Boy Parts(69)

‘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.’