There’s a lot of dairy on the menu, a lot of carbs, but Eddie from Tesco has anticipated this, pointing out the large selection of fish, and salads, and fishy salads for me to peruse. The wine the waiter brings is very nice. I’m struggling to find something to complain about.
‘This is a bit much,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He smiles and reaches over the table to take my hand. ‘I just think that… that you deserve nice things.’ I pull my hand away and tuck my hair behind my ears. ‘I worry that you don’t… Maybe you don’t see that. But it’s okay, because. I get it. I do the same thing.’
‘We’re nothing alike.’ I snort. He’s still smiling. He’s being patient with me, and he just drops it; he ignores me being a dick.
‘Do you want a starter?’
‘I really don’t think we’re anything alike,’ I say.
‘Okay. Sorry. Stupid thing to say. Do you want a starter?’
I don’t. I watch him eat bread for twenty minutes and make my way through the bottle of wine before the smiley waiter comes and takes the order for our main meal.
‘Camembert,’ I say. It falls out of my mouth, along with an order for potatoes dauphinoise, and a charcuterie-thing. Eddie from Tesco blinks at me. He smiles.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Go big or go home, then.’ He gets a steak. I think he orders a steak, and some other meat stuff, because he wants to look like one of those big, masculine men, whose personality revolves around craft beer and red meat consumption.
While we wait for the main, I eat his leftover bread, which is slathered with garlic butter. My eyes roll back in my head. They bring us another bottle of wine, and Eddie from Tesco gets a beer. I am too busy drinking the wine to make him drink any.
‘So, do you like Nan Goldin?’ asks Eddie from Tesco.
I do like Nan Goldin. And we play art bingo for a bit where he asks me if I like different photographers and I say yes or no. When it’s a no to Helmut Newton, he seems really taken aback.
‘I like him,’ he says. ‘I think there are loads of similarities between your works.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say. ‘Like, literally, fuck off.’
‘What’s wrong with Helmut Newton?’
‘Are you joking?’ I say. ‘I thought you were like… a woke bae.’
‘I am! I just…’ He shrugs. ‘I mean, I don’t have an art degree – an MA, even – do I?’
‘It’s not my job to educate you on…’ I take a big mouthful of wine, ‘misogynist photographers, and why they’re misogynist. It should be obvious.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m just shitting you,’ I say. ‘I get why you’d say that. I just don’t like him much. Bit… bland-white-male-titty photographer, isn’t he?’
‘Um. Yeah, guess.’
‘And I mean, I do take like… So all the women he photographs are like boilerplate sexy ladies, aren’t they? And I mean, I’m taking your photo, aren’t I? Not exactly Vogue material, are you?’
‘True,’ he says, nodding. It’s a bit sad that this is his default setting. My mam always used to tell me that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. And Eddie from Tesco is a fly, but he’s got a taste for vinegar. It’s like vinegar is all he’s ever had from people, and now he doesn’t even know what honey tastes like.
They bring the main. It’s sublime. This is the first time I’ve eaten cheese in about two years. I struggle not to drool while I eat. I keep the napkin clutched in my hand, dabbing at the corners of my mouth every time I eat a glob of Camembert, a little piece of smoked meat, a gooey potato. I ignore the sound of my waist expanding, and the intrusive images I have of my stomach in this dress once we’re done.
‘Hungry?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say. I eat everything. Eddie from Tesco watches me, with his chin rested on his hand. Placid, and interested, like he’s at an aquarium. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘You’re just pretty. And you have cheese in your hair.’
I do have cheese in my hair.
By the time we’re finished eating, I’m too full to even think about dessert – but I order an affogato, with a shot of amaretto, anyway. I feel ill. I feel like throwing up, sticking a feather down my throat, like a decadent Roman empress.
There’s a dispute over the bill, which is quite hefty. Eddie from Tesco briefly tries to insist on paying. I told the waiter to bring that wine, I booked us in here, and I just drop a couple of fifties on the table and shrug, telling him rather a large invoice came in for me the other day.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘Like, honestly, I was expecting it to be—’ I shush him.
‘Cover the tip, if you want.’ So, he drops a twenty on the table, and we leave. I am very wobbly, like my centre of balance has been thrown by the amount of food in my stomach. While Eddie from Tesco is trying to suggest another drink, I tell him the Uber’s on its way, and we’ll just go back to mine.
I get him to do shots with me when we get in. I try to offer him coke, and he looks horrified. I shrug, have a bump – more for me, I guess. He’s wittering on （minimum sentence for Class As; becomes toxic in your bloodstream when mixed with alcohol; deviated septum）。 I usher him into the garage. The studio.
I have the video camera set up opposite the sofa, on a tripod, in my studio. I want it simple – gritty, I guess, but not handheld. Handheld feels a little too Gonzo porn for my liking. I just want it static, a cold Pasolini vibe. It’s been a while since I filmed anything. I have half a bottle of red in the garage, which I polish off while Eddie from Tesco gets undressed, affixes the bunny head and the tail.
I sling my camera around my neck. I have another bump, and another. Things get a little blurry from there.
He’s a controlling piece of shit
I didn’t want to shit stir but when you went to the toilet at the pub the other night he said you’re only friends with me because you feel bad for me
He said i was pathetic and he started talking about my tits it was SOOO WEIRD.
Ask him about it.
If you break up with him, i’m here for you and so is my sofa
<3
I’ve watched the video through eight, maybe nine times now. The first thing you see, the first shot, is him. Standing by the couch, in front of the bare, brick wall. I went without a backdrop.
I’m off camera. I ask him if having his picture taken gets him off, and he laughs.
‘Maybe. Yeah, I suppose?’ His voice sounds weird; it’s all muffled, with the bunny head. I do have an external mic, so you can make it out, at least. I zoom in on his crotch – at the time I thought he was getting hard, but you can’t really tell so much in the video. You hear me asking him to gimme a twirl and shake his bunny tail.
‘I think I like you more than… modelling,’ he says. I ask him if he’s a sub. Another shy laugh. ‘I mean, a little,’ he says. ‘I just… I don’t do this for everyone.’
I tell him to grab the couch and bend over, and I walk into the shot. I look great – same outfit from the date. I look skinny, despite the carbs and the dairy. My camera is dangling round my neck, the lens protruding from my belly. If I’d thought ahead, I’d have strung it lower – phallic symbology and shit.