Chapter 8 Chapter VII

This jacket looks so good.Euler said. Oh thanks, I said, I only wear them to work. Are you a photographer too? I'm a bike courier, I said, and I'll be Owen's assistant this afternoon.Help him carry his bag and hold a silver umbrella to light up. Where did you buy this? jacket?Another cyclist gave it to me, I said, he is Polish.It must have been brought from his home country. Excuse me, Owen said politely but in a bad tone, we really don't have much time. That's great, Euler said, Poland? I guess so.Maybe we should come and take pictures.Like Owen said, our time is a bit

Is there a toilet here?Ola asked. Owen watched her.Although he didn't change his face, I saw his fists clenched.Go out the door and go upstairs.He said. thanks. Euler, said to be one of Britain's ten most promising young actresses, skipped out of the studio and slammed the door behind her.Owen rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and swayed to the small window overlooking the street.He leaned his head against the glass window and closed his eyes. How are you?I asked him. What am I doing here?He said. It's not that bad.There will be no problem. Photo editors want to capture a sense of life.

I was cycling through King's Cross that morning when I got a call from Owen asking if I could do him a favor.The tone of his question was not very polite, and he didn't mention the fact that we had made love twice in the past few hours.Say trouble you.I said it in a sweet voice. Please.he grunted. I told myself that at least this would bring a different twist to the same delivery job, so I called Campbell and told him that I would be taking leave this afternoon.Owen was called in at the last minute to do a portrait shoot for the British showbiz's Rising Stars column.Nineteen-year-old Ola.Potter was a paper man, pale and pouty, who had starred in a TV soap opera I hadn't seen and was apparently going to be famous in a movie that hadn't yet been released.But she is not yet a household name.She has no entourage of assistants, publicity agents or makeup artists.She just showed up at Owen's friend's studio and said she had to leave at four o'clock, without any room for negotiation.Except for the conversation about my jacket, she didn't show her life at all.

OK, I said, I understand.Lively.receive. She looked sluggish, Owen said, sluggish and sickly.It's like a loose rubber band, lifeless.I hate this kind of job. I take fake photos of fake celebrities with heavy make-up and scantily clad clothes.They are spoiled by the media spotlight, only to be forgotten by the next season.Looking through the magazines, these women are all the same in the end.It's hard to tell who's who.And that's what people want.They don't want real photos.It's actually a scam, and I'm a part of this whole stupid process.He turned around, facing me with his back to the window.Why the hell am I doing such drudgery?

Bow down for five buckets of rice? yes.Five buckets of rice.He growled at me as if working for money was an unforgivably bad thing. So what?Owen, don't take yourself so seriously. enough.I'm going to flash people. And he actually started packing his camera gear, stuffing it awkwardly into bags.I put my hand on his forearm, but he shook it off.Get out, he said, you're just like them. who are they?capitalist system?Or human nature? I pulled the bag in his hand hard, and he pulled back unwillingly, and finally the bag fell to the ground with a slam.A zoom lens rolled to the floor.Do you know how expensive it is?

I'm just a stupid bike courier, have you forgotten?But it's not bad, right?After all, it's just money. He gripped my forearm; I felt his fingers digging into my flesh. You hurt me. This is what you asked for. I never ask for it. Oh, sorry.Euler's drawl scared us away, am I bothering you? No such thing.I said cheerfully. Owen muttered words and picked up the camera.I thought Euler was going to the toilet to snort cocaine, but I obviously had no such luck.Still looking listless, she asked me if I had anything to drink before taking the photo.Sure, I said, coffee, tea, water, orange juice, or cranberry juice?

Do you have mint tea? No, sorry. What about chamomile tea? Only terry tea bags. Her facial muscles twitched.Is coffee decaffeinated? There is no such thing. What is water? tap water.I said. She made another disgusted look.I have a headache.she says. Need painkillers? No need. Do you want to change it to tomorrow?Owen asked.His voice was soft and creepy. But Euler didn't take it seriously.I'm going to the set tomorrow.she says. Then we can only shoot today, right? Maybe. Owen unscrewed the camera from its tripod and walked over to her.I hope you can take it easy and not pose like that, he said, you know the magazine wants you to be bubbly and happy.Is there a way to do it?

Ola just shrugged, and kept his original posture staring at the camera.Owen took a few photos, but Ola still had a dead face that didn't respond.He couldn't even put on a glaring expression. Euler.Owen finally lost his temper and talked to her.I saw the muscles in his jaw twitch. how? You are an actor, aren't you?Can't you try to force a smile?Look at you like a wax figure.Nothing to do with sexy. Then you don't have to be so rude.I went to call my agent and find another photographer to help me shoot. I watched Owen, who was standing there clutching the camera, as if about to beat her up with it.Then I nodded to Euler.can i talk to youI asked.

Estelle?Owen said, what the hell did you choose to have a heart-to-heart talk with her sister?Do you want to ask how she puts on makeup? Be respectful.I said.I gestured for Euler to follow me to the far end of the huge studio.We stood by the iron lattice windows overlooking the canal.It was raining outside, and the raindrops rippled on the gray water.I take off my coat. You said you liked it, I said, so I want to give it to you. Really?Even though she said that, she didn't seem surprised, you are so kind. It goes well with you.I said. She put on her coat with gusto like a child. Can you do me a favor in return?I ask her.

She rapturously stood in front of a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the window.What's up? Like Owen said, you're an actor, and I said, I know it's overwhelming, and you're tired, but for the next five minutes, can you play a cheerful, animated, and fun Very pleasant girl? Ola's expression was thoughtful, and then she turned to look at me with a smile on her face; her eyes suddenly sparkled, as if the light radiated from the inside out, and her palm-sized face was radiant with a fake sweet joy.OK, she said, so what's the problem? Estelle? In the rainy weather, we carried our bags and Owen's photographic equipment and walked back along the canal.

What's wrong? Thanks. You're welcome. It's just that I hate myself for not kicking her little ass. There is no need to hate yourself for this. I'll buy you another jacket. I actually didn't like that one much either. You're going to get wet and cold.Just put it on. He took off his coat and put it on my shoulders.Have you always been this magnanimous? Do you mean to you or to her? It's all the same. The rain started to get heavier, disturbing the water in the canal, and pattering on the leaves.The rain trickled down my neck and bounced off my nose.I could hear the water popping in my shoes.Owen's hair was clinging to his skull, and his shirt was soaked. Dalio will definitely run out of hot water.I said. Should I take the bus or call a taxi? If you want, we can ride together again. I like walking in the rain very much. We walked in silence, careful not to touch each other or look at each other, just staring at the muddy walks and gray puddles ahead.I'm cold on the outside but hot on the inside. We went under the bridge, stopped in the half-darkness, kissed passionately, against the damp wall; the rain dripped from our hair like tears down our cheeks.Wet clothes clung to us.Then we separated and continued walking along the canal.Irving never put down the bag full of equipment. Do you like being a courier?he ask me. I still like it.But I also don't want to be in this business forever.Who wants to deliver couriers for others at the age of sixty?I've been doing this job longer than I thought.I thought it was just a part-time job during the summer vacation, working for a few weeks, and resigning when I figured out what to do next. I didn't expect that a year would pass in the blink of an eye. So why keep doing it? Because I have been unable to decide what to do next.I used to study law, you know.That's why I know Pipa.But I have never been very clear about what to read this for.Then I traveled around and worked abroad.It's kind of fun, but I guess there's a point in my life where I'm going to have to find a job for adults.Weird, right?I mean, I've watched people like Miles.When I first met him, he gave me a radical and dangerous impression, talking about individual freedom and how the existing social system imprisons a person.But what do I expect?Should Miles be in chains; Dalio should be doing his botched job of painting, drugged into a trance; and I'm supposed to be cycling around London until I'm dead on my seat?Should we all live on Maitland Road forever and ever as students?Maybe that's why we're so averse to the idea of ​​moving.Because it means we have to face up to our own lives. maybe. Are we talking like this? do not know.It should not count.Most of the time it's you talking: I'm just responsible for keeping you talking. Oh, that's how it is.Then I won't talk about it. But he grabbed my wrist and stopped me again.In the torrential rain, he stared at me fixedly.listen.You once said I thought you were invisible.This is not true.I put you in my eyes.Here, I look at your cheekbones, your ancestors may be Finnish Laplanders.Your eyes are wide apart.The collarbone was so prominent that he ran a finger over its strong arms and flat belly.On your shoulders, under your shirt, there are little lumps of muscle.Besides, you have big boobs, and Don't judge me like I don't exist.I do not like this.Say no more. I want to take a picture for you. This should not be a good idea. Your words and actions contradict each other. Didn't you hear what I said?I am not your item. You are an object of beauty, an object of desire. Oh come on. Black and white photo.Leaning against the window and shining. I don't think so. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me.Estelle, I want to take a picture of you, he said softly, okay? That's it.I'll look at your other photos first. Then let's go. He strode off, and I almost had to run to keep up, the heavy bag bumping against my shin all the way.Once we got home, he took the bag and helped me remove his soaking jacket.There was a faint blaring of the radio on the top floor, but otherwise the house seemed empty.Let's go upstairs together.He opened his bedroom door and stared at me. now?I asked him, running my hands through my wet hair and feeling my jeans stick to my legs. Unless you don't want to watch it. Of course I want to see it, I said furiously, only I'm drenched and oh forget it.Show it to me. During the day and in my fully sane state, Owen's bedroom looked vastly different from what it had been before.The last tenant in this room was Annette, a friend of Miles' friend.She was an accountant, suffered from insomnia, got up in the middle of the night to make cakes, and moved in with her boyfriend when she got pregnant.Her feminine taste is almost over the top: pink walls, lavender drapes, matching frilly draperies around the bed, several stuffed animals piled on top of the armchairs, and she keeps a dressing table with a folding mirror in the corner. Didn't know people our age would have such a thing.The room is very different now.The pink walls were covered with light gray paint: mattresses replaced beds; dark blinds replaced curtains; photo. Are you taking pictures?I asked Owen. Only that one is.He points to a black-and-white photo of a swimmer whose body is almost completely submerged in water; the water and the light reflected from the surface distort the figure into a series of impossible angles, rendering the figure almost abstract.The others were taken by my friends. There are photographs on every wall, and more piled on a table by the window.I suddenly felt worried and shy. Come and sit, he said, pointing to a chair by the table, here, wipe your hair with a towel. I sat down awkwardly.Owen picked up a stack of photos and put them in front of me. These are my more recent works.he said stiffly. I resist the urge to snicker or run away.good.I said. I've been busy with photography for the past two weeks.I want to compile them into a portfolio. I flipped open the first photo, feeling relieved: it was just rippling, obliquely lit water like the one on the wall, minus the human form.Then I was taken aback and shuddered.It turned out that it was not just water: there was a barely visible human face under the rippling water, and she looked up, her hair scattered like weeds.Reminiscent of the face of a drowned woman. I flip to the next one.A nude woman lay on a stained mattress, pure white and flawless, like a marble statue.Her long hair brushed across her face, only her parted red lips could be seen.One hand was stretched out on the mattress, and I couldn't see what was written in the palm; the other hand was clamped between the legs.The photos were erotic but impersonal, and I shivered in my wet and sticky clothes. Your women have no face.I said. Owen didn't say a word, and continued to turn to the next photo for me. A stubby thornbush in winter, as strong and unyielding as metal.This one is okay. Another nude or, the same one?Only this time she stood upright and let the camera examine her carefully. Then, it was the same woman again, with her hands tied with rope, and a calm smile on her face. who is she?I asked. Her name is An Jieya.We got to know each other through photography. I seemed to be provoked by something.Is it jealousy?Wouldn't she be uncomfortable taking nude photos? why?Owen said, will you? I don't know what to make of it, I said, I mean, these pictures are stunning, but I really don't know. These are just small tests.As Owen spoke, he took out another photo print. A foot, twice the size of the real life.You can see every detail of chipped nails, hair on toes, tiny particles of dirt. It's like being slapped in the face, and the colorful and lively pictures jump in front of your eyes; although it is just an ordinary street scene, it is like a carnival in a foreign country under Owen's ingenious hands, as if Hackney District has become Brazil.I laughed. Another black and white photo.There is a woman sitting by the window, with her back to the camera, with a big bald head, and her spine is like a knotty railroad track on her smooth back. Close-up of the same woman, facing the camera with unnaturally large eyes.In her eyes, I can clearly see the reflection of the photographer.I held out my finger and touched it. It's you.I said. self-portrait. Another tree, even though it was scorched, sprouted buds from its blackened stump. Trees, running water, naked women, I say, you have a lot of pictures that don't look like pictures. What is that like? Like a painting.like sculpture.I don't know either. Want to see more? Show me. He put the other pictures on the table.I flipped through them one by one, and under his intense gaze without blinking, I felt like I was doing my homework.I put the last one aside and turned from my chair. How about it?he ask me. These photos are disturbing. They are meant to be disturbing.At least you didn't say perfunctorily that it was a good shot. I took the shirt off over my head.No, I said slowly, these were not well shot. I undo my bra and throw it on the floor.Owen looked at me with a concentration I had never seen before.I kick off my shoes, jeans and panties. Want me to take some pictures for you? I shake my head. When it was done, he lay on the bed next to me and stroked my belly. Still don't agree?he asked. right. Don't be so old-fashioned. I shake off his touch, get out of bed and get dressed.I had the urge to growl at him, but I swallowed my anger and spoke to him calmly.Although we live under the same roof, we hardly spoke a word until yesterday.However, what have we done in the past twenty-four hours?We went to bed and did it three times, although the first time it was more of a fight, the second time your eyes didn't open at all, and then just this time again.I don't know what you think of me.Maybe you don't like me, maybe you look down on me, maybe you don't think of me at all.But I would be very uncomfortable if I asked you to look at me through the lens of a camera the way you look at those women. Owen just looked at me.I seem to detect a smile on his face. The downstairs door opened and closed, and Davy called, "Hello!I shuddered. So that's it?I asked. so what? It's over between us, right? Between us?I didn't know it started between us.he said in a nonchalant tone. There's none?I put both hands on his handsome, hurt-looking face, and kissed his angry lips hard.How can it end then? That night I stood by the window wondering what Owen was doing in the bedroom a few meters away from me.But the pipa interrupted my daydreams.As usual, she opened the door and sat by my bed without knocking or calling my name first.Her cheeks were radiant.Hey!Guess what's new? What? Mike was in the military. right.That makes sense, doesn't it?At least that explains why he has a way of cooking for a crowd.Then why did he keep it a secret? He participated in the first Gulf War and then retired.He didn't like to talk about his military career. I can tell. After he retired, he traveled around for many years.I guess he probably doesn't know what else to do with the rest of his life. How do you know these things? Oh oh.Pipa snickered a few times and looked at me shyly. No way!real or fake?I said that when I thought about all the things that happened at home, I started to panic. real. You slept with him?What happened just now? He looked sad, and I was very curious about him.I thought it might amuse him a little. You talk about having sex like you're going to a bar for a drink. Although it can't be called the most passionate experience in this girl's life, it's not bad. Do you just knock on his door openly like this and ask him if he wants to have sex? not completely.I went into his bedroom.My God, Estelle, his room is a bare wall.Nothing.As if he was still in the army.There was just a bed, a chest of drawers, and a closet we hauled up from the utility room, and that was all.No personal touch at all.Anyway, I poked my head in and asked him if he wanted a cup of tea or a beer or something.He said no, so I walked in.Then things just happened naturally. God, I said, Mike. Mike.Pipa grinned. Will you still be in bed afterwards? Probably not.It's not about feelings.Just for fun. Wouldn't it be awkward between you two? What's so embarrassing? I was at a loss for words and couldn't answer.If it was me, it might be embarrassing. I just thought you might want to know about my little episode. right.I say skeptically. What about you? me what? Your love life. I currently have no love life. There's none? No! That's coming soon, right? I don't know what you are talking about. Come on, Estelle.Owen.I saw the way you looked at each other this morning.Then they avoided looking at each other.I'm sure you two have I have a feeling of being induced to tell a secret.But ma'am, I'm not in the mood for joking or chatting. Nothing about the two of you, and my eyes were not wandering.I'm just helping Mike make a bacon sandwich. You don't even look at who you're talking to, I'm a world-class champion who cracks lustful eyes early in the morning.He is handsome and has no girlfriend.Why don't you take your chance?If only I would.Hey, can I borrow this shirt from you tomorrow? OK. Mike has a big scar on his back.It looks so scary.