Chapter 1 #2
“I can certainly do that.” He studies me, his clever eyes busy. “And is he your father?”
“He was, yes. Many years ago. A lifetime. He’s a long time dead.”
“I’m still sorry for your loss.”
My mouth stretches into a thin smile. “Are you? I’m not sure I ever was.”
Clapping him on his shoulder, I drop a kiss into his hair and walk back to the line. It’s moved up a bit, and I can hear the music starting outside, the driving beat that gets into your bloodstream. Unconsciously, I find myself standing a little taller. It’s nearly showtime.
Robbie is thankfully talking to another model as I edge in front of Mal, who studies me with bright eyes that have been heavily lined with blue liner. “Alright?” he asks.
I nod. “Fucking perfect.”
Other people might ask questions, but not Mal. He only takes as much as you’re prepared to give, maybe because he’s had his fair share of takers in the past.
One of the stylists hisses, “Mal.” He looks up. “Louis doesn’t like your hair. I need to change it.”
Mal tosses his head like a rather sassy pony at a show. “What is he thinking of changing it into? Luke Skywalker? A penguin? And what could he possibly find that is less than perfect in me?”
Everyone nearby laughs except for the stylist, who takes Mal in a grip worthy of the WWF and steers him towards a makeup station.
I turn back and brush against the curtain that hides backstage from view.
It billows slightly, offering a view of the crowd outside.
They’re seated on chairs, primped in the latest fashions and looking around eagerly.
I go to pull the curtain back. Seeing people waiting to look at me always makes me nervous, no matter how many times I do this.
It’s one of the reasons I prefer photoshoots. The attention is more limited in scope.
Movement catches my attention, and I spot Pip edging down the front row towards an empty seat. My eyes scan across my boss, Jonas, and then Olivier, Pip’s boyfriend. Next to Pip’s chair is—
Stop. I freeze when I see a very familiar but very unexpected man.
His hair is longer than when I last saw it, the thick strands pulled back in a messy ponytail, showing off his craggy features and bright grey eyes.
He’s not looking at the runway where his attention should be—his gaze is narrowed on the other people sitting in the audience’s front row.
It’s so perfectly him that I almost want to smile.
At one time, the sight of him would have inspired only the desire to punch him, but now I just feel a wave of confused joy.
I haven’t seen him for a year, and somehow the antagonism that used to be my constant companion has gone.
It unnerves me because hating him has been a full-time occupation for so long.
He lifts a hand to push his hair back, and I have a sudden flash of that hand holding me down as he pounded into me, the pleasure like white lightning in my spine. And I remember how the next day I’d found blue smudges on my skin—tiny bruises that thrilled me and that I hated at the same time.
Even as I watch, a young man behind him taps him on the shoulder, his face avid with admiration and lust. I let the curtain fall abruptly and stare forward, feeling my chest rise and fall quickly.
“Alright?”
I turn to see Robbie watching me, his eyes curious.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, fine. When am I not?”
He looks around furtively and then pulls me into a small alcove where we’re out of sight. He slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag. “Fancy a bump?”
“Here? We’re about to walk the runway.”
He rolls his eyes. “The perfect time if you ask me.”
He pours a stream of white powder on the back of his hand, and with another look around, he quickly snorts it. He sets up another line and holds his hand out to me almost challengingly. “Well?”
I think of Reuben and the twink and then my thoughts drift to that lonely graveyard again, and I grit my teeth. “Why not?”
Reuben
I shift in my chair. The room is boiling hot already, and I can barely hear myself think over the beat of the music and the sound of people talking loudly.
I can feel the press of the crowd behind me but resist the urge to turn around.
If I stay looking forward, I can keep pretending that there’s no one behind me.
Someone bumps into the back of my chair, and I clench my fists, feeling the old, sick dizziness swamp me and the familiar panic fizzing at the sides of my consciousness.
I dig my nails into my palms, letting the sharp pain distract me.
After a few seconds, the panic fades, and I take a deep breath and then another.
The sweat is cold now, chilling my skin.
I consciously relax my body a muscle at a time the way my old therapist taught me.
“I haven’t seen you around here before.”
I realise the voice is speaking to me and I turn, seeing a young man sitting behind me. He’s dressed in a pair of high-waisted trousers and a see-through mesh shirt.
I drag my gaze from his rather perky nipples. “Sorry?”
“You look a bit lost. People don’t usually look like that on the front row of a show.”
The come-on is obvious in his face, and I silently groan. Still, he’s a distraction from the crowd, so I make myself smile and say, “Oh dear. What should I look like then?”
“Hungrier,” he says slowly. “You look like you couldn’t give a shit.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s so fucking sexy.”
I will never understand the fashion community. It’s like an upside-down world.
Pip is edging along the front row, and I watch him idly. He grins at me when he catches my gaze, and then he looks at my nipply companion, and his expression instantly clouds.
“He isn’t interested in you, Lawrence,” Pip snaps as he slides into his seat next to me.
My companion huffs. “Like, who made you my boss?”
“I’m glad I’m not your boss. You’d be on your P45 before you’d even given your first blowjob of the day.” He makes a dismissive motion. “Leave Reuben alone.”
“Bitch,” Lawrence hisses and then obviously realises I’m staring at him. He immediately pastes a sickly smile on his face. “Lovely to meet you. It’s a shame that Tinkerhell here got in the way.”
“Your nipples are lopsided,” Pip observes.
Lawrence gasps, his hands coming up to cover the aforementioned nubs. “How dare you?”
“I dare,” Pip says. “Look away.”
Lawrence makes a noise like a kettle boiling over and turns away.
Pip leans close to me. “The nerve of him.”
“Friend of yours?”
He huffs. “Absolutely not. Fucker made a pass at Olivier last night right in front of me. The cheek.”
I look at Pip’s boyfriend, who is talking to a woman, unaware of the imminent outbreak of Twink World War Three. “How nice of you to rescue me from him.”
Pip rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be grateful.”
“I’m not.”
He laughs, and Jonas leans across Olivier to speak to Pip. “Why is that woman staring at me?” he asks.
Pip cranes his head, following Jonas’s gaze. “Oh, that’s Juliette Parker. She’s an influencer.”
“She’s a what?”
“An influencer,” Pip says, sounding the words out slowly.
My mouth twitches into a reluctant smile. It’s inevitable when you’re around Pip.
“And what is one of those?” Jonas asks.
“Do you run a model agency in the Victorian times? You’ve got to know what an influencer is.”
Jonas sighs. “I have a feeling the explanation will make me want to scream.”
“She has an Instagram account with millions of followers, so companies pay her to influence people into buying their goods.”
“So, she’s a pretty door-to-door salesperson.” He pauses. “Or a liar.”
Olivier snorts, his face full of humour as he looks at his brother. “Tell it like it is.”
Pip turns to me. “I know you understand, Reuben, and you’re the same age as Jonas.”
“You make me sound like Methuselah.”
“Who’s that? Is it a character on EastEnders?”
“I don’t believe they’ve covered that storyline yet. I hope I’m dead long before they do.”
He nudges me in the ribs. “Tell Jonas about influencers.”
“What am I expected to tell him?” I watch the girl pouting into her phone, her cheeks sucked in like she’s inhaled a hoover. “I don’t understand them either. She couldn’t influence me to take a piss if my bladder was full.”
Pip grimaces. “It’s like Shakespeare is alive and well and sitting at a fashion show.”
Olivier turns to me. “So, my friend. I have a favour to ask of you.”
I groan. “Is it the Durand shoot?” He nods. “The world does love a trier.”
He nudges me. “You would make it spectacular, yes?”
I look at one of my oldest friends with affection. I’ve known him since we were kids, and he has always been the same. Under his cavalier, carefree attitude lies a very loyal man. It’s why he matches Pip so well. They’re kindred souls.
“You know I don’t do them anymore,” I mutter.
“Yes, you photograph flowers. Why not make an exception for a few supermodels?”
“I’d rather shoot Japanese knotweed. It’s less problematic.” I pause, a sense of foreboding washing over me. “Who are these supermodels?”
He waves a careless hand. “Just a few beautiful men, mon cher.”
“And would one of those have a name beginning with X and ending in R?”
He puts a hand to his chest. “Mon dieu. You never told me you had the gifts of a seer, my friend.”
“I combine it with an exceptional bullshit reader. Stop matchmaking and tell your small and very annoying partner the same.”
“I am here, you know,” Pip interjects.
“I know. I try to forget it. I try to push the knowledge aside, but still it haunts me.”
Olivier huffs. “Yes, well, the matter is a little more urgent than when I last asked you. Evan, the photographer has broken his arm and cannot do it.”
“Fell out of a sex swing,” Pip says. He pulls a packet of Maltesers out of his pocket and starts to munch on them.
I look at Olivier, and he shrugs. “Who knew orgies could be dangerous to your health?”
“Surely you, with your vast experience of organising them,” I say mildly.