He’s dressed in a long black robe and tight black trousers. The robe is gauzy and loose, and through the sheer fabric, his lean, golden torso is visible. I detect faint lines of tattoos that weren’t there the last time I saw him naked. His long blond hair falls in waves around his face, a strand caressing his high cheekbones and grazing his full pink mouth. The room fades away as I watch him hungrily. Typical. How wicked I must have been in a past life to still be in love with someone who hates me.
He’s changed from the boy I met and fell for so many years ago. Then he’d been coltish and lanky, his hair a shaggy, sun-kissed mess, and his mouth always tilted into a smile that made his ocean eyes twinkle. Laughter had surrounded him like summer pollen in those days.
He’s still lithe, but his beauty has grown colder somehow and more perfect. He’s also way too thin. I frown as I look at the clear lines of his ribs. He’s a supermodel, yes, but heroin chic does not suit him. He strides past me, his gaze fixed forwards.
Still, he knows I’m here. There’s a link between us that my awful actions never severed.
My eyes narrow as I watch him move through the crowd. His gait is ever so slightly uneven. Others wouldn’t notice, but for me his movements are quite different to his typical supple, easy grace. He’s painstakingly aware of each step, each placement of a foot. He passes us again as he returns to the stage, and at last I get a proper look at his face, no longer cataloguing the differences between boy and man.
His ocean-blue eyes are glazed and unfocused.
He’s on something.
The knowledge slams into my chest, and my fists clench as he moves from view. What’s happened to him?
He’s danced in and out of my life over the years, and it might make me a self-centred bastard, but I’m certain some of his wild living was a fuck-you directed deliberately at me.
But he’s always been a professional when it comes to work and friends and people who rely on him. He was brought up to be good to people. That care for others was ingrained in him well before his father came into his life, thankfully.
Now, that vacant, unfocused haze in his blue eyes has been seared into my retinas, like a camera flash—a second of intense light that made me suddenly aware of my own painful lack of focus and my inability to see. Other models pass, but when I close my eyes, it’s only Xavier who remains.
I sit quietly for a while, thinking and not paying any attention to the show. It’s only when Dean leads the designer out for acknowledgment that I realise the show is over. I get to my feet slowly, joining the applause. Feeling a gaze on me, I turn and see Pip, his head cocked to one side. His concerned expression echoes the fear souring my belly.
“I’ll do the photoshoot,” I say.
He nods, clasping my shoulder in thanks.
two
. . .
Xavier
I come out of the side door and inhale the cool air gratefully. Night has fallen, and the city is blazing with lights. Horns toot, and people are talking loudly in different languages. Skirting the edge of the crowd, I move past the waiting fans. I pull the beanie over my hair, stoop slightly, and tuck my face into my coat. I go unnoticed, apart from a few sideways glances from people in the crowd who seem unsure if I’m someone. I smile. I could tell them that I’m actually no one, but nobody ever seems to listen to me.
A camera flashes in my face, and I put my hand up to block the light, but it’s too late, and stars dance across my vision. Paparazzi.
“Xavier, any comment on theMail’sstory?” a man calls. I feel a stir as the crowd turns towards the loud voice.
I keep walking, picking up my pace, aware of the man huffing as he tries to keep up.
“Is it true that Sandowne’s have dropped you because of the drugs?”
I could say no, but there’s little point. This is just to get me angry enough to turn around, careless enough to say somethingI shouldn’t. They do anything to get a reaction. I’ve seen them upskirt female models and call them horrendous names.
I lengthen my strides, and I’m soon around the corner. They don’t follow, as there are plenty more victims back at the venue. I walk across the rain-damp pavement and contemplate what to do now. The high from the coke has worn off, and now I just feel sweaty and tired. And slightly empty. The transition from being in the middle of the action to being simply myself shouldn’t feel weird, but it does, despite the fact I’ve been alone my whole life. Even in a crowd, I’m alone.
I massage my neck. Shit. Could I be any more precious?
Maybe that bump has had a shitty effect on my mood. My first experiences with coke had been amazing—like drifting in a bright, warm haze full of happiness. But that feeling is much harder to attain now.
My phone rings, and I glance at the contact picture. It’s Pip gurning next to one of my underwear billboards with his eyes creased with laughter. He’s positioned himself so it looks like he’s licking my abs.
“What have I donenow?” I say, answering the call.
There’s a split second of silence. “With an opener like that, probably more than I want to know. Where are you?”
“Going home.”
