I was thrilled. Deeply, problematically thrilled. I pressed him for more details. It would be tasteful, of course. Politically right-on. And, a week later, I was on my back on the kitchen floor, holding some roses over my bush and staring up at the black circle of Art’s lens as he stood on two kitchen chairs over me, balanced like a bridge. Part of me billowed at being his subject. I wanted scrutinising, I did. I wanted someone to look and look and look at me and not stop looking. The roses were meant to symbolise menstruation – that’s what Art said in interviews. Hahaha! Who WAS this guy?

‘I am going to buy you a present every time you get your period,’ he also said to me.

‘That’s quite a commitment.’

‘So be it.’

Before the photos were released I used to sneak down to his darkroom in the cellar, flick on the strip light, and ogle myself. I was overjoyed they were going out into the world. That anticipation was mine and mine alone. I knew how well they’d do. I felt my own proximity to heat, to warmth, to … almost-love. I couldn’t wait. Could not wait. How did they make me feel? Adored. Seen. Validated. I wanted all those girls I went to school with to see. I felt as though I had that in my eyes as I stared out, lethal. Bow down, bitches …

Kelly said: ‘Do you not feel a bit exposed?’

I said: ‘Are you making a photography joke?’

‘No.’

‘He’s an artist,’ I said defensively. ‘It’s his job to expose things.’

A fudge! Similar: ‘Would you love him if he wasn’t an artist?’

Oh, but (I took my time with this one, pre-prepped): ‘Art wouldn’t be Art if he wasn’t an artist.’

He loved me, and I loved him. We did. We assuaged each other’s fears for as long as we could. But once the pictures were out, and people talked over me when he tried to introduce me, I saw myself for what I was: the silent partner. It was a legacy, but not my legacy. Half of me revelled in the glory of being seen; the other half felt undermined. But Art still saw me. Still saw right through. Didn’t he?

Like when he found me in the kitchen that Halloween – our third Halloween party in a row. We’d invited so many people – it must have been close to a hundred in the end. Pumpkin lights and cobwebs were strung along the bannisters. The lounge was full of hags and zombies. I was in the kitchen, tipping pineapple juice into a pan of hot rum punch. A tower of vintage teacups teetered by the hob.

Art came up behind me silently and put his arms around me. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah!’