Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘Apparently not. He was up to some weird shit, online dating and stuff, but it doesn’t change the fact that I allowed it to happen. I betrayed my best friend because I felt needy, lonely and hard done by. And it’s not the only thing I feel guilty about in my past.’

  ‘We all make mistakes when we feel vulnerable.’

  ‘But it was so . . . accidental, so throwaway.’

  ‘Most of our mistakes are. It’s the consequences that take us by surprise, especially when they take on a life of their own.’

  ‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I do, believe me . . . More wine?’

  ‘No, thank you, I better get going.’

  I suddenly feel self-conscious, divulging my shameful secrets to someone who’s practically a stranger. I put my glass down and get up, a pleasant buzz in my head.

  ‘Sorry for pouring my heart out like this. I seem to be doing it every time I come here.’

  ‘No need to apologize, honestly. I know how it feels, I’ve been there myself. Oh, and don’t worry about this.’ She waves at the picture. ‘I’ll write to Reena Acker, whoever she is, and suggest it’ll be in her best interest to withdraw this image from her portfolio.’

  ‘Thank you, Anna.’ I reach out spontaneously and hug her. ‘I do appreciate it.’

  She returns my hug, and we embrace a moment longer than necessary. She smells of some musky, oriental perfume and red wine.

  I get on my bike, pedal for a few wobbly seconds and jump off. I’m too pissed to cycle. I realize I’ve left my bag and my phone at home, so I ask a cool-looking Japanese girl with blue hair for the time. It’s nearly one. Wow, I can count the few occasions I was drunk at midday on the fingers of one hand. I decide to walk and push my bike along; it’s not that far, anyway.

  I like Anna. A strong, independent woman with a somewhat sordid past that she likes to hint about, but never goes into details. What was it? Some people died because of her? I wonder what happened. A car crash most likely – she doesn’t strike me as a serial killer. Whatever it was, it’s made her into a bit of a car wreck herself, a drinker who starts her afternoon with a glass of Malbec, but runs a successful business. A high-achiever who only drinks expensive wine. A functioning alcoholic, who manages to stay in control of her life. I’ve noticed she always asks me to come and see her at the gallery. I’ve never met her outside, in a public place. It actually makes sense, as our meetings have always been art-related, but I wonder if there’s more to it. The Fugitives is her space, safe and quiet, with her bottle of Malbec in the filing cabinet. Am I reading too much into her addiction? Maybe. Whatever her problem is, I still like her.

  As I open my front door I’m greeted by a ball of fur that throws itself at me, purring and weaving around my legs. Pixel’s back! On the kitchen table there is a large platter covered in cling film, filled with crescent-shaped pastries. Aunt Vero’s rugelach croissants! She hasn’t baked them for years. She really is pulling all the stops out for Fly. I’m glad she’s found him. She was getting a bit dispirited with Bridget and Midget as her closest companions.

  Vero and Fly have come and gone and I’m sorry I’ve missed them. But the plate of rugelach on the kitchen table and Pixel’s presence have lifted the mood in the loft. I drop a fresh capsule in the coffee machine and take the cling film off Vero’s platter. The rugelach are just as I remember them, their chocolate and walnut filling melting in my mouth. Malbec, rugelach and good coffee for brunch, I could get used to this.

  Munching the sweet pastry, I check my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table. A text from Vero:

  Njoy ruglch n Pxl. TTYL. Xx

  Wow, if Fly’s influence continues, she’ll be winning speed-texting competitions next. There’s a text from Heather too, saying she likes the photos from my recce and asking when we can schedule the shoot for. I’ll get on it straight away, I just need to do one thing . . .

  I open the MacBook and google ‘Reena Acker’. I instantly get a link to what appears to be her professional page, ReenaAckerPhoto.com. Disappointingly, it’s in German only, but it does tell me she ‘ist eine deutsche Fotografin’. It’s divided into three different sections, Grossformat, Panoramen and Bilddatenbank. As I click on Large Format, I’m presented with three subsections, Bauwerke, Lanschaften and Industrie. I browse the folders, looking through moody photographs of buildings, landscapes and industrial sites. She’s actually not bad. In fact, some of her pictures of street art are quite impressive. But one image is missing: Anton’s paste-up. I go through all the photographs twice to be sure, but it’s definitely not there. Perhaps she’s taken heed of Anna’s warning and removed it from the website already. Wise move.

  There is a short entry about Reena Acker on Wikipedia, both in German and English. She was born in Frankfurt in 1980, studied photography at City College of New York and the Royal College of Art, has had exhibitions in New York, Berlin, London, Geneva and Shanghai, and her work has appeared in various art publications. All in all an interesting person I wouldn’t mind bumping into if she hadn’t pissed me off by stealing Anton’s image. But having seen her work, I’m prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt: she may have genuinely thought that photographing an urban landscape decorated with a mural was fair game. She should’ve known better but, hey, we all make mistakes.

  On an impulse I pick up the phone and dial Erin’s number.

  ‘Ryder!’

  ‘Wow, I was expecting your voicemail.’

  ‘Would you rather leave me a message?’

  ‘No,’ I laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances with the real person.’

  ‘What’s up, babe?’

  It’s so nice to hear her voice. I suddenly realize how much I’ve missed her larger than life presence.

  ‘It’s been quite horrible lately . . .’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’ve read about Anton in the paper. I wanted to call you but – honestly – I didn’t know what to say. I’m hopeless when it comes to handling grief. How are you coping?’

  ‘I’m managing, I think. It’s actually a relief to be able to talk about something else. I wanted to pick your brain about something . . . Is this a good moment to talk?’ I can hear some traffic noise in the background.

  ‘It’s fine, what is it?’

  ‘Does the name Reena Acker mean anything to you?’

  ‘Reena Acker?’

  ‘A German photographer, apparently.’

  ‘Acker . . .’ she repeats. ‘It does ring a bell – I just can’t place it. Why?’

  ‘You sure you have time to listen to all this?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Trying to be as brief as I can, I tell her about Anna’s phone call, the photograph and Anton’s paste-up in the Wick.

  ‘Did the gallery ever consider putting it up for sale?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The owner recognized Anton’s image, so she knew from the start there was something dodgy about it. She rang me straight away.’

  ‘That’s very decent of her. More than you’d expect from an average gallery owner.’

  ‘It was. Especially as the photo’s quite good.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’d put it up for sale myself . . .’ I laugh self-deprecatingly.

  ‘Well, you do have a stake in it.’

  ‘As far as I know Anton’s brother Lionel is the beneficiary of his estate.’

  ‘But it’s your face.’

  ‘My face?’

  ‘Anton has used a photo of you in the paste-up, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’

  ‘If you really wanted to make a nuisance of yourself, you could sue this Ackerman woman for using your image without your permission.’

  ‘That’s really far-fetched . . .’

  ‘Did she ask you to sign a release form?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘And I bet Anton took that picture of you in a private space.’

  ‘In our hotel bed in Buenos
Aires, actually.’

  ‘There you go. The public versus private space is a very important distinction. She had no right to use your private photo. There is an expectation of privacy every court would have to protect.’

  ‘I’m not going to take her to court.’

  ‘You could threaten her. No one wants a lawsuit, so she’d probably offer to settle.’

  ‘I’m not going to do it, Erin.’

  ‘Why not? Everyone’s doing it. You know Shepard Fairey’s painting of Obama? Hope? It was based on an AP Press photo of Obama at some public event. So all good here, Obama wouldn’t sue him because of the public space bit. But AP did – claiming Fairey infringed on its copyright and demanding money from him! And they probably need cash less than you do . . .’

  ‘Just drop it, will you?’ I’m suddenly feeling annoyed by her insistence.

  ‘Just sayin’ . . .’ she drawls.

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ryder.’ She drops her mock-American accent. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s OK. Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says lightly but lets the silence drag on.

  ‘I’m sorry, Erin, I’ve overreacted. It’s just that since the revelation about Anton’s brother taking over his estate, all this copyright shit is making me sick.’

  ‘Of course, I understand. Listen, I have to go now, but let’s have a drink soon. I’ll text you with some dates.’

  ‘Definitely, let’s do that.’ My enthusiasm sounds as insincere as hers.

  I hang up, restless and unhappy. I wish I hadn’t been so brusque with her. I don’t know what possessed me, she was just trying to be helpful. But her suggestion of suing Reena Acker has made me feel really defensive. Is it because she implied I needed money? That I’m a strapped-for-cash loser, who’ll never achieve anything under my own steam? That my only way of squeezing some dough out of someone is by suing them over a copyright of a picture that isn’t even mine?

  I am overreacting. I’m projecting my own insecurities on a successful friend who’s only offered advice because I asked her for it. I realize how much I’ve always valued Erin’s opinion of me and how much it hurts to even think that she might pity me. No, she doesn’t pity me, she just doesn’t think we’re in the same league any more. And I can’t blame her. I am a miserable plodder, while she is at the very top of our profession. That is the sad truth, Ms Ryder. Long gone are the golden days of Cubic Zirconia when we were on the same professional level, young, talented, hopeful. I fucked it up. Now she’s jetting around the world, while I traipse all over Hackney Wick in search of some piss-alley for a second-rate shoot.

  She’s got what it takes and you haven’t.

  With a groan, I take a swipe at the rugelach platter, sending it crashing to the floor. Fuck all this.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a dark shadow pass along the wall of the loft. I turn abruptly with a scream, only to see Pixel’s furry silhouette disappearing under the bed. Poor cat, he’d be so much better off at Vero’s. I slide along the wall to the floor. I’m losing it. It’s like someone wants me to lose it.

  I should see a doctor. Get some antidepressants. Balance the chemicals in my brain, fine-tune those neurotransmitters, because they are not working as they should . . .

  My phone begins to ring and I ignore it. If it’s Erin, I don’t want to speak to her right now. If it’s someone else, I don’t want to speak to them either.

  I crawl towards the smashed pieces of Vero’s platter, mixed with broken-up rugelach. I pick out bits of the pastry with my fingers and stuff them in my mouth. Their taste reminds me of the first time Vero baked them, right after I moved in with her and Stella, a gangly teenager on the warpath with my parents. My mum, a housewife, and my dad, a dentist with a local practice, were adamant I should get a ‘proper’ education. For them the idea of their daughter studying art was simply unacceptable. But I wanted to be like Aunt Stella, strong, free-spirited, in charge of her own life. When Stella and Vero took me under their wing I realized that being independent was no picnic. It was tough and challenging. It was also loads of fun.

  So what has happened to the fun bit of my life? Where has it disappeared? When exactly did I change into this pathetic failure, unable to go through a single day without some crisis or disaster?

  The phone rings again and this time I force myself to get up and answer it.

  ‘Found the rugelach yet?’

  ‘Vero! Yes, I’m actually stuffing my face with them right now. They are delicious!’ I hope I sound upbeat enough. ‘How was Blade Runner?’

  ‘Oh, the screening isn’t until midnight. We’re at the Replicant Inception now.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Replicant Inception Convention. You know Blade Runner is set in November 2019, but we’ve already started syncing with the storyline. So 2016 is the year of incept dates for the renegade replicants. Roy’s incept date was in January, Pris’s in February, Zhora’s last month . . .’

  ‘Pris! I loved her. It was Daryl Hannah’s character, wasn’t it? I wanted to look like her.’

  ‘Yes, I remember your studded biker choker and the black mesh blouse.’

  There’s some clapping and cheering in the background and Vero gets distracted for a moment. It seems the Blade Runner worshipper-base is still going strong. And to think I was six months old when it was first released . . .

  ‘Kristin, sorry about that. They were just announcing the winner of the best replicant replica. But the reason I’m calling is that while we were at the loft, Fly had a look at your Mac.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘I know, that was exactly his reaction, but I convinced him you’d be absolutely fine about him checking the “Exposure” email. He didn’t do anything else, I swear, I was watching his fingers on the keyboard all the time.’

  I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to say.

  ‘OK, so here’s what he told me, I wrote it all down. You can’t trace the sender of the email. His guess is it applies to all the earlier ones as well. They were all sent via an untraceable remailer that forwards emails on anonymously. It’s based in Singapore, apparently. Untraceable remailers don’t keep records of their users, so a reply is not an option. The images you’ve received – they were all stripped of metadata – so no luck here either. Fly also said that your “Exposure” troll is using Tor and, wait, I have to read it to you word by word – “You probably wouldn’t be able to peel back the layers of Tor even with Egotistical Giraffe”. Don’t ask me what it means, he said to give him a call if you want to know. He actually used the word “obfuscation”. Not bad for a second-language speaker, eh?’ Vero chuckles. ‘I have to go now, honey. I hope you don’t mind me unleashing Fly on your computer. I was really hoping he’d find something that would help us nail that bastard . . . It was worth a try, wasn’t it?’

  She’s gone, back to her replicants. I stare at my MacBook incredulously. Egotistical Giraffe? I can’t believe she’s actually let some Chinese hacker touch my computer! It’s like allowing a rogue surgeon to operate on your brain. Or giving your bank details to a stranger in the street. But I can’t be angry with Vero. She’s always had my best interests at heart and I know she was trying to help. Oh well, let’s hope Fly and his pet giraffe won’t abuse my vulnerability.

  With a sigh, I open the MacBook and look at the screen. It’s the usual busy mosaic of open folders, photos, Stikies notes and a multitude of open tabs in the Firefox browser. I’m a messy Mac user, rarely bothering to close all the apps and tidy up the screen. But it’s my mess and I know how to navigate it. I’d always thought that if someone were to break into my computer I’d notice it straight away. I was certain that just as I’d notice an overturned chair or a lamp moved by a burglar in my house, I’d see something out of place on the screen. I couldn’t have been more wrong. There is absolutely no evidence of Fly’s presence on my Mac.

  30

  I’ve tidied
up the loft, fed Pixel, taken a long shower and rung Heather to arrange the shoot. I’m feeling much better for it. Perhaps I can manage without Prozac, after all. Now for the digital side of my life. I sit down in front of the Mac and look at its untidy screen. Let’s begin by closing all the open Firefox tabs. As I click on the tiny grey crosses, closing all the web pages one by one, I’m astonished how many of them I’d kept open simultaneously. I know, it’s a bad habit and it slows down the browser unnecessarily, but I’m faithful to my bad habits. I imagine Fly wasn’t impressed with it. The Lust Junction home page flashes up on the screen and I wonder if he noticed it. Oh well, there isn’t much I can do to salvage my reputation in the eyes of a sapiosexual.

  The sharp sound of my door buzzer tears me away from the computer screen.

  ‘Hi, I’m looking for the occupier of the top flat . . .’ The man sounds professional and polite. The police again?

  ‘That would be me.’

  ‘That’s great. My name is Tony and I’m from Wall 2 Wall cleaning company. We’re about to get rid of the paint on your windows.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘We work 24/7. If there were any more days in a week, we’d fill them as well. You have no idea how many dirty walls there are in London. Would you mind if I just popped upstairs for a second to make sure all the windows are shut and secure?’

  ‘Sure.’ He seems genuine enough. I buzz him in. For once I’m impressed with the efficiency of the building’s managing agent.

  The man who appears on my doorstep is drop-dead gorgeous. A tight navy T-shirt with a yellow Wall 2 Wall logo accentuates his beautifully sculpted chest. He is tall, tanned and has a sweet smile to boot. I let him in and watch as he checks the locks on all the windows. Everything about this man is perfect, his long legs, his tight buttocks, his incredibly narrow waist and muscular, wide shoulders. And then there is his deep voice . . .

  ‘. . . superheated water cleaning equipment. And don’t worry, all our paint-stripping products are non-toxic and biodegradable, so both you and your kitty will be perfectly safe . . .’