Chapter 2
two
. . .
Xavier
I come out of the side door and inhale the cool air gratefully.
Night has fallen, and the city is blazing with lights.
Horns toot, and people are talking loudly in different languages.
Skirting the edge of the crowd, I move past the waiting fans.
I pull the beanie over my hair, stoop slightly, and tuck my face into my coat.
I go unnoticed, apart from a few sideways glances from people in the crowd who seem unsure if I’m someone.
I smile. I could tell them that I’m actually no one, but nobody ever seems to listen to me.
A camera flashes in my face, and I put my hand up to block the light, but it’s too late, and stars dance across my vision. Paparazzi.
“Xavier, any comment on the Mail’s story?” a man calls. I feel a stir as the crowd turns towards the loud voice.
I keep walking, picking up my pace, aware of the man huffing as he tries to keep up.
“Is it true that Sandowne’s have dropped you because of the drugs?”
I could say no, but there’s little point. This is just to get me angry enough to turn around, careless enough to say something I shouldn’t. They do anything to get a reaction. I’ve seen them upskirt female models and call them horrendous names.
I lengthen my strides, and I’m soon around the corner.
They don’t follow, as there are plenty more victims back at the venue.
I walk across the rain-damp pavement and contemplate what to do now.
The high from the coke has worn off, and now I just feel sweaty and tired.
And slightly empty. The transition from being in the middle of the action to being simply myself shouldn’t feel weird, but it does, despite the fact I’ve been alone my whole life. Even in a crowd, I’m alone.
I massage my neck. Shit. Could I be any more precious?
Maybe that bump has had a shitty effect on my mood. My first experiences with coke had been amazing—like drifting in a bright, warm haze full of happiness. But that feeling is much harder to attain now.
My phone rings, and I glance at the contact picture. It’s Pip gurning next to one of my underwear billboards with his eyes creased with laughter. He’s positioned himself so it looks like he’s licking my abs.
“What have I done now?” I say, answering the call.
There’s a split second of silence. “With an opener like that, probably more than I want to know. Where are you?”
“Going home.”
“You mean a hotel?”
I huff a laugh. “Yep.”
“Xavier Quaver, I know you are making very good money. Why are you not on the property ladder?”
I roll my eyes. “Ladder implies climbing something, which is way too much effort at the moment.” There’s a grain of truth in the joke. I feel older than my years lately, my body tired and my mind even wearier. “I like being free,” I say firmly.
“Hmm. So, you’re not coming out with us? We’re going for dinner at a fantastic Italian restaurant. Warn the carbs. Pip Simmonds is on the way.”
My lip twitches. “And who is we?”
“Oh, you know. Just a few of us.”
“Who?”
“Me and Olivier, Jonas, Dean, Cadan, Mal, and—”
“And Reuben,” I say sweetly. “Oh, dear. Did you forget him?” It feels odd to have his name on my tongue. There is no one alive now who I can talk to about him and me, other than him, and I hate that.
He chuckles, the sound warm and engaging. “I’m getting old. I must have forgotten Reuben.”
“Yes, he’s exceptionally forgettable,” I say wryly. “And no, I’m not coming. London fashion week is over, and I am going to sleep for a year.”
“I just need to check you’re aware you’ve got the Durand photoshoot tomorrow.”
I groan. “Really?”
“Yes, even though I’ve told you a thousand times this month. It’s in your diary, which you probably chucked off a ferry somewhere. Creatures in the ocean are probably reading it. A pod of dolphins will turn up to pose in their underwear. They’ll be less trouble than you.”
“Hope the dolphins are not shocked by the recounting of my sexual awakenings between the pages.”
“Did you ever sleep?” he asks, and his titillated tone makes me laugh. “Do you actually use the diaries I give you to recount your sexual exploits?”
“Don’t be silly. I’d get writer’s cramp before I even turned the page for Tuesday.”
“Anyway, the shoot’s tomorrow. Your flight to Edinburgh is at six. Prepare for alarm calls to your room starting at three in the morning, and Simon will be coming in person to your room to wake you up if the alarms fail in their mission.”
I try to remember who Simon is. Then the memory clicks. A blond man who’s some sort of assistant at Jonas’s model agency and who talks endlessly about surfing.
“Will he be bringing his surfboard?” I ask.
There’s a silence, and I take the phone away from my ear, checking we’re still connected. “Hello. Is that it? I should prepare for a deluge of phone calls and random blokes showing up at my bedroom door. Sounds like business as usual to me. Goodnight.”
“Wait. I have to tell you something,” he blurts.
“Those words never mean anything good when you say them.”
“The photographer at the shoot—”
I know what he’s going to say before his words come out. But even after he says, “It’s Reuben,” my response of “What the fuck?” comes out far too loudly.
I stop walking, making people swerve to avoid ploughing into me.
Pip’s explanation comes out in a tumble of words. “The original photographer broke his arm yesterday, but Olivier called in a favour with Reuben. He’s got a lot of fashion experience, and Olivier says there isn’t a better photographer in the world than Reuben.”
“There isn’t.” That simple truth is mired in blood and death in faraway countries, but that’s not for Pip to know. “I’m not going,” I say abruptly.
“What? No.”
“You know I don’t want to be around Reuben.”
“Well, I don’t actually. I know you’re not fond of him, but no one actually tells me bloody anything, so here I am stumbling around in the dark like a nun in a fucking brothel at nighttime.”
“Are you more cross that I’m ditching the shoot or that you don’t know the gossip?”
“Duh. The latter obviously.” His voice softens. “Please don’t drop out. I warned you about Reuben, because I don’t want you unprepared.”
I rub at my forehead where a dull ache blooms, but I can feel myself relenting at the concern in Pip’s voice.
“The whole shoot is worked out,” he continues.
“Clothes are ready. You’re going to throw a major spanner in the works if you don’t do it.
” He hesitates. “And although Durand won’t say anything, word will still get out, and I don’t want your reputation suffering.
” Unspoken are the words, any more than it already has.
I sigh, feeling tired to my bones, which is probably due more to the coke than my insomnia.
I can almost hear my grandparents in my ear, lecturing me on reliability.
Were all their lessons a method to battle my genetics?
Did they fear I’d become more like my father later in life? Seems they were right.
“Okay,” I finally respond. “I’ll be there.”
“You’re a star. You’re my favourite model.”
“You lie.”
“Well, one of four.”
I’m curiously honoured, because I know two of his favourites, Dean and Mal, are his close friends. I shrug the feeling away. “Are we finished, or do you just want to breathe heavily for a while?”
“You never told me that could be on the agenda,” he says indignantly.
I laugh and end the call. Anxiety joins my exhaustion, draining the last dregs of the euphoria from the coke and fashion week’s final event.
I’m going to be in the same room as Reuben tomorrow.
I will be near enough to touch him and see the way his eyes turn a dark gunmetal grey when he’s concentrating.
I’ll be able to hear his deep, rough voice with the Scottish accent from his childhood that’s softened after years of being a globetrotting photojournalist.
I have a flash to the last time I was that close to him—opera playing on a radio, the notes drifting into the room, the ceiling fan circulating slowly, chilling the sweat on our skin, the tumbled sheets wrapping around our naked bodies and the feel of his voice against my spine as he kissed his way down my back.
“Shit,” I say out loud. A lady passing gives me a wider berth. “Sorry,” I say. And then curse again more softly.
A taxi approaches, and my arm rises before I think what I’m doing. He stops, and I open the door. “St Katherine’s Wharf, please.”
St Katherine’s Wharf is actually really pretty. Lights are on in the boats, making them look cosy and reflecting in the water. The wind gusts, sending icy fingers down my back.
I walk along until I see the boat I’m looking for. It’s a big old Dutch barge, the name Worzel emblazoned on the side. I hesitate and bite my lip. Is it a bit late to visit? I keep model hours, which means I have a slightly warped view of time.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I spin around, relaxing immediately when I see one of the men I’ve come to find.
Max. My ex. His arms are full of carrier bags, and his face is stretched in that familiar wide smile.
It’s a little bit wicked and a whole lot of kind, and it’s what had drawn me in when I first met him.
“What are you doing here?” he exclaims. He switches the bags to one hand and, with his free arm, drags me close and hugs me. Then he puts me back. “I thought you were doing fashion week.”
“Yeah, I’ve just come from there.”
The wind gusts, and I shiver, making him exclaim. “Well, get inside. It’s bloody freezing.” He ushers me up the gangplank.
“I thought it might be a bit late.”
“For you, never.” The sincerity is evident in his voice. It’s what drags me here whenever I’m sad. I trust Max because he has never lied to me. One of the few men in my life I can actually say that about.
He opens the door and gestures me to come in. “Felix, Xavier’s here,” he shouts.
“Is there any need to bellow? I’m only standing a few feet away from you,” comes the snarky reply.