Boy Parts

by Eliza Clark

  He walks over to my photos. Only one has been hung, so far. A photo of Eddie from Tesco’s bruised backside, with the offending wine bottle wedged between his cheeks. They’re all a little over a metre long, all in portrait. The other five are stacked, waiting to be hung. The boy creeps behind me, and hovers. I know he’s there, because I can hear his tracksuit.

  ‘Six? They’re letting you have six?’ He snorts. ‘Who even are you?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I didn’t even know we could bring work this big,’ he says. ‘I’m so fucked off. This is so unfair. Like, who is she?’ he asks Sera, and points at me, sticking his finger right in my face. I slap his hand.

  ‘I’ll go and get Jamie,’ Sera says. She’s sniggering as she walks away.

  ‘I’m going to call my uncle, and there’s nothing Jamie can do about it!’ he shrieks after her.

  Cute: he’s shy enough about his privilege to cosplay as someone picking up methadone from a pharmacy on Shields Road at twelve-thirty on a Tuesday, but not so shy he won’t scream about how big his uncle’s dick is in front of professional colleagues.

  I get a closer look at him while he furiously stabs at a brand-new iPhone XS and waits for his uncle to pick up. He’s white (shock), and we’d have to guess straight, from the skinny lassies in the photographs. He is dripping in retro sportswear, each article of clothing a different brand, and dreadfully well spoken. He’s wearing round, ultra-trendy glasses, and an ugly toothbrush moustache.

  I wonder, what do charvas in London wear now? Now that their whole craic has been gentrified. Full suits? Quirky tweed? Joy Division shirts? Is goth the new chav? I’m genuinely interested.

  I look for his exhibition text – he’s getting a little card. I’m getting something printed right onto the wall.

  Remy Hart. Born 1995, UK, Hertfordshire

  Polaroid Collections 1, 2, 3, 2018

  Little Home Counties prick. I bet daddy is a banker, and mummy has a column in the local paper. I bet they moved out of the city before he was born, to make sure he grew up safe and sheltered and racist in a constituency where everyone votes Tory but pretends that they don’t. I bet everyone shops at Waitrose and has a gilet and wellies and weirdly strong opinions on fracking.

  On the phone, he’s asking why some woman he’s never heard of has space for large-scale work and a film. He asks why his work has been placed next to mine – but it’ll distract from my piece, I’ve been shoved next to the door – she has a whole wall – who even is she?

  I point to where they’ve got my name and my bio on the wall. I give him a thumbs up.

  It’s almost as if life isn’t fair, Remy. It’s almost as if it’s not fair that you’re in this show at all. His work is very first year of uni, honestly – I wonder where he went? Did his ego deflect any useful crit he got, or did he just… not turn up. He wouldn’t have even gotten away with this shit at CSM (home of pictures of skinny white girls and their nipples) while I was there, and I’m surprised boys like this still exist. Still this entitled, still this generic, still this wealth of privilege and connections filling a void where there should be talent. I blame the adjusted uni fees for this shit.

  I’m so angry I can feel it in my cunt; muscles twinging, balling up like a fist. My acrylic nails are digging into the meat of my palms. I could slap his phone out of his hand and stamp on it. I could slap him. I could yank his fucking Umbro cap off and stuff it in his mouth.

  I don’t need to slap his phone from his hand, because he throws it at my photograph – the one they’ve hung. He damages the glass on the frame.

  ‘What the fuck.’

  ‘This isn’t fucking fair,’ he squalls. ‘Jamie. Where the fuck is Jamie? I want to be moved. I want more space.’

  My acrylics are filed to a point – I could drive them into his eyeballs. I could run across the room, and I could drive my fingers into his eyes, or into his neck and pull out his throat.

  I just spit in his face instead. He squeaks, and a moment later Jamie and Sera arrive on the ground floor.

  ‘Oh, what the fuck, Remy?’ Jamie whines. He storms out, wiping his face.

  I recount the story, down to me spitting at him, because I don’t need to lie about it, (‘You spat at him?’) and I demand he’s removed from the exhibition. He hasn’t fucking earned it, anyway. He doesn’t even have a Masters, and I went to the fucking RCA. You don’t just get to mince out of fucking uni into fucking Hackney fucking Space.

  ‘We can’t take him out. I don’t want him here either, but his uncle, Stephen Hart – lovely man by the way – he’s a major donor. We can’t… We can’t pull Remy. We just can’t.’ Jamie shrugs.

  ‘He just threw his phone at my work.’ My jaw is clenched, I spray spit. She wipes her face. ‘Look! You haven’t even looked at it yet!’

  Remy’s phone lies in the middle of the floor, the length of the display boasting a huge lightning crack bursting from a spiderweb of shattered glass. My photograph has a matching wound on its frame: dead centre, a hole, with cracks erupting from it, all the way to the corners.

  ‘Shit,’ Jamie says. ‘No one comes anywhere near that frame, in case the glass falls out.’ She runs her hand through her hair. ‘The photo doesn’t look damaged, at least.’

  The frame gets replaced later in the day with great fanfare. Uncle Stephen himself comes into the gallery, practically dragging Remy by the ear.

  He makes the boy apologise to me. I accept, with my arms folded and my lips pursed. Uncle Stephen informs me that Remy has had a lot handed to him, and sometimes doesn’t understand that larger work and larger gallery spaces are earned.

  He’s still fucking here, though, isn’t he?

  I’m less angry when Uncle Stephen makes a show of flashing his big fat wallet. He already paid for the new frame, but he wants to know how much each photo is worth.

  I do some quick maths, and then I decide to take the piss.

  ‘Three grand a piece.’

  ‘I’ll take the lot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He goes on to tell me about all his kinky friends who would greatly appreciate these as gifts. He gives me his business card with a wink, and we chat while Remy pouts, and Jamie puts little blue stickers beneath each frame, indicating they’ve been sold.

  ‘Tell me, Ms Sturges, do you like Japanese food?’ asks Uncle Stephen. I toss my hair and look at Remy over my shoulder. I smile, with all my teeth, and giggle, and bat my eyelashes. Remy glares.

  Uncle Stephen and I are going to the Sakurai together, on Saturday night. Not sure what makes me wetter: the threat of a £600 tasting menu, or the look on that little shit’s face.

  Hi Irina,

  I know you haven’t responded to my emails or texts in weeks but as my mum always says: God loves a trier.

  I think I saw on the gallery’s website that your private view is tonight, so I just wanted to say good luck and I miss you and I’m sorry for getting weird and freaking out, and I hope you’ll consider replying to this.

  I still think about you all the time.

  Eddie.

  REMY

  After all the fuss with Remy, the day leading up to the PV is fairly uneventful. I drop into the gallery in the morning and make them rearrange the photos.

  There’s the one with the wine bottle, and one of Eddie from Tesco flicking the Vs with the bunny head on. There are two pictures in one frame, two close-ups of his bruised skin: a welt the shape of my hand on his thigh, set next to the ring of bruises around his neck. There’s one of his lower back, and his butt with the tail fixed onto his underwear – it’s the only image with my hands, one digging into his left thigh, one slipped into his underwear. I’m grabbing his skin hard, and you can tell. I’ve included one of Dennis, a close-up of the blood, his unfocused eyes half-open on the floor of my garage. Because you don’t see Eddie from Tesco’s face, you assume it’s the same model, so it fits into the narrative.

  The narrative they fucked up by hanging
them the way they had.

  The two-in-one photo should obviously be in the middle, but they put that first. I want Vs, grabbing, two-in-one, wine bottle, Dennis, but Jamie’s hung it two-in-one, bottle, Vs, grabbing, Dennis. I make them move it. I make Jamie come downstairs and agree with me that this is better. She agrees, begrudgingly, and I leave for a solo brunch date.

  It’s a good day. I go to Selfridges with the intention of buying two new dresses – one for the PV, and one for my date. There’s this designer lingerie brand I like a lot, who make really great ready-to-wear stuff – I head up to their concession. The salesgirls cut each other up to get to me first, when they see me looking at dresses.

  The girl I get (the fastest, loudest girl) is a cute, curvy little brunette. She takes me to the changing room and brings me all the ready-to-wear they have.

  I decide to buy this floor-length slip dress, like, the second I put it on. It’s silk, plum-coloured, and split all the way up to the hip on the left side – it has this super dramatic lace cut-out from the right hip, curving around to the split. You can see your thighs, but your fanny’s not out. There are lace cut-outs around the cups, too, and a pair of thin straps, which cross over my back.

  ‘I am on commission,’ admits the salesgirl, ‘but you have to buy this.’

  I agree. My nips are out, with the lace, though. I mention I’m going to my private view tonight, and I’d like to wear it out – does she have a solution for the exposed nipples? She pops out of the changing room, and comes back with a pair of pasties, which are black, metallic and heart-shaped, and I’m like, fuck it, go on then.

  The next dress I decide on (after trying on a couple of things which are cute but too pyjama-y to get away with) is a black pencil dress. It’s boned at the waist. There’s a panel which runs from the bust to the hem down the centre (again, avoiding an exposed fanny) but the hips and the bum are sheer. The fabric is just thick enough that it’s not obscene, but it doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. I love it. I’m a perfect hourglass in it.

  I let the cute brunette sell me a couple of thongs to go with each dress (matching, and minimising VPL) and I’m done. I spend nearly a grand and a half, but… if you can’t spend a grand and a half on dresses and pasties and knickers a day after some art collector drops 15k on your photographs, when can you?

  I spend more money on dumb shit: new shoes, a handbag, perfume, lipstick and costume jewellery. I feel giddy and light, and I start drinking alone in my hotel room. I’m actually kind of drunk by the time I finish hair and makeup, and I treat myself to a rare photoshoot. My plum dress and I rack up more likes on Instagram than someone whose job it is to rack up likes on Instagram.

  Flo is in with the first comment: wig snatched, having a stroke, jessica chastain WISHES she could.

  I’m sure she does. Because I’m feeling extra as fuck today, I get a black cab to the gallery. I’ve forgotten to pull the tags off my new handbag and yank them off while I tell the cabby I’m a photographer, going to my private view. I’ve managed to stuff about a hundred business cards in the handbag, along with my purse and my phone.

  ‘It’s like a party, for when a show opens at an art gallery,’ I explain.

  ‘I know what a private view is,’ says the cabby.

  I bang through the doors of the gallery. No one turns to look at me, which is kind of annoying, because I had this image in my head of taking off my coat while everyone was looking at me, and people being like, woah, who’s that?

  No one looks at me but the attendant of a small, makeshift cloakroom. I hand her my coat. There’s a boy in a waistcoat carrying a tray of champagne, and I wink at him when I take a glass. I find Sera, who is on the first floor. I haven’t seen her piece yet, actually. Another film. It’s her in Central Park, with some girl she’s tying into shibari bondage while a crowd watches. She’s all done up in fetish gear. It’s a little lazy, to be honest.

  I see her chatting with a dumpy woman in the corner of the room. Sera is wearing makeup today, and it takes years off her. Her lipstick is awful, though. It’s the same colour as my dress, and it makes her teeth look yellow.

  ‘I love your work,’ I say.

  ‘I love your dress, oh my God.’ She looks at the dumpy woman, and points at me. ‘Supermodel, I told you, didn’t I? Marnie?’ I go to hand Marnie a business card, but she tells me she’s the gallery owner.

  ‘I know, take it.’ She takes it. Sera makes a face at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Haha, honestly, her sense of humour, Marnie. She’s so dry,’ Sera says. She pulls me away, and leans in close. ‘Please don’t get hammered,’ she says. ‘The dress is very on brand, but like… oh my God, your tits are basically out. I can see the wardrobe malfunction coming from a mile off?’

  ‘What, are you my fucking mam now?’ I snap. She rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘I’m not going to bring this up again, but… just remember why you’re here? If you look bad, I look bad, and I do want to move back to London, so…’ She pats my hand. ‘Behave, please.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say, with a shrug. I neck my champagne as soon as she turns around, and immediately pick up another glass.

  I head back downstairs, drink more champagne, and stand by my photographs. Uncle Stephen comes over with a lecherous smile, and takes me by the waist over to some other red-faced old men, who collect art, or own galleries, and are amused and/or bewildered to receive my business card. Uncle Stephen laughs, and compliments my sense of humour, my northern charm.

  He also drags me over to Cam Peters, who makes a weird dig about having to share the screening room with me and acts too grand to be here. He probably is, to be fair to him. I slip a business card into the pocket of his baby-blue suit – he doesn’t seem to notice. I am whisked away to receive more champagne, and to be introduced to Laurie Hirsch, who is sharing the first floor with Sera. She’s wearing a suit, and her hair is short, so I’m already sold. Even though I’m caught in Uncle Stephen’s sweaty grasp, I wriggle free to tell her I love a butch girl. I tell her my phone number is on my business card, which I press into her sensibly manicured hand. She tells me she’s married, and her wife is, like, two yards away.

  ‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

  ‘Um, okay?’ she says. I float back to Uncle Stephen.

  While he does drag me around the gallery like a handbag, he’s surprisingly respectful. He hands me champagne, he lets me give out my cards, and he chuckles, like it’s our little joke. He keeps his hand to my waist, or the small of my back, and never dips lower, even when we’re in corners or side rooms and he could easily get away with it.

  He leaves after an hour. I’m drunk and alone. I get pulled into photos with the other artists, with Marnie, and then I drift to the darkroom where my video is playing. I hit the bench with a thud and pop in the headphones.

  I’ve watched this so many times now, I know where every little sound comes. Every twitch.

  An older woman sharing the bench with me gives me a nudge. ‘The way you’ve played with consent here is wonderful,’ she whispers. ‘Critical, bold, a wonderful actor, your boy. Discomfort radiates from the screen.’

  It turns out she writes for the Observer – so there’s at least one good write-up for me. I smile at her and empty my glass. Another materialises in my hand. My seventh? My eighth? Who knows? Eddie from Tesco snivels in my ear.

  If he had a problem, he should have said something. I’m there on the screen. That’s me. With the bottle, the power, a great big camera and bigger hair. I want to slip into the screen.

  I feel hollow, but hot. I squirm where I’m sat, and I watch, and I watch, and I watch. I hear a bell, which makes me pull the headphones off and whip my neck around. No bell, just Remy.

  He has lost the toothbrush moustache and shed his polyester skin, emerging in a fitted tartan suit, and no glasses. Lit in the soft glow of the film, he looks good. I imagine him shorter, and darker.

  He sits beside me, tells me he’s been wat
ching me: with his uncle, with Laurie, with my business cards, and the silk of my dress clinging to my hips. He’s sorry. He’s seen my work, and he understands it now. He says he gets the hype.

  He puts his hand on my knee, to test. I let him. I let him slip his hand past the dangerous slit of my dress and run his fingers along the inside of my thigh. He brings his lips to my neck, and his fingertips scratch at the delicate mesh of my new thong, suddenly hesitant.

  He hadn’t thought this through, had he? Poor thing. He looks like a frightened rabbit.

  Do I get him right here? Do I smash my glass into his skull? I don’t know what came over him – he grabbed my neck, he put his hand up my dress.

  An excuse is bubbling on his tongue. I snatch his brand-new phone from his pocket. I invite him to my hotel room, tapping my number into his contacts, along with the hotel postcode.

  ‘Give it half an hour before you come. I don’t want to be seen leaving with you,’ I say.

  I do the rounds, the goodbye kisses. People are disappointed all the photos have been sold, but they are not surprised. I direct them to the photobook in the gift shop, my website. I dish out a fistful of business cards. Sera glares at me, and I leave a smudgy red kiss on her cheek.

  ‘A few glasses of champagne really go to a girl’s head, don’t they?’

  I leave.

  In my hotel room, I wait, without my dress, but with the letter opener that came with Mr B’s stuffed bear. I carry it with me. It’s proof, isn’t it? Tangible proof. I place it deliberately on the bedside table and play with a silk scarf I plan to use. It is red to match my lipstick, his insides.

  He bursts through my door looking smug, just pleased as fucking punch, with no idea what’s coming to him. He tries to kiss me. I tell him to take off his clothes and lie on the bed.

  He asks me if anyone has ever told me I could be a model, that he’d love to take my picture.

  I tie his hands together, above his head, then to the bed frame. He tells me I looked amazing tonight, and asks if I wore the dress with him in mind. I laugh at him. He keeps fucking talking, so I stuff a pair of socks into his mouth.