‘We can’t take him out. I don’t want him here either, but his uncle, Stephen Hart – lovely man by the way – he’s a major donor. We can’t… We can’t pull Remy. We just can’t.’ Jamie shrugs.
‘He just threw his phone at my work.’ My jaw is clenched, I spray spit. She wipes her face. ‘Look! You haven’t even looked at it yet!’
Remy’s phone lies in the middle of the floor, the length of the display boasting a huge lightning crack bursting from a spiderweb of shattered glass. My photograph has a matching wound on its frame: dead centre, a hole, with cracks erupting from it, all the way to the corners.
‘Shit,’ Jamie says. ‘No one comes anywhere near that frame, in case the glass falls out.’ She runs her hand through her hair. ‘The photo doesn’t look damaged, at least.’
The frame gets replaced later in the day with great fanfare. Uncle Stephen himself comes into the gallery, practically dragging Remy by the ear.
He makes the boy apologise to me. I accept, with my arms folded and my lips pursed. Uncle Stephen informs me that Remy has had a lot handed to him, and sometimes doesn’t understand that larger work and larger gallery spaces are earned.
He’s still fucking here, though, isn’t he?
I’m less angry when Uncle Stephen makes a show of flashing his big fat wallet. He already paid for the new frame, but he wants to know how much each photo is worth.
I do some quick maths, and then I decide to take the piss.
‘Three grand a piece.’
‘I’ll take the lot.’
‘Oh.’
He goes on to tell me about all his kinky friends who would greatly appreciate these as gifts. He gives me his business card with a wink, and we chat while Remy pouts, and Jamie puts little blue stickers beneath each frame, indicating they’ve been sold.
‘Tell me, Ms Sturges, do you like Japanese food?’ asks Uncle Stephen. I toss my hair and look at Remy over my shoulder. I smile, with all my teeth, and giggle, and bat my eyelashes. Remy glares.
Uncle Stephen and I are going to the Sakurai together, on Saturday night. Not sure what makes me wetter: the threat of a ?600 tasting menu, or the look on that little shit’s face.
Hi Irina,
I know you haven’t responded to my emails or texts in weeks but as my mum always says: God loves a trier.
I think I saw on the gallery’s website that your private view is tonight, so I just wanted to say good luck and I miss you and I’m sorry for getting weird and freaking out, and I hope you’ll consider replying to this.
I still think about you all the time.
Eddie.
REMY
After all the fuss with Remy, the day leading up to the PV is fairly uneventful. I drop into the gallery in the morning and make them rearrange the photos.
There’s the one with the wine bottle, and one of Eddie from Tesco flicking the Vs with the bunny head on. There are two pictures in one frame, two close-ups of his bruised skin: a welt the shape of my hand on his thigh, set next to the ring of bruises around his neck. There’s one of his lower back, and his butt with the tail fixed onto his underwear – it’s the only image with my hands, one digging into his left thigh, one slipped into his underwear. I’m grabbing his skin hard, and you can tell. I’ve included one of Dennis, a close-up of the blood, his unfocused eyes half-open on the floor of my garage. Because you don’t see Eddie from Tesco’s face, you assume it’s the same model, so it fits into the narrative.
The narrative they fucked up by hanging them the way they had.
The two-in-one photo should obviously be in the middle, but they put that first. I want Vs, grabbing, two-in-one, wine bottle, Dennis, but Jamie’s hung it two-in-one, bottle, Vs, grabbing, Dennis. I make them move it. I make Jamie come downstairs and agree with me that this is better. She agrees, begrudgingly, and I leave for a solo brunch date.
It’s a good day. I go to Selfridges with the intention of buying two new dresses – one for the PV, and one for my date. There’s this designer lingerie brand I like a lot, who make really great ready-to-wear stuff – I head up to their concession. The salesgirls cut each other up to get to me first, when they see me looking at dresses.
The girl I get （the fastest, loudest girl） is a cute, curvy little brunette. She takes me to the changing room and brings me all the ready-to-wear they have.
I decide to buy this floor-length slip dress, like, the second I put it on. It’s silk, plum-coloured, and split all the way up to the hip on the left side – it has this super dramatic lace cut-out from the right hip, curving around to the split. You can see your thighs, but your fanny’s not out. There are lace cut-outs around the cups, too, and a pair of thin straps, which cross over my back.
‘I am on commission,’ admits the salesgirl, ‘but you have to buy this.’
I agree. My nips are out, with the lace, though. I mention I’m going to my private view tonight, and I’d like to wear it out – does she have a solution for the exposed nipples? She pops out of the changing room, and comes back with a pair of pasties, which are black, metallic and heart-shaped, and I’m like, fuck it, go on then.
The next dress I decide on （after trying on a couple of things which are cute but too pyjama-y to get away with） is a black pencil dress. It’s boned at the waist. There’s a panel which runs from the bust to the hem down the centre （again, avoiding an exposed fanny） but the hips and the bum are sheer. The fabric is just thick enough that it’s not obscene, but it doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. I love it. I’m a perfect hourglass in it.
I let the cute brunette sell me a couple of thongs to go with each dress （matching, and minimising VPL） and I’m done. I spend nearly a grand and a half, but… if you can’t spend a grand and a half on dresses and pasties and knickers a day after some art collector drops 15k on your photographs, when can you?
I spend more money on dumb shit: new shoes, a handbag, perfume, lipstick and costume jewellery. I feel giddy and light, and I start drinking alone in my hotel room. I’m actually kind of drunk by the time I finish hair and makeup, and I treat myself to a rare photoshoot. My plum dress and I rack up more likes on Instagram than someone whose job it is to rack up likes on Instagram.
Flo is in with the first comment: wig snatched, having a stroke, jessica chastain WISHES she could.
I’m sure she does. Because I’m feeling extra as fuck today, I get a black cab to the gallery. I’ve forgotten to pull the tags off my new handbag and yank them off while I tell the cabby I’m a photographer, going to my private view. I’ve managed to stuff about a hundred business cards in the handbag, along with my purse and my phone.
‘It’s like a party, for when a show opens at an art gallery,’ I explain.
‘I know what a private view is,’ says the cabby.
I bang through the doors of the gallery. No one turns to look at me, which is kind of annoying, because I had this image in my head of taking off my coat while everyone was looking at me, and people being like, woah, who’s that?
No one looks at me but the attendant of a small, makeshift cloakroom. I hand her my coat. There’s a boy in a waistcoat carrying a tray of champagne, and I wink at him when I take a glass. I find Sera, who is on the first floor. I haven’t seen her piece yet, actually. Another film. It’s her in Central Park, with some girl she’s tying into shibari bondage while a crowd watches. She’s all done up in fetish gear. It’s a little lazy, to be honest.