“That’s an amazing perk for the users... And your mum got you in?” His brief, proud smile is quickly covered by the sullen look from earlier. I hold both my hands up to the optical firing squad aiming right for me. “Hey, I would use those kinds of contacts if I had them.”
“Yeah... well, her social prowess is about the only benefit to having her as a mother, so...”
My eyebrows meet in the middle as I open my mouth in question but am immediately distracted as we turn the corner into the exhibition. Heat rises up my neck straight to my cheeks as I stand frozen at the entrance. Confidently striding forward to meet the rest of the group, Bancroft looks to his side, stops and turns around to find me standing still, taking it all in. The white room is filled to the brim with wall installations, statues on plinths and sculptures winding their way around the room. My eyes flit from a black and white photograph of a naked woman looking at her genitals in a handheld mirror, to a giant inflatable penis hanging from the ceiling with words like “inadequate” and “be a man” graffitied on it in black Sharpie, to a marblesculpture of a woman in a floral dress hugging a young girl in the same dress.
His hard face softens at the sight of me, his lips twisting into his infamous smirk. “You OK there, Hastings?”
“Fine!” Straightening my shoulders, I stomp into the room, trying to avert my gaze from the wall of clay vagina molds.
I grab a glass of wine from a marble plinth by the entrance and down it. We join the dozen people gathering around the tour guide who introduces us to the exhibition.
“Self-love is the first step in giving love out into the world. To love oneself is to see our true selves and not shy away or criticize. To look into the void through the lens of acceptance. We asked some of our favorite artists-in-residence and a few up-and-coming creatives to show us their version of self-love and self-expression. Some physical, some psychological and some metaphorical: we hope each piece brings you closer to their vision of vulnerability and internal acceptance.”
We split up, wandering the exhibition on separate sides of the room. I can’t help being aware of where Bancroft is at all times. It felt as if after that moment in the merchandise cupboard something had shifted between us, but now I’m second-guessing myself. A series of twelve self-portraits catches my eye. They span an entire wall, a spectrum of black and white flowing into bright bursts of color. The title card says the artist painted one every month after getting out of a toxicrelationship. I stare at the first one, seeing something of myself in those eyes, wondering if this is what I looked like? It’s certainly how I felt: a numbness and heaviness that felt almost ironic considering I’d had something ripped from me so harshly. The text messages I sent William after he dumped me ring in my mind like a sad, desperate song. Acutely aware of Bancroft’s presence pacing closer, I blink the glaze from my eyes and cross my arms.
“I like this one.” I nod my chin to the seventh painting in the series. Colors bursting out of the bleak contrast in wide brush strokes like flowers blooming in fast motion.
“Hmmm,” he replies emptily, his mind clearly back to whatever has been bothering him.
I want to stomp my feet and smash through the awkwardness like an angry kid bashing through a Jenga tower, but settle for a softer approach. “Is your sister doing OK?”
He studies the matte white heart pattern painted across the shiny parquet wood floor.
“She was kinda shook up by the whole thing.” He pauses for a moment. “Andveryhungover... but I’d choose her vomiting into my ficus plant over her being sat in a jail cell.”
We both let out shaky laughter. His shoulders release some of their tension like a geyser letting off steam, instantly relaxing me by osmosis. I briefly hate myself for letting his mood affect mine so easily, resenting how connected I feel to his well-being. He turns to face me,meeting my eyes fully for the first time this evening. “Thank you again, by the way. For your help. It was... nice not to do that alone.”
“No problem,” I mumble as we move to the next painting, inching closer together, adding a cushion to this lumpy sofa of a conversation. My body braces as I ask, “Do you think your mother will change her mind about cutting Iris off?”
He downs the remaining wine and places the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter with a nod; then he puts his hands in his navy cotton pockets and studies the floor once again.
“Hopefully, it’s been dealt with.”
He’s tensing more with each question but I push on. “Is that where you’ve been the past few days?”
He sighs a reluctant surrender as if he knows that now I’ve made a dent in him I won’t stop until I’ve hit gold.
“Yes. My mother has been in the country for the week and I had to go and convince her to restore Iris’s bank account, so she doesn’t end up moving in with her shitty friends.”
I resist expressing an opinion on what kind of mother would put their children through that, instead settling on a more tame question: “Why does she do it?”
“I think it’s her latest husband; he’s a banker in Dubai and has been talking to her about cutting Iris off for good. Our mother is more concerned about the headlines involving us than what’s actually going on in our lives.”
It’s hard to feel pity for someone with a trust fund, but I can’t help but feel sorry for them both after seeing how bad Iris’s situation was the other night. It’s as if she never had a chance to become a fully functioning adult, since she is always surrounded by people who take advantage of her.
“Could Iris live with you?” I tilt my chin up toward him.
“She’s staying with me for a few weeks but she doesn’t want to be ‘babied.’ She’s trying really hard to work things out on her own, to not have to rely on our mother anymore. But it’s hard not to still see her as a kid that needs looking after, especially with friends likethat.”
After some late-night googling I already know the answer to the question I’m about to ask. Iris’s father is Lars Fender, a famous rockstar and lead singer of The Shags. A band that was huge in the nineties but has since been better known for their wild antics than their music.
“Is her dad around much?”
“Iris’s dad is always on tour. He’s fine but not exactly the strong, stable parental figure she needed growing up, or now. When she was younger our mum didn’t like her going out on the road with him, but she also didn’t pay any attention to Iris when she was at home. So, it was mostly me and a series of nameless nannies looking after her.”
I don’t know what to say so I choose silence. That’s a lie—I know what I want to say. The question that’s been eating at me since the night of the pottery class.
“How come you don’t mention her often?”
