‘Mmm.’ I don’t eat. ‘You… You got me this?’
‘No, you got you this,’ she says, the patronising fucking cunt. I remember why I didn’t keep in touch with her. ‘I just suggested you. It’s just always such a shame the way you dropped off the face of the Earth? Like, if I had my money on a Turner Prize for anyone, it would have been you, babe. Not David French. You used to fuck him, didn’t you?’
‘Mmm…’ I drink more beer. ‘That Jamie girl said she’d met me before, like it was her idea to have me.’
‘Oh, God no. She was an intern till a few months ago. They’ve literally just taken off her training wheels. She’s such a little liar, oh my God.’ My face heats up. And I think Sera catches it, too. She looks mortified. ‘You don’t need to feel embarrassed, Sturges. Like, honestly, it confounds me how much working-class talent goes to waste. Like, if me or the David Frenches of this world have a bit of a breakdown, it’s like… we spring back because Daddy always knows someone. It’s just not fair that your career gets completely fucking derailed because of your mental health, you know?’
I am speechless. What I want to say is I’m not fucking working class, but we’ve had this argument before. Just because I’m nouveau riche, doesn’t mean I’m not working class. My dad might be successful but, at the end of the day, a plumber with a big house and a dodgy accountant is still just a fucking plumber.
‘I didn’t have a breakdown,’ I snap. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Um… Well, I used to drink with you. And like, I know we were all deep into coke and stuff, but fuck me, you were erratic back then. My flatmate used to call you the Party Monster – don’t you remember? And you basically vanished halfway through second year. It’s not… You don’t have to be embarrassed, like, you’re an artist; it practically comes with the territory,’ she says. ‘I just always thought about you, and I always thought about how unfair it was, and like… I’ve seen people make shitty versions of basically your work for—’ I cut her off.
‘I didn’t have a breakdown… Fuck off, I didn’t…’ I clear my throat. ‘I know you think you’re this fucking champion of the working classes, or whatever, but I’m not a… I’m not mental, I’m not like a fucking… baby who taps out of her MA because she’s sad, I was just… Fuck London, you know, fuck this scene,’ I say. ‘I make loads in private sales, just because I’m not in the Tate or MoMA or whatever.’
She smiles. I can see her pitying me.
‘I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t assume,’ she says, with this fucking look on her face like she knows. She doesn’t know the half of it. ‘I’m being a smug cunt,’ she says. ‘I’m like… I really am trying to be aware of my privilege, so just… I, like, really appreciate you keeping me grounded.’ It’s very mature of her. I could smack her with this huge beer bottle, but I’m not going to.
‘Well, that’s what the little people are here for, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t,’ she says. Her accent slips, the American twang vanishes. ‘Don’t be like this. I know it’s weird accepting help, but—’
‘Oh, oh shit, you want me to grovel, now?’ I laugh. ‘Three seconds ago I got the show myself, but now I’m accepting your help!’ I’m still laughing. ‘I mean, really, that’s fucking unreal, Sera.’
‘I knew you’d be like this,’ she says. ‘I should’ve kept my mouth shut.’ She sighs. ‘Tell you what, Sturges, I’m going to go out for a fag. And when I come back, we’re going to pretend I didn’t say anything. We’re going to eat, I’ll pay the bill as an apology, not because I think you can’t afford it; I’m sure you can. Okay?’
I shrug.
I order for both of us while she’s smoking, and I stew. My jaw is clenched tight, and so are my fists. I mean, fuck me for thinking I got this on merit, right? Fuck me for thinking this was anything other than a handout.
My eyes feel wet. I poke them with my fingers. The feeling is so foreign – it’s like when you bang your head and check to see if you’re bleeding. Liquid on my fingertips, nose running, I blink, and I blink hard and I blink fast until it’s all gone. I dab my nose with my sleeve, but I can still feel the heat radiating from my cheeks, down to my neck, spreading across my chest.
‘Are you okay?’ Sera asks. The fake accent is gone again. ‘Jesus, Irina, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
I don’t reply, because my voice might crack. I screw my lips up, and I nod. I shrug, and I drink my beer. I wash away the lump in my throat, and let it settle in my belly. It curdles.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. I go down to the toilets, where I spend five minutes slamming the balls of my palms into my face, and my thighs, screaming with a closed mouth. I hit my head till my ears ring, then sit on the toilet with my skull between my knees, till the ringing stops and my breathing is steady. I smooth down my hair and my clothes and go back to the table. Sera’s brow is crinkled, the worry lines on her forehead are deep. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. It sounds snappy, so I smile at her. ‘I’m fine.’
Sera buys us a bottle of champagne at this nice bar in Soho. We’re reminiscing, laughing. I can’t quite shake the last of that feeling in my stomach, though. It lingers, like flu.
‘If you tell anyone about getting me this, or about before, I’ll kill you,’ I say. I’m laughing through my teeth, and she laughs too. ‘I will literally kill you.’
‘I know you will,’ she says. She taps her nose. ‘Our little secret.’
‘I like the bunny head, the bunny head’s good,’ says Jamie. We’re in her office – the film playing in the background while we talk. I suspect she hasn’t watched it the whole way through yet, because she keeps catching it out of the corner of her eye, and then looking away from it very quickly, and staring me right in the eye. She’s very vanilla-looking. A bog-standard posh bitch, with long, brown ombre hair and a Zara cardigan. The accent says Sloane Ranger, but the lack of second-hand sportswear tells me she’s at peace with that. Sera did say the training wheels have only just come off, and, fuck me, you can tell.
She’s pulled me in to tell me my film will be showing in a room with one of Cam Peters’s shorts – they’re well suited, apparently. His is like a Gilbert & George-esque, cottaging thing. There’ll be headphones, which we agree is better for me, so you’ll pick up on all the little sounds.
‘I hope you’re not disappointed. To be sharing the screening room,’ she says. I shrug.
‘You’re the junior curator.’
‘Your accent is very charming, you know. You’re from Newcastle, aren’t you?’
‘Born and bred.’
‘I went once; there was a thing on at the Baltic. It was actually quite nice there, which I was really surprised about.’
‘Mmm.’