him the loft seems cavernous and dull, with dark shadows and cold echoes lurking in the corners. But when he’s here the place shrinks, it almost becomes too small, filled to the brim with his voice, his smell, his nervous energy.
My phone rings.
‘Got your boy back?’ It’s Sophie and I feel a slight stab of disappointment that it’s not Anton.
‘Not yet, but his plane landed on time. He should be here soon.’
‘You can have a few days to yourselves, but then we want you two over for dinner.’
‘Great. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know what his plans are.’
‘Enjoy your boy!’ She disconnects.
She always calls him ‘boy’. She couldn’t be further from the truth. Anton is a man, a mate, an irritatingly macho male sometimes, but never a boy.
I pace around, unable to concentrate on anything. It’s quarter past six and he still hasn’t rung. He’s probably on the tube by now. I find an old yellow duster under the sink and wipe Anton’s desk, which hasn’t been touched since he left for Argentina. Dusting, that’s an activity I hardly ever do unless I don’t know what to do with myself. In a sudden outburst of domesticity, I stuff another load of dirty laundry into the washing machine and set it on ‘Easy Care’. Then I go to the bathroom and apply a bit of mascara and some Nude Lips lipstick. A splash of perfume? I reach for a bottle of Escentric Molecules and squirt it on my neck. That’s it, improvements done.
Next I go to the fridge and open it expectantly. Thank goodness I had the foresight to stash a bottle of Prosecco away. I take it out, pop the cork and pour myself a glass. Let the party begin early.
Two glasses on and still no sign of him. The washing machine has already reached its rinse phase. It’s half past seven and he should definitely be home by now. Maybe he missed his connection in Madrid? He would’ve texted me, for sure. The Prosecco glass in hand, I go to the computer and check emails. There’s nothing of interest. I click on the folder with the photographs I took earlier. They all seem very static, lifeless. But what if I were to play with movement in a longer exposure time, to create a semi-transparent blur of motion? Most of these toys vibrate or pulse, why not use their energy then? I feel I’m getting somewhere here. I pour myself a third glass and debate whether to have another go at photographing the vibrator right now. What about Anton? Sod Anton, his being late is beginning to annoy me. As I reach for the purple vibrator I hear a key in the front-door lock.
‘Anton!’
And there he is, tall, tanned and tired. His eyes are bloodshot, his combat trousers rumpled and smeared with paint, his hair long and wild. He drops his heavy rucksack on the floor and grabs me in his arms. He smells of sweat, cigarette smoke and long-haul travel. I hug him tightly, my ear pressed against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat.
‘Good to be home, baby.’ His voice rumbles in his chest.
‘Good to have you back.’
With a kick of his foot he shuts the door behind him. I stand on my tiptoes and raise my chin, looking for his mouth. As we kiss, his stubble scratches my skin, sending needles of lust along my body. There’s alcohol on his breath, a slight nicotine bitterness and a hint of garlic, a combination that I normally find uninviting, but today it turns me on. The fact that he stinks after his long trip works like some strange aphrodisiac, his pheromone-laden smell triggering an unmistakable reaction in me. I push my hand under the front of his T-shirt and pull at the short hair on his chest. His fingers slide up my thighs and under the flowy skirt. I’ve anticipated this, so I’m wearing no knickers tonight. He sighs with approval and cups my bare buttocks. I tug at his heavy belt. We peel away from the door and I doubt whether we’ll make it as far as the bed. We don’t. Combat trousers at his ankles, he clutches my waist and lifts me onto the first piece of furniture we stumble upon. The washing machine. I grab his cock and guide him in as the machine goes into its final spin.
The clock by the bed says it’s half past ten, our reservation at St John’s long gone. We’re both tipsy and starving. Despite my weak protests, Anton orders a takeaway from Red Dog in the square. An insane amount of Bar-B-Q wings, plus a stack of fries, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, coleslaw and a pecan pie if there’s still any space left for it. Oh yes, the man is definitely back. I’m glad I’ve stocked up on his favourite Leffe Blonde.
It’s a lucky day for the delivery guy who gets tipped ten quid for the short stroll from Hoxton Square to our place.
‘We’re celebrating, mate,’ Anton tells him, opening the door wearing just a towel round his waist.
We take the food straight back to bed, gorging ourselves on the wings and fries, the sheets smeared with Red Dog sauce. Ecstatic, Pixel dances between us as Anton feeds him tiny bits of chicken, normally a forbidden food. I feel light-headed and heavy-limbed, in a state of perfect post-coital bliss where nothing matters except the here and now. Eating the pecan pie is a mistake, albeit a delicious one. We both roll onto our backs, unable to move, replete, burping and happy.
I wake up in the middle of the night, enveloped by the smell of sex and Bar-B-Q sauce. Anton is snoring quietly beside me. I rest my head on my arm and watch him dreaming, his eyelids fluttering. I feel so close to him and yet I have no idea what his dream is about. And he doesn’t even know I’m looking at him.
12
Over breakfast at Ruby Café in the square, I tell Anton about his sales at the Fugitives Gallery and we catch up on what’s been going on in our lives. Or, to be precise, he mostly talks and I mostly listen. I sip orange juice and nibble on a croissant while he wolfs down a plate of scrambled eggs with chorizo and rocket, telling me about his new project. He’s going to make a massive, 180-metre-square paste-up on a whole house in Doel in Belgium.
‘It’s ultimate kudos, babe. Doel is a total street-art mecca. Some twenty years ago, when Antwerp’s docks were expanding, it was earmarked for demolition. It’s almost completely deserted now, there’s a handful of residents left and they are super cool about street art. So it’s become this amazing open-air art gallery. You should see the pictures. Everyone’s done a piece there, ROA, Resto, Psoman, Luc Tuymans .
. .’ He’s listing the names with awe. ‘And wait for this, it’s going to be a BBC documentary. They’ll follow me with a proper film crew! It’ll keep me busy for a few weeks,’ he says, wiping his plate with a piece of bread. ‘Not to mention all the stuff that may come out of it. I’m telling you, babe, I’m on a roll.’
I’m happy for him, mainly because he’s a nightmare to be around when idle and bored. Not that it happens very often.
‘What about those stolen photos? Have you managed to sort it out?’ He switches his attention to me at last.
‘You don’t know the half of it . . .’ I take a deep breath, unsure where to start, when Anton looks at his phone.
‘Shit! I was supposed to be in Soho fifteen minutes ago!’ He grabs his phone and his cigarettes and jumps up from the table. ‘Sorry, babe, gotta run, meeting up with the Beeb producer. We’ll catch up tonight, yeah?’
He pecks me on the cheek and is gone. I finish off my juice, pretending I’m not upset by his sudden departure. The waitress has been watching me, so I shrug and signal for the bill. She brings it straight away.
‘Anton’s in a hurry today, isn’t he?’
Anton? She knows his name? Even though he’s been away for three months and the waiting staff here changes like the weather?
‘So he is,’ I say noncommittally. I don’t leave her a tip.
Back at the loft, I throw the house keys on the kitchen worktop and they clatter loudly, startling Pixel. Last night’s bliss is gone, replaced by annoyance. I’m pissed off he left me at the cafe to pay the bill, pissed off he didn’t listen to my story, pissed off he always thinks of himself first. Well, I suppose that’s what you get for having an artist for your partner. Wait a minute, I am an artist too, but I’m not as self-absorbed and narcissistic as he is. Is it because I am a woman?
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