Chapter Forty-Four
Storm Light had a problem and it wasn’t his name. Storm was stunning. He had been the prettiest boy in primary school, in middle school he was eye catching, as he joined high school, he was easily the most handsome teenager, and as he hit his twenties, in the words of a renowned supermodel, he was ‘ridiculously good-looking’. His bright blue eyes, no they’re not contacts actually, shone out of his face. A genetic trick had granted him almost black hair with long lashes which framed his eyes. His brows were perfectly sculptured, no they just grow that way, and his hair had a gentle natural wave that gave him a floppy fringe that he would artlessly push off his face with a small twinkle of a smile. Honestly, it has a mind of its own.
Storm’s problem was not his name, a name he had christened himself to his parents’ consternation when he signed to his first agency. Nor was his problem that he was excessively vain and fully aware of how photogenic he was. After all, in this industry pretending to be unaware of your best assets was disingenuous at best, stupid at worst. And for once, his problem wasn’t even his lack of height, and this was usually his greatest issue. At five foot eight, Storm fell below industry standard for a male model; however, a perfectly proportioned body, exquisite bone structure, inability to take an ugly photo and a willingness to work hard had secured him work with the finest houses across the globe.
He had become so in demand that he could insist on various clauses: not being photographed in direct comparison to much taller models, male or female; in a catwalk he was first or last. And whilst he was annoyed when he met new people and they expressed surprise at his diminished stature, he was pleased that he had successfully created a public perception of tallness.
So maybe his problem today was connected to his height after all.
His agent had contacted him about a job coming up that was actively looking for shorter male models. It was in the VA during London Fashion Week and was going to attract an awful lot of media attention. It was a new collection by Clem Byrne. An up-and-coming designer with a very impressive back story. Apparently, she grew up sewing in sweatshops until she discovered she actually had a title and was now known as Lady Clementine de Foix. So the press was going to be here in droves.
Even better, part of her collection were museum-worthy historical outfits found in an attic somewhere. Hardly anyone ever got to wear clothes this fragile. He had had to sign various waivers, had been dressed and made up in a cotton tented area. The VA had already taken hundreds of photographs of him wearing the clothes, and he had been interviewed about how they felt to wear. He was going to receive exposure far beyond his usual sphere of influence.
The problem had come as he walked along the cotton-lined corridor to meet his fellow models walking in the modern outfits. The idea was that he was in the final four. He would walk out first, representing the epitome of male fashion in the nineteenth century followed by a modern-day male representation. Storm would pause at the far end of the catwalk, whilst everyone took photos of him then the modern male would join him. Photographers would then take photos of them side by side, then he would walk back, whilst photographers took solo shots of the modern man, who would then also return down the catwalk. That sequence was then repeated by the two female models. Then he and his female historical equivalent would walk the catwalk together there and back, and then the same would be repeated by the modern couple. Finally, there was a wedding dress. And then all the models would walk the final procession.
On paper, Storm had already had reservations and told his agent that he wouldn’t do the male comparison segment. His agent rang back five minutes later and told him it was non-negotiable. She also told him he’d be a bloody fool if he turned this down. No one got to wear outfits this important.
So he had said yes and now he was standing next to a man who made every male model in the room fade away. For a start off he was just too big for a model. He wasn’t freakishly tall; Storm guessed sourly that he was maybe six-three. He was also a bit of a bigger build than most models who needed to ensure that they didn’t overwork their biceps and chest. But again he wasn’t some sort of Mr Muscle. No, what dominated the room was his aura; he was positively glowering. The make-up artist had all but given up trying to fix his face until Holly McDonald had come over, whispered something in his ear, and suddenly he was all smiles and apologies, and he allowed the poor artist to dab on some more foundation. Storm watched as Holly walked away. He had always admired her but wondered how much longer she was going to stay in the business. Holly was just her stage name; everyone now knew that Paddy Byrne was actually Lady Patricia Byrne, Clem’s sister, and was probably counting down the days before she retired.
‘What did she say to you?’ asked Storm as she walked away.
‘She said if I let Clemmie down, I’d have five very angry sisters to deal with. And I’ve seen how angry one of them can get. Five? I’d be off ma head.’ He laughed and ran his hands through his hair, causing someone to run forward with a brush. ‘I’m Rory, by the way. Stepping in at the last moment, so I’d be made up if you can let me know if I’m doing anything wrong. This is a nightmare, isn’t it? All this touching and fluttering?’
Storm could crown him. What was this idiot blithering on about?
‘For some of us this is our careers, not a nightmare.’
‘Christ yes, sorry about that. You have my commiserations.’
Storm seethed, that wasn’t what he meant at all. His number was called and he and Rory went to stand in the wings, where Clem was waiting with a final word.
‘Storm, you look incredible. I am beyond grateful; the way you move in those clothes it’s as though you were born to them.’
Storm preened and glanced back at Rory with a smirk.
‘Thank you, shame that the same can’t be said about him,’ he said to Clem, looking in Rory’s direction. ‘Thinks that this is all a load of nonsense.’
He was gratified to see a massive scowl descend across Clem’s face as he stepped out onto the catwalk amid gasps of astonishment and light bulbs flashing.