Chapter 3 #2
He’s dressed simply in baggy, faded jeans, Adidas trainers, and a forest-green hoodie.
His hair has been drawn back from his face into a shaggy ponytail, but strands of it are already making a bid for freedom and stirring in the draft from the huge fans in the room.
He’s more vivid than anything else in the room—like the rest of us are a study in black and white and he’s centred in technicolour.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and I give in to my weakness and eat him up with my eyes—the corded forearms, the long length of his legs and the full backside.
Worry invades my thoughts as I spot the huge, dark circles under his eyes, purple bruises on the delicate skin.
Sammy the makeup artist exclaims and rushes over. “Well, you look like a sack of shit,” he scolds. “Who the fuck kept you up all night?”
“Your dad,” Xavier drawls, and they both laugh. I edge farther into the shadows.
Sammy drags him to a chair and shoves him into it.
Xavier smiles up at him, and there’s something about the sweet, tender curve of his mouth that pierces my heart.
It’s a shadow of the bold grins that used to light up his whole face whenever he looked at me, but traces remain—the last vestige of the boy I’d known for such a short time but still love better than anyone I ever knew. My boy.
As if sensing my thoughts, he looks up and straight at me, and our eyes meet and hold. I wonder if he feels the same way I do. We haven’t been this close to each other in a room for a year.
His face is completely blank, but the tic quilting his jaw tells another story. I offer him a wry smile. Here we are again, I say silently. You and me once more.
Sammy exclaims and puts his hand on his shoulders. “You’re so tense, Xavier. Do you want a Xanax or an Ambien?”
I tense because that’s the last thing he needs, but Xavier just rolls his eyes. “I think that’s probably not very wise.” He catches my eye, his snarky expression fully in place. “It would currently take several vats of them to make me relax.”
I examine his face while he’s looking at Sammy.
There are no signs of drugs today. He’s too thin and looks tired, but his eyes are clear.
Satisfied that he’s okay, I move reluctantly away as he turns his face up for Sammy’s attention.
Any attention from him is better than the alternative—his cold dismissal.
I grab my camera and wander around checking the lighting and snapping some test shots while taking the temperature of the room. It’s as frenetic as ever, full of a buzzing energy. People are shouting over the music, and the sound reaches the rafters.
There’s a flurry at the door, and I see Dean and Bowie have arrived. The sun had gone behind a cloud, but it takes this moment to return, bathing them in light like they’d ordered their own personal spotlights.
Bowie is wearing dark glasses and crumpled clothes which he’s obviously retrieved from someone’s bedroom floor. He offers me a wan smile and a wave and makes an immediate beeline for the coffee station.
In contrast, Dean looks as fresh as a daisy. He strides over. “Hey,” he says, grabbing me into a hug. “Jonas said you were doing this as a favour. Thank you so much.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe tell Evan not to get in any more swings in the future. I’m not always available after sex parties.”
He starts to laugh. “They were naked, you know. Even worse, he startled Janie Hopkin’s chihuahua, and it bit him on the bum.”
“It just gets better and better.”
He pats my shoulder. “Luckily, they’re all okay.” He whistles. “Mate, spontaneous gestures can be a blessing or a curse.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s striding over to Xavier.
Xavier looks up, and I try to quell the jealous spike in my spine as his face breaks into one of his rare, unguarded smiles. It lights up his whole face, taking away the tiredness and leaving pure beauty. “Dean,” he says, leaping up and hugging him.
I don’t find it surprising, because everyone smiles when they see Dean. He’s like human sunshine moving good-naturedly through the world, trying to see the best in people.
I set my camera on the table that’s been provided, quickly rifling through the lenses in the quilted bag and choosing what I need. I set everything out neatly. I spent so many years travelling that I can’t abide untidiness. Jez was so different to me.
The thought of Jez freezes me. Memories flood my brain, but I take a breath and push them away. They’re not for the light. More the dark and cold of the night hours when I’m alone and can really feel the guilt.
Tension runs along my shoulders, and I stretch my arms above my head and then behind my back, holding the stretch and feeling the burn.
My shoulders will be hell tonight after I’ve contorted myself in the shoot.
Something prickles my spine, and I look up to find Xavier watching me while Dean talks to the makeup artist. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips full and pink, and his gaze is fixed on my stomach.
I look down to see my shirt has ridden up, showing a strip of skin.
I lower my arms slowly, a pang of lust shooting through me so strongly that it almost brings me to my knees.
I think of the time I’d seen him last year. We’d been at an awards ceremony. He’d spent the evening on the arm of a famous actor, but he’d been alone when he knocked on my hotel room door much later. He’d strolled in and pushed me onto the bed. Then he’d ridden me hard until we both came.
Our stares are broken with a loud voice at the door. “Morning, bitches.”
I grimace as Robbie saunters in. I can’t fucking stand him. He embodies the worst aspects of the modelling profession—spite, vacuousness, and viciousness. He combines that trifecta with a mind-boggling amount of narcissism.
He stands for a second as if waiting for a round of applause that never comes. Then Jennet, one of the hairstylists, scurries up. “You’re late,” she scolds.
He frowns. “Oh, chill it, Jane, for fuck’s sake. It’s fine. You’re so bloody wound up all the time.”
She flushes, and anger stirs in my chest. I approach him quickly.
“Don’t tell her to chill it,” I growl. “She’s right.
None of us wants to sit around here with our thumbs up our arses waiting for you to decide to be professional and actually roll out of bed.
And her name is Jennet, which you already fucking know. ”
He flushes, shooting a spiteful look at me that I ignore. He wants to tell me to fuck off so badly, but he won’t say anything because I’m in charge of the shoot. I’ve also heard that he’s treading carefully lately because he’s on thin ice with the agency.
I look over, and Xavier is watching me intently. There’s a smile playing on his lips. A proper one that makes me feel stupidly proud. I wink at him, but I’ve attracted Robbie’s attention. He glances at me and then Xavier, his expression calculated.
I’ve made an enemy. Not that I give a shit.
“Sorry, Jennet,” he says prettily, smiling. “My bad.”
“Mate,” Simon breathes, patting me on the shoulder. “So hot.” I turn to him, and he raises his eyebrows. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Please don’t.”
“I see why you’re friends with Pip,” he calls as I walk away.
I hoist my camera. The weight is beautifully familiar. No matter what a mess my life has become, I will always have her. “Let’s get a move on, folks. Time’s wasting.”
The next few hours are a kaleidoscope of images of Xavier.
The light pouring in through the windows highlighting the freckles on his face, the silken sheen of his skin when I lean in to get a shot, the scent of his body so familiar to me I could recognise it blindfold in a room full of strangers.
And in between, I suppose I took pictures of other models.
I don’t really remember. I’m just hoping muscle memory took over while my brain was otherwise occupied.
I do, however, notice Robbie and the way he is with Xavier.
There’s a knowingness about him that makes my teeth clench.
It’s the way his hand lingers too long on Xavier’s shoulder, the way he leans in.
It’s not like they’re lovers. I’ve seen him with enough of those.
It’s more like co-conspirators—like they share a secret that no one else knows.
It’s furtive, and Robbie’s eyes are too avid.
I think of Xavier’s painstaking gait on the runway, and my concern about him intensifies.
At some point, Durand’s creative director turns up.
Francois is a tall man with a very loud voice who is overly fond of his own opinion.
I know Olivier has been making noises about him not being a good fit for the business, so it’s amusing to watch Francois strut around like he actually owns said business.
He’s never liked me and resents my friendship with the Durands.
His beef with me was acerbated last year when his boyfriend took a shine to me.
It wasn’t reciprocated, but it injured Francois’s pride.
I steer clear and carry on working. Hours pass, and sweat prickles under my arms as the lights blaze down on us. A headache plays with my temples, and my back is ablaze with the strain of holding positions and crouching. Still, I enjoy the ease of being one with my camera—an extension of her eye.
I’m aware evening has dropped when I look out of the window, and find Edinburgh is already cloaked in lights.
“That’s a wrap,” I call, and I’m immediately greeted with cheers. I lower myself to the floor and stretch out. In the background, I can hear the models talking.
“Did you hear that Saoirse got arrested last week?”
“What for this time?”
“Indecent exposure in a fountain.”
“She’s always getting her tits out. That’s nothing new.”
“Not in a hotel foyer. Management got really shirty and charged her for the bathrobe too.”