Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 18

After I send Matt Costa the photo of the blue bananas sitting on the award winning penis shaped tumours I’m filled with nerves. I expect my phone to start ringing as soon as I’ve sent it. When it doesn’t I find myself checking whether I’ve put it on silent or whether the signal is bad.

I picture Matt lying on a sofa in some loft flat, a flannel over his head and a Bloody Mary in his hand. I imagine his groan at the sound of his phone then reaching for it. When he sees the photo, he sits up, shouts ‘fuck me!’ and then rings me back.

So why is my phone not ringing?

He must be asleep. There’s no way he’s going to let this picture pass him by as if it were mere spam.

Farrell nudges me with his elbow.

‘Adrenalin worn off?’

‘A little bit.’

We’re in a pub along the river surrounded by tense football fans who are watching a match on the flat screen above our heads. I feel agitated. I would have liked to have gone home but Farrell wanted to celebrate pulling off our prank and has ordered a cheap bottle of fizz. He doesn’t earn enough for fancy gestures and I don’t know why he’s pretending he does.

The football fans whoop when the cork pops and someone runs out of the toilets with his belt undone and shouts, ‘Who scored?’ He gives us a dirty look when he realises his mistake and heads back into the toilet.

Bibiana is all honey now that our mission is accomplished and accepts her glass of prosecco with a big smile.

‘To Amber!’ she cries, and half the pub joins in.

I blush like a tomato. I need an excuse in case someone asks me what exactly we’re celebrating. The real reason seems a little shameful. It’s not that I’m ashamed, more like I’m anxious that what I thought was an exciting move might actually be insignificant. Has it been done before? Are people forever sneaking their bits of art into galleries, hoping to get lucky, hoping for some key player in the industry to see its potential?

I just wish I was home so I could check online. I just want to know if it has been mentioned at all. Anywhere. Random blogs. Facebook. Twitter? I've tweeted but my following of five seem to be asleep.

What worries me is that the bananas weren’t there long enough. I mean, they couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, ten max, on the exhibit. Some cleverclogs with a programme must have queried why the bananas weren’t included in the picture in the booklet. I check my phone again. Nothing. Perhaps Matt takes weekends seriously. People do that. They work like dogs all week and then they withdraw into their luxury pads, paid with their sweat and blood during the week, and they shut themselves off to the world.

Soon Farrell is pouring out another glass of fizzy. Egg is flushed. He claims he used to make moonshine at university but if that’s true, surely he should be more resistant to the decent stuff.

‘To Bibiana!’ Egg cries.

She throws her head back and the pub is filled with her deep laughter. The football fans are momentarily hypnotised by her and half of them miss the goal that follows. There’s a collective roar and anyone sitting down leaps up and punches the air, including Egg, who has never watched a football match from beginning to end in all his life. Farrell grabs hold of me and gives me this massive bear hug. I don’t even know who’s playing but the feeling in the pub is contagious. I squeeze him back, but when I try to pull away he keeps on holding me. I pat his back, laughing, and he responds by giving me a clumsy kiss on my neck.

‘You’re amazing,’ he says in my ear. ‘You’re so fucking amazing Amber.’

He lets me go and I don’t know what’s got into him, but he’s looking at me with such affection that he must be on his way to getting seriously drunk. Some people get aggressive when they drink, Farrell gets sentimental.