Page 122 of The Photograph

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you now.”

“What? Don’t say things like that now. We’re about to do the biggest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

Shifting back, he bends his knees a little to see my face, tipping my chin up, eyes roaming mine.

“It’s all right. I feel the same way. You’re not going to lose me.”

This makes me want to cry more. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

He laughs and pulls me into him again. “Come on, you big softie.”

“Never mind your pictures, I want the one Woo took framed on our wall.”

“Is okay?” Woo says from behind Alex.

“It’s great,” Alex says over his shoulder. Then he turns around and gets the photographer’s card while I compose myself. And when he’s moved on to take photographs of the gallery, we stare at the large white space steadily filling with chattering people, and the huge pictures dominating it.

“Funnily enough, I’m not nervous anymore,” Alex says with a laugh. “Well done, Des.”

I give myself a little shake. I’m here for Alex. I squeeze his hand. “Come on then, let’s mingle.”

Two hours later, I think I have drunkenly sold all the photographs in the place. Each time a tray with glasses of champagne has gone past, I’ve nabbed two or even three, pressing them into other people’s hands and downing every second glass myself. Everything is becoming fuzzy around the edges. I narrow my eyes on an older straight couple standing next to a picture that I think hasn’t been bought yet because of the price tag, so I weave through the crowd toward them. The gallery is packed, and they’re clearly arguing. They look American or perhaps European.

On the white wall behind them is a photo of my crotch. Of course, you can’t see anything rude—it’s too arty for that—but it’s there in shadow alongside my stomach and a hint of pubic hair.

I scoot over to them. “Hello,” I say brightly, and the man scowls at me.

I gesture at the photograph. “Not sure how I feel about having my junk on display in an art gallery.”

The lady blinks at me. “This is you?” She scans me up and down.

“They’re pretty much all me, to be honest. I’m Alex’s boyfriend, Des.” I hold out my hand, which she takes enthusiastically.

“We met before he was out, when he was just starting to explore his sexuality. These photographs show that quality of innocence, I think. I love art from a particular point in an artist’s life that could never be repeated, don’t you?”

“Never be repeated,” the man says in a heavy Russian accent, turning to look at the photograph, then peering over his glasses at it.

“Alex won’t ever do work quite like this again,” I say, looking at the image, and both the lady and the man turn to stand next to me to examine it. “It’s a reflection of what was hidden and what was not. The dark and the light …” I sweep a hand over the picture, then glance behind me across the gallery to where Alex is talking earnestly to a rather large and florid man.

“He was hiding?” the woman says, fascinated.

Pursing my lips at the photo, I say, “Coming out is such a huge step. In private there is less fear, but in public Alex was scared, hiding from the disapproval, from his family. This whole exhibition is an exploration of this, and of course he’s from a Jewish background and his parents …”

“He’s Jewish?” The man spins to look at Alex.

“Yes,” I say.

The man looks at his wife. “That changes everything.”

It does? The woman peers at me over her glasses. “And you are not Jewish, I presume?”

I shake my head. The man leans into the picture, far too close to my crotch. “Just like you and I, Lisichka.”

“We were meant to have this photograph, I think,” she says.

When I catch up with Alex later, he narrows his eyes at me. “What have you been up to?”

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