Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  Frustration is welling up inside me. The fact that Lionel has muscled in on the funeral arrangements and somehow usurped the right to be the only official grieving relative is making me feel abandoned and hurt. I should be there doing it all, acknowledged in my grief as his partner. But am I not forgetting something? He betrayed me, lied to me and then walked out on me. No, I threw him out. It was my decision. Was it really? Did I have any choice in the matter? Anton chose to be unfaithful to me and showed no respect for our relationship. He had left me emotionally even before I kicked him out. So I can’t start playing the grieving widow now. He isn’t mine to mourn.

  He isn’t mine to mourn – this hurts almost as much as his death. We were a force of nature for seven years. But now I feel that by letting go of him I’ve relinquished any right to lament his death. Isn’t it ironic? I detested him when he was alive and now I want to claim him back for myself. Too late, honey, too late . . . You should’ve hung on to him while he was still alive. I get up abruptly from the computer, wiping away the tears that seem to be flowing freely down my face. Oh, what have you done, Anton?

  I make myself a cup of tea and force the hot liquid down my throat. It burns my swollen-from-crying lips, but relaxes me. As I take small sips, an idea begins to form in my head. Let Lionel have Anton’s body, let him go through with all that family bullshit. I pick up the ring that’s been sitting next to the Mac’s keyboard and close it in the palm of my hand. I’m going to say goodbye to Anton my way.

  19

  There is a small church tucked away in the village of Tudeley, not far from Tonbridge, in the Kentish countryside. It’s nothing much to look at from the outside, its medieval structure rebuilt in red Flemish bond brick in the eighteenth century, its roof topped with blue slate tiles. But this is where Anton brought me seven years ago. And this is where I’m parking my MG now, its tyres crunching on the gravel of the empty car park carved out from an adjacent field.

  It was supposed to be a surprise, with Anton refusing to tell me anything about our destination. And it was. An unwavering non-believer, I was bewildered by my new lover, the cosmopolitan French urbanite, bringing me to what I thought was a rather nondescript religious location in the back of the Kentish beyond. My bafflement dissipated as soon as we entered the church.

  I push the heavy, wooden side door and step inside.

  It’s like walking inside a diamond – Anton’s words ring in my ears.

  I perch myself on the pew at the back of the empty church and soak in its atmosphere.

  ‘It is all about light and colour, and Chagall was the master of both,’ he said.

  The church’s story, he told me, was extraordinary. Its stained-glass windows were indeed made by Marc Chagall. The artist had been approached by a local couple whose twenty-one-year-old daughter died in a sailing accident off the East Sussex coast. They wanted him to turn the east window of the chapel into a memorial tribute for her. Reluctant at first, he came to see the church, was enchanted by it and offered to make not one, but all twelve windows. The project took fifteen years to complete and was finished in 1985, the year Chagall died at the age of ninety-eight.

  As I watched Anton pointing out details of each window to me, the marks of Chagall’s hands, scratches and smudges of light, I tuned in to his excitement. I understood his passion for visual art and his relentless drive to create. I felt I had found a soulmate.

  The heavy side door creaks open and a woman with an Osprey backpack and a Canon camera bag walks in. She makes a beeline for the visitors’ book, her Gore-Tex boots squeaking on the stone floor. A tourist. It’s time to go. I take one last look at the stunning interior and leave. Outside I turn left and go towards the graveyard at the back of the church. I pick the oldest-looking gravestone, the name on it half-eaten by lichen, and crouch next to it, pulling Anton’s ring out of the pocket of my jeans. I push it deep into the moss covering the grave then smooth down the surface until any sign of disturbance is gone.

  Bye, Anton.

  Tears blur my vision and when I blink they run down my cheeks, stinging.

  I remain crouching until my legs go numb and my face is dry again.

  As I eventually get up and turn to go back, I notice the woman from the church hovering by a distant gravestone. Her long-lensed Canon is pointing at me.

  ‘Oi, you!’ My grief flicks into fury. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  She turns and heads for the car park, disappearing behind the hedge. I follow her, skipping between the graves.

  She’s just about to get into a white Ford Focus when I catch up with her. I push the car’s door shut, blocking her escape route.

  ‘Mindy, is it? I’ll have my pictures back!’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Her eyes are round with fear.

  ‘Your memory card!’ I snap at her.

  ‘Why?’ Her confusion seems genuine.

  ‘Because you’ve been taking pictures of me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t! This is preposterous! Let me go!’ She’s recovered her composure now. ‘Step back! Or I’ll call the police!’

  ‘I know who you are. And if I see any of these photos anywhere, I’ll come and kill you,’ I whisper into her ear and then I move away.

  She jumps into her car, slams the door and drives away without putting her seat belt on.

  I lean against my MG, shaking. What the hell has just happened? Was she really a paparazzo? She didn’t look like one.

  I trot back to the church and check the visitors’ book. The last entry, dated today, is by Sandy Farmer from Atlanta, who thought the church was ‘totally awesome’. Good grief. Have I just attacked some gormless American tourist? Her white Ford Focus could’ve been a rental . . .

  Back in the car, I stare out of the windscreen, trying to gather my thoughts. This was supposed to be a spiritual farewell to Anton. Instead it’s turned into a hideous confrontation with someone who was most likely an innocent stranger. I need to get a grip . . .

  I throw a parting glance towards the church and slowly drive out, turning right onto the main road. Once in the village, I follow signs for the Poacher & Partridge, the pub I’d discovered with Anton.

  I perch myself on the stool at the bar and order his favourite strong ale. I’m not really an ale person, but it seems like a fitting tribute to his tastes. It’s actually not bad. As the alcohol hits my stomach, the chaos in my head begins to subside.

  I dig my mobile out of my bag. I google ‘Mindy Nygard’ and get pages of photos of an immaculately coiffed and lipsticked blonde woman in various glam poses. It’s definitely not the woman from the church. But Mindy Nygard wouldn’t be running around the muddy countryside with a camera. She’d send her freelance flunkey in Gore-Tex boots.

  I’m getting paranoid. This trip is about Anton, not some unsavoury hack. I have to find a way of saying goodbye to him. Burying his ring felt good, wholesome, but a part of our relationship still remains unresolved. I take another sip of Anton’s ale. And suddenly I know. I pick up my phone again.

  Anna answers on the first ring.

  ‘Kristin! I’m so sorry . . . What a shock, I’m still recovering from the news. How awful . . . How are you coping with all this?’

  ‘Not terribly well . . .’

  ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘Sometime next week, probably. Arranged by his family in the south of France.’

  ‘Will you be going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ There is a long pause. ‘I know it may not be appropriate to mention this now but all his pictures have sold . . .’

  ‘Actually, that’s the reason I’m calling you. The exhibition you were planning? I think it should still go ahead.’

  ‘The exhibition?’

  ‘The solo show you offered Anton. He was so excited about it. I think it should happen, especially now. To celebrate his art, his creative free spirit, his life . . .’

  ‘The solo show . . .’

  ‘Yes, let’s do it, Anna! I
have some of his pieces at the loft. And there’s more in storage. I’m sure we’ll have enough. Don’t you think it’ll work?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says slowly, but she doesn’t sound sure at all. ‘Kristin, would you be able to pop in and see me today?’

  ‘Well, I’m not in London at the moment, but you know what? Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be there.’ There’s nothing like the present. I should discuss the details with her while she seems interested.

  ‘Great, I’ll see you shortly then.’

  I rush out of the pub, taking a good look round the pub’s car park. There is no sign of a white Ford Focus. Sandy is nowhere to be seen. The coast is clear.

  The prospect of organizing the exhibition is propelling me back to London as I boom along the A13, checking my rear-view mirror more often than normally. I’m a bit disappointed Anna didn’t show more enthusiasm for my idea, but perhaps she’s concerned about the copyright issues. That’s probably it. Oh well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. There is no doubt in my mind: a solo show will be the most apt tribute to Anton, his life and his art.

  Anna greets me warmly and gives me a proper hug, which surprises me but feels nice. Her dog wags its tail at me as if I’m an old friend. There are no clients in the gallery and she takes me straight to her office where I park myself in the Robin Day armchair.

  ‘How are you?’ Her concern seems genuine.

  ‘Fragile. Confused. Shocked . . .’ I shrug when I run out of adjectives.

  She nods. ‘I know how it feels to lose someone close.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look at her, puzzled by her willingness to share something so personal.

  ‘People I really cared about died because of me.’

  Unsure how to react, I wait for her to continue.

  ‘I was selfish and reckless and they paid the highest price for my moment of madness. I thought I would never be able to forgive myself . . .’ She lets out a slow breath.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I regret saying it as soon as the words come out of my mouth. But Anna doesn’t seem to mind my knee-jerk expression of sympathy.

  ‘You know what the most ironic thing was about it? It seemed like the end of the world then, and it was in a way because it changed my life completely, but it also pushed me in a new direction, forced me to change. Perhaps I’m a better person now . . . but at what price . . . ?’ She suddenly looks much older, her expressive face tired and pale under her make-up. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers. ‘God, how insensitive . . . rattling on about myself like this . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I’m moved by her sincerity.

  ‘Let’s talk about Anton’s work.’ She pauses and looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Yes . . . I thought we could still go ahead with the solo show you offered him . . .’

  ‘Kristin –’ she hesitates – ‘I don’t quite know how to say it . . . I have never offered him a solo show.’

  I stare at her, my mind suddenly gone blank.

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he told me . . .’ I pause, frantically trying to recall what he had actually said. ‘It was supposed to be next month, for two weeks. I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.’

  ‘Really? The gallery’s fully booked up till next April.’ Anna turns to her computer, clicks on something and a colourful schedule unfolds on the screen. ‘Next month we’re having a retrospective, the forerunners of modern street art, you know, people like Thierry Noir who did a lot of influential stuff in the eighties. It’s going to run for the whole month.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . Maybe he misunderstood you?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him about a solo show, Kristin.’ She lets out a nervous laugh, almost a giggle. ‘I’m getting a twisted sense of déjà vu. First your photos that mysteriously ended up in my mailbox and now the exhibition that wasn’t meant to happen . . .’

  A hot wave of sickly sweat hits me; even my eyelids seem clammy.

  ‘You think I’ve been inventing all this . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all.’

  ‘God, you must think I’m a psycho.’

  ‘No, Kristin, I don’t. I believe you.’

  ‘You know, sometimes I don’t believe myself. It’s as if I’m going mad . . . These weird emails, Anton’s death, and now this . . . You know, this morning I went to bury a ring he’d given me. I hoped it would give me some closure. And instead I ended up chasing some woman around a graveyard because I thought she might be a journo spying on me. I feel I’m getting paranoid. My life seems distorted, it’s lost its normal dimensions. Everything is warped, unreal, evil somehow. I feel threatened . . . exposed . . .’ I break off, choking back the tears.

  Anna reaches into her filing cabinet, pulls out her bottle of wine and shows it to me. I shake my head. She opens a small glass fridge next to her desk and offers me a bottle of Evian instead. I grab it as if it were a lifebuoy and drink greedily, as she pours herself a glass of wine.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Anna,’ I say at last, ‘these last few days have been hard core.’

  ‘No need to apologize. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Have you spoken to the police about it?’

  ‘Anton’s death? They said they are not treating it as suspicious.’

  ‘No, I meant the other stuff. The emails, your photos that got hacked into . . .’

  ‘Oh, that. Somehow I doubt they’d treat it seriously.’

  ‘They should. Cybercrime is an offence.’

  I shrug. ‘Judging by the way they acted after Anton’s death, I don’t think they’d be very helpful.’ I feel a stab of anger as I’m reminded of my conversation with PC Singh. Anna leans down to pat her dog, who has curled up by her feet, its cute brown snout parked comfortably on her shoe as if it were a pillow.

  ‘About Anton’s work . . .’ She throws me a quick look as if to check I’m not going to burst into tears again. Reassured, she goes on. ‘Do you know if he’s left a will?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I hesitate. ‘I don’t think the idea of writing a will would even have crossed his mind. He was . . . so much about life.’

  ‘Too young to die.’ Anna nods sadly. ‘A lot of people think that. And then it’s too late for some.’ She takes a sip of her wine. ‘Dealing with art works after the artist’s death can be complicated. There’s copyright that lasts for seventy years and there’s also the artist’s resale right, which lasts for as long. An artist can choose to leave either of them to whomever he or she wishes – a lover, a museum, a charity. But if there is no will . . . If there’s no will then all the assets go to the next of kin.’

  It slowly dawns on me.

  ‘His mother and his brother.’

  ‘Yes, if they are his only family. It’s all based on strict rules, which may not necessarily seem fair to those who are left behind. It may not be what he would’ve wished for either.’

  Now I understand what Lionel’s doing.

  ‘His wolf-of-Wall-Street brother’s lawyer is dealing with it . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s what lawyers are for.’

  Bye-bye Anton’s solo show. Forget the celebration of his art. My own naivety clashes painfully with the reality of the situation. And loses.

  ‘But listen, let’s wait and see what happens next. Let me know if you hear from the lawyer. All right?’

  She puts her wine glass down and I have a feeling I’m being dismissed.

  As I walk back along Brick Lane I think about Anna. A strange woman, blowing hot and cold, touchy-feely one minute and strictly business the next. I wonder if she really hadn’t offered Anton the solo show or if she has changed her mind now that he’s dead. Having heard the copyright lecture I wouldn’t blame her if she did. On the other hand, would Anton lie to me about the show if it weren’t on offer? No, he wouldn’t, not him. So what really happened? Was he duped? Perhaps the same person who sent Anna my photographs led him to believe he had a show coming at the Fugitives? A cold
shiver runs through me even though I’m sweating in the heat. Who on earth is doing all this? Can I trust Anna? That story about some people dying because of her, it seemed weird. If they really died because of her, why isn’t she in prison? Why would she suddenly open up to me like that? What’s her agenda? I think back to how I met her. Anton asked me to take some of his pictures to her gallery. And immediately after, ‘In Bed With Anton’ got hacked into and ended up on Anna’s computer. Not to mention the computers of the whole Serpens Media. Anna and Anton. Anton and Anna. No! I stop in the middle of the street. It can’t be. No, it’s not true. A white van honks and passes dangerously close to me. I step back onto the pavement. My legs are shaking and I feel faint. I need to sit down. I realize I’m right in front of Craftti House, opposite the Beigel Bake. I used to come here a lot with Anton. As I walk into the cool urban space, Kieran at the bar notices me straight away and makes a cappuccino for me even before I ask for it. I settle at the table by a striking mural of an elderly couple in love. It’s peaceful here and the aroma of coffee soothes my jangling nerves.

  Anton and Anna. Is that at all plausible? Was it Anna who filmed herself having sex with Anton and then emailed ‘Exposure 3’ to me? She does strike me as a woman who wouldn’t shrink away from stealing someone’s man or engaging in a bit of rough sex. She’s got that sensuality about her, a physical openness that seems inviting and curious. It’s attractive, I have to admit. When I turned up at her gallery for the first time, I thought for a moment she was flirting with me. Then I realized it was her way of breaking the ice and making the other person feel welcomed and at ease. Anton and Anna? Although the woman in the video looked familiar, it was definitely not Anna. There might be a tenuous connection between her and ‘Exposure 2’ and ‘3’, but what about the crime scene photo, ‘Exposure 1’? There is absolutely nothing that links her to that part of my life. Or is there? She did mention the death of her lover and a friend . . . What if I was the photographer at their crime scene? But even if I was, why would she hold a grudge against me? And what would be her connection to the Violinist? He was hardly lover material. Or a friend for that matter. The longer I think about it the more far-fetched it becomes. I put my cappuccino cup down with a loud clonk. I must be going crazy. There is absolutely no way Anna is involved in all this.