I grafted my arse off through GCSE, and she was shocked at how much I improved. Like yeah, no shit, when you put loads of work into something you get better at it. She was always like, Irina, you just give up if you’re not good at something straight away, as well.
The shit with Lesley absolutely would not have happened if I’d had a little bit more encouragement at home. My therapist at the time said so, more or less.
‘Yeah, well, Hackney Space is a pretty big deal, anyway. It’s good news.’
‘I suppose. It’s been years since you had an exhibition. I’ve never heard of them, though.’
‘I have print sales. I don’t need an exhibition it’s just… Well, it is a big deal.’
‘It can’t be that big of a deal if I haven’t heard of them. I’m not stupid just because I don’t know all the weird little galleries in London.’
‘I never said you were stupid, I just said, it is a big deal. Because it is.’ I hiss, ‘What is your problem, Mam?’ I’m furious again, and she’s just sat there. She lifts an eyebrow, with great difficulty.
‘Problem? I’m happy for you, darling. You needn’t take everything so personally! I just said I haven’t heard of the gallery.’ I sulk in my seat.
She offers to buy me an outfit as a treat. I accept, begrudgingly. A lifetime with this woman has taught me that I can be bought. Quite easily, in fact. She treats me to a little black dress from the sale at the soon-to-close-down branch of Westwood, and I’m just as giddy as a schoolgirl by the end of the afternoon.
I get off the bus a stop later and go to Tesco. I imagine I cut a strange image, with my Westwood bag and my basket full of red wine and bag salad.
There’s a new boy. He’s sitting behind the counter – staring.
Eddie
Customer Assistant
Checkouts
Joined the team in 2012.
He must be new to this store. Perhaps they were hiding him in Kingston Park or Clayton Street.
He has a gap between his front teeth – his tongue winks through when he smiles at me. It’s awkward. I smile back, but I’m not good at smiling off-hand like this. I generally need more prep, a moment with a compact mirror to practise.
He has curly black hair, brown skin, freckles. An earring – I love girly shit like that. He’s a vision in polyester, a checkout movie star; he’s the Oscar Isaac of random boys who work in Tesco. He reminds me of someone else too, an old model.
Eddie from Tesco has a little anime clip on his keychain, one of the characters from Madoka Magica – which I remember Flo being very into.
I drop some phallic vegetables into my basket, for the sake of it, and approach him at the counter. He says hullo and stares directly at my tits. He doesn’t make eye contact, and his eyes flick from my tits to my lips, to the boxes of tampons over my shoulder. He makes pleasantries, and he has quite impeccable manners, but he is still looking at my tits every few seconds.
I’ll scout him. I’ll be able to get him to do some weird stuff – beta males like this are usually nasty. When you don’t get any pussy and spend your teens falling down the free porn rabbit hole, you end up like one of those freaks with an ahegao profile picture on Twitter and an internet history that’s seventy-five per cent bukkake, twenty-five per cent tragic Google searches.
How do you know if a girl likes you?
How to casually flirt with women.
How to make a lasagne for one person.
How to feel less lonely.
Gokkun schoolgirl.
How do you get semen out of your carpet?
I realise he’s just asked me a question.
‘What?’
‘I asked if you live nearby,’ he says. Which is a good sign. It’s definitely a weird thing to ask a customer, so that implies he fancies me enough to risk asking me inappropriate shit. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just feel like I’ve seen you around.’
‘I’m in here all the time. I live just round the corner.’
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘I— I like… your shoes.’
I hope he doesn’t have a foot fetish. Maybe he’s just into high heels, or huge women – possibly both. I hand him my business card, give him my spiel – blah blah blah photographer, blah blah blah street scouting.
‘I don’t pay, but, if you’re interested, I need models for a new show I’m doing. Heard of Hackney Space?’
He has heard of it. Which surprises me, on account of the fact he’s about my age and he works in a fucking Tesco.
I have an email from Mr B when I get in. He’s one of the private buyers I sent the previews of ‘Deaniel’ to. My best customer, in fact. I groan. The subject line reads: More? And he’s asking about the little redheaded creature. He has noticed those same teaser shots are gone from my website. I groan again.
Mr B just popped up one day – he got my personal email, and I still have no idea how. His custom is always generous, if slightly sporadic. He buys originals and large-scale prints, and he always tips. The more explicit the image, the more open his hand. He likes younger men, feminine men. He likes it when I’m in the photos. It was stupid to think he might not take me up – Deaniel’s photos tick all his boxes.
B,
Yeah, about him. Found out he gave me a fake ID. Already dumped the files and the stuff’s obvs off the website, （even the stuff behind the paywall） （（especially the stuff behind the paywall））。 I’ll hit you up w my new shit soon. Sorry.
I have an exhibition coming up soon – Hackney Space. Very exciting.
Irina x
His replies are automatic. My phone buzzes before my shopping is even away.
Dearest Irina,
First of all, my darling, let me congratulate you.
Now, let me decry this sudden showing of a dark-ages morality. We should align ourselves with greater men than fuddy duddies in robes and wigs. Hadrian, Confucius, da Vinci. Why deny Zeus his Ganymede? Olympus is so heavy with treasure.
Alas, it is illegal. I will mourn for my Antinous.
Mister B
B,
Sorry. I’ll send you some freebies? Outtakes from some of the experimental webcam photos i took w that blond, skinny, girly looking boy frm April? Can’t remember his name but attached as an apology. Panties! V cute.
Irina x
Dearest Irina,
As lovely as you are fair. You are an artist in your photography as much as your seduction. Remember: Mister B is an omnivorous creature, and he delights in your participation as much as theirs.
Mister B
I sort out ten prints. Flo sneaks me into the college after hours, and lets me use the big, fancy printers there. I handle the photos with a pair of latex-free gloves, and post them on my way to the bus. I’m sending it first class to his ‘contact’ address: a Benjamin Barrio in Belmopan, Belize. Stupid. He generally pays as soon as he knows something’s in the post, so I drop him a cryptic email.
I shop around for a while and end up giving my card to a Hot Dad on the bus.
It’s a slow evening otherwise. I aggressively encrypt Deaniel’s image files, and store them in an encrypted folder, deep in the bowels of my laptop, where all of my other dodgy shit lives.
I’m woken up early the following morning. B sends me a fat wad of cash by special courier, who leers at my dressing-gown-swaddled chest （despite my unbrushed hair and teeth） when I accept his package. At least B didn’t try to pay me in fucking bitcoin like last time.