Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  I stare at Erin, barely listening to her monologue. What’s going on? I’ve never had any reason to doubt her career, but this sounds delusional. Would she really be offered a shoot of this calibre? Well, why not? As far as I know she’s taken pictures of everyone, from Desmond Tutu to Kathryn Jenner. Has she? Of course she has, I’ve seen quite a few of her portraits in Vogue and Vanity Fair over the years. Not recently, though.

  Her delusion or my paranoia?

  I put my tumbler down on a glass bar surface and look around uncomfortably. Why are we here alone?

  ‘Erin? Sorry to interrupt . . . Where is the professor?’

  ‘Robert? He’s running late.’

  ‘How come you’re here early?’

  ‘Oh, he lets me use his space when I’m in London.’

  ‘What about your penthouse?’

  I’ve been to it once, her penthouse in Southwark, minutes from the Tate Modern, an amazing space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a huge terrace overlooking the river and St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘I’ve let it out. I was hardly ever there.’

  ‘What time does the party start?’

  She looks at her black Hublot watch and I catch myself wondering if it’s a knock-off.

  ‘Soon. Want another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s gone to my head already.’

  This feels wrong. A couple of hours ago I didn’t even know I’d be coming here, so unless Professor Stein is a clairvoyant, he wouldn’t have been able to predict my visit. A coincidence? I don’t believe in them any more. How would all the earlier ‘Exposures’ relate to this, anyway? There won’t be any party. ‘Exposure 5’ was not an invitation.

  ‘Erin? What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She takes time pouring herself another drink. ‘Robert wanted to talk to you about your art.’

  ‘Really?’ A part of me desperately wants to believe what I’m hearing, but deep down I know it isn’t true.

  ‘He wanted to discuss the possibility of resurrecting Cubic Zirconia with both of us.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Oh God, please let it be true.

  She nods and takes a sip of her G&T.

  ‘I think I’ll have that drink, after all.’

  She smiles and reaches for my empty tumbler.

  My every brain cell is screaming not to believe a word she says. But my heart wants it to be true so badly . . .

  I gulp down nearly half of my drink and it tastes like pure gin this time. It packs an immediate punch and I have to sit down on the leather sofa in order not to fall. I’m suddenly very drunk and confused. This isn’t really happening. I have to call a cab and get out of here. I rummage in my bag for my phone, but it’s not there. Shit, I must’ve left it on the bus.

  ‘I’ve lost my phone,’ I tell Erin, hearing myself slur the words. ‘I have to go and find it.’

  It takes a monumental effort to hoist myself up. I take a few wobbly steps towards the front door and notice a bicycle leaning against the wall in the hallway. It’s a Budnitz. As I turn in slow motion to ask Erin about it, I hear a strange sound, a quiet ticking, as if a rattlesnake has suddenly woken up somewhere behind me. And then all I feel is pain followed by darkness.

  35

  The pain has gone and I’m floating on something soft and warm. My arms and legs are heavy, but it’s the pleasant kind of dreamy languor one feels just before waking up. Maybe I am asleep. Whatever it is, I don’t want it to end. There is only one thing disturbing the peace – a quiet, regular clicking noise I’d recognize anywhere – the shutter of a camera. It’s a sound worth waking up for. My eyelids feel like lead, but I force my eyes to open.

  The semi-darkness around me is lit by moving, multicoloured patches of brightness. It’s someone’s bedroom and I’m lying on a large bed, propped up by a pile of soft pillows and covered with a red linen sheet. Have I been asleep? The room feels familiar, but I don’t know where I am. It’s dark, so it must be night-time. What have I got myself into? My mind scrambles for answers, but fails to produce anything sensible. I blink a few times, trying to focus. As my eyes adapt to the peculiar lighting in the room, I’m beginning to see more detail. A dark wall in front of me is not a wall: it’s a large window covered with a black plastic sheet. There is a tiny hole in the sheet, right in the middle of it, letting rays of light in. It’s still bright outside.

  The persistent clicking of the shutter draws my attention to the right-hand corner of the room. I can just make out the shape of a tripod with a small camera attached to it. Click. A few seconds pause. Click again. Someone is making a time-lapse video. It takes me a while to understand the significance of the camera pointed at the bed. Someone is making a time-lapse video of me.

  But why? What is going on? I try to push myself up, try to get up, but my limbs feel heavy, almost paralysed. Maybe it’s better to stay put in this nice bed, where I’m comfortable and safe. Actually, I do feel like having a nap. I’m so tired. All that running around . . . what was that about? My eyes close again and I begin to surf the slow wave between being awake and asleep.

  A change in light wakes me up. For a moment it’s bright in the room, then it goes dark again. Blinded by the sudden flash of light, I squeeze my eyes shut and see bursts of colourful phosphenes inside my eyelids. Funny, I remember the word phosphenes but don’t know where I am or how I got here. I cautiously open my eyes again and see movement behind the camera. There is someone in the room.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice sounds hoarse.

  ‘Ryder. You’re awake.’

  ‘Erin?’

  She comes out of the shadow into a pool of light by the bed.

  ‘I had to tase you.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I had to stun you with a taser. Klonopin wasn’t working.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ The shock jolts me out of the pleasant stupor. I suddenly remember being in Professor Stein’s apartment, having a drink with Erin. I remember ‘Exposure 5’. ‘Is it some kind of a joke? Did he put you up to this?’

  ‘Robert? He’s been in a nursing home for months. Totally gaga.’

  ‘Professor Stein has dementia?’

  ‘Completely non compos mentis.’

  Oh well, so the whole idea of resurrecting Cubic Zirconia was a hoax, after all. But wait a minute . . . what about the ‘Exposures’? If he hasn’t been sending them, then who . . . ?

  ‘How do you like my camera obscura?’ Erin points at the plastic sheet on the window.

  Of course, that’s what it is. A camera obscura, the most basic and brilliant of optical devices. Erin has made it out of Professor Stein’s bedroom by blacking out the window and cutting a small hole in the makeshift blind. The aperture lets in an inverted image of the view outside and projects it on the objects in the room, the wall at the back, the bed, me. The technique that worked so well in – ‘Exposure 5,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Well, think of it as the first draft.’

  ‘It was you? You? You . . . ?’ I’m too shocked to process the news.

  ‘Why, you thought it was someone else?’

  She looks at me, a contemptuous smile on her face.

  ‘This is insane!’ Propelled by a sudden flash of anger I throw the red sheet off and move to sit up, but something jerks my arms back, stopping me.

  Both my wrists are tied with black nylon restraining cords, attached to the bed’s heavy oak headboard. I’ve seen them being used by the police. They are cheap, practical and unremovable, thanks to their one-way locking mechanism in the toggle.

  ‘What the fuck? Erin!’ I pull at the restraints.

  ‘Shhh!’ She puts her hand on my forehead and pushes me back against the pillows. ‘Remember from our police days? The more you struggle, the more they’ll hurt.’

  Speechless, I lean back and notice something that escalates my horror even further.

  I’m naked.


  As much as the restraints let me, I grab the red sheet and pull it up, trying to cover myself.

  ‘Where was I?’ Erin goes back to the camera on the tripod. ‘Ah, camera obscura. The dark chamber . . .’ She makes quotation marks in the air.

  ‘Erin, for fuck’s sake! Let me go!’

  ‘ . . . Invented by the ancient Chinese, studied by the Greeks, described by Leonardo, utilized by Vermeer, revived not long ago by the Hockney–Falco thesis, and perfected by moi, Erin Perdue.’

  ‘Erin, listen to me. This isn’t funny any more.’

  ‘This,’ she looks at me, her smile gone, ‘was never meant to be funny.’

  This is not the Erin I know. There is something unhinged but at the same time detached about her, as if she’s tripping on some hallucinogen. I can feel drops of sweat running down my forehead. Despite the heat in the room I’m shaking.

  ‘Erin, why are you doing this to me?’ I try to keep the trembling out of my voice, but it’s there, betraying my fear.

  ‘You still don’t know? Despite all the clues I’ve given you, despite all the effort?’

  ‘You mean . . . the “Exposures”?’

  ‘Yes, the “Exposures”! I’ve been waiting for you to bloody wake up for weeks! But no, Miss Sleeping Beauty here has been positively comatose. God, you’ve been so thick!’ She kicks the base of the bed.

  I stare at her, unsure what to say, afraid to stoke her anger. Wake up from what? She paces up and down the dark room, sighing and mumbling to herself. The camera on the tripod keeps clicking away in its steady, unrushed rhythm. Erin stops suddenly, shakes her head and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

  I check the restraints on my wrists. They are too tight to slip them off. I bring them to my mouth. That’s no good either. The nylon they are made of is impossible to bite through. I turn my head to look at the way they’ve been attached to the headboard. The knots look solid, professional. The headboard doesn’t even budge when I tug at the restraints with all my strength, cutting the skin on my wrists. Damn. I have to get out of here, but how?

  I glance around the room. Apart from the camera and the bed, there isn’t much hiding in the shadows. It seems almost empty. A simple bedside table, a brass lamp, some art books scattered on the floor . . . Just like in ‘Exposure 5’. But this is not a photograph, this is real life. And it’s getting darker. The image of the outside world projected through the aperture of Erin’s camera obscura is beginning to fade; the patches of light on the bed and the wall behind me have lost their intensity and soon will disappear. Night is falling. It must be nine, maybe ten in the evening. Vero and Fly are probably at my loft already, wondering where I am. Will they raise the alarm if I don’t come back for the night? No, probably not. Vero is used to me disappearing without a word. But they’ll try to reach me on my phone. My phone, God only knows where it is by now . . .

  I must’ve fallen asleep because I jump with a start when Erin opens the door again. She drags in a large tungsten lamp and plugs it in. I turn my head away as its bright light hits my eyes.

  ‘Erin? Can we please stop this? It’s gone beyond a joke . . . Erin?’

  She doesn’t reply, fiddling with the camera controls.

  ‘Can you untie me, so we can talk?’

  Without a word she leaves the room, but the door remains open. She comes back with a large bottle of Bombay Sapphire and takes a swig from it.

  ‘You want to talk? Let’s talk then.’

  She waves the bottle at me, but I shake my head.

  ‘Go on then, talk.’ She looks at me, challenge in her eyes. ‘Tell me what this is about.’

  ‘This?’ I look around, playing for time. What do I say in order not to spark her fury again? ‘If I’ve done something wrong, something to upset you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry.’ She laughs, but it’s not a pleasant laugh. ‘Kristin Ryder is sorry. Let’s drink to that.’ She takes another swig from the bottle.

  ‘Erin . . .’ My eyes are burning with tears. ‘What is this all about?’

  She carefully puts the bottle down on the floor, approaches the bed and raises her closed fist in front of my face. I instinctively move my head back, expecting a blow. But she opens her fist to reveal a small, beautifully cut gemstone nesting in the palm of her hand.

  ‘A diamond?’

  ‘Cubic Zirconia, you idiot!’ She throws the crystal against the wall. It bounces back and clatters somewhere onto the floor. ‘This is what it’s about! Cubic Zirconia!’

  ‘But why now, after all this time . . . I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Of course you don’t! You stupid, ignorant bitch! And to think I was hoping we could work together again . . .’

  ‘You wanted to revive Cubic Zirconia?’

  ‘Shut up! You’re not worthy of even saying the name.’

  She paces the room again, swigging from the bottle.

  ‘Cubic Zirconia was our chance, our future, it was everything. We were set to become the biggest artists of the decade, of the new millennium. Hirst, Hockney, Gormley, Riley . . . they’d be so tiny compared with us, so insignificant.’

  She stops right in front of the bed and turns towards me, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.

  ‘And you destroyed it. You just walked away from it with that fucking French dickhead of yours as if it was some picnic in the park. How I hated you, with all your insecurities, your misgivings . . . your blandness . . . You killed it. And then you forced us into that stupid forensic job, made sure there was nothing left of the joy, the creativity, the ambition . . . the hunger we used to feel. And why? Because you couldn’t cope with the limelight, because you were afraid it wouldn’t lead anywhere, because what Anton had to offer was so much better, because, because . . . You’ve ruined my life.’

  I stare at her, speechless. She turns away and laughs, a bitter, cackling sound.

  ‘But, Erin . . . you’re the one with the career, fame, money . . . It’s worked out for you.’

  ‘Being at the beck and call of every fucking celeb who wants to have a pretty picture? You call that a career?’

  ‘Most photographers would kill to be in your shoes. I spend my days taking pictures of kids’ toys and dildos.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better about myself?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  I wish there was something I could say to pacify her. I’m desperately searching for the right argument, that one thought, one word that would change everything. But it’s not a dream in which one magic word has the power to end a nightmare. This is really happening to me.

  ‘You could’ve continued without me . . .’ I’m trying a different tack.

  She stares at me as if I’ve said something preposterous.

  ‘Without you? There was no Cubic Zirconia without you. Do you get the irony of it? You betrayed me, abandoned our project, chose that fucking French bobo over Zirconia and me. You destroyed my life and I still couldn’t do it without you. And I was reminded of it every day, when I watched you, “the hip Krissy”, the enfant terrible, wasting her talent on mediocrity, bumbling along from job to job with Anton. The self-absorbed prick. Only two things mattered to him – his dick and his ridiculous paste-ups. He was the easiest pick-up of my life. He practically dragged me to your loft. I played him like a . . . violin.’

  As she smirks, amused by the innuendo, I can feel my panic grow. So she was the woman in the ‘Exposure’ video, fucking him in my loft. She gave him the violin bridge. It was probably supposed to be another message for me. Oh, Anton, you gullible idiot! But I haven’t been much smarter . . . There is something else stirring at the bottom of my mind. A picture of the Budnitz I saw earlier in the hallway flashes through my head. Anton’s bike. Oh my God, she isn’t responsible for Anton’s death as well, is she? No, no, no, this can’t be true. I have to stop this horrible train of thought. But I can’t . . . I have to know . . .

  ‘It was you he arranged to meet that morning in King’s Cross .
. .’

  ‘He was stifling you. I’ve done you a favour. ’

  She’s not a killer. She’s drunk and she doesn’t know what she’s saying.

  ‘You kept running after him, wasting time, wasting your energy, because of his pitiful attempts to conquer the world. With what? Lazy wallpaper he called street art? Mind you, his last piece, the one in the Wick, is a different story.’ She has that smirk on her face again.

  ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult to imitate his style. Think of it as a gift from me.’

  ‘You made it?’ I don’t believe her. ‘But . . . you couldn’t have known I’d be there to see it.’

  ‘Oh, I made sure you’d see it. Remember Reena Acker?’

  I stare at her, speechless.

  ‘Reena . . . Erin . . . Acker . . . hacker, get it?

  ‘But . . . I’ve checked her out on the net. She has her own website. And an entry in Wikipedia.’

  ‘Oh well, if she’s in Wikipedia, she must be real.’

  ‘But . . . why would you do all this?’

  ‘I wanted for you to see how redundant he was. Him and his derivative, insignificant attempts at art. Pathetic, empty bubble. That’s what you dumped Cubic Zirconia for.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. This is not happening. I must be asleep, having a nightmare.

  ‘But I have to give it to you, “In Bed With Anton” is one of the best things you’ve ever made. Thanks to you, not him, obviously. It’s raw, erotic, beautifully executed. But of course you kept it under lock and key. Typical you, your best work sits on some old drive at home.’

  ‘It was personal.’

  ‘Show me art that isn’t personal. It was good, Ryder, and you didn’t have the guts to let the world see it.’