Chapter 3 #3
I repress a laugh and the floor vibrates slightly as footsteps come near. “Reuben,” a voice says. I raise one eyelid and find Francois glaring down at me. My gaze travels from his shiny loafers to his cold eyes.
“Yes?”
“Are we paying you to take a rest?”
A couple of the models at the makeup station turn their heads, and I shrug, knowing it will annoy him. “At this point, I’m not exactly sure. Olivier made it sound like I was doing him a favour. Admittedly, I’d rather have loaned him a cup of sugar, but life isn’t always sweet, is it?”
He sniffs and pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. “Nevertheless, is it customary for photographers to lie on the floor?”
“Depends on whether they’re tired or not.”
I hear a smothered snort, and I fucking damn well know that was Xavier. The thought that he might be smiling is like a shot of vodka on an empty stomach.
I brighten, but it fades as the pompous twat huffs and says, “You’ve missed something.”
“Was it the breaking down of the shoot because I’m finished?”
“No. There’s a segment featuring Dean, Bowie, and Xavier.” He blanches when I look up at him. “It’s on the call sheet.”
“I’m pretty sure we both know I barely glanced at that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s hardly my fault that you’re a little chaotic in the workplace.”
“Francois, where I used to work, there wasn’t a need for call sheets.”
“We still have half an hour on the clock.”
“Are we working in the Twix factory now?”
He glares. “We need shots of Xavier, Bowie, and Dean in the lift.”
The lift? I tense slightly, and his eyes gleam.
It’s at that moment I know someone has told him about my claustrophobia.
I’ve had it since I photographed a riot and nearly ended up squashed a few years ago.
It’s mostly manageable now. As long as I avoid being boxed into spaces where I haven’t got a clear exit, I’m fine.
However, it’s still ultimately governed by my mental state and that’s been shaky this week.
“Really?” I say.
He nods. “It’s the teasers for the ad campaign you just shot. It was on—”
“If you say the word call sheet again, I will murder you.”
I drag myself to a sitting position, feeling the familiar stab of pain in my shoulder.
I’ve worked it too hard today. I realise I’m massaging it when I look up and catch Xavier’s eye.
His gaze is fixed on my hand, and when I look down, I realise my shirt’s gaped open and the twisty scar tissue that surrounds my old bullet wound is visible.
His face wears an unusual expression, and it takes me a second to realise that it’s concern.
For a second, I’m struck dumb, and then he turns away, and I rise to my feet.
“Okay, then,” I growl. “Let’s get it done. Simon?” I shout, and he pops up like a surfing genie. “Make a note to tell Olivier to go fuck himself next time he asks me for a bastard favour.”
He hesitates. “Do I make an actual note, or is this more of a metaphorical discussion?”
“Both.”
He nods and wanders off. My gaze turns to Xavier as it usually does, like he’s my North Star.
I swallow hard as I catch him wriggling into a pair of white briefs.
For a brief, glorious second, his golden-skinned, very biteable arse is revealed, and then it’s covered with cotton.
Sammy, the makeup artist, starts to apply fake tan with a big makeup brush.
It glides along the ridges of Xavier’s abdomen, and before I can look away, his gaze catches mine again.
We stare at each other for a few beats, and then he turns back to Sammy.
I grab my camera and ask Francois, “How do you want them?”
“They’re going to be in briefs. All three of them together.
Black-and-white shots. It will look distinctive against the industrial background.
Very sexy. We need to hint at domination and control.
The images will be placed in carefully selected magazines to build interest before the campaign launches. ”
And fuck him, but he’s right. He might be a wanker, but he’s good at his job. The images will generate a lot of chatter.
“Fine,” I murmur and stalk over to the table to change my lens.
“We want it very close quarters,” he calls after me. “Like the camera is a voyeur.”
I nod wearily and walk off.
The lift is one of those you see in old films with an accordion gate you have to pull across before it will work. It’s also very small. I swallow hard.
Footsteps sound, and I turn to see Dean, Bowie, and Xavier standing there with Sammy hovering nearby. The models are in tight-fitting briefs, the white cotton a contrast to their golden skin. They almost look like brothers with their long golden hair and rangy builds.
They step into the lift, and I gesture them to one side.
“Bowie, lean against the wall with your hands above your head. Xavier, stand close to him and hold his hands and turn your head towards me. Dean, stand facing the front for now and turn your head slightly so you’re looking at them.
Let me see your profile.” I crouch, clicking as they obey me.
The sound of the shutter is loud, and this close I can smell Xavier’s cologne—Balenciaga’s Cristóbal.
He’s never worn anything else as far as I know.
The spicy, sweet scent suits him. I wonder if there’s a reason he’s so attached to the scent and feel a pang of grief that I’ll never know.
“That’s good,” I say, refocusing on work. “Brilliant. Bowie, move to the side and put your hand on Dean’s arse. Dean, turn to Xavier and push him against the wall. Your hand should be down near his V-line.”
Dean obeys, his hands gentle and contrasting sharply with the cool haughtiness of his model face.
“Brilliant. Now grab his hair and pull it. Xavier, tilt your head a little. Lovely. Dean, pull it a bit harder, please. I want to see the strain.”
“So bossy. I should keep you around in my bedroom,” Xavier drawls, his eyes full of malicious amusement. “You’d be standing in the background waiting to tell the men where to put their hands.”
“It would probably be over your mouth,” I snap, and he laughs in genuine amusement. I quickly take a picture. That one’s for me.
“Okay. Dean, move to the side. Xavier, lean into him and look at me. Bowie, you’re pressing into Xavier’s back.
Put your hands on his hips and make it count.
” They obey, and Xavier’s hair swings forward, covering his profile.
Without thinking, I reach out and push the hair back.
The strands are heavy, like warm silk on my fingers, and for a split second we both freeze.
His eyes are wide with surprise, and then he blinks, and the emotion is gone, replaced by his thousand-yard model stare.
“Fuck, they look like brothers,” Francois breathes, his voice heavy with excitement. “It’s like very hot incest.”
I shake my head. “Tell Olivier that can be the title of his new cologne. I’m sure it’ll go down really well at Christmas.”
“Grandfather, I have given you the gift of incest,” Xavier intones in a solemn voice. “It’s something the whole family can share.”
I laugh out loud and can almost feel Francois’s displeasure coating the inside of the lift. I wipe my forehead. It’s hot in here now. The space is small, but I cling to the dream that behind me is space and clean air rather than people gawking at three beautiful half-naked men.
As if he’s sensed my thoughts, I feel Francois stand back. “I’ll just shut you in, and you can take some more closeup shots.” He pulls the gate closed with a loud rattle, and the panic is instant and debilitating—like a black, inky tide moving over my mind. My breath hitches embarrassingly loud.
The next second a hand reaches past me and slams open the gate so hard that it bounces and rattles. I look up, and it’s Xavier. His face is full of fury, and he resembles nothing less than an avenging angel in his underpants.
“I don’t think so,” he snaps.
“I beg your pardon?” Francois says, surprise in his voice.
“I’m claustrophobic,” Xavier lies. It’s so seamless, I wouldn’t know it’s a lie if I didn’t know every embarrassingly small thing about him.
“You are?”
He nods. “Yep. It’s in my contract that I can’t be put in small spaces. It’s why I’d be perfectly happy in Robbie’s brain.”
“Oh, fuck right off,” Robbie shouts from somewhere behind us, and I hear scattered laughter.
Xavier’s wink at me is barely perceptible, but it’s still there—a light in the dark of my panic telling me that he’s here. He turns to Francois, who’s hovering, looking slightly thwarted.
“Check my contract if you like, Frank,” Xavier says.
“My name is Francois,” he snaps. “I’m sure you can get over this phobia.”
Dean stirs. He’s been looking between Xavier and me, and as perceptive as ever, I know he’s guessed what’s happening. He squares his shoulders. “I’m afraid I’ve got it too.”
He nudges Bowie, who is currently giving the impression of someone sleeping while awake. “What?” he mutters.
“Tell him about your claustrophobia,” Dean orders.
Bowie blinks a couple of times. “My what, now?” He looks at me, then at Dean and Xavier, and realisation dawns. “Oh yeah, it’s bad, man. I can’t even go into my wardrobe.”
“What?” Francois’s voice is very loud in the confines of the small lift.
“It’s true. I’m like a reverse Mr Tumnus.”
“He never actually went in the wardrobe,” I clarify and Xavier glares at me. “Never mind me,” I mutter.
Dean stirs. “Yes. I’ve even got an appointment with—” He hesitates because lying really isn’t his thing. “Erm, with the proctologist,” he finishes.
Xavier turns his laugh into a cough. “Wow,” he says.
Dean nudges him. “Anyway, I have to go soon. I’m sure Reuben has got everything he needs.”
I straighten and nod. The sweat is drying on my forehead, and a wave of dizziness sweeps over me.
It’s a combination of things—not sleeping properly, abject fear, and no food.
I feel a hand on my back and realise it’s Xavier.
He rubs my back, the tiny movements shielded from onlookers.
I concentrate on the small, gentle movements and the dizziness eases.
Francois is staring at Dean. He opens his mouth to blast him, and I see the second he remembers that Dean isn’t just a model but also the partner of the co-owner of Durands.
“Yes, of course,” Francois says immediately. “You must go to the … to the proctologist.”
I bite my lip to hold in a smile and nod at Francois. “I’ll send everything over to Olivier.”
He nods, spins on his heel, and walks away.
With the chance of confrontation gone, the other people in the hallway start to talk and wander off. Xavier’s hand falls away, but I fancy I can still feel it on my body like a brand. He goes to move away, and my hand snaps out and grabs his. He looks at me, his face once more locked down.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says coolly and strides out of the lift, followed by Bowie. I can’t help admiring Xavier’s arse in those tight briefs. It’s a world-class arse—full, round, and tight.
A throat clears, and I turn to see Dean watching me. There’s a gentle amusement there and curiosity, too. But I know he won’t ask. He’s an honourable man who’s as pretty in his soul as his body.
“Well, I hope you won’t have to wait too long at the proctologist,” I say.
“What actually is that? I know I’ve heard the word before, but I forgot to look it up.”
I snort. “An arse doctor.”
“Really?”
I laugh, and he joins me. “Wow. Lying does cause some interesting life events,” he says. He steps out of the lift and then looks back at me. “We’re going to a club to celebrate the end of the shoot. Are you coming?”
I hesitate. Usually, I wouldn’t. I hate clubs. They’re likely to trigger all sorts of not-so-delightful reactions in me. “Any naked sex swings?” I ask, grabbing for time.
His eyes twinkle, but he says gravely, “That’s only on Fridays, so I think you’re safe. Well?”
I look at the now-empty corridor. Xavier is gone.
Then I remember the way Robbie talked to him, the enforced touching, and the way Xavier looked on that runway—clinging to control and so alone.
I appear to have appointed myself as his guard dog, regardless of the fact that he never asked me to fill that position.
“A club sounds wonderful. Thank you.”