Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘What about Pixel? Is he OK?’

  ‘He seems fine. He’s Anton’s cat. I’ve never really been able to understand him.’

  ‘He’ll miss his brother. You’ll have to be kind to him.’

  ‘I’m always kind to him!’

  Talking to Vero helps to clear this awful heaviness in my chest, the daunting feeling that an animal that has relied on me all his life is gone and maybe in some way I’m to blame for his death.

  Vero, as if reading my mind, asks me if I want to bury Voxel in her garden. I haven’t told her there is an IKEA bag with his body in the boot of my car, but somehow she knows.

  ‘Use your keys, let yourself in, you’ll find a spade in the shed. There’s an empty spot at the back of the garden. I want to put some tulip bulbs in there in the autumn, I think it’ll be perfect for him. I’ll call Bridget and Midget to let them know you’ll be in the garden, so they don’t think you’re an intruder. They’ve been very protective, those two.’

  She reaches out to her bedside table to retrieve her phone and finds its battery flat.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t hear you call last night. Can you tell Bridget to bring my charger next time she visits?’

  I thank her and leave, still aching with sadness, but more at peace. It’s started to drizzle and by the time I reach Vero’s house in Whitstable it’s pouring down. It somehow feels appropriate to bury Voxel in the rain.

  9

  Monday morning and I’m sore from yesterday’s exertions. I coax Pixel out of his hiding place under the bed and play with him for a while. He seems skittish and distracted, his mood matching my own restlessness. I can’t stop thinking about Voxel and the gas leak. How did it happen? Was it really an accident? Aware of my anxiety levels rising, I force myself to concentrate on something else. Fighting back the tears I scrub the kitchen table with hot, soapy water, then spray it with Dettox and wipe it dry. When there is nothing left to clean in the kitchen I focus on the first batch of Discreet Playthingz.

  It’s amazing how much sex toys have changed since I had a fleeting interest in them. I remember rather hideous-looking, clunky objects whose purpose was crudely obvious. Now they are sleek, intelligent and aesthetically pleasing. If they were cars, they would’ve evolved from a Ford Escort into the new Aston Martin. I’m fascinated by a Swedish vibrator with a purple silicone body. It has seven speeds and three patterns of vibration: still, escalating and pulsating. It is a technical wonder and its design is exquisite. It comes, wait for it, with a display stand in case you wanted to add a nice touch to your bedroom.

  I look at the selection of toys and debate the best way to photograph them. I reject the simplest solution of using a white background with the infinity curve. Instead I decide to shoot them against a dark background with rim lighting to define their edges. As Professor Stein, our digital art and photography tutor, used to say, ‘Good photography is all about light. And about what not to light.’ I set out to create my stage: a black cloth screen at the back, about five feet behind a square piece of black Perspex, which will serve as a reflective surface on which I’ll place my toys. Next, the lights: the main flash inside a white bounce umbrella and two rim lights with blue and red gels on the sides. It’s nearly three o’clock when I’m finally happy with my lighting set-up.

  A phone call makes me jump. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  ‘Kristin? It’s Anna Wright from the Fugitives Gallery.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Anna. I’m so sorry, I haven’t had a chance to let Anton know about the sold prints. It’s brilliant news!’

  ‘Yes, he’s definitely tapped into the zeitgeist. I sold another one of his today.’

  ‘I can’t wait to tell him.’ A little white lie.

  ‘But I’m ringing about your work . . .’

  ‘My work?’

  ‘The photos you’ve sent me. There are some really powerful images there, really strong stuff. Personally, I love them, but I’m not sure our clients are ready for them.’

  ‘Anna, I haven’t sent you any of my photos,’ I say slowly. It feels as if all the blood has suddenly left my head. I sit down heavily on the bed.

  ‘Oh,’ says Anna after a brief silence.

  I know exactly which photographs she’s received.

  ‘Perhaps I should come over to see you.’

  ‘Yes . . . perhaps you should.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m at the gallery till six.’

  I get to the Fugitives a few minutes after five and I’m greeted again by the chocolate Labrador, whose name, Anna tells me, is Wispa, as in the chocolate bar. Sergey, a waif-like young man with a bushy hipster beard and ‘bed-look’ hair, is left minding the gallery while Anna takes me to her office, shuts the glass door and points to a reclining armchair, clearly a Robin Day. Thanks to Aunt Stella, I know my designer chairs. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

  ‘You all right?’ She throws me a curious glance as I settle into the armchair.

  ‘Not really. My cat’s just died.’

  ‘That’s so sad. I know how painful it is. Wispa ate rat poison some time ago and it was touch and go for a few days. I don’t know what I’d do without her . . . I’m sorry – rattling on about myself . . .’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I force a little smile. ‘You said you received my photographs?’

  She nods, opens her laptop, clicks on a folder and pushes it across her desk towards me. I look at the screen. Yep, it’s ‘In Bed With Anton’, including the photo I’d kept out of it.

  ‘They are yours?’

  ‘Yes, but I have never intended them for commercial use. And I definitely haven’t sent them to you.’

  ‘They were sent from your address.’

  ‘Do you mind if I see the email?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She goes to her mailbox and finds the email.

  Yes, it’s come from my address. The message is short.

  Dear Anna,

  I trust you’ll find the attached of interest.

  Yours,

  Kristin

  It was sent as a reply to Anna’s email to me about the sale of Anton’s prints.

  ‘To be honest, I got quite excited when I received it.’ Anna smiles. ‘The images are so bold, they are . . . intense and mischievous at the same time. They actually remind me of Mapplethorpe’s nudes, balancing classical aesthetics with raw, sexual charge.’

  ‘Wow, thank you.’ Despite the weird circumstances, I am tickled by the comparison. ‘But they’re not for sale.’

  ‘I realize that. What’s going on, Kristin?’

  I sigh and shake my head. ‘If only I knew . . .’

  Anna opens a filing cabinet and takes out a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Patagonian Malbec?’ She starts pouring even before I say yes.

  I’m not a wine expert but this is exceptional, slightly smoky, smooth and rich.

  Anna is a good listener, and before I know it, my stalker story comes out, encouraged by a generous amount of Malbec.

  ‘So, we are looking at “Exposure 2”?’ she says when I’m done.

  ‘Exactly.’ Having told the story to a relative stranger feels surprisingly liberating. Probably because I instinctively know Anna’s on my side.

  ‘Do you have any idea who is doing it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ She looks at me questioningly. ‘An ex-boyfriend, an ex-colleague, a pissed-off friend?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  She keeps looking at me, deep in thought.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. Substituting the toys catalogue for your intimate photos was meant to hurt you, and it did cost you your job. But sending them to me? It’s almost doing you a favour.’

  I laugh. ‘You might have found them offensive. Reported me for distributing porn.’

  Anna makes a face. ‘Highly unlikely. I think we should give your stalker more credit. Maybe he wanted you to know he appreciated your art?’

 
; ‘That would be the most twisted praise I have ever received.’

  ‘Maybe he is a twisted man.’

  ‘No.’ I put the empty wine glass on Anna’s desk. ‘I don’t buy it. The guy wants to hurt me. And I can’t figure out why.’

  ‘Why do people want to hurt other people?’ Darkness passes across Anna’s face, as if she’s pulled back into some painful memory.

  There is a gentle knock on the glass door and Sergey pops his hairy head in.

  ‘Anna, darling, I’m going. Shall I lock the front door?’

  ‘No, leave it unlocked, hon. I’m nearly done here.’

  I get the message and stand up hastily. Anna notices it.

  ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean it that way.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’d like to go on talking, but I have an appointment tonight. Promise you’ll drop by again. Soon, yes?’

  I promise Anna I’ll come back then leave, turning left towards Brick Lane. As I walk through the crowds of hipsters I think about our conversation. Is it possible that Anna’s right and sending my photos to the gallery was a twisted gesture of appreciation? No, it just doesn’t make sense. I stop at the window of Brick Lane Gallery and peek in. What did she say about my photographs? That they reminded her of Mapplethorpe’s nudes. I must say I found her comment very gratifying. As any artist, I’m a sucker for praise. Am I an artist? I remember my college discussions with Erin about the nature of art. We actually had time and energy to argue about such things, to feel passionate about abstract ideas. And then we lost that creative hunger, that youthful affectation, and became grown-ups. I pass a young guy sitting with a white Staffie on the pavement outside a closed shop, holding a cardboard sign in his dirty hands. ‘A KISS FOR £1’ it says. I dig a coin out of my pocket and throw it into his hat. He smiles at me and blows me a kiss.

  I grab a Bun Xiao takeaway from a Vietnamese in Kingsland Road and head home, fired-up about my photography. I can’t get the Mapplethorpe comparison out of my head. I unlock my front door, push Pixel with his twitching tail out of the way, and go straight to my bookshelf. Andy, a pre-Anton ex-boyfriend with an OCD streak, rearranged all my art albums according to their size and cover colour, so it takes me a while to find what I’m looking for. But there it is, right at the top, the first 1990 edition of Mapplethorpe’s Flowers with an introduction by Patti Smith. A present from Vero. I open it and flick through the pictures greedily. They are stunning in their simplicity. I go through the book page by page, feeling the same thrill I felt when I looked at the photographs for the first time. Tulips, Calla Lily, Anemone, Orchids, and my favourite, Poppy, with its bristled stem and bulbous bud. While I find the precision of composition comforting, its intense eroticism excites and challenges. As with most of Mapplethorpe’s images, its power lies in the contradiction, the conflict between the stylized calmness of still life and its unsettling sexual charge. I put the book down. An idea is forming in my head, but will I be able to pull it off?

  I feel a pang of hunger and remember the Bun Xiao. It’s cold by now, but I devour it straight from the takeaway box, pacing the loft as I eat. I pour myself a large glass of wine and drink it in big gulps. I haven’t felt so excited about a possible project in a long time. I have to give it a go. I crouch by the batch of sex toys I received from Heather this morning. Straight away I reject those that seem unphotogenic. A leather corset strap-on harness with a matching dildo, stretchy cock rings that resemble doughnuts and a hideous pink vibrating thong. But a few of the toys are perfect for what I have in mind. The purple Swedish vibrator. A black and silver wand massager. Turquoise vibrating beads. A couple of dildos will do as well, especially the glass ones. My plan is to create a series of beautifully lit, highly stylized close-ups that would desexualize the toys, but enhance their sensual quality. I’m thinking bold, elegant images that even the most discerning collectors wouldn’t mind displaying on their walls. I’m going to do with dildos what Mapplethorpe did with flowers. In my mind I’m already at the opening of my exhibition at the Fugitives Gallery.

  I grab my phone wanting to call Vero then remember she’s still in hospital. I dial Sophie’s number and get the monotonous European ringtone, just like the last time, when I left her a message about Voxel. I call Anton and listen to a network announcement in Spanish. My finger hovers above Jason’s number, then moves on. I know, Erin! ‘This is Erin Perdue. Leave me a message. If it’s urgent call my agent Tim on 078—’ I throw my phone on the bed. Suddenly my idea seems ridiculous. I’m no Mapplethorpe and it’ll never work. I lost my creative flair ages ago. KiddyKraze catalogue is at my level now. Discreet Playthingz with a bit of rim lighting at a push. How pathetic.

  I go to the window and there he is, my Peeping Tom, looking at me. For once I don’t let it upset me, just look back at him. Let’s pretend we’re two lonely people in a big city, looking at each other. I go to my desk, rummage for a thick marker pen and scribble a message on a piece of paper. I take it to the window. ‘A KISS FOR £1?’ For a long while he doesn’t move, just stares, then, very slowly, turns and disappears inside his loft.

  I wake up in the middle of the night with a start. Anton’s T-shirt I’ve been wearing is drenched with sweat. I’ve been dreaming. Just like Erin’s nightmare, I was lying on the cobbled street below the warehouse, eyes open, blood seeping from under my shattered head. But it was Voxel, sitting on the shiny cobbles next to my body, lapping up blood from the growing maroon puddle by my head, that scared me most.

  10

  Thank God I didn’t get through to anyone last night, I think, sipping my morning latte from Anton’s coffee maker. My Mapplethorpe idea seems ludicrous in the cold light of day. How much did I have to drink yesterday? Not enough to justify such a flight of fancy. I put the empty mug down and look at the sex toys scattered on the floor. Mapplethorpe my arse.

  Let’s do something sensible instead. I ring my Internet Service Provider and let them know my account has been hacked. It’s obviously a commonplace occurrence for them. They advise me to virus-sweep my computer and change my password. Choose a strong password, says the young man I’m talking to. When I ask him what it actually means, he gives me a short but useful lecture. Don’t use iloveyou, 123456 or cute names like princess. Don’t use addresses or birthdays. Use eight characters or more and mix letters with symbols. But common substitutions like p4ssw0rd are still vulnerable. So instead I should use a passphrase or try to create a password from a sentence. I do what he says, feeling smug. Try2h4kMen0w.

  Now, work. I decide to do a trial run of photographs on a black background with contour lighting and see what Heather says. She may find it too fancy, in which case I’ll revert back to simple shots on white. I’m enjoying this. The weird shapes and textures of the sex toys make the shoot more challenging. I struggle for a while with a pair of shiny love balls that reflect light and everything around them with the tenacity of a disco ball. Eventually I settle for a large light softbox right above the camera to get the feathering effect. I’m pleased with the result.

  My mobile rings. It’s Sophie at last.

  ‘I thought you were going to stay in France for good!’

  ‘I thought so too. The food there is amazing.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Nothing . . . unless Aunt Vero needs me.’ I briefly tell her about Vero’s fall.

  ‘Give my love to Vero and let me know how things go. But come over for dinner if you’re free. We have masses of food for you to try.’

  ‘Did you get my message about Voxel?’

  ‘No, what happened?’

  I tell her about the gas leak and my trip to Whitstable to bury Voxel. Her warm-hearted reaction makes me realize how much I’ve missed her. It’s good to know she’s back. Next I ring Vero. Good news, she’ll be discharged later today and her neighbours Bridget and Midget (I don’t even know the poor guy’s real name) are picking her up. Bridget, who is a natural carer, has been insisting Ve
ro stays with them for a few days and Vero’s reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Don’t come and visit though,’ she says. ‘They’d bore you to death. I’ll let you know when I’m back at my place.’

  She never beats around the bush, my aunt Vero.

  I’m done with the first batch of Playthingz by late afternoon. I create small JPEGs of the images and email them to Heather for approval. Fingers crossed she likes them. I confirm with Sophie I’m coming over for dinner, take a quick shower, throw some comfortable clothes on and head for the City Beverage Company. What can I get a couple who have just returned from a gourmet trip to France? Obviously not wine. I pick a nice-looking box of Fairtrade tea, then get advice regarding local London beers. I end up going for a few bottles from the Redchurch Brewery, Great Eastern IPA, the Shoreditch Blonde and Bethnal Pale Ale. Let’s welcome them home in style.

  Sophie and Marcus live in a terraced house just off Roman Road, a stone’s throw from Victoria Park. To call it a ‘terraced house’ would be the understatement of the century. The only thing remaining from the old Victorian house is its facade – the rest has been ripped out and replaced with a modern glass-and-steel design marvel. Its conversion cost a fortune, probably more than buying a new house, but Sophie and Marcus didn’t mind. They love the East End. And they had the money to spend. Marcus used to be a musician but retrained as a chef. Sophie studied fashion at St Martin’s but dropped out when she met Marcus. They travelled the world together, propelled by their shared passion for food. It was that passion that helped them make their fortune. They started small, running food stalls at various London markets. Marcus did most of the kitchen duties, while Sophie took care of the business side of things. Soon they were opening an online gourmet food delivery business that established them as serious players on the London catering scene.

  The food they serve tonight is amazing. It all comes from Brittany, where they have spent the last few weeks sourcing new products. We have the traditional fish soup with a garlicky saffron sauce, a pork sausage to die for, a selection of crêpes and galettes, and finish it off with Far Breton, a prune pudding. Not to mention the cheeses . . . Marcus, having very politely cooed over the beer bottles I brought, stashed them away in their larder and put a couple of litre bottles of red wine on the table. The bottles have no labels but the wine is divine.