I take one that looks like it’s been filled with jam. Sometimes, you can’t go wrong with the classics.
This might seem a little forward, the man says, but would you consider doing a job for me? You see, I’ve always believed that things happen for a reason, call it fate or destiny, and so it’s no coincidence that I bump into a photographer in a cafe – precisely at the time I’m in need of a photographer’s services.
I pour sugar into my cup, looking to see if he’s having me on, but all I see is a deep earnestness radiating.
I say, How do you know I don’t already have a job?
And he says, I know the look of someone who’s down on their luck. Believe me, I’ve been there myself. Also, you’re clearly not from here.
I don’t take commissions from private clients, sorry.
Ah, artistic integrity, he says, I like that. What if I pay you handsomely for your services?
I say, How much is ‘handsomely’?
Let me ask you a question, he says, putting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. How much would you charge a magazine for an assignment?
He’s so far forward his nose is nearly touching mine and I have to lean back to make some space.
It doesn’t work like that, I say. They have a set rate; I accept it or I don’t.
How much?
I pick up my camera and handle the smooth, curved metal. Play with the focus ring while I figure out what number to tell the guy.
A thousand pounds for a series of pictures.
He leans back in his chair again.
I’ll pay you two thousand pounds.
He takes a card from his inner jacket pocket and tosses it onto the table.
I pick up the card. CHARLES HU, reads the name, embossed in gold on a plain, off-white background. The texture of the card on my fingers feels expensive. Patrick Bateman would flip the fuck out.
Other than the name, there’s nothing else on the card. No company, no job title, no number. I flip the card over to see if there’s anything on the back, but it’s blank.
Think about it, he says, knowing and confident and smiling.
F
IVE
How that night was supposed to work, while Mia was at the gallery, I was gonna clean the place up real nice.
Cook her favourite meal (steak, mushrooms, chimichurri), blow up some balloons, hide behind the door and scare the shit out of her when she came in.
Because who doesn’t like surprises?
Only when I jump out and shout, Happy birthday!, she’s dripping wet from the rain and her eyes have bags under them and she looks tired and not right at all.
I say, Are you okay?
And she says those words that nobody in the history of the world wants to hear: Can we talk?
Now the balloons and the cake and the food on the table letting off swirls of steam look sad and, for true, like some sort of joke.
She takes off her drenched trench coat and sits down on the sofa.
She says, What’s going on with you?
And I say, What do you mean what’s going on with me?
And she says, You got fired from the paper, and now all you do is stay inside playing video games. You don’t shower. You don’t get dressed. You eat junk all day. You don’t even make it nice in here for when I get home from work.
She says, You don’t see your friends. You never want to do anything with me at the weekend. Do you know how frustrating that is?
Me, I’m crossing my arms, lining up all the things I can say to obliterate this argument and win.
And I say, What are you talking about? I point to the stupid balloons and the stupid cake and the stupid clean flat.
And I say, Also, we went for a curry across the road the other week.
And I say, Also, I saw Ed at his screening on Thursday. He says hi, by the way.
She stares at me. We don’t have sex anymore. It’s been nearly a year.
I know this is true, because for the last ten months (not a year, actually), I’ve spent my days beating my monkey to internet porn behind closed curtains, and when Mia gets home and she starts to get even a little bit intimate, I don’t feel like it.
