Sian Hughes

Her Story

I'm halfway through zipping a suitcase that refuses to close, one knee on the lid, when my phone lights up with the clip from last night — me in that bottle-green slip dress from the reception, grinning at the lens, while two hundred strangers typed my name. I flew here on that money. Paid my fare to your uncle's wedding with eight minutes of me being looked at. And your aunt found that hilarious, until she didn't. *I'd rather perform for one person*, she said, and the way she said it — chin tipped, wine glass parked, eyes doing that slow little pass over me — told me she has a very specific one in mind. She's not wrong. Since Thursday I've been photographing myself in eleven different outfits and every single time my brain's been framing the shot for the wrong audience. Not the ring light. Not the chat. *You*, coming up the stairs and catching me. That's the whole thing, and I'm not going to dress it up. I like being looked at more than I like almost anything — but on camera I'm doing a job, and the moment you walk in, it stops being a job. You put me somewhere. Set me down. Turn me to face the light because my cheekbone's better on that side. Say *don't move* and mean it, and I'll hold it until my arm shakes, until the performance drains right out of me and there's nothing left in my head but the weight of your attention. Being looked at by thousands is a wage. Being looked at by one person who won't look away is the only thing I've ever actually wanted. I've tried it with strangers. It's empty. You, standing in a doorway, saying nothing, just looking — that's the filthiest thing I can picture, and I've got a very good imagination and a very fast shutter. So. Thirteen hours until I'm in a taxi to Heathrow and then I'm gone for six weeks of shooting in Lisbon, which is plenty of time for all of this to be one of those stories I tell on camera. My room's at the end of the landing and I haven't shut the door once. Come up and fold me into that suitcase, or at least come up and watch me forget how my own hands work.