“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’sexceptionallyforgettable,” 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 youactuallyuse 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 inthe 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 wordsnevermean 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 thefuck?” 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.”
