Page 120 of The Photograph

“But theIntimaciesexhibition is all erotic photography of you and me! That isn’t the type of thing you want for the birth of a child.”

“Janus asked if you’d take photos of him and Jo together,” I say, smirking.

Alex covers his face. “Are you kidding me? Like explicit ones?”

“Probably. You have to be the luckiest dude on the planet to be asked to take pictures of that guy with his shirt off …” Fanning myself with my hand, I lean into Alex. “Maybe withallhis clothes off.” I press my hand to my chest.

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s way too intimate. I mean …”

“You have just created an exhibition of erotic photographs of you and me, mainly me actually. What do you mean you can’t do that?”

“God, I’m such a fraud.”

My eyes widen at him. “What? Why would you say that?”

“All I did was take a bunch of hot pictures of my boyfriend, often after we’d had sex. I’m not a proper photographer at all. Fuck, I’m an idiot,” he mutters.

And he yanks open the door of the orange cab that’s now waiting on the sidewalk to take us to the art gallery.

I told Alex about the conversation with Janus because I thought it would settle his nerves, but by the time we arrive his face is one long streak of misery. He’s a stewer this lovely man of mine. As we push through the steel-and-glass door and shed our layers, I take in the huge white space, now adorned with enormous black-and-white prints. The head of the gallery, Seo-jun, who I think is secretly in love with Alex—a fact I’ve shared with Alex many times—comes flapping over.

“Alex!” he simpers. “Oh, you guys look so amazing!” His hand scans theatrically up and down our bodies, his other hand clamped around some books. This guy is more of a drama merchant than I am.

“Is that the catalogue?” I say. I’ve seen a proof but not the real thing.

Beaming, he gives one each to Alex and me and then scuttles off to greet someone who’s just arrived. The book is solid and glossy; a heavy weight in my hands. On the front cover is a nude photograph of me, cropped from the hips upward. Alex took it one night in the kitchen in our apartment in New York without me knowing. The only bits illuminated are my chest and my face, which even in black and white you can tell are flushed and sweaty. My hand is resting on my pecs like I’m recovering, and if I wasn’t naked, you’d think I’d been on a run. It’s an outstanding picture, very suggestive.

I sigh. “I love this photo.”

Alex stares at the book in his hand, then his eyes come up to meet mine. His face is ashen.

“What is it?”

“What am I doing?” he whispers.

“Living your best life, Alex,” I say, and lean in and kiss him on the cheek again.

He groans. “They’re going to crucify me. I’ve got no artistic training, nothing.” He looks around wildly. “I have to go.”

When I clasp his arm and pull him into me, he’s shaking. “One step at a time, sweetheart. There are things we need to do. Photographs for the press, interviews, yes?”

He shakes his head. “No way, Des. I don’t have anything to say. What the hell can I say about these pictures?” He sweeps his hand toward the walls.

Goddammit.I should have rehearsed with him before we got here. He’s so quiet Alex; I had no idea he was panicking so much.

“Just say the concept was to explore the boundaries between public and private exposure. Who says what stays sacred and what is for wider consumption? And who ought to have a say in that?”

“Boundaries between public and private … what stays sacred,” he mutters under his breath.

I pull back. “Can you do that?”

“Perhaps. Will you stay here?” He curls his fingers through mine.

I kiss his cheek again. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

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