“So you’ll be okay?” Jack asks, his bags resting by the studio door.
“Sure thing,” I say, all breezy and excited that he trusts me again to take care of things for a week.
“There’re no major shoots, just housework,” he says. “I’ve left a folder on your desktop: invoices to pay, phone calls to make. Don’t let me down, Alexa.”
“Everything will be fine. Now go!”
Jack squeezes me hard, kisses my cheek, and smiles. Whoa, go easy, I think, but secretly I’m enjoying his affection, our intimacy.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says, collecting his phone off the desk.
I throw him an as if look. “GO!” I order.
Once he’s out the door, I click on the folder and check through the list of “Things to do while Jack’s away.” Fine, all good. No problem.
Pleased with myself, I feel almost tall in my chair. Proud and encouraged that I’m trusted enough to run the show after Jack’s threat earlier this month—One more strike, Alexa, and you’re out. Runner takes the Light and walks over to the sound system. She pumps out some Captain Beefheart, Oneiroi trying her best to muscle in with Mariah Carey’s greatest hits. Don’t even think about it, Runner grunts, turning up the volume. She pours herself a shot of the whiskey hidden away in Jack’s filing cabinet and suddenly we’re dancing. The Body cut loose and swaying, head dipped and whipping our hair. Feels good. Feels great. Another whiskey.
Go easy, I say, we’ve still got work to do.
Chill, Runner sings, her eyes closed, arms in the air. Laughing, I get on board, enjoying the freedom, Runner’s unwinding. Her air guitar now in full flow, the Body kneeling and sliding across the studio floor.
“Let’s call Robin!” she shouts.
“NO,” I cry.
“You’re no fun, Alexa.” She smiles coyly and squeezes my cheeks.
Another whiskey.
Runner noses around Jack’s desk for something interesting: a black-and-white photograph of him and a pal kayaking, a stress ball, a couple CVs resting in his inbox. She flicks through them: the first one a recent graduate looking for unpaid work; the second Sam Driver, who’s been working for three years on a national newspaper picture desk and is clearly ambitious, experienced, and keen to “branch out.” “Mm,” Runner says, “he’s got drive, all right.” She tosses the CVs in the bin. “But don’t worry about it,” she says.
Seated at my desk, I switch back into the Body, sync up my camera with the computer, and download the last couple of months’ shots, noticing a file on the screen named Us.
What’s that? Runner asks.
I click on the file. A distant and vague memory of Shaun and me messing around one night after work. A catalogue of images appear on the screen. Runner points at one and I click again. It is a picture of me, naked, a ribbon around my throat, legs spread open. Another whiskey. Urrr, my tolerance for neat liquor clearly nowhere near as matured as Runner’s. I cover my mouth with my hand, but already Dolly has seen my shock. She turns away, Runner guiding her back to the Nest, Oneiroi slinking off in front. Don’t think we don’t know this was you, Runner shouts. Oneiroi’s pace quickens. Get back here, Runner orders. I know you did this for him. I watch Runner grab hold of Oneiroi’s shoulder, yank and pull her to face us. Runner grits her teeth, her breath fast and enraged. Oneiroi says nothing. Instead, she stares out at the image on-screen. Then she begins to cry.
I miss him, she confesses.
Miss him? He’s a complete douche bag, Runner slurs.
You wouldn’t understand.
Damn right.
Oneiroi takes the Body, swipes through dozens of shots. An intimate rectangle of our bodies damp with heat. A raised knee. An arched back. Fists clenching a pillow. Some of the pictures are unfamiliar, I note, but not all of them. These, I recognize, were of our early days spent together, when we were happy. It felt comforting to me, having someone close, someone other than Ella to take my hand; to hold and stroke and squeeze it. Sometimes I longed to be loved so badly I’d ache, but I saw it in him too. Both of us alive to our fears and hopes and past pains.
Oneiroi zooms in on a photograph of Shaun splayed across my bed laughing, a smoke in his hand.
I really miss him, she cries. My body felt alive when I was with him.
Runner stares, a look of defiance cast across her eyes. You know what, I’m afraid for you. She sneers. You don’t seem to grasp what’s right and what’s wrong. He will destroy you if you allow him. He will hurt you and leave you to rot.
Don’t patronize me.
Oh, please. And by the way, it’s OUR body, she corrects. OURS.
“There’s no such thing,” Oneiroi speaks aloud. “But then, I don’t expect you to understand that. Your words are not a warning, they’re a curse. And just so you know, you are the one to thrust them against us.”