“It’s likeThe Iliadcame to Camden.”
“Eh? Is that a designer?”
“Greek.”
His smile appears again. “Man, I love Europe. Well, let’s get you up there.”
He takes my arm and ushers me past the crowd of smoke-enshrouded fashion people. Xavier isn’t one of them. I have a highly attuned antenna that lets me know whenever he’s nearby. He must have the same because he usually scarpers when we’re in public.
We enter the building and walk down a narrow corridor. Music thumps out a loud beat ahead of us, and I catch the faint scent of hairspray and cologne. It’s all very familiar, and I ease back into the frame of mind I had back when I did fashion photography.
I spent a couple of years doing fashion shoots after I left photojournalism. Eventually, I quit fashion to lecture at a university for a term.
Simon opens a door and ushers me into a large, open space. The bones of the place, which apparently was originally a mill, have been preserved, but I doubt the workers would recognise the huge lights blazing, the makeup stations, and clothes rails filled with a rainbow of colours. Shoes and accessories are lined up nearby, and each rail features the model’s headshot. I catch a glimpse of Xavier’s photo. He’s staring into the camera sullenly, his hair swept back from his sharp face. His full lips are pursed in a pout, but unlike a lot of headshots, he doesn’t look posed. Instead, it looks as if he’s genuinely pissed at whoever has interrupted him. My mouth twitches, because that look has been levelled at me a fair few times over the years.
I become aware that Simon is watching me, and I clear my throat. “Okay, first step, turn this shit off.”
He blinks. “What?”
I set my backpack and camera bag on a chair and gesture at the speaker that’s pounding out some godawful music. “This needs to stop.”
“It’s Ed Sheeran.”
“It’s dreadful.” I repress a smile. “I simply cannot work in these conditions,” I add piously.
“Yeah, man, I see your point.” He looks at the speaker as if it’s going to grow feet and walk over. “So, what do you want instead?”
“Skindred. Make it loud.”
I strip off my jacket and throw it over a chair. Then I roll up the sleeves of my black shirt and wander around the room, scoping out the area.
Sunlight streams in through the huge windows, and dust motes dance in the light. My fingers stray towards my backpack and my camera, but I resist the impulse. Instead, I wander over to the area where a cream cloth backdrop has been set up. Durand is known for their simple, minimalist style.
Voices sound as the models start to stream in. They’re loud and uninhibited as they strip off their clothes. The makeup and hair teams immediately leap into action, dragging their charges over to the stations. It’s another familiar sight in this world, like watching a dance that you never forget the steps to.
However, my previous fashion shoots lacked one thing that’s present here today—Xavier. He’d exploded onto the modelling scene just as my fashion photography career was ending, but while I’d been working, I made it a rule not to book any gigs with him. Despite my efforts, he’d had an unerring ability to find me—and shag me—regardless of what city I found myself in.
I wonder what he thinks of my last-minute substitution as a photographer on this job. My lip twitches. Whatever his thoughts, his external reactions will be vicious and loud.
There’s movement at the door, and he appears. It’s always a shock to see him anywhere other than my memories. Like a defibrillator jolting my heart into life again.
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 cordedforearms, 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 ofshit,” 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.Myboy.
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 probablynotvery 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.
