The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2)

by Stuart Reardon

  “Have you always had a dog?” Grace asked as I handed her a steaming hot chocolate and plate-sized chocolate chip cookie.

  “Not always. But I nagged me mum and dad for a puppy pretty much from the time I could talk.”

  “Good Heavens, you mean there was a time you couldn’t talk? What bliss!” Grace teased.

  “I know. I’m eloquent as fook,” I grinned at her. “Anyway, they said I was too young to understand the responsibility and I’d get tired of looking after a dog. Finally, when I was ten, they gave in and that’s when Gnasher came to live with us. He was a Bull Terrier crossed with a Staffie and ugly as fook, but I thought he was better than margarine on white sliced bread. He came with me on my paper round before school. When he was little, he sat in the saddlebags, and when he was older, he ran next to me. Never needed a lead or nothing. I gave up playing football after school so I could come home and play with him. He was the best thing in my life.”

  I swallowed and looked down.

  “I loved that mutt.”

  Gracie was watching me, her brown eyes soft as she fed pieces of her cookie to Tap and Zeus.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Me dad got sick. Lung cancer. Took him three years to die. Gnasher was what stopped me from losing it. All those trips to hospital, all the times we thought he’d got it beat, all the times we knew it had come back, and at the end, Gnasher was the only one I could talk to.” I shrugged. “A fifteen year old kid can’t talk to his parents about feelings, so I talked to Gnasher.”

  “He sounds like a great dog,” she said quietly.

  “The best,” and I gave her a weak smile. “He was there for me at the worst time of my life but I had to give him away.”

  “No! Why?”

  “The Council were redeveloping the street I lived in and we had to go into temporary accommodation while our new flat was being finished. Trouble was, this B&B didn’t allow dogs, so Gnasher had to go. Mum came with me to the dog shelter when I handed him over. He just stood there with his tail between his legs like he knew what was happening but he didn’t understand why I was abandoning him, why I was leaving him with strangers. He started barking as I walked away, then howling, and I knew he was crying, begging for me to come back for him. Fook me, worst day of me life.” I took a deep breath as tears came to my eyes at the painful memory. “Six months later, we were in our new place and I went back to the shelter to find him, but he’d been rehomed and they wouldn’t tell me where. All they’d say is that the people were nice—had a couple of young kids. I didn’t care, I wanted Gnasher back. But it was too late.”

  Gracie reached out and held my hand. “And you’ve been rescuing dogs ever since.”

  I looked down at the table. “Every dog should know it’s loved.”

  We were quiet then for several minutes but Gracie didn’t let go of my hand.

  “I’m so sorry about Gnasher,” she said at last.

  I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Twenty years later and I still felt like I’d failed him, still felt the grief of loss. I’d watched my dad get ill and watched how frail he became, how much pain he was in. By the time he died, we were all willing him to let go. But Gnasher … I hadn’t been ready to let him go. And anyone who told me he was just a dog was going to get knee-capped.

  “Vincent,” she said quietly, “you’re going to do so much good with this fashion show.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding slowly. “We are.”

  Grace

  The chaos and noise was unbelievable and I was tempted to put my hands over my ears to be able to think.

  The studio was packed to the rafters and despite the security I’d organized, there had been a ton of gate-crashers. I was worried that the Fire Officer would shut us down; so far our luck was holding. And it was a star-studded crowd: Anna Wintour was wearing her trademark dark glasses, seated in the front row between Stella McCartney on one side and whispering to Victoria Beckham on the other; Blake Lively was laughing with Katie Holmes; Alicia Silverstone was looking for a seat with Ellen DeGeneres; journalists were snapping away at them but the celebrities ignored the flashes like the pros they were. Even so, heads turned when the enormous figure of Jason Momoa strode into the room and squished his giant frame into one of the plastic seats.

  The heat was starting to build so I grabbed a member of staff and instructed them to turn down the air-conditioning before greenhouse temperatures were reached and tempers were lost.

  I desperately wanted this to go well for Vince. Yes, he was a jerk and an asshat and a total knob-head who thought stripper poles were appropriate office furniture, but he was a good man with a good heart. I wasn’t sure his brain was always engaged, but I’d come to realize that even when he annoyed the hell out of me, he didn’t mean to—even though it was pretty much every time he opened his mouth.

  But if the entrance was bordering on looney tunes, backstage was way worse—because that part was organized by Vince. I could hear dogs barking, one howling, people yelling, and when I saw a red-faced Cady desperately trying to attract my attention, I abandoned my job at the front, telling security that we were full and no one else was getting in, not even Jason Momoa’s better-looking twin brother.

  Models of all shapes, sizes and ages were crammed into the backstage area with their harried dressers, racks full of couture clothing that combined cost more than my mortgage, plus seven dog owners and assorted canines, Vince with one leg in a pair of electric pink pants, the other trailing behind him, trying to calm Tap who was cowering at the back of the room.

  “Here’s Mummy Gracie,” he said with relief to the quaking dog, and bless her if she didn’t give a tiny wag of her tail even though her eyes were large and fearful.

  “Give me your pet sling,” I ordered, trying not to notice how ripped he was or the way the V-for-vegan tattoo on his thigh flexed as he moved. “If she can’t see and can’t hear so much, it might calm her down.”

  Sweating through my blouse, I stuffed poor little Tap inside the sling, relieved to see her relax slightly.

  Two of the other dogs were growling at Elias and Rafe, the models they were supposed to be walking with, and Elias looked terrified then blamed Rafe for the animosity, which turned into a shouting match.

  Before I could intervene, a high-pitched screech made me jump and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  Cady was standing with her hands clenched into fists, glaring at her arch nemesis, the totally ghastly reality ‘star’ Molly McKinney.

  The horror. The horror.

  “Where’s my dressing room?” she yelled. “Where’s my hair and makeup? This place is shit!”

  “What are you doing here, Mol?” Vince asked, pushing his other leg in the pink pants and zipping up his fly.

  “You invited me, you fucking arsehole,” she bellowed in a sweet, understated way.

  “And then I uninvited you, you rampant bitch,” he shouted back.

  “If I don’t get an outfit and a dog, I will fucking crucify you!” she shrieked. “I have five million followers. I’ll bury you!”

  “Just give her a damn dress, someone,” said Cady, her lips white with anger. “We don’t have time for deviant divas.”

  Vince nodded, his handsome face pulled into a sneer. “Get her on and off the fookin’ catwalk as fast as possible.”

  “And I don’t want an ugly dog like that mutt,” Molly yelled, glancing at Cady then pointing at Tap who was trying to hide her head under my arm. “I’ll have that one!” and she pointed to the Malamute who sat serenely watching the chaos.

  “Uh, that’s not a good idea,” the owner said nervously. “Nanuk is better with men.”

  Molly barely glanced at him as she snarled out a response. “No one asked you, you duh-brain ameba.”

  The owner’s mouth fell open in shock.

  “Everyone shut up,” yelled Vince. “You’re upsetting the dogs!”

  Immediately, the volume dropped and even the dogs stopped barkin
g.

  Vince grinned happily. “I am the Canine Crusader, dog whisper extraordinaire.”

  “Admire yourself later,” I growled, still annoyed that the vile Molly McKinney had gotten her own way again.

  I’d have been very happy to kick her heinous butt all the way back to Britain. But this was Vince’s show, and he said she could walk the runway.

  The sisters Bella and Gigi Hadid exchanged glances but sat quietly having their makeup applied, and I said a short prayer of thanks because they’d been so amazing: they’d arrived early and prepared, hadn’t made a fuss about the outfits and had taken time to greet all the dogs and volunteers.

  Vince’s plumber was clearly in love with both of them but happily admired from afar in his Armani suit and Paul Smith leather-free shoes which altogether made him look pretty good, bless him.

  He’d been another one who was a godsend, helping everywhere, sweet to everyone, great with the dogs, stepped in between Elias and Rafe’s bickering, even though he was a foot shorter than both of them. He even fixed a leak in the women’s bathroom.

  I gave a nervous giggle when I saw Wolfie relieve himself on Molly’s enormous coach purse. Still, what the mind doesn’t know, the heart won’t grieve over, and by the time she found out … who cares? I wondered if Wolfie could be persuaded to do it again.

  “We’re live in five, people!” I bellowed above the hubbub, looking at my watch.

  I was sweating freely now, especially with Tap’s little body pressed against me. Only half the models were ready, the dogs were getting angsty, Vince had disappeared somewhere and Cady was wedged half in, half out of her dress. Rick was getting it in the neck because the zipper was stuck and he was desperately trying to pull it up to cover Cady’s boobs.

  Fascinating factoid: the average breast size in the US is 34DD (not me, of course), but the most popular bra size is 34B, which either means women are stuffing their boobs into bras that are too small, or bra sizes are B.S.

  Suddenly, the music started and You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog pounded out, leaving me a nervous wreck until a flash of pink made my eyes long for sunglasses as Vince strode onto the catwalk with five other male models all in neon-colored suits.

  A huge cheer went up which sent the six rescue dogs that the models were walking into a lather, barking, howling, snarling and snapping in fear. The models were equally panicked, not knowing whether to go forwards or retreat, let the dogs go or drag them. Vince stopped in the middle of the catwalk and held up his hand to the five other models. It was complete chaos as dogs pulled at their leads, growled and barked at the audience.

  I slapped my hand against my forehead: it was a disaster! I’d told Vince not to include dogs!

  But then he raised his right hand with his thumb, second finger and pinkie finger sticking out like horns, the other two curled under, and he started humming loudly, staring at the dogs mesmerizingly as he gradually lowered his hand.

  I grabbed Rick’s arm. “What’s he doing?”

  “Uh, it looks like … I think he’s doing Crocodile Dundee.”

  “What the…?”

  And sure enough, all six dogs turned to listen, then trotted up to Vince and sat down in a line in front of him. The five other models finished their walks looking relieved, and Vince strode down the runway with all six dogs trotting behind him, as the music changed to I’m Too Sexy just before Vince ripped his off, sending buttons flying, then flexing his muscles at the audience before heading off stage.

  “I bet you’ve never seen that before,” said Cady.

  “The striptease or the impersonation of Crocodile Dundee?” I shook my head. “No and no, and I’m still not sure I believe it even though I’ve seen it. Oh crap, Cady! You and Rick are up next and you’re not dressed!”

  Cady’s zipper was still stuck and Rick was desperately tugging at it.

  “Aagh! That pinches!” she squealed. “You’ll have to walk in front of me so no one can see and…”

  “Let me,” I said, shouldering Rick out of the way, releasing the caught fabric and pulling up the zipper. I slapped Cady on her ass. “Go! Walk that catwalk!”

  “Yes, boss!” she yelled as the music for Lady and the Tramp started.

  Rick seemed slightly miffed but Cady slapped his ass, and they were off down the runway with Tyson tugging Cady, and Zeus trotting along in front of Rick.

  A huge cheer went up and Cady waved to the audience. She’d become even more popular since her incredible efforts to run the New York Marathon last year had gone viral, and she’d raised a ton of money for veterans, too.

  Tyson towed her down the catwalk, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as usual, and Cady went with the flow, teetering slightly on her high-heeled sandals, but catching her balance at the end. Rick followed with tiny little Zeus looking like he’d been born on the catwalk, the dog, not Rick, who looked self-conscious and uncomfortable as well as unconscionably hot.

  They got to the end of the runway, posed, turned, and then the leads got tangled. Cady was laughing her ass off and Rick’s beautiful grin was seen at last as he scooped Zeus into his arms, while the audience sighed at the sweetness of it all, then burst out laughing again as Cady let go of Tyson who went charging up and down the catwalk, assuming everyone was there to see him.

  Suddenly another dog appeared, an escapee from backstage, and Tyson completely disgraced himself by trying to mount the Collie-Alsatian mix named, appropriately, Delilah.

  Vince sprinted onto the stage dressed only in a pair of tighty whities, waved at the audience and dragged a grinning Tyson from the catwalk.

  Delilah wagged her tail and followed them. I wondered if our insurance covered puppy maintenance payments.

  Sisters Bella and Gigi were up next in their Cri de Coeur outfits, showing everyone how it should be done, leading their beautifully behaved mixed-breed dogs, Mitch and Sparky, with smiles on their faces. And I realized how unusual it was for models to grin like that, but the sisters looked happy, and I wasn’t sure if it was the dogs, Vince’s enthusiasm, or they were just having such a darn good time.

  It was the perfect example of what a runway walk was supposed to look like. I sighed with pleasure at seeing two professionals at the top of their game, and sighed even more when they returned backstage and fussed and cuddled the two dogs while their owners beamed.

  Erik the plumber took to the catwalk like a natural with two male models towering over him but all three working the stage and moving in sync, which couldn’t have been easy what with the height differential.

  Erik got a huge cheer when he did his pose, then bent down to kiss his borrowed dog on the top of her furry little head.

  And I think he must have enjoyed his five minutes of fame because he wiggled his hips all the way back up the catwalk with the strangest walk I’d ever seen, stopped again and waved to the audience.

  “Vincenzo! I will remember this always!” he cried, tears of joy running down his face, then hugging Vince tightly and patting him on the shoulder.

  “Wow! Everyone loves Vince!” Cady said to me, then pulled a face. “Not you, of course.”

  I didn’t even bother to answer because Molly was the next to walk.

  As she hadn’t been planned (and because after five minutes of getting to know her, none of the other models would walk with her), Vince arranged for Molly to strut down the catwalk by herself, which she was very pleased about.

  She was wearing my Stella McCartney silver lamé halter-neck jumpsuit, with her enormous breasts pouring out of the flowing material, and I wished she’d been wearing anything but that.

  She dragged Nanuk in one hand, not seeing his lip lifting in warning, and then the music for Black Sabbath’s Evil Woman blasted out. I turned to Vince and he winked at me.

  Nanuk was not taking well to being dragged, and when he stopped dead in the middle of the catwalk and started to produce a large and steaming pile of poo, Molly yelled at him then let go of the lead. The audience were in stitches
as Molly scowled all the way to the end of the catwalk, did her turn and pose, then stepped over Nanuk’s deposit but skidded in urine that she hadn’t noticed. The shriek as her ass landed in the poo was louder than a police siren, but the audience loved it and I knew what was going to be front page on the gossip sites tonight.

  Vince shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Nanuk looked up, very happy with himself and trotted off the catwalk winking his one green eye.

  I did hope Molly’s outfit was washable.

  The apologetic owner rushed on stage wearing a plastic bag on each hand, with a bunch of toilet tissue as he tried to scrape dog poo off of Molly’s backside, but ended up making it worse. She slapped him around the head, slipped again, her arms and legs cartwheeling as she slithered to the end of the stage, then stomped off screeching.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Cady cheering.

  The embarrassed owner finished mopping and scooping, then bowed sheepishly as he received a rousing bout of applause, and I even spotted Anna Wintour sharing a smile with Victoria Beckham.

  Four boys were up next. Well, I say ‘boys’ because that’s what Vince called them but they were all in their early- to mid-twenties with prominent cheekbones and ever so slightly vacant eyes as they focussed on the back of the room. Rafe and Elias were the outside of the group of four since they were still not talking to each other, but Caleb and Kwame were professional, thank goodness. They shared two rescue dogs between them and ended up cracking smiles when one of the dogs tried to leap off the catwalk when he saw his ‘mommy’ in the audience. Kwame scooped him into his arms and strode into the crowd to give the little fella a chance to lick his owner.

  It was like no fashion show that had ever gone before. It was wonderful, joyful chaos, and I realized then that this was Vince’s secret weapon—find joy in everything you do, even when it goes completely ass-in-the-air wrong. So simple to say, so hard to do, and I had to wonder if working 14+ hours a day for Kryll Group was what I wanted to do with my life.

  It was a very inconvenient realization to have in the middle of this fashion show.