Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  15

  The attachment is a movie this time, an innocuous-looking MPEG waiting to be clicked on. Could it contain a virus that will wreak havoc in my computer? Well, my antivirus software is scanning it and, having utilized the knowledge collated from 230 million devices protected worldwide that act as its sensors and are updated every six minutes, declares it safe. So, I click on it and let it play.

  At first I’m confused, because what I’m seeing seems familiar. It’s a mirror – not any old mirror but Aunt Stella’s pride and joy, a huge art deco fan-shaped mirror, with its large central panel and six slimmer, bevelled ones, three on each side. I pause the movie, turn away from the computer screen and there it is, right behind me, hanging on the main wall of the loft, facing the windows. Someone has filmed my mirror in my house. As the initial shock subsides, it dawns on me it was done through the webcam of my Mac. I quickly turn back and look at the tiny pinhole eye above the computer screen. It’s dark and probably no one is looking at me right now, but on an impulse I grab a roll of gaffer tape from the desk, cut a small piece off and stick it over the webcam eye. I smooth the unsightly piece of tape over the glass surface of the screen, noticing that my hands are shaking.

  I go back to the movie and click ‘Play’ again. As my eyes become accustomed to the images, I realize I’m seeing a series of reflections within reflections, a sort of visual layer cake. The first, top layer of the cake is the mirror. But then there is something in it. The mirror reflects the loft’s windows and the view behind them. I zoom into the picture and, although it gets more pixelated, it also gives me more detail. A dark silhouette in the loft opposite. The Peeping bloody Tom! I throw the stylus on the desk and get up. I don’t believe it! Someone has sent me a movie of my own loft, with my own stalker staring at it. Is it him? What is he playing at? I move to the window and look out. The loft opposite is dark and empty, of course. Wait until I set Anton on you, you gutless freak. But as the sudden wave of anger passes, doubt creeps in. What if it wasn’t Peeping Tom who sent me the video?

  I go back to the computer and play the movie from the beginning again, putting my face close to the screen, looking out for details, anything that would solve its mystery. And there it is, some movement, reflected in the side panels of the mirror that are bevelled at a different angle to the main one. As my eyes begin to make sense of the fragmented images, my mind refuses to accept it. Multiplied by three and reflected by the side panels on the mirror’s right, there is an image of someone’s naked back, moving rhythmically. Anton, and there is no doubt what he’s doing. Someone has filmed us having sex. Oh God. I let the movie play on, unable to take my eyes off it. Subconsciously, I register a jump in the continuity, as if something has been edited out. A new image appears. Yes, it’s Anton all right but now he’s leaning over the edge of the bed, his naked body truncated by the mirror’s angled panels. There is a blur of movement and it takes me a while to realize that the person standing behind him isn’t me. The woman, who has her back turned to the mirror, is naked except for a few straps criss-crossing her buttocks. As she turns sideways it becomes clear she’s wearing a strap-on harness. I can just about make out the shape of a small dildo as she leans over Anton’s bare back. And then the image fades to black. Frozen with shock, I stare at the blank screen.

  It seems that eons have passed until I’m capable of any action again. I get up from the computer chair, go to the fridge, get a bottle of Absolut from the freezer and pour some into a mug. I swallow a few mouthfuls, until the burning sensation in my throat takes my breath away. Gasping, I slide down along the side of the fridge to the floor. I should be upset, I should be angry, but I’m just numb. And then I’m numb and drunk. The vodka hasn’t helped. Instead of the usual fuzzy euphoria, I’m overwhelmed by heavy sadness. So this is how it feels to be totally and utterly betrayed. Not only did Anton cheat on me but also he’s shown a side I wasn’t even aware existed. I have just watched a man I thought I knew engaged in behaviour that is so out of character for him it seems unimaginable. Yes, we experiment a bit but Anton has always presented himself as a straightforward and uncomplicated lover. Passionate – yes. Kinky – hardly ever. Anal intercourse, either way, is certainly something that has never entered our sexual vocabulary and it suited us both. That is, I assumed it did.

  I get up from the floor and shuffle back to my computer. I plop heavily onto the chair and watch the screen saver tirelessly hurtling through wormholes and starbursts. The smooth and monotonous transitions on the screen are all I can handle at the moment. I don’t want to see anything else. After a while the screen goes dark and I still stare at it as the unwanted images from ‘Exposure 3’ begin to replay in my head. I’m reeling but I don’t know what has shocked me more: the fact that Anton has cheated on me in my own bed or the fact I’ve just said ‘yes’ to him, that I’ve entertained the notion of being married to him. And then there is another layer to all this: the movie. I realize its very existence disturbs me even more than its contents. Why is someone doing this to me? And who is it? Anton? As it turns out, I don’t know him at all, but judging by the grief he’s given me over ‘In Bed With Anton’, the idea of him filming himself in such a compromising situation is totally implausible. He wouldn’t send the video to me. Not now, anyway, not a few hours after proposing to me. Unless he’s a complete freak, a sadistic psycho taking pleasure in making me suffer. No, not Anton. He might be an irresponsible idiot, but he’s not a freak. What about the woman? Is she the bombón from Madrid? What is she doing in London? Has Anton been so infatuated with her he was prepared to break the cardinal rule of our relationship and bring her here? Some knocking shop in Madrid is bad enough, but my bed, in my house? Fucking idiot. I stomp back to the fridge, get the bottle of Absolut out again and take a swig straight from it. And another one. In a flash of drunken clarity, I suddenly know why seeing the woman in the video has disturbed me so much. She looks just like me.

  I go back to the computer and, gritting my teeth, I play the video again. Anton’s naked back, pumping away, and the shadow of a woman underneath him. Dark hair, slim body, nothing distinctive. Cut. In the second part she’s behind him, much more discernible. Her face is turned away from the camera, but the way she moves seems familiar. Who the hell is it? The video stops on the last frame of black and I keep staring at it until the screen saver kicks in again.

  What if she isn’t just an accidental bit of fluff picked up on a trip abroad? What if Anton has been having a long-term affair right under my nose? What if he’s known her for months, even years? What if she pre-dates me? No, it’s impossible, I would have noticed something. Would I really? I’m beginning to doubt everything I know about Anton. Why has he proposed to me? My mind keeps relentlessly throwing up new scenarios. She could be a prostitute. Maybe he’s addicted to sex with strangers. I jump up from the chair and go to Anton’s computer bag lying on the floor by the door. I unzip it and pull his battered laptop out. It’s locked with a password but I decide to try my luck. I may not know this man’s sexual habits but I do know the name of his first dog. Corto. Wrong password. I let my finger hover above the mouse pad, trying to remember what he told me about the dog. It was a cute Maltese, named after his favourite comic book about a rogue sea captain with a heart of gold. CortoMaltese. Wrong again. MalteseCorto. Nope. So much for my hacking attempt. I put his laptop back in its bag and return to my desk.

  I click on the ‘Exposure 3’ MPEG and let it play again. And again. I keep clicking the ‘Play’ icon, driven by an irrepressible compulsion. I don’t want to watch it but I’m unable to stop. And there it is, for the umpteenth time, Anton fucking the stranger and then the stranger fucking him. I stare at the woman wearing the strap-on, her body multiplied by the mirror’s panels, moving confidently, without a shade of inhibition. She’s done it before, this is not some improvised escapade into the unknown. She must’ve come prepared or . . . A wave of nausea rises in my throat as I look at the box of Discreet Playthingz standing by my
desk. No, they wouldn’t dare. And then again, why not? They didn’t seem to have any problem with crossing the other lines. I open the box and focus on its contents. There is nothing in it that would set alarm bells ringing. Then I remember the rest of the toys, scattered around my lighting stage. One of them stands out immediately: a slim, silicone baby-blue dildo with a leather strap-on harness. If I remember correctly, it came as part of a ‘Pegging Kit’ that also contained some lubricant, which seems to be missing now. I go to the bathroom, put on a pair of yellow Marigold gloves I use for cleaning the toilet and return to the stage. The kit goes straight into a black rubbish bag and I scrub the Perspex and all the surrounding areas with a disinfectant spray. I’ll worry about how to explain the missing Plaything to Heather later. I can always pay for it, no big deal, I’m sure it wasn’t a prototype. Next I strip the bed and stuff the bedding into the washing machine, setting it on the ‘Heavy Stains’ 90°C cycle. It’ll probably ruin the delicate Egyptian cotton percale but I don’t care. I throw all the bath towels in as well and turn the machine on. I scrub the gloves with an antibacterial hand-wash and return them to the bathroom. I know my ‘blitzing the crime scene’ borders on OCD, but when I go back to my computer, I’m surprisingly energized by the cleansing outburst. The feeling of elation dissipates as soon as I hear the key in the front-door lock. Anton is back.

  ‘Wow, it smells clean in here. Clinical.’ He wrinkles his nose.

  I don’t reply, watching him curiously. The man who has just walked into my loft, the man I’ve spent the last seven years of my life with, the man who could’ve been my husband, is a total stranger.

  ‘What’s up?’ He notices my inquisitive look.

  ‘This.’ I point at my computer screen. I’ve decided I won’t try to elicit some ‘guilty’ response from him. I have no energy for playing emotional games. I want this thing over in the shortest possible time.

  He comes to my desk and leans over, looking at the screen. His smell hits me, the usual mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat and aftershave. Normally it turns me on; now I find it repulsive. I swallow hard to contain my growing nausea as I click the ‘Play’ icon. He watches the video and I can tell he’s not seeing what I want him to see, just as I didn’t see it when I looked at it for the first time.

  ‘What about it?’ He shrugs.

  ‘Have another look.’ I play it from the beginning.

  This time he notices the Peeping Tom, just as I did.

  ‘That wanker! I’m gonna break his fucking neck!’ Anton straightens, ready to deliver his threat immediately.

  ‘Wait!’ I raise my voice and he looks at me, surprised. ‘Watch it again.’

  ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  He lets his breath out in irritation but looks at the screen. As the video plays out again, I feel his body tense up. He’s seen it this time.

  ‘Fuck!’ He walks away and stops by the window, his back to me.

  The video fades to black.

  ‘I want you to move out right now,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Babe, let me explain.’ He turns to face me.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.’

  ‘Babe, please . . .’ He takes a few steps towards me.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t come near me.’

  ‘This is . . . this is all so fucked up . . .’

  ‘You can say that again.’ I feel anger and resentment bubbling inside me.

  ‘I . . . I don’t want to lose you—’ His voice cracks with emotion.

  I let out a bitter chuckle.

  ‘Kristin, please . . .’

  He drops to his knees in front of me, silently pleading. There are tears in his eyes. I slip his ring off and put it on the table next to the Mac’s keyboard.

  ‘Kristin . . .’ He reaches out for my hand.

  I get up from the chair to get away from him. I go to the window and look at the dark loft opposite.

  ‘I’m going out this afternoon for a few hours. When I get back I don’t want to find you or any of your things here. I don’t want to see you ever again.’ I’m shocked by the harshness of my own words. Anton stares at me, speechless. Dismay in his eyes slowly turns into rage. He gets up from his knees with a furious grunt and, for a split second, I’m afraid he’s going to hit me. And then he’s out of the door, stomping down the stairs. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and I let it out slowly.

  The door downstairs bangs loudly and I can see Anton crossing the cobbled street. He’s heading straight for the Peeping Tom’s building. He presses all the buttons on the entryphone, then starts kicking the door, shouting something I don’t quite catch. His ranting goes on until the door cracks open and he throws himself at it, ramming it with his shoulder. He pulls someone outside – a short, skinny man who is trying to block his way in – punches him in the face and disappears inside the building. The man reels back but doesn’t fall. Heather’s turquoise head appears in the Discreet entrance. She says something, pointing at the shop, but the man waves her away and pulls a mobile phone out of his pocket.

  It takes the police three or four minutes to arrive. Two officers in black vests talk to the man, then enter the building. What a mess. He’s going to get himself arrested. I realize my legs are shaking but I continue to lean on the windowsill, unable to tear myself away from the drama downstairs. It feels as if hours have passed before the policemen appear back in the street. They are leading Anton away between them and I think he might be handcuffed. Good grief, what has he done? Just as he’s about to be bundled into the back seat of the police car, he looks up at my windows. I instinctively step back, hiding from view. I don’t want him to see me now. I don’t want him to know that I still care.

  I look around the loft. It suddenly feels empty, almost uninhabited, as if its soul has been taken out. Come on, get a grip, nothing has changed except you’re single again. You survived it before and you’ll survive it now. I reach for my phone, thinking of calling Sophie, then change my mind. I feel a fool texting her about saying ‘yes’ earlier. I don’t think I could bear spilling my guts right into Soph’s and Marcus’s cosy coupledom at the moment. Perhaps I could ring Erin? Nah, she’s probably busy jet-setting, doesn’t have time for yet another misery saga from a loser like me. I’ll call Vero later I decide, as I pick up Anton’s rucksack from the floor and throw some of his clothes into it. In a stash of flattened cardboard packs behind the wardrobe, I find a big box and fill it with his street-art gear, packets of wheat-paste glue, brushes, bits of sandpaper, spray cans and paint-stiffened rags. In one big swipe, I gather all his stuff from the bathroom, then put the box together with his rucksack by the front door next to his computer bag. On top of the pile lands the black rubbish bag with the strap-on. There, all done. Of course, there are more of his things strewn all over the loft but putting his essentials by the door feels cathartic. He can look for the rest himself when I’m not here.

  16

  Where do you go to lick your wounds in a big city? How do you get away from it all? I usually do one of three things: pick a random film show, look for a cemetery or head for water. Cinemas are good, especially on Mondays and in the afternoons, when only sad souls with too much time on their hands are willing to spend two hours in the dark. The Rio in Dalston and the Hackney Picturehouse are the obvious choices but it’s too hot and bright today to even consider a stint in a dungeon. The weather is conspiring against me: it should be a miserable, drizzly day that would enhance my gloomy mood. Instead the glorious afternoon sunshine is asserting life and vitality, nudging me to keep going.

  A cemetery would be a fitting choice but the thought of schlepping all the way to my favourite Abney Park in this heat is off-putting. There is, of course, Bunhill Fields close by but that would mean negotiating the Old Street roundabout nightmare. I might as well choose water. I stride across Shoreditch Park, along Bridport Place, past Rosemary Works on the corner, until I reach the entrance to the Regent’s Canal to
wpath. Left towards Victoria Park or right towards Islington? Islington wins, tempting me with the promise of a glass of chilled white wine at the Narrow Boat pub. I march along the water’s edge, jumping out of the way of mean-machine cyclists, inhaling the smoke of disposable barbecue sets and trying to fall in step with the beats of some jazzy tune emanating from one of the moored boats. Sturt’s Lock is heaving with couples picnicking on the hot concrete, their pale-skinned backs turned greedily to the sun, bottles of cheap rosé and cans of lager cooking in the heat. Coming here was a mistake. But the thought of that chilled wine keeps me going.

  Predictably, the Narrow Boat is packed. I manage to elbow my way to the bar and order a large glass of unoaked Chardonnay. I slip the change from a tenner into my pocket and shuffle outside, holding the precious glass as if it were the Olympic torch. I spot a place on a bench further on, just before the bridge, and hurry towards it, overtaking a couple of hipsters who are heading that way as well. And next I’m flying in the air, desperately trying to hold on to my glass. I hit the ground with a yelp, my cheek grazing the concrete, the filthy water of the canal suddenly close to my face. Someone shouts behind me, someone else screams in the distance and then I can feel myself being hoisted up.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  One of the hipsters I was racing a moment ago is gently touching my shoulder, propping me up.

  ‘I think so . . .’

  ‘He didn’t even stop!’ The other hipster is shaking his head, outraged.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  They are leading me back towards the pub where a small crowd is staring in our direction. Someone brings out a chair and I’m being parked on it like a broken doll.

  ‘You’re bleeding . . .’ Hipster One rushes into the pub, while Two stays with me, hovering protectively as if he’s expecting me to keel over.