one
. . .
Xavier
Backstage is chaos. People are everywhere, talking loudly and jostling for space with the dozens of racks of clothing. The noise level is one decibel above bedlam, and the air is filled with the scent of aftershave, hairspray, and the faint tang of fake tan.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
I look over at Louis, the show producer, who’s standing in the middle of the room holding a clipboard.
Mandy, my hairstylist, hisses a curse at me. “Sit still. It’s like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
“I don’t think there’s enough room for an ant colonyandmy penis in these trousers.”
She snorts. “Leave the ants. They’re less trouble.”
Everyone carries on talking, so Louis gives a weary sigh. “For fuck’s sake, come and line up,” he bellows. He turns to his assistant, who’s a harried-looking young man with a permanent frown. “I’d have had more luck with a cast of pigeons.Andthey make less shit.” He raises his voice again. “Placesnow.”
Mandy sprays me with enough hairspray to glue a plate together, and I join the line.
Someone squeezes in behind me. Breath hits my neck, and I hear a familiar oily voice say, “You look hot.”
I roll my eyes. “When don’t I?”
Robbie chuckles. “You’ve got me there. I can’t name a time.”
I can namemanytimes I’ve looked terrible, the latest one being when I rocked up here before hair and makeup got hold of me. This is why I can’t get on with Robbie. He’s all cheesy compliments and sly chatter, and none of it is ever truthful. He makes my head hurt. Nevertheless, I’m polite. I’malwayspolite. I might do exactly what I want in life, but I’ve never been rude to anyone while I was doing it. My upbringing is just too ingrained. Even now, I can hear my grandmother lecturing me about leaving empty spaces during a conversation.
I’d like to leave a space the size of a football field with Robbie, but I turn and smile politely at him. “You look nice too.”
He pouts. “Nice? That’s the kiss of death.”
“If only that were true, Roddie,” says a voice from behind us.
I can almost hear Robbie’s teeth grinding as he turns to the new arrival. “My name is Robbie.”
Mal tosses his head, and his dark hair falls artfully down his bare back. “Really? How silly of me.”
Robbie rolls his eyes. “You fucking know it anyway.”
“I must have forgotten. Insignificant facts rarely stay in my head. I’m much too important for that.”
I offer a genuine smile to Mal as he comes to stand behind me, neatly nudging Robbie out of the way and ignoring his protests. Here is one person who regularly speaks the truth. Mal might be more of a diva than a crowd of Mariah Carey clones, but at least he’s an honest one.
“You’re about as important as a turd,” Robbie observes.
“And yet even a piece of shit is still more interesting than your personality,” Mal replies, and Robbie makes a sudden move towards him, hands clenching like strangulation is on his mind.
I’m pretty sure it’s a common feeling around Mal, but he’s about the closest thing I have to a mate in the fashion world, so I draw myself up to my full height and step between them.
“Is there a problem here?” Louis glares at us as though picturing our soon-to-be mangled remains lying amongst the designer coats.
“No problems,” Robbie immediately says, offering him a smarmy smile.
“Well, not unless you count Roddie’s personality,” Mal offers sweetly.
Louis looks at them both then shifts his gaze to me, and I shrug. I can literally see the moment he gives up. “Just stand there, and if possible, concentrate on what you’ve got to do,” he says with a sigh.
