Iris Green Unseen by Louise Finch

Author:Louise Finch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic
Published: 2024-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

22

Same time, same place. We do it all over again. A long morning lingering with our cameras, walking the back roads of town and searching for new and interesting angles. Side by side and drifting away from each other before looping back. We are quiet except when there’s something to say.

“What about her?” Baker says, gesturing to a tiny, neat woman with square glasses and a happy-looking German shepherd threatening to pull her off her feet. “Go fuss the pooch, get a snap.”

“You talk to her if it’s so easy. You’re the one who exists with an entourage of admirers around him at all times, so I assume you’re more charming than you’ve ever let on.”

“What an intriguing view of my life,” he says wryly. “I think what you’re referring to are ‘friends’? Mostly close friends of Tash’s, actually, who’re mine too by default. It’s hard to find your people, right?”

“God, yeah, impossible for anyone who’s friendly and traditionally attractive.” Shit me. Baker definitely hears that last part – his mouth starts to move – so I add in a rush, “Um … but I guess you’re strange in less obvious ways.” And he chokes on the sip of coffee he’s taking. “In good ways.”

But not every interaction is beset by excruciating faux pas that haunt me when I go on my night-time bodyless walks, blasting through film at a rate my bank balance can barely handle.

I’m beyond questioning what Baker’s doing hanging out with me. Perhaps his friends have left the country with their families and he’s at the loosest end of his whole life.

One, two days together and I don’t turn invisible. My body remains all solid and here because Baker anchors me like gravity as I tell him about Gerda Taro and Dora Maar. “You have to remember their names,” I tell him. “Dora Maar deserves to be more than a footnote in Picasso’s biography, because that guy…” I kick a stone.

“He was kind of a jerk?” Baker supplies.

“The worst! A total prick!” I clap, forgetting myself for a moment in the pure joy of cussing out Pablo. “You know who else is terrible?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

I am. And I do.

And then it’s our last day.

Baker meets me holding two coffees, one in each hand, the paper cups stamped with the familiar bear logo. There’s a brown paper bag clamped between his fingers. He offers a choice of muffins: chocolate or blueberry. I want chocolate, but surely everyone prefers chocolate, so I take blueberry.

“Not long until the big day.” Baker points his muffin in my face. “Think you’ve got enough material to whittle a decent exhibition sub? Feeling like a winner?”

“It’s sad after all the time we’ve spent together you still don’t know me at all.”

“That’s fair.”

“I’m feeling … almost adequate,” I say, mentally cataloguing my haul.

“Sounds like you’ve got it in the bag. What’ll you do with the cash? Think they’d let you use it for a research trip? Europe? September onwards?”

I stuff my mouth with the last bite of muffin, poke my thumb through the hole in my sleeve and waggle it.

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