New Orbit Magazine: Issue 04, October 2018

alancing of the books. The death of love
observed from two irreconcilable viewpoints;
the ultimate artistic collaboration. It must have
amused you to think of the critics deliberating
over which version of the Morocco sex scene
they preferred. I have no doubt that mine
would have been dismissed as a naive work, not
fit to be compared with the ultimate
achievement of the great Leroy Haines.
If that was your plan, I must apologise for not
sticking to the script. But I have a quite
different story to tell, one that is so much richer
than yours.
My story tells of a new start and a change of
direction. It tells of a woman who gave up art to
teach English; who got lucky and met a man
who would, in time, come to adore her. Most
important of all, it tells of the three daughters
they brought into this world.
There’s Jennifer, her blonde hair streaming
past bony shoulders, her eight year-old face
beaming with pleasure as the playground swing
lifts her high into the air.
And that’s Emma, slimmer and darker than
Jennifer, her typically serious expression
breaking into a shy little smile as she receives a
rosette at her first gymkhana.
And there’s Katie, her face smudged with
chocolate, giggling as she toddles around the
garden, pursued by her father.
Already, I can hear peals of laughter echoing
around the hall. Not that the verdict of the
critics worries me in the slightest, not any more.
What do I care if they think of my hyperslice as
sentimental dross?
I stand on the platform with my head held
high, waiting for the laughter to die down. It
seems to take an eternity, but eventually a hush
settles over the Turbine Hall. Moments later,
the silence is broken by the sound of footsteps.
I greet my family with hugs and kisses. Emma
and Jennifer wriggle free of my clutches, much
keener to play with a hyperslice than to bond
with its creator. Within seconds they have
worked out how to replay the video sequences.
“So embarrassing!” I hear Jennifer cry.
My husband slips one arm round my waist
and tickles my hip, making me giggle. His other
hand is tickling Katie, who is riding on his
shoulders. Not for much longer, I fear, for she
is growing fast. Time always forces us to give up
those things that we want to cherish forever.
Leroy, I’m not one of those people who think
of their children as works of art. But I do know
for certain that they represent the only kind of
immortality that matters to me. ◊