Call Back (The Model Agency #3)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Xavier

Backstage is chaos. People are everywhere, talking loudly and jostling for space with the dozens of racks of clothing. The noise level is one decibel above bedlam, and the air is filled with the scent of aftershave, hairspray, and the faint tang of fake tan.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

I look over at Louis, the show producer, who’s standing in the middle of the room holding a clipboard.

Mandy, my hairstylist, hisses a curse at me. “Sit still. It’s like you’ve got ants in your pants.”

“I don’t think there’s enough room for an ant colony and my penis in these trousers.”

She snorts. “Leave the ants. They’re less trouble.”

Everyone carries on talking, so Louis gives a weary sigh.

“For fuck’s sake, come and line up,” he bellows.

He turns to his assistant, who’s a harried-looking young man with a permanent frown.

“I’d have had more luck with a cast of pigeons.

And they make less shit.” He raises his voice again. “Places now.”

Mandy sprays me with enough hairspray to glue a plate together, and I join the line.

Someone squeezes in behind me. Breath hits my neck, and I hear a familiar oily voice say, “You look hot.”

I roll my eyes. “When don’t I?”

Robbie chuckles. “You’ve got me there. I can’t name a time.”

I can name many times I’ve looked terrible, the latest one being when I rocked up here before hair and makeup got hold of me.

This is why I can’t get on with Robbie. He’s all cheesy compliments and sly chatter, and none of it is ever truthful.

He makes my head hurt. Nevertheless, I’m polite.

I’m always polite. I might do exactly what I want in life, but I’ve never been rude to anyone while I was doing it.

My upbringing is just too ingrained. Even now, I can hear my grandmother lecturing me about leaving empty spaces during a conversation.

I’d like to leave a space the size of a football field with Robbie, but I turn and smile politely at him. “You look nice too.”

He pouts. “Nice? That’s the kiss of death.”

“If only that were true, Roddie,” says a voice from behind us.

I can almost hear Robbie’s teeth grinding as he turns to the new arrival. “My name is Robbie.”

Mal tosses his head, and his dark hair falls artfully down his bare back. “Really? How silly of me.”

Robbie rolls his eyes. “You fucking know it anyway.”

“I must have forgotten. Insignificant facts rarely stay in my head. I’m much too important for that.”

I offer a genuine smile to Mal as he comes to stand behind me, neatly nudging Robbie out of the way and ignoring his protests. Here is one person who regularly speaks the truth. Mal might be more of a diva than a crowd of Mariah Carey clones, but at least he’s an honest one.

“You’re about as important as a turd,” Robbie observes.

“And yet even a piece of shit is still more interesting than your personality,” Mal replies, and Robbie makes a sudden move towards him, hands clenching like strangulation is on his mind.

I’m pretty sure it’s a common feeling around Mal, but he’s about the closest thing I have to a mate in the fashion world, so I draw myself up to my full height and step between them.

“Is there a problem here?” Louis glares at us as though picturing our soon-to-be mangled remains lying amongst the designer coats.

“No problems,” Robbie immediately says, offering him a smarmy smile.

“Well, not unless you count Roddie’s personality,” Mal offers sweetly.

Louis looks at them both then shifts his gaze to me, and I shrug. I can literally see the moment he gives up. “Just stand there, and if possible, concentrate on what you’ve got to do,” he says with a sigh.

Mal makes a tsking noise. “I could walk that runway blindfolded, and you know it.”

“Could we try gagged instead?” Louis asks.

Mal laughs, and the sound is merry enough that Louis’s weary eyes brighten before he turns away.

Mal returns his attention to Robbie. “I cannot tell a lie, Roddie. It isn’t lovely to see you.”

After turning his back on Robbie, Mal tuts and grabs a strand of my hair, tucking it back behind my shoulder.

“How has this got free of the hairspray?” he asks.

“Your hair is more feral than Medusa’s. Shame Roddie doesn’t turn to stone after seeing it.

Although, he’d probably still manage to use his stone mouth to talk crap.

The world is indeed a very disappointing place. ”

“I am still here, you know,” Robbie says crossly.

“Are you? Ah, that’s where the annoying noise was coming from.”

My head is tracking from side to side like I’m at Wimbledon. I’m not surprised by Mal’s snarky tone. He can’t stand Robbie. From what my booker tells me, the antipathy stems from Robbie always being so nasty to Mal’s best friend, Dean.

“Afternoon, my charges.” My booker Pip approaches us as if I’ve conjured him with my thoughts.

Robbie groans. “Why are you here?”

“In life, or at a fashion show?” Pip enquires. “Either way, my answer would be that I’m fabulous.”

His small form is clad in a tight, purple-checked suit that would look ridiculous on anyone else. His smile is wide, and I feel a reluctant affection for him.

He steps closer and adjusts the shoulder on the sheer robe I’m wearing. “Why are you wearing this when everyone else is in coats and suits?”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know but it’s probably something to do with fashion.”

“You said that word in the same way you’d say bullshit.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

He looks around. “Why do designers make models go bare under these coats? It’s not realistic.

” He checks, looking suddenly horrified.

“Oh, dear. I cannot believe those words came out of my mouth. Please, Baby Jesus, don’t let the designers actually hear me and cover up all the pretty skin.

” He shakes his head despairingly. “Has love made me old before my time?”

I blink. “Do you want me to actually answer that?”

“No.” He takes a deep breath and offers me a leer. “Wow, look at those abs. So tight you could eat your dinner from them. Better?”

I nod slowly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“I see you, Pip Simmonds. Hands off the talent,” Louis shouts from the front.

Pip directs a pout at him. “I’m frightfully glad you aren’t involved in my life decisions. Hands-on is where I’m at my best.” Several people laugh, and he turns back to me. “I need a word with you.”

“Oh god, what have I done now? This isn’t about Biarritz, is it?”

His eyes narrow. “What about Biarritz?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking what a beautiful city it is.”

“Hmm. Not sure I believe you, but you know what I always say.”

“You say a lot. Could you possibly narrow it down for me?”

Mal laughs, and Pip tosses his head. “What I say is that if you don’t get caught, it doesn’t count. Save his place,” he commands Mal as if we’re standing in a school dinner line rather than a meticulously thought-out runway line-up.

“Oh well, you know I live to please you.”

“Ouch,” I say as Pip tows me away. “You’ve got a grip like a small gorilla.”

“Sadly, I do not have the cock of one.” He pulls me into a corner behind a makeup station. “I need a word.”

“Just one? The world is indeed becoming a strange place.” I put my hand up as he starts to speak. “And no, I don’t have my diary on me.”

Distracted, he glares at me. “Well, of course you don’t. It’s only the organiser of your entire life. Why on earth would you need that? Where is it?”

He has a strange fascination with paper diaries and constantly thrusts them into my hands. I hesitate, thinking of the last diary he gave me. “Maybe Berlin,” I finally say.

“Or?”

I shrug. “Who knows? It might be on the plane I caught last week.”

“Was that the fashion shoot in Zagreb you forgot about?”

“I got there, didn’t I?”

“Only after I pulled you out of that party. It’s lucky I was in Paris.”

“I didn’t think it was quite so lucky.”

He shakes his head. “You go through more diaries than Samuel Pepys. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

“I’m just not a huge fan of organisation. I had a tad too much of that in my early life.”

“Xavier Quaver, organisation finds you whether you like it or not.”

“That sounded alarmingly philosophical, and why are we still using the nickname that doesn’t mean anything?”

“It’s affection.”

“Can we try for less of that?”

“No. I’m afraid you’re my charge.”

“It’s like Jane Eyre without the petticoats.”

He nudges me. “How very literate of you.”

“Why do you look so horrified? It’s a novel. Not a sex scandal.”

“Don’t tell anyone in here you read books. You’ll be ostracised.”

“By all means, mention it. They might stop talking to me then.” I eye him. “Can I help you today before I get the sack for not being where I should be?”

He taps his lip and sighs, his sassy mood fading and the caring man emerging. He spends so much time sassing that it’s sometimes easy to miss what a fierce friend and ally he is. “I have something to tell you.”

A chill shivers down my spine. “Well, that sentence never heralds anything good,” I say lightly, but it feels like my insides have turned to jelly. Please don’t be Reuben. Please don’t be him.

“It’s about Jez Farnham.”

I freeze, that name crashing into my brain like a brick. I have a sudden memory of a windswept graveyard on a winter day, the tolling of a church bell, and the sight of Reuben, his arm in a sling, his face drawn white in pain. I push it immediately away. “What about him?”

“The Mail are doing a retrospective on famous war journalists. They rang me this morning. Apparently, they’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week to clarify something.”

“I don’t answer numbers I don’t recognise.” I narrow my eyes. “Clarify what?”

He’s silent for a second. “That you’re his son.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I pace a few steps away and lean against a clothes rail. I rub my fingers into the soft cashmere of one of the coats, searching for calm. Then I spin around. “Tell them no comment,” I snap.