Model Boyfriend

  “You’re nuts!”

  “You’re crackers. Now, when is this photoshoot happening and can I be your on-site P.A.? Don’t even think about saying no.”

  “Um, well, it’s in Cannes next month. I wasn’t going to go…”

  Brendan gaped at her.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because this is for Nick—something for him. I don’t want it to be about me.”

  Brendan stood up and put his arm around her.

  “You’re being a little wuss, Anna-banana. Of course we’re all going. I’ll book the flights and hotel now.”

  He pulled his laptop out of his bag and settled at the table.

  “Besides, if anyone is going to drool over your hot boyfriend—sorry, hot fiancé—I should definitely be there to see it. And take notes. Possibly some pictures on my phone.”

  “What about me?” Anna huffed with a smile on her face.

  Brendan waved a hand dismissively.

  “You see his Holy Hotness all the time. Give someone else a chance, girlfriend.”

  NICK WAS HUNGRY.

  Being hungry made him grumpy.

  Being grumpy made Anna anxious, and he hated that.

  Besides, it was a beautiful morning in Cannes, the sea sparkling in the sunshine.

  Nick sighed as his stomach growled. A cup of black coffee with no breakfast was not his preferred way to start the day. If this had been a game day, he’d be tucking into oats with fruit, scrambled eggs and avocado on toast, plus a large mug of tea. He’d be loading on carbs, not thinking of pasta with fond memories of the long ago.

  The red wine from the night before had left him slightly dehydrated, so today, Paracetamol was his friend.

  Ignoring the guilty expression on Anna’s face as she tried to hide the fact that she’d ordered a brioche with jam, and something that looked suspiciously like pain au chocolat to have with her morning coffee, Nick headed to the shower.

  He gazed into the mirror. His reflection stared back.

  Who are you? I don’t know. A rugby player?

  Who are you now? No one.

  Angry at himself, he ducked beneath the hot water pouring from the shower and tried to wash away his tangled feelings under the powerful jets.

  He’d been intending to do a cardio workout in the hotel’s fitness room but had been lured outside by the jewel-bright sunshine. Instead of a sterile gym, he’d gone for a long run along the Boulevard that fringed the glittering dark blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

  A cool breeze had brought with it the scent of pine, spicy herbs and sweet flowers, and Nick had felt the freedom of being away from the weight of his problems in London.

  As he walked through the opulent hotel room, he side-eyed Anna, who was avoiding his gaze. She’d obviously decided to take advantage of his absence by filling up with those freshly baked pastries that looked and smelled amazing. And the worst of it was he’d be on short rations for the entire length of the two-day shoot. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

  And yet…

  He was curious to see what would happen.

  Day one was in Massimo’s studio, and day two was at a beach a few miles from the town of Cannes.

  He turned off the shower, the pressure having felt wonderful against his tired muscles. His skin had been polished and buffed into perfection the day before, when Massimo’s assistant, an energetic woman named Elisa Wang, had booked him into Cannes’s top spa for a seaweed wrap and some kind of hot mud that was supposed to be cleansing. That was after shaving his chest, although he wasn’t particularly hairy. Thankfully, he hadn’t been required to wax his chest because that left his skin red and irritated for several hours, sometimes days. Waxing and shaving wasn’t a process that was completely new to him—like many professional rugby players, he’d kept body hair short to avoid having his chest or leg hair pulled, twisted or yanked in the scrum by an opponent. He’d seen it done, and even when it happened to someone else, it made his eyes water.

  The wrap and hot mud had been surprisingly enjoyable and a new experience that he wouldn’t mind revisiting with Anna. Then he’d had his eyebrows threaded to shape them; extraneous nose hair and ear hairs trimmed, which was embarrassing because he hadn’t known that he had any. He’d agreed to some gentle manscaping but had turned down the offer to have his ball sack and arsehole waxed. That did not sound like fun. But it gave him a new respect for women who underwent a Brazilian wax job.

  He was also anxious that the meat and two veg weren’t going to be photographed for publication: he hadn’t signed up for that sort of calendar. At least, he didn’t think he had. Surely his manager, Mark, would have warned him?

  He’d also tolerated a spray tan two days ago in London, that had transformed his pale, winter skin into something subtly tanned, more gold than anything else, and the colour he’d be naturally after playing a summer season on tour in South Africa or the Pacific Islands.

  He tried to see himself the way the photographer would, but couldn’t.

  Elisa had also kindly informed him that a hairdresser, makeup artist and stylist would be at the shoot. And on hearing his surprise, promised that it was only because the lights in a studio shoot tended to make everyone look washed out, even with a spray tan.

  “Why do you need a stylist?” Anna had asked.

  Nick couldn’t answer and Elisa only vaguely mentioned something about ‘props’. The only props Nick knew weighed 20 stone and were the first line of defence in a rugby team.

  Despite all the strangeness of this new world, Nick was intrigued; and despite Anna’s increasing unease with the nudity element, that part hardly bothered Nick. He’d been in a thousand locker rooms where the team changed, showered and dressed together.

  A loud knock at the door announced Brendan’s arrival.

  “Bonjour, beautiful people! The car will be here in 15 minutes. Ooh! Pastries!”

  “Hey, Bren,” Anna said, thrusting a brioche at him quickly.

  Brendan stuffed half the pastry in his mouth and groaned with appreciation, then realized that both Nick and Anna were staring at him.

  “Wha’?” he mumbled over a mouthful of crumbs.

  Nick stomped off to the bedroom as Anna shook her head.

  “What’s up with, Mr. Gorgeous-but-Grumpy-arse?” Brendan asked.

  “He’s not allowed to eat this morning. Or most of the day.”

  Brendan’s eyes widened.

  “And you were eating these in front of him, you little minx!”

  Anna gave a guilty smile.

  “I thought I’d eat them while he was out for his run, but he came back early and caught me.”

  “Bad, bad fiancée!” Brendan scolded. “Nil points for you!”

  Anna giggled.

  “I know, I’m bad to the bone.” She paused. “Good, aren’t they?”

  Brendan licked crumbs from his lips and nodded.

  “Divine!”

  Nick walked out of the bedroom wearing an old Phoenixes t-shirt, cotton shorts and flip flops. The instructions he’d received were to wear loose clothing.

  “Good boy,” said Brendan approvingly. “No sock marks.”

  Nick grinned wolfishly.

  “No underwear either. I’m free-balling.”

  Brendan’s mouth dropped open and then he pouted.

  “You’re such a tease, Nick.”

  “Then stop flirting, Bren,” Anna smiled, shaking her head.

  “I can’t. It’s my default setting. I think it must be because I’m a glass-half-full man. Optimism that hot guys will fancy me is like breathing: I don’t even know I’m doing it. Do not command the seas to retreat!” he said in a mock Shakespearean voice.

  Then his phone buzzed and he was immediately in P.A. mode.

  “The car is out front. Everyone ready?”

  Brendan led the way, with Nick and Anna following behind holding hands.

  The car was what the French limo service described as a business car, to Anna it was a
s minivan, and to Nick and Brendan, a people carrier. It was large, black, had heavily tinted windows, and the driver wore a shirt and tie.

  Brendan surprised them all by rattling instructions to the driver in rapid French.

  “I didn’t know you spoke French,” Anna said, with envy in her voice.

  Brendan raised an eyebrow.

  “Never underestimate the little people, Annie.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  He waved a hand then asked the driver a question, listening intently to what seemed like a very long explanation.

  “He says that Monsieur Igashi’s studio is in Le Suquet, which is the medieval part of the town. Apparently the views are to die for and there’s a great place to have a lazy lunch by the citadel with delish Provençal seafood. They say the lobster is heavenly. Sorry, Nick.”

  Nick threw him an aggrieved look and Brendan giggled guiltily.

  “Anyhoo, it sounds fabulous. Oooh! Cobbled roads—just like home.”

  The van wound its way upwards through streets that grew narrower and the buildings older, until it stopped outside a large, square house of sun-drenched yellow stone and terracotta roof tiles.

  The driver opened Anna’s door and nodded politely at her, then discreetly accepted a ten Euro note that Nick slipped into his hand.

  “Smooth moves,” Brendan whispered. “I’ll have to practise that. Although as a mere Personal Assistant, I don’t earn enough to tip ten Euros at a time.”

  “Ask your boss for a raise,” said Nick with a smirk.

  “I would, but she’s mean. She hurts me.”

  “I heard that!” scoffed Anna. “Don’t make me embarrass you in front of Mr. Igashi!”

  “See what I mean?” Brendan hissed.

  Anna and Brendan were still squabbling when the studio’s heavy door swung open on silent hinges.

  It was an imposing entrance, massive, ancient, and arched like a church door, the thick oak studded with iron. A young, elegant woman stood in front of them with a welcoming smile.

  She was tall, slender with a pretty face framed by shoulder length black hair.

  Anna took in the woman’s skinny jeans and long-sleeved silk t-shirt, the stylish outfit topped with a Hermes scarf.

  “Bonjour! I’m Elisa. Welcome! It’s very nice to meet you at last. Please, come in.”

  She waved them inside to an enormous cathedral of light, framed by metal gantries that bristled with a range of different spotlights, similar to those in a theatre.

  They all shook hands and then Elisa led them to meet the famous photographer.

  Massimo Igashi was short and neat with thick iron-grey hair, and a boyish face remarkably unlined for a man who had passed his seventieth year. His hazel eyes were framed by wide, black, rectangular glasses, and his clothes were worn with the aplomb of a man who spent half his life at Europe’s top catwalk collections.

  His gaze skipped over Anna and Brendan, nodding politely, and then he fixed his eyes on Nick.

  It was an unnerving experience as the photographer’s eyes roamed over Nick’s face and body, studying everything, missing nothing.

  Then he grinned and laughed so loudly, Anna jumped.

  The maestro rattled off something in French that made Brendan smile broadly.

  “He says you have a beautiful face and he is hopeful that the rest of you is as beautiful,” Elisa translated.

  A dull flush reddened Nick’s cheeks. Perhaps something had been lost in translation. Had the photographer really called him ‘beautiful’?

  He smiled uncertainly as Monsieur Igashi pumped his hand firmly.

  Then another woman appeared, almost identical in looks to Elisa, but this woman was spiky where Elisa was smooth, and dressed like a Goth with matching black lipstick. She barely gave them a glance before she was climbing the scaffolding like a ninja.

  “That’s my sister, Ning Yu,” smiled Elisa, unperturbed by her sister’s abrasive demeanour. “She is a magician with the lighting—even the Maestro says so. She will make you look even more beautiful,” she nodded again at Nick.

  The photographer bowed and moved back to the tripod situated in the middle of the room, muttering to himself.

  “Does Monsieur Igashi speak English?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, of course,” replied Elisa with a smile. “When he works, he speaks French, Italian or English, but when he edits his work, it is always with Japanese on his lips.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows.

  “That must make it difficult for you.”

  “Not really. My Japanese is not quite as fluent as my other languages, but I am learning. Now, if you will follow me, I’ll show you where you may find coffee and croissants.”

  Nick started to follow her, but with a smile, she pointed to a door at the side.

  “Your changing room is through there,” she said. “I’ve put a robe out for you in case you didn’t have one.”

  Nick flushed. He hadn’t even thought about bringing a dressing gown.

  He nodded at her and walked into the room.

  The walls were painted white, but there were blue accents throughout the room that gave it a nautical air as if he was in a ship’s cabin.

  A large mirror with lightbulbs around it filled one corner of the room, and there was a small, but comfortable-looking sofa with a cotton robe in dark blue draped across it. Nick also spotted a carafe of hot coffee. He looked at it longingly then broke, poured a small cup and took several sips before he forced himself to stop.

  He changed out of his clothes quickly and pulled on the robe which reached his knees. Then he sat on the sofa, feeling self-conscious, waiting for instructions.

  A few minutes later, there was a light tap on the door.

  “Come in! Um, Entrez!”

  Another woman, this time with two blonde pigtails tied into little puffballs smiled at him. She seemed to be about 20 and carried a large bag with her. Giving Nick a dazzling smile, she patted her chest.

  “Fabienne!”

  “Hi,” said Nick shaking hands. “I’m Nick.”

  “D’accord.”

  Then she pointed at the chair in front of the mirror.

  “Please,” she said, the ‘s’ soft and sibilant.

  “Um, okay.”

  Nick quickly worked out that Fabienne was the makeup artist.

  She stared at his face critically, her eyes catching on the slight bump on his nose where he’d broken it—twice—travelled over his cheekbones, critically assessed his chin and forehead, then laid out her equipment like a surgeon about to perform an operation.

  She began by moisturizing his face, massaging lightly. Nick closed his eyes, determined to enjoy the new sensation. He only glanced up when she stopped and dabbed on something else, a clear liquid. He had no idea what that did.

  Then she picked up several different tubes of various skin tone colours, mixing them together like an artist’s palette, and applying it to his skin with a small sponge.

  Nick had expected the makeup to make his skin feel dry or masklike, and he was surprised when it didn’t.

  More colour was expertly added below his eyes, to his forehead, cheeks, nose, and then to his surprise, she pulled out a black eye pencil and brushed it along his lower lashes and eyebrows, before adding a little mascara.

  Fabienne hummed to herself as she worked, completely absorbed, tutting softly when the sponge caught on Nick’s beard.

  After twenty minutes where Nick was drifting off to sleep and trying to ignore the gnawing sensation in his belly, she dabbed some lightly tinted gloss on his lips and spoke again.

  “C’est finis! Ciao, Nick!”

  He smiled and thanked her, and she gave him a saucy wink as she walked out.

  He was somewhat shocked when he looked in the mirror. It was like seeing an airbrushed version of himself. He frowned at the mirror and his reflection frowned back. Yep, airbrushed—that was exactly what it was.

  He stood up and stretched, but as soo
n as he was out of the chair, yet another woman hustled in and pushed him back, gripping his hair tightly with both hands and muttering to herself.

  This must be the hair stylist, although she didn’t introduce herself. Her mood indicated that he was the raw material that somehow she had to fashion into a model—and her job was impossibly difficult.

  When she’d finished brushing and gelling and spraying, Nick’s hair was a wild mess of curls and it looked as though he’d just tumbled out of bed.

  “Fifteen minutes to do that,” he grumbled to himself when the woman left. “I could have saved them the money.”

  Elisa peeked around the door.

  “Maestro is ready for you, Nick.”

  “Sure, right, okay.”

  Nick felt his skin prickle—with nerves or just awareness, he wasn’t sure. The ancient stone floors felt warm under his bare feet, as if the sun had soaked into them over the centuries. The studio itself was several degrees warmer than the changing room, but instead of being full of sunshine, the heavy shades had been pulled, and it was spot-lit with a pool of light at one end and darkness everywhere else. Nick couldn’t even see where Brendan and Anna were sitting.

  Maybe it was better like that, then he wouldn’t have to see their reactions or worry about what Anna was thinking.

  Monsieur Igashi was surrounded by his harem of assistants: Elisa, Ning Yu, Fabienne and the surly hair stylist whose name he’d never learned.

  It was slightly disconcerting to see so many women on the set. But Nick was body-confident if nothing else. He’d spent too many years in locker rooms being naked or half-naked, surrounded by other players, managers, physios, doctors, PR people to be embarrassed. Being at ease with nudity was almost second nature.

  Except that here, everyone would be focussed on him.

  The photographer seemed deep in thought, contemplating his camera in silence. Then he smiled and beckoned Nick forwards.

  “My vision is that you are warrior,” he said, in near perfect English. “I will show you as Atleta di Fano, or the Artemision Bronze—famous Greek statues. Nick, do you know what the word ‘photography’ means?”

  “Um, well, yeah?”

  Nick was puzzled by the question, but the photographer smiled.