Chapter 1 #3
As Jonas laughs, a woman taps Olivier on the shoulder. Her face is familiar, and I remember doing a photoshoot for her magazine. “Is it true that Dean Jacobs is opening the show, Olivier?” she asks.
Olivier gives his charming smile, and the woman visibly melts. “Yes. He is exceptionally beautiful, and we must have family around us, yes?”
Pip rubs his hands together. “Nepotism, we has it.”
Pip’s glee inspires another reluctant smile. He’s been doing such things since he waltzed into my garden a year ago.
When he leans close, I bend forward obediently. “Why aren’t you wearing a Durand suit?” he whispers. “Didn’t you see the outfit and the freebies in your suite?”
“Yes, I saw them. And promptly rang reception because I thought the previous room occupant had forgotten to check out.” Pip snorts, and I shake my head. “I haven’t had anyone dressing me since I was five.”
“From the looks of you, you haven’t progressed much. Who comes to a fashion show in Levi’s and a black jumper?” He flicks my jumper to make his point.
The lights suddenly dim, and the music stops. The crowd’s talking fades away, and then the beat of “Desire” by Levan Creed starts to pound through the speakers. It’s strong and sexy, and my heart speeds up.
He’s here somewhere behind that curtain, and I’m going to see him soon.
Dean appears, and I watch with amusement as Jonas instantly sits up straight, his whole face alight as the famous blond supermodel saunters down the runway, his stride loose and fluid. He’s a rare sight nowadays, as he’s largely retired, but Olivier must have persuaded him into this.
He’s wearing high-waisted baggy trousers and a loose jacket in a steel-coloured silk that gleams under the runway lights.
“Where’s his shirt?” I enquire.
Pip tuts. “I always think deconstructed tailoring looks like someone used their needle and thread while under the influence of a lot of gin.”
“Say it louder, darling,” Olivier says, his eyes twinkling. “It’s only our show.”
“I suppose you could do better as a tailor,” I say to Pip.
He grins. “I can actually knit. I made a post box topper last month.”
“Sadly, I am aware of what they are. I’m saying it in a low voice because my reputation is disappearing like mist on a summer’s morning.”
“Unfortunately, the post office didn’t like my interpretation of what a topper was.”
The models are moving through the crowd now. Instead of a traditional runway, the organisers have laid paths that wind around the audience. It looks a bit like the yellow brick road, if the people of Oz had been forced to sit on incredibly uncomfortable chairs and watch pretty men.
Pip offers me a Malteser. “I hope Bowie is alright now.”
I think of the young American model who’s one of Pip’s charges. “Why? What’s the matter with him?”
“He was drunk at rehearsal and took a wrong turn. Ended up on the fire escape.”
I laugh. “It must be like herding sheep.”
“Very badly behaved sheep.”
“Did you see him backstage? Is he going to behave?”
He nods. “I told him Ezra was out here.”
Jonas frowns. “I hope you aren’t dangling my PA over your model like a fish on a hook.”
Pip considers him thoughtfully. “Would you be cross if I were?”
“Very.”
He pats his hand like he’s an old-aged pensioner on a tour bus. “Then I’m not.”
I snort at Jonas’s face and turn at a tap on my shoulder. A young man is looking at me. “Reuben Langley?”
I nod warily. This could go a number of ways.
“I’m James Stoddard. I love your work,” he says.
I relax. Not someone I shagged and shafted then. “Thank you.” I turn back to face the runway, but Pip nudges me, so I plaster a smile on my face and turn back to the man. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Can’t imagine what you’re doing at a fashion show of all places.
I heard Xavier Conway is here. God knows how he managed to be on time.
I was at a shoot yesterday, and they were saying that he’s flakier than a chocolate bar.
” He leans in closer. His face has a cocky, arrogant expression I hate.
“Are you doing anything after the show? I’d love to discuss your technique. ”
“I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.” There’s a stunned silence. “Thank you, though.”
I face forward again, and after a few moments, I sigh in Pip’s direction. “You are actually vibrating with the need to say something. Like a gossipy tuning fork.”
Pip snorts, his eyes alight with the usual merriment that clings to him like fairy dust. I see Olivier shoot him an affectionate look. “That was so rude.”
“And you still sound admiring. Should I be sorry?”
He waves a careless hand. “Not at all. He’s a wanker, and I heard what he said about Xavier.” He winks at me. “It’s very interesting that you were polite until he bitched Xavier up.”
“I’m sure it is interesting to you. You need more hobbies.”
“James was so rude to me last year and told me I got above myself.”
“That’s not difficult. You’re not very tall.”
His look is wicked. “I was just thinking that was the hundredth potential hookup I’ve seen you turn down in the course of our friendship. Maybe your rejects can form a club.”
“What a delightful thought.”
“Are you actually aiming to be a eunuch?”
“If it means an end to this conversation, then yes.” I consider telling him I haven’t had anyone in my bed for years, but he’d have questions. He always has questions.
We fall silent and watch as Mal Booth appears. His long form is clad in black leggings and a long coat which is open to show off his tanned chest.
Pip tuts. “These coats are a bit skimpy,” he whispers. “If the weather turns, Mal’s going to catch a cold.”
“Will that make him stop talking?”
“Probably not.” He eyes the checked coat as Mal strides closer. “Would you wear one of those?”
I shake my head. “I like my coats to cover up the bits that might get chilly. It’s a novel idea, I know.”
I check my watch and try to settle back into the chair, which could be used as a torture implement when the fashion crowd have finished with it. “I can’t believe I’m at this bloody thing.”
He eyes me. “I knew you’d come.”
“Really? Because I didn’t have a clue until I turned up.”
“You were coming as soon as I mentioned I was concerned about Xavier.”
Worry trickles like ice through my veins. “And you’ve yet to explain why.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I can’t explain it. His behaviour is wild, but that’s normal. I’ve had to pull him out of more beds than Goldilocks over the years.”
Jealousy strikes like a bolt of lightning, unexpected, unwelcome, and dangerous.
Xavier’s not mine. He can do what he likes.
It doesn’t matter in the slightest that my soul decided he belonged to me the second I met him.
I can’t change Xavier, of course. It would be like trying to tame or predict that lightning bolt.
My hand strays to my necklace, and I curl my fingers into a fist and slowly lower it to my lap.
Pip watches me, his head cocked to one side like a nosy blackbird.
Mal glides past us, shooting Pip a wink, but my attention strays the moment a familiar form steps onto the runway.
He’s dressed in a long black robe and tight black trousers.
The robe is gauzy and loose, and through the sheer fabric, his lean, golden torso is visible.
I detect faint lines of tattoos that weren’t there the last time I saw him naked.
His long blond hair falls in waves around his face, a strand caressing his high cheekbones and grazing his full pink mouth.
The room fades away as I watch him hungrily.
Typical. How wicked I must have been in a past life to still be in love with someone who hates me.
He’s changed from the boy I met and fell for so many years ago. Then he’d been coltish and lanky, his hair a shaggy, sun-kissed mess, and his mouth always tilted into a smile that made his ocean eyes twinkle. Laughter had surrounded him like summer pollen in those days.
He’s still lithe, but his beauty has grown colder somehow and more perfect. He’s also way too thin. I frown as I look at the clear lines of his ribs. He’s a supermodel, yes, but heroin chic does not suit him. He strides past me, his gaze fixed forwards.
Still, he knows I’m here. There’s a link between us that my awful actions never severed.
My eyes narrow as I watch him move through the crowd.
His gait is ever so slightly uneven. Others wouldn’t notice, but for me his movements are quite different to his typical supple, easy grace.
He’s painstakingly aware of each step, each placement of a foot.
He passes us again as he returns to the stage, and at last I get a proper look at his face, no longer cataloguing the differences between boy and man.
His ocean-blue eyes are glazed and unfocused.
He’s on something.
The knowledge slams into my chest, and my fists clench as he moves from view. What’s happened to him?
He’s danced in and out of my life over the years, and it might make me a self-centred bastard, but I’m certain some of his wild living was a fuck-you directed deliberately at me.
But he’s always been a professional when it comes to work and friends and people who rely on him. He was brought up to be good to people. That care for others was ingrained in him well before his father came into his life, thankfully.
Now, that vacant, unfocused haze in his blue eyes has been seared into my retinas, like a camera flash—a second of intense light that made me suddenly aware of my own painful lack of focus and my inability to see. Other models pass, but when I close my eyes, it’s only Xavier who remains.
I sit quietly for a while, thinking and not paying any attention to the show.
It’s only when Dean leads the designer out for acknowledgment that I realise the show is over.
I get to my feet slowly, joining the applause.
Feeling a gaze on me, I turn and see Pip, his head cocked to one side.
His concerned expression echoes the fear souring my belly.
“I’ll do the photoshoot,” I say.
He nods, clasping my shoulder in thanks.