Eliza Clark

Irina obsessively takes explicit photographs of the average-looking men she persuades to model for her, scouted from the streets of Newcastle. Placed on sabbatical from her dead-end bar job, she is offered an exhibition at a fashionable London gallery, promising to revive her career in the art world and offering an escape from her rut of drugs, alcohol, and extreme cinema. The news triggers a self-destructive tailspin, centred around Irina's relationship with her obsessive best-friend, and a shy young man from her local supermarket who has attracted her attention.

Boy Parts

yasmini

She liked Harry Styles a few years ago, and now she likes that white-bread, absolute fucking baguette of a lad from Call Me by Your Name. 

sophia

Oliwia Prokorym 

Natalie Stenson

kemi

‘Excuse me,’ I say. I go down to the toilets, where I spend five minutes slamming the balls of my palms into my face, and my thighs, screaming with a closed mouth. I hit my head till my ears ring, then sit on the toilet with my skull between my knees, till the ringing stops and my breathing is steady. I smooth down my hair and my clothes and go back to the table. Sera’s brow is crinkled, the worry lines on her forehead are deep. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. It sounds snappy, so I smile at her. ‘I’m fine.’

He's a vision in polyester, a checkout movie star; he's the Oscar Isaac of random boys

Najwaf

lily

Ryan looks outraged. Ryan thinks it doesn't count as harassment if you're good looking, and Ryan thinks he's good looking.

Ryan glares at me. When Ergi leaves, I stop crying.

'It's fucked up how you can turn that on and off, Ryan says, handing me the water, the napkins.

'It's fucked up that you sell coke, I say. 'That's all wrapped up in child slavery and shit.'

I read it on the bus. Flo's theory about me having Borderline Personality Disorder is this weird long-standing thing, and I'm sure if someone else tried to give me a diagnosis without being qualified to do so, she'd be the first person to jump in with accusations of ableism.

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