Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  Lust junction? Is that what he called our pitiful fumble?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lust Junction dot com. It’s one of those “infidelity websites”.’ She makes quotation marks in the air. ‘You know, like the one that got hacked some time ago. Ashley Madison or something. Life is short. Have an affair – that was their motto. So . . . it turns out he’s had his profile up for four years. Can you believe it? Four fucking years of us living together, working together, sleeping together . . .’ She retches and covers her mouth with her hand.

  ‘What?’ I stare at her, dumbfounded.

  ‘For all I know he could’ve had hundreds of encounters . . . I’ll have to get myself tested for all the STIs.’ She shakes her head. ‘And HIV.’

  I know I should be sorry for my best friend, I know I should be shocked by Marcus’s transgression, but all I can feel right now is an overwhelming sense of relief. Relief that I, total bitch of a friend that I am, haven’t been rumbled.

  I take a deep breath and plod on in my newly discovered guise.

  ‘But how . . . how did you find out?’

  ‘This is the weird thing.’ She takes another swig of tequila. ‘This woman gets in touch with me out of the blue – oh, wait for this, she calls herself Anastasia – and she says she’s been Marcus’s lover for seven months . . .’

  ‘Did she email you?’ My alarm bells are ringing.

  ‘No, she actually called me. At first I didn’t believe her, I mean, fifty fucking shades of doolally or what, but she told me to check Marcus’s profile on Lust Junction, because this is how they apparently met. So I go onto the website and bingo!’

  ‘But why would she tell you all this?’

  ‘Because . . .’ she looks at me, pausing for effect, and I can see how drunk she is, ‘because he’s been cheating on her with other women on Lust Junction!’ She screeches with hysterical laughter.

  There is a quiet knock on the door and Sophie totters to the small hallway. I guess from the polite tone of the short conversation that it’s official hotel business. She comes back to the room, kicking off her heels as she walks.

  ‘There’s been a complaint about the noise in this room. Some wanker thought we were having a fight . . .’ She giggles and throws herself on the bed. ‘I’ve asked for more booze.’ She slurs her words and I’m sure she must’ve started her drinking binge long before I got to the hotel. I’ve never seen her in such a state. Tipsy – yes; wasted – never.

  She begins to snore almost immediately, but when I approach the bed to cover her with a blanket, she opens her eyes.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ she whispers, looking straight at me.

  I gasp and step back from the bed. Sophie closes her eyes and starts snoring again.

  Stifling a whimper, I grab my bag and run out of the room.

  28

  She knows.

  My brain seems to be locked in a loop, repeating the same thought over and over again.

  She knows.

  I find myself walking aimlessly around the hotel lobby, not knowing what to do. Eventually the night porter approaches me and enquires if I need a taxi. Yes, a taxi, that’s what I want. It arrives almost immediately, shiny black and immaculate. I give the driver my address and curl up in the back seat.

  She knows. I replay our conversation in my mind. She’d known all along and she played me, waiting for me to come clean. And I didn’t.

  ‘You come here often?’ The driver is looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘What?’ I don’t want to engage in chit-chat. ‘No, never.’

  ‘Interesting place, Canary Wharf.’ He seems undeterred by my unwillingness to talk.

  I stare out of the window, pointedly ignoring him.

  She waited for me to say something, she gave me plenty of opportunities to be honest with her, and I sat there like a spineless, lying cow and said nothing.

  ‘. . . the sea trade from the Canary Islands . . .’ the driver drones on.

  What kind of a person am I? Obviously a person who, having slept with her best friend’s husband, doesn’t have the guts, or the decency, to face the consequences.

  ‘. . . dog in Latin. The Dog Islands and the Isle of Dogs – geddit?’ The driver chuckles with pride at his own erudition.

  That thing with Marcus and Lust Junction. Could it be true? Or was it just a ruse to get me talking about him? Marcus and porn dating sites? I’ve known the man for years and this is the most preposterous thing about him I’ve ever heard. It’s totally not Marcus. The whole story could’ve been taken straight from the Jeremy Kyle Show. But, on the other hand, Sophie never lies.

  ‘. . . canaries by boatloads. They used to take them straight to coal mines and miners would carry them in cages down to the tunnels. If a miner saw his canary drop dead he’d leg it straight back to the surface, because it meant the whole tunnel was full of methane or carbon monoxide. Think of it as a canary alarm.’

  Despite my reluctance, I find myself listening to the driver’s monologue. I wonder how many other London stories he has up his sleeve. Having charged me a fare that seems to include on-board entertainment, he deposits me right outside my front door and waits until I get inside. I slowly climb the stairs, breathing in the familiar smell. The pungent mix of old cooking and dried-up pee wouldn’t kill a canary, but it does make me nervous. My loft used to be my sanctuary, but it doesn’t feel like a safe place any more. Whoever has invaded my life has also poisoned my home.

  I guardedly unlock the door, bracing myself for yet another nasty shock. But the place is empty and quiet, it doesn’t smell of gas and there are no drones hanging around outside the windows. I tiptoe to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. As I drink greedily, my anxiety level seems to drop.

  Why am I tiptoeing, for God’s sake, it’s my own house!

  I turn the light on and rummage through the cupboards in search of something to eat. I find an old packet of Dr Karg crispbread. It tastes a bit stale, but it’ll do. Crunching on an organic seed cracker, I climb into bed and pull my MacBook towards me. Yes, I know, Fly’s warned me against using it until he’s swept it for bugs, but I don’t care any more. I need to get to the bottom of it all.

  Sophie knows about my episode with Marcus. Well done, Kristin. In one fell swoop you got rid of your best friend and created a new, fitting persona for yourself: a selfish conniving bitch.

  He must’ve told her, there is no other way she’d find out about it. The question is what did he tell her? The ‘poor, lost Marcus seduced by a predatory friend’ version of it? Or the truth, about my accident and him coming to the rescue? The fact that I was shaken and doped up on painkillers doesn’t make me any less guilty: I made no effort to stop him when he touched me.

  But something in the whole Marcus/Sophie story doesn’t add up. Is Marcus a harmless loser emotionally abused by his bossy wife? Or an insatiable lech with an active account on Lust Junction dot com? Neither persona seems to be the Marcus I know. But the same could be said about Sophie. Who is she? A ruthless businesswoman or a betrayed wife? Whose story am I supposed to believe? They can’t both be telling the truth, which means one of them is lying. The question is who and why.

  I click on the Firefox icon and type in LustJunction.com. And there it is, just as Sophie said, a whole page of cosy stock photos of embracing, happy couples, interspersed by testimonials promising a fulfilling sex life. As you scroll down, the corporate images are replaced by stamp-sized, home-made pictures uploaded by the users. The few smiling faces disappear in a sea of gaping vaginas and ejaculating penises. It’s quite some lust junction.

  It turns out that in order to be able to browse the selection of, well, members, one has to sign in and upload a profile. I quickly choose a close-up of a shrivelled old man from a stock-photo library, fill in a membership questionnaire with wildly bogus data and I’m in. Hi, my name is Curious Glance. I wonder how many people do what I’ve just done out of curiosity, never bothering to make actu
al physical contact with the other users.

  Now, how do I find Marcus? The free membership I’ve opted for offers limited search possibilities. But I can set my search criteria according to sexual orientation and preferences, various fetishes, S&M, voyeurism, swinging, group sex, water sports, cross-dressing. There’s a whole subsection for Rubber/Latex/Leather and another one for Role Playing. Blimey, how do I find Marcus in all this? Thankfully I discover I can also narrow my search to a location. I try East London, and then even tighter, within five miles of Roman Road. This would give me an approximate location of Soph and Marcus’s house. I’m not sure it’s the brightest idea. If I were a Lust Junction Romeo I’d set my location as far from my own house as possible. East Dulwich or Richmond in Marcus’s case, but then who’d fancy a trek to the other side of town for a shag? Well, perhaps I’m underestimating the Lust Junction members’ libidos.

  I scroll through the multitude of mugshots and dick-shots, finding the process increasingly tedious. And then – Marcus’s moody face in black and white stares at me from the screen. ‘Gaius Ceasar’. Not far from Roman Road, after all. At least he’s spared his potential dates the image of his penis. I click on his ‘Profile Highlights’. ‘Gaius Ceasar’ is a few years younger than the man I know and is a musician (well, he used to be). He is also a ‘cunning linguist’. Good grief, Marcus!

  Is it possible that the real Marcus is behind all this? I push my MacBook away in disbelief. I shudder at the thought of Sophie reading his profile. It must’ve been awful for her. I can’t blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with him any more.

  Is this really happening? I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. I’m tired. And not only because it’s nearly three in the morning. I’m tired because my life doesn’t seem to fit me any more. Or is it the other way round? I don’t fit my life. It’s as if someone else, not me, has taken over and has been pushing me where I don’t want to go. I don’t like the new direction. I can’t recognize my friends any more. I can’t recognize myself. And every time I try to get my life back on an even keel, it slips out of control again. I’m tired.

  29

  I’m woken up by the ringing of my phone. Without opening my eyes I let it ring until it goes to voicemail. But a few minutes later it rings again. Who the hell is calling me at the crack of dawn? As I crawl out of bed in search of my bag I realize it’s not early at all. It’s dark in the loft only because of the red paint covering the windows. I manage to dig my phone out just as it goes to voicemail again. Two missed calls from Anna. Well, if she has something urgent to tell me, she’ll ring again.

  And she does, just as I’m mulling over my encounter with Sophie and waiting for the coffee machine to fill my mug.

  ‘Hello, Kristin, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. There is something I have to show you.’

  ‘Show me?’ I grab the mug and sit down at the kitchen table.

  ‘A picture has just come in. I’ve been approached by a new artist . . .’

  ‘Anna,’ I interrupt her. ‘I don’t think I’m in a Saatchi mood at the moment . . .’

  She ignores my feeble joke.

  ‘Kristin, you need to see it.’ She sounds dead serious. ‘Can you come into the gallery?’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Now would be good. Please come. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  She disconnects.

  What is going on with her? I don’t know Anna well, but she’s never seemed like a person who’d get wound up easily. I finish my coffee and get up. I might as well go and see what it’s all about. A short bike ride might do me good anyway.

  It’s hot and humid outside, another sizzling heatwave as the tabloids hysterically call it, and by the time I get to Sclater Street I’m covered in sweat. I lock my bike to the railings outside the gallery, noticing all the new street art that has popped up on the walls since my last visit here.

  Anna appears to be waiting for me and she ushers me straight to her office. Without a word she points at a large, unframed picture leaning against her desk. As I come closer I can see it’s a square photograph, probably 150x150cm, printed directly onto a thick sheet of aluminium. It’s a stunning piece, layers of paint giving it an unusual texture, accentuating its edgy, industrial look.

  It’s a photograph of Anton’s paste-up that I saw in Hackney Wick.

  ‘Reena Acker.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I look at Anna, too shocked to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  ‘Reena Acker,’ she repeats. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Apparently it’s her work.’

  ‘What?’

  Anna flinches at my raised voice. ‘I received it this morning.’

  ‘But it’s—’

  ‘I know. It’s Anton’s piece and it’s your face. That’s why I called you.’

  ‘I’ve seen it, Anna! In Hackney Wick!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday! I mean, it’s brand new, Anna! It’s Anton’s new piece!’

  ‘Oh . . .’ It’s her turn to look surprised.

  In my agitation I take a step backwards and land in Anna’s reclining armchair. She stares at me in silence, then turns to her filing cabinet and takes out the bottle of red wine. She raises it in my direction and, when I shake my head, pours herself a glass. She takes a sip and sits down behind her desk.

  ‘This is interesting,’ she says at last.

  ‘Who is Reena Acker?’ I’ve calmed down enough to speak quietly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She takes another sip. ‘She contacted me via email. She said she had a couple of pieces that might interest me. I normally don’t accept unsolicited work, but when I saw it I recognized Anton’s style . . . I replied to her saying it’s an unusual piece, who is the artist, where is it, the usual stuff. She couriered it to me overnight even though I didn’t ask for it.’

  ‘So you haven’t met her?’

  ‘No. She’s based in Germany, I think, Berlin if I’m not mistaken. I’ve seen her website though.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s pretty good stuff, mainly urban photography, but Anton’s piece stands out, obviously. You say it’s his new paste-up in Hackney Wick?’

  ‘I think it’s new . . .’ I’m beginning to feel silly for making a fuss about it. ‘I was on a recce in the Wick yesterday and wham! I ran smack into it. It’s in an immaculate condition, as if it was done a couple of days ago.’

  ‘But it could’ve been done a couple of weeks ago? Or last month?’

  ‘Yes, I know, he could’ve pasted it up before his death.’

  ‘It’s definitely his work?’

  ‘He took the picture of me when we were in Argentina.’

  ‘I see.’ Anna takes another sip of her wine.

  ‘What about that woman, Reena? Did she claim it was her artwork?’

  ‘No, she said the photograph was hers. She didn’t say anything about the author of the paste-up.’

  ‘But she stole Anton’s image!’

  ‘It’s not as straightforward as it seems.’ Anna sighs. ‘You could argue that she’s made Anton’s piece a focal point of her photo and therefore infringed his copyright. But if there was someone standing in front of the paste-up in her photo, for instance, it would be perfectly legal. Either way, it’s very difficult to enforce the copyright. Unlike in France and Belgium, we have Freedom of Panorama in this country. It’s the unrestricted right to use photos of works of art or architectural pieces in public spaces without infringing the rights of their authors.’

  ‘So this woman can take snapshots of other people’s art and no one will bat an eyelid, as long as she’s not doing it in front of the Eiffel Tower or the Manneken Pis?’

  ‘She can take as many pictures as she wants, but she may have a problem with selling or publishing them.’

  ‘You’re not going to put this picture up for sale then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I feel a tearful wave of gratitude towards her.

  ‘You have nothing to tha
nk me for, Kristin. I run a business and I don’t take decisions that might jeopardize it or cause problems. It’s as simple as that. But I do appreciate how upsetting it must be for you to see Anton’s work being used in such a way by another artist.’

  ‘It is. Coming across his paste-up in the Wick, the paste-up I knew nothing about . . . it hurt. This’ – I point at the picture – ‘is just rubbing salt into the wound.’

  ‘I know. It must be very painful now that Anton’s gone.’ Anna gets another glass out of the cabinet, pours some wine into it and offers it to me. This time I don’t turn it down. Fighting back the tears, I take a few big gulps. The wine’s dark-berry warmth and smoky finish spread on my palate. It’s mellow and soothing.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s all right. Really.’

  ‘My life is such a mess at the moment. Anton’s death has knocked me for six, but there’s all that other stuff. I can’t seem to break out of this evil, vicious circle. I don’t remember how it feels to be calm . . . carefree.’

  ‘That stalker of yours still giving you grief?’

  I look at her, surprised by her question, then remember I told her about it when she received ‘In Bed With Anton’.

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, someone did spray my windows with red paint.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My loft is on the top floor and whoever did it used a drone.’ I don’t feel like telling her about ‘Exposure 4’ and the message I deciphered in the paint.

  ‘Wow. The work of a sophisticated vandal then.’

  ‘I live in Hoxton, after all.’

  We both share a joyless chuckle, then continue sipping the wine.

  ‘I’ve slept with my best friend’s husband. And she’s just found out about it.’ It comes out so easily, all that drama packed into a couple of short sentences.

  ‘Ouch.’ Anna puts her empty glass down.

  ‘They’ve split up now. Two fucked-up lives for the price of one stupid slip-up.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not the only one to blame.’