Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘Come and sit down, we need to talk.’

  ‘I’m bleeding.’ There is a hint of reproach in his voice.

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s just a scratch. Don’t be such a wuss.’

  He sits down, the bloody paper towel still pressed to his face.

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you, Anton. Not sure I want to.’

  ‘Do you want me to move out?’

  I sigh and take a sip of my tea. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll go if you want me to.’

  As much as I hate him right now, I’m taken aback by his readiness to bow out.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What is it that you want me to say?’ He scrunches the paper towel and throws it on the table. ‘I’ve done something I shouldn’t have. My bad. I said I’m sorry. And I truly am. But if you can’t forgive me, if you can’t stand me, then I’m offering to go. I don’t want to go and I don’t want to lose you, but if that’s the only solution, then I have no choice. Have I?’ He gives me a fierce look and I realize I’m scared he’s actually going to get up and leave. The truth is I don’t want him to go.

  ‘You can sleep on the sofa.’ I get up, praying that this is what he’ll choose to do.

  I go to the bathroom, lock the door and sit down on the closed loo. I listen out for the sound of the front door being slammed shut but it’s quiet.

  Meow.

  ‘Pixel!’

  I can see his ginger ears sticking out from the ventilation hole above the shower cubicle. How did he manage to get up there again? I coax him out of his hiding place with cat-language sweet nothings and eventually he lets me catch him as he makes a tentative move down.

  When Pixel and I emerge from the bathroom, the lights in the loft are dimmed and Anton’s gone. A cheat and a coward. I feel deflated, hurt and desperately lonely. Despite his faults, Anton is, on many levels, the closest I’ll ever get to having a true soulmate. OK, he is self-absorbed and unromantic, but he can be charming, funny and warm. When he focuses on you, he makes the whole world disappear. But what attracted me to him most was his daredevil nature and his insatiable creative drive. That and his smoky, rugged sexiness.

  I curl up on the bed and let Pixel knead my pillow for a while with his soft paws until he settles by my side. Well, at least he’s remained faithful to me, through thick and thin. It’s just you and me, Pix, I think as I hug him closer, taking comfort from his purring.

  I’m woken up by a strange sound. I open my eyes, frozen with fear, my heart pounding. It’s already light outside. There it is again, a quiet tap as if something hard was hitting glass. Is someone trying to break in? I grab a heavy torch I keep on the floor by the bed, tiptoe barefoot to the door and put my ear to it. Silence. There’s no one behind it. But then I hear it again, the weird sound. It’s coming from the window. I creep towards it, looking at the building opposite. The Peeping Tom’s loft is dark and empty. Clink! A small stone hits the glass pane right in front of my face. I crack the window open and cautiously look down.

  Anton. He is standing in the middle of the street, his arms spread wide, staring right at me. The cobblestones beneath his feet are sprayed with bold white and red graffiti letters stretching across the whole width of the lane.

  I AM AN ASSHOLE. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

  14

  I have forgiven him. Not enough to let him straight back into my bed, but sufficiently to share the coffee and crodoughs he’s brought from Rinkoff Bakery in Whitechapel. Apparently he waited for them to open at 7 a.m. Their hybrid half-croissants and half-doughnuts are divine. He’s brought a selection of flavours, which I nibble on indulgently at the kitchen table, trying all, dismissing those I’m less keen on and gorging myself on those I like. The winner is salted caramel with pistachio.

  Anton has turned his charm on and it feels like the good old days. It’s amazing how quickly we’ve slipped back into blissful domesticity. No, it feels better than the usual domestic bliss, because of the undercurrent of sexual tension that happens after a blazing row. I realize I want him but I don’t trust him. Isn’t that what we feel when we’ve just met someone new? Is it the lack of trust that works as an aphrodisiac?

  ‘Kristin?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Licking the icing off my fingers, I throw him a glance.

  He hesitates, looking apprehensive all of a sudden.

  ‘What is it?’ I’m instantly on my guard, the feeling of blissful togetherness gone in a flash. Please don’t tell me you’ve had more affairs.

  ‘Kristin.’ He approaches and reaches out for my hand. I instinctively pull it away.

  ‘Give me your hand.’ He seems dead serious. What the hell does he want?

  ‘It’s all sticky.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  He drops to his knees in front of me.

  ‘Kristin Ryder, will you marry me?’

  I stare at him, wide-eyed, disbelieving my ears. Is this a joke?

  ‘Will you marry me?’ He says it with such intensity I feel my disbelief evaporate. I’ll be damned, he means it!

  ‘Well . . . yes . . .’ I mumble.

  He grabs my hand and pushes a ring on my finger. It’s made out of thin silver wire, interwoven in so many layers it’s surprisingly heavy and thick.

  ‘It’s the best I could do . . . at such short notice . . .’

  ‘Short notice?’

  ‘I made it last night.’

  ‘You made it?’

  ‘I crashed at Doyle’s place last night.’ Ah, Doyle, his Australian mate with a workshop at the Rag Factory. ‘I really wanted to make something for you . . . and I found this reel of wire lying about . . .’

  Trust Anton’s ability to make everything sound so unromantic.

  ‘So you haven’t actually been planning to propose . . .’

  ‘No . . . yes . . .’ He gets up from his knees and wipes his face with his hands in exasperation. ‘Look, babe, I know I’m a selfish bastard. I don’t do the lovey-dovey stuff. I disappoint you. I know you deserve better. But I want to be with you. Give me a chance. I’ll try to change. We’ve got so much going for us – don’t throw it away . . .’

  There are tears in his eyes. Despite myself, I’m beginning to well up.

  ‘I love you, babe.’

  I know he means it. And I know how much I want him to mean it.

  ‘I love you too.’ Big fat tears are rolling down my cheeks now.

  He whisks me from my chair and locks me in his bear embrace. He smells of a sleepless night in a damp workshop and there is nothing I have ever found sexier than this.

  He carries me to the bed and throws me onto it, scaring Pixel who jumps out from under the duvet with a hiss. Shall I let him do what he’s evidently planning to do? Despite his proposal and our mutual declaration of love, part of me still wants to punish him, disgusted with his infidelity. This should not be happening. Or rather, this should not be happening yet. But my resolve weakens as he pulls down my Uniqlo track bottoms and starts kissing the inside of my thighs, his stubble brushing the delicate skin, making it tingle. He knows what he’s doing. I’m annoyed with myself for being unable to resist him. And then it’s too late to try to stop him.

  ‘Have you had any more of those dodgy emails?’ Anton lights a post-coital cigarette and inhales deeply.

  ‘No, thank God, not since the bare arse one . . .’

  He shakes his head and I can see he’s making an effort not to tell me again that ‘In Bed With Anton’ shouldn’t have happened.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have sent it?’ he asks instead.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any weirdos giving you grief lately?’

  ‘No . . . well, there’s Peeping Tom but he’s harmless, I think.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The neighbour opposite.’ I gesture at the window. ‘I call him Peeping Tom because he stares at me sometimes . . .’

  ‘What . . . ogles you and wanks off?’

  ‘No, no, I don’
t think so . . . He just stares . . .’

  Anton gets up from the bed and swaggers naked to the window. He has a beautiful body, I think as he looks at the dark and empty loft opposite, his shoulders squared aggressively. I know this pose well. I call it Anton the Protector.

  ‘Let me know if he does it again, yeah?’

  ‘OK, hon.’

  He goes to the kitchen table and picks up another crodough, a raspberry one.

  ‘The Fugitives Gallery have offered me a solo exhibition space next month. For two weeks it’ll be totally mine.’ Anton takes a bite of the sweet pastry and I feel a stab of envy.

  Come on, bitch, I think to myself, he really deserves it and you should be pleased for him. He is your fiancé, for God’s sake. Fiancé – I bounce the word around in my head, trying to get used to its implications.

  I am pleased, really, but a tiny part of me feels sidelined, forgotten. Is success ever going to come to me? Or is my role always going to be waiting in the wings, clapping for someone else? It felt like this with Erin after the fiasco of Cubic Zirconia, when I watched her come into her own, become confident and then famous. I didn’t mind it much then – perhaps I was secretly hoping it would eventually happen to me as well. With Anton it’s more painful because I’m more aware of my limitations. Am I destined to become Mrs Anton Sauvage? The artist’s wife? Yes, Professor Stein, mediocrity. I’ve become a plodder with no chance of success. I’m also peeved that Anna from the Fugitives kept the news to herself when I saw her at the gallery. She must’ve known then that she’d offer the space to Anton. But why should she tell me about it? Is envy making me unreasonable?

  As if to test my generosity of spirit, Anton goes on, chewing on the crodough.

  ‘And guess what? This woman emailed me yesterday, from some architects’ company that has been commissioned to develop an urban design study for the King’s Cross something-or-other partnership, basically the guys who are in charge of the whole regeneration project at King’s Cross. They deal specifically with the area adjacent to the railtracks, you know, all those new buildings you can see from the Eurostar trains as you come into St Pancras.’

  I nod as he pauses for effect.

  ‘They want me to do this big-ass mural on the whole side of their main building!’

  ‘Wow!’ It does seem impressive, even through the fog of envy.

  ‘We’re talking a seven-storey construction!’

  ‘They want you to do a paste-up?’ Paste-ups, made of paper and stuck to a wall with wheat-paste glue, are by their nature very ephemeral, sometimes lasting just a few days, especially in English weather.

  ‘No, here’s the best part. They’ve offered to work with me on developing a new medium that will be more durable, something semi-permanent.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, babe.’ For as long as I’ve known him, Anton’s been tirelessly experimenting with different types of glue, vinyl, PVC, even Perspex, only to be defeated by the elements or human hand each time.

  ‘We’re going to be famous, babe!’

  Anton’s enthusiasm and joy are so infectious, I reluctantly let go of my green-eyed monster. He did say ‘we’, after all.

  It’s eleven by the time we’re eventually up. Anton dashes off to yet another of his meetings and I go down to Discreet. Heather’s in her office but she’s busy with a customer, her pink-haired assistant informs me. I wait for her in the shop, browsing. By the looks of it, there’s still plenty of stock left to be photographed. As I contemplate the toys, the Mapplethorpe idea starts to niggle again. Perhaps I should persevere with it after all.

  A red-faced and bald-headed man in a suit storms out of Heather’s office, heading straight for the door. The Pink Girl and I watch him, startled. Once he’s gone, Heather appears in the shop, calm and composed.

  ‘What was that about?’ we ask in unison.

  Heather shrugs. ‘A disappointed slave.’ She sees my perplexed expression and goes on. ‘The guy was looking lost and when I offered help he said his “lady” had sent him to get a special toy for her. He couldn’t make up his mind so he asked me to call her for him. It turns out his “lady” is an S&M mistress and next thing she wants is for me to “discipline” her boy for her.’

  ‘And did you?’

  She looks at me, her eyes round and innocent. ‘We don’t offer that service.’ She keeps her face straight. ‘That’s what I told her and she put the phone down on me. However, I did invite her hapless slave, as politely as I could, to our bondage workshop.’

  The Pink Girl lets out a giggle and Heather and I join in.

  ‘You get all sorts in this business.’ Heather checks her make-up in the ornate cheval mirror by the door. ‘Kristin, I have the next batch of toys for you in my office.’

  The box waiting for me by her desk is even bigger than the first one. Heather insists on paying me ‘an advance’ as she calls it and we agree I’ll send her my first invoice today.

  ‘How is your man? Anton, is it?’

  ‘A rascal, as always.’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ Heather shakes her head, smiling. ‘But we still love ’em.’

  ‘He proposed this morning.’ I touch the ring on my finger as if to check the whole thing wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

  ‘And did you say “yes”?’

  ‘I did . . . At least I think I did.’

  ‘You don’t sound very convinced!’

  ‘It all came out of the blue, really . . .’

  ‘Do you want to get hitched?’

  ‘I do!’ My sudden certainty takes me by surprise.

  ‘Congratulations, then!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I’m unable to contain a happy grin.

  I dash back to the loft, spurred on by a buzz of creative energy. I unpack the box and look through the toys. Then I go to my Mac, find Professor Stein’s email and click ‘Reply’.

  Dear Professor Stein,

  I was surprised and delighted in equal measure to receive your email.

  I am currently working on a photographic project entitled Macro Perceptions. Its aim is to decontextualize everyday objects in extreme close-up. By relinquishing their original meaning, I want to achieve freedom to appreciate them from a purely aesthetic perspective. I aim to demonstrate that once we swap meaning for feeling, we are able to achieve unadulterated, true perception.

  I would be delighted for Macro Perceptions to become part of your Light Vault project and will submit a sample of my work for your consideration shortly.

  Kind regards,

  Kristin Ryder

  I read through the email and smile at the slightly pompous style I’ve always adopted in my communications with the professor. It takes me back to my student days. But I hope it’s sufficiently enigmatic and highbrow to pique the old codger’s interest.

  I pick up my phone and dial Sophie’s number. It goes straight to voicemail and I decide not to leave her a message. Instead, I text her.

  I said YES!

  Let’s see if she gets it. I call Vero next and she answers on the first ring.

  ‘Anton proposed to me!’

  ‘Wow! You guys move fast! Wasn’t he unfaithful to you last time we spoke?’

  ‘Yes, and that was part of the reason . . . No, let me rephrase it . . . It has forced us to be really honest with each other and we both realized we want to be together. He said he’ll change and I believe him.’

  ‘You do . . .’

  ‘Yes. You should’ve seen him . . . He brought me doughnuts and he made me a ring.’

  ‘As long as it makes you happy.’

  ‘It does, Vero, it really does.’

  ‘Then I’m really happy for you.’

  I promise to come and visit her with Anton soon, and then disconnect, feeling slightly annoyed by her underwhelmed response. But she did say she was happy for me . . .

  My phone buzzes with a new message. I open it, expecting Sophie’s reply to my text. It’s from Anton.

  LET’S GET MARRIED IN DUBROV
NIK!

  Dubrovnik? Why not Dubrovnik?

  Hell yeah

  I text back, my heart fluttering with excitement.

  And now it’s time to do some work. I check the lighting stage and all the lights, put a new memory card in the camera and reach for the first Plaything. It happens to be a black leather spanking crop, stylish-looking but not the most photogenic of objects. I adjust the lighting to make sure there are no unsightly shadows or reflections and snap a few pictures. I’ll correct anything I’ve missed in Photoshop. The next Plaything is much more interesting. In fact, it’s a thing of beauty. It’s a cat-o-nine-tails whip with a heavy handle, which I suspect is silver-plated, and nine elegant braided leather tails. Each of the thin tails is crowned with a delicate white suede petal. It brings to mind a Mapplethorpe flower. Yes, there it is, in the album I grab from the bookshelf, the photograph of the calla lily, with its sturdy, masculine stalk and the exquisite waxy white head. Whoever made the whip was a true artist. I lovingly position it on the dark background and light it sparingly, bringing out just a few essential details. It responds to the camera lens like a sexy model. Light Vault, here I come!

  I break for a late lunch and check my emails. No answer from the professor, yet. But the Russian beauty Irina still wants to be friends and the online supply of Vicodin and Viagra seems to be boundless. I’m just about to go back to my shoot when a new email pops up in the inbox. As soon as my brain registers its title, I’m hit by an instant wave of cold sweat. On an impulse I click ‘Delete’, get up from the computer and go to the window. I look at the sun-drenched view and take a few deep breaths. There’s nothing that calms your nerves better than the exhaust-fumes-heavy hot London air. Eventually I force myself to go back to the Mac. I pick up the stylus I use instead of a mouse and drag it along the tablet until the cursor hovers above the ‘Trash’ mailbox. Tap. And there it is, sitting at the very top of a long list of deleted emails. ‘Exposure 3’.