“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. “Pleasedon’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 astar. 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 eyesturn 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 nameWorzelemblazoned 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 hugsme. 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.
My smile is wide and hurts my face when Max’s boyfriend appears. Felix has a head full of messy curls and is the owner of the sharpest tongue in London.
His face lights up when he sees me. “Oh my god, stranger.” He steps forward and drags me into a hug. I stoop down and squeeze him until he protests. I finally release him, and he steps back. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you. I’vemissedyou.”
