Model Boyfriend

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “If you do that a hundred times a day, you’ll be in shape for Miami,” Brendan called to her.

  “A hundred times a day?” she puffed. “Since when have there been fifty hours in a day?”

  “I’m being motivational,” he replied, flipping through a copy of GQ.

  “You’re being annoying. Go away.”

  “Don’t get snappy. You’re probably hungry. I’ll fix you a nice green salad.”

  He swung his long legs off the bench and waltzed out of the door.

  Anna sighed.

  Nick worked out every day. How the hell did he do it?

  She groaned and set the treadmill going again.

  TWO WEEKS LATER and seven pounds lighter, Anna flew into JFK.

  She saw her mother waiting for her, silver-grey hair carefully styled.

  “Mom!”

  Anna’s mother hugged her tightly.

  “Oh, honey! It’s so good to see you!”

  Anna studied her mother’s face, noting the deeper wrinkles radiating from her eyes, grief engraved in the lines around her mouth.

  The loss of her husband five years ago had been hard, desperately hard, but she’d managed to build a life for herself without him. The effort had taken its toll, but despite that, her mother’s eyes were bright and clear, filled with happiness at seeing her daughter.

  She squeezed Anna’s hand and planted a lipstick kiss on her cheek, which she then rubbed off with her thumb.

  Anna laughed.

  “Oh my God! Are you going to spit on your handkerchief and wash my face, too?”

  “Only if you eat ice cream the way you did when you were three years old.”

  They made their way to the luggage carousel and Anna hauled her huge suitcase down with a thud.

  “My! You’ve packed a lot for a two-week vacation!”

  “Oh God, I know! I was so indecisive so I just threw everything in.”

  Her mother eyed Anna’s round cheeks and belly and hurtled to the wrong conclusion.

  “Sweetheart, are you pregnant?”

  Anna’s face burned with embarrassment.

  “Mom, no! I’m just carrying a little extra weight, is all.”

  “Are you sure? Because you know I’d love grandbabies.”

  “I know, Mom,” Anna said, gritting her teeth. “You’ve mentioned that two or three times before.” Or maybe a hundred.

  “And when’s the wedding happening? I can’t believe that you’ve waited nearly five years already! What’s the holdup?”

  Anna burst into tears as her mother stared at her dumbfounded, then wrapped her arms around her again, cursing herself for speaking without thinking.

  “Did you and Nick … break up?” she asked gently.

  Anna sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue.

  “No, nothing like that. Oh God, Mom! It’s just I feel like I’m the one whose life is on hold now. He’s so far away and he’s doing great. Of course he’s doing great, he always does. I just feel fat and frumpy and old.”

  Her mother hugged her more tightly, then smoothed back her hair in the same reassuring and loving way that she’d been doing since Anna was a baby.

  “That’s such nonsense, honey,” her mother said, wiping her thumbs across her daughter’s wet cheeks. “You’re young and beautiful, and I’m a silly old woman. Besides, you’ll see Nick in a few days. I’m sure you can work it all out.”

  “I miss him so much.”

  “Of course you do, honey. That’s natural. Long distance relationships are hard. When your father used to travel all the time with the team and you were so young, there were many, many times when it seemed too hard, but we survived, we pulled through. Marriage, relationships take work. I think it’s great that you’re here, and like I said, I know you’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” Anna said. “I really hope so.”

  Her mother pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything else except to comment on the horrendous New York traffic as they made their way to the parking lot.

  “How’s Brendan? I thought you said he was coming over, too?”

  “Yes, but he’s flying direct to Miami because he’s taking some vacation time to see his parents first.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t think he got along with them?”

  Anna made a face.

  “He doesn’t, but his mom has been sick so he thought he should visit with them. It’s more his dad he doesn’t get along with. Apparently his dad isn’t happy having a ‘queer’ for a son. That’s what Bren said.”

  Anna’s mother looked sad.

  “Children are so precious—it hurts my heart to think that lovely young man is treated in such a way.”

  “I know. He doesn’t talk about it much,” Anna sighed. “Only when he’s had a few drinks. Anyway,” she said, forcing a smile, “he sends his love and promises he’ll take you salsa dancing next time you’re in London.”

  “Oh my! I was rather hoping he’d forgotten that promise.”

  Anna laughed.

  “No way! He’s really looking forward to it. He calls you his ‘American nana-banana’.”

  “Aw, how sweet. I think.”

  “He can be,” Anna smiled. “He also mentioned shopping at Harrods, which is probably more your speed.”

  “Hey! I may be 63, but I can still move,” her mother laughed.

  “Yes, but you’d rather go shopping.”

  “How well you know me, daughter.”

  That evening, they enjoyed a quiet dinner at an Italian restaurant in Tarrytown, right by the Hudson River with a terrace that faced the setting sun.

  It was peaceful and easy, and it reminded Anna how much she missed her mother. She reached across the table and squeezed her mom’s hand.

  “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Oh, honey! It’s such a wonderful treat to have you here.” She paused. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

  Anna hesitated, not sure what she wanted to say, or if she wanted to talk at all. But her mom had been through all the same issues with her dad when he retired from the NFL. Anna was a trained sports psychologist, but talking to another woman who’d experienced all the same feelings…

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Mom,” she said, at last. “We were both looking forward to his retirement from rugby, we had so many plans.” Her voice turned wistful. “We were going to get married, start a family. Nick was thinking about opening a gym near us and working with athletes from different disciplines. He said he didn’t want to get into rugby coaching because he wanted to try new things…”

  “But?”

  “It’s hard to explain. When the time came, he just didn’t have enthusiasm for any of it. And when we looked into what it would cost to open a top class gym in London, the prices were crazy. He still might though. He was talking about going in with some of his old teammates, but I don’t know. He doesn’t seem that enthusiastic about it.” She stared down at her plate. “Not even about marriage.” Then she looked up at her mother. “How can I even think of starting a family with a man who just isn’t there? And I don’t mean physically, because even when he’s in London, it’s like he’s somewhere else. I know he’s been depressed and I know that I need to give him time to come to terms with the new normal. I hoped the modelling might give him that, and sometimes he seems to enjoy it, but I don’t know. It’s all feast and famine: one minute he’s in demand and busy, working crazy long hours, and the next, nothing for weeks.” She shook her head. “He needs ongoing goals to work towards—something long term. I thought that would be us, our family … but I guess it’s not.”

  Her mother laid her hand over Anna’s.

  “Honey, I honestly believe he’ll figure it out. Maybe he has to try several different things before he finds what fires his imagination. But it seems to me that in modelling he’s picked another short-term career. I know that there are a few more silver foxes out there than there used to be, but it’s the exception, not the rule.”

&
nbsp; Anna’s eyes widened.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that. Oh God! And I pushed him into doing this!”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” her mother chided gently. “You opened the door but he’s the one who walked through it. In my opinion, all experience is useful in life; you never know where it might lead.”

  She leaned back in her chair and stared out of the window, her eyes half-closing against the light dancing on the river as the evening sun sank lower.

  “Do you remember when you were a child and you wanted to try horse riding?”

  “Sure! I pretty much hated it!”

  Her mother laughed.

  “Yes, you did, but you stuck with it for six months—you were so stubborn. And then you tried ballet…”

  “Even worse!”

  “And ice skating…”

  “I wasn’t too bad at that…”

  “No, but you didn’t stick with it either.”

  Anna’s eyebrows drew together.

  “What’s your point, Mom?”

  Her mother laughed gently.

  “There’s no harm in trying different things and admitting that they’re not for you. Nick’s whole life has been about rugby. Just give him the space to find what else he enjoys doing.”

  Anna’s frown deepened.

  “I am trying, Mom. It’s just…”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “Sometimes I almost hate it that he’s so good looking!”

  Her mother gaped at her and Anna rushed on.

  “There are always women staring at him, and men. Sometimes, it’s like I’m invisible and they don’t even see me. And now he’s surrounded by all these incredibly beautiful and glamorous women, I feel like … I don’t measure up. I know that’s pretty shallow.”

  Her mother took a sip of water, her eyes taking in the tinge of desperation on Anna’s face.

  “Let me ask you something, sweetheart, and think carefully before you answer.”

  “Okaaaay.”

  “Think about one of these instances where you’ve felt invisible, when you’ve been ignored by other people…”

  “Yes?”

  “What did Nick do? Did he ignore you, too? Were you invisible to him? Did he see that you were annoyed and upset?”

  Anna swallowed past the sudden burn of tears behind her eyes, and she shook her head.

  “No, he always sees me. He always makes me feel loved.”

  Her mother gave a gentle smile.

  “Well, doesn’t that tell you what’s important—the way he treats you? And besides, don’t you think it’s Nick that you should be saying all this to, not me?”

  Anna considered her mother’s words.

  “Maybe. But I want him to come home because he wants me, not because my neediness has made him feel guilty.”

  “Is it neediness to tell your fiancé that you miss him?”

  Anna paused.

  “Yes, I think it could be. When we talk or Facetime, I have to bite my tongue to avoid saying anything that would make it sound like I was resenting him being away. I don’t, not really. I want him to be happy, and if this is how he can find himself again, then I genuinely want it for him. I’m not denying that I find it hard and I get so lonely, but I want to support his choices, you know?”

  “And do you trust him?”

  Anna’s answer was immediate.

  “Yes!”

  “Then there’s your answer. He sees you, Anna. You’re important to him. Give him time, but give him support,” and she gave a slight laugh, shaking her head. “Do it your way, honey. You usually do—and it works out in the end. Go to Miami and show him that none of the pretty girls there bother you in the slightest. Show him that you support him whatever he wants to do.”

  Anna blinked back tears and took her mother’s hand and squeezed it.

  “How did you get to be so wise, Mom?”

  “By living 63 years … and being married to a hot hunk of man for a blessed thirty-five of them.”

  And then they were both laughing and crying, and as they recklessly ordered a second bottle of wine, they agreed that men were a lot of trouble—but that some of them were even worth it.

  NICK STARED AT the photographs in disbelief. Adrienne had sent him the Walmart campaign, his first gig in New York. And now … she’d warned him that he’d be disappointed. Nick didn’t understand until he opened the email attachments.

  He shook his head. What a friggin’ joke.

  In every single one of the photographs, his head had been swapped for another model’s, a younger man with blond hair. They’d also photoshopped out his tattoos. Why the hell had they bothered to hire him if they didn’t like anything about him? To be honest, when he’d first seen the images, he thought that they’d re-shot the campaign with another model, but when he looked closely, he recognized his crooked fingers, and the scar on the back of his ankle from tendon surgery.

  The body was definitely Nick’s, but only he would have known. Well, him and Anna. It could be a coincidence, but he’d bet anything that it was the sleazy photographer taking his revenge on Nick for turning him down.

  At least he’d still been paid for the job, but pride in his work had taken a hit.

  Nick closed his laptop in disgust. The modelling business was a tough one to crack and he wasn’t at all sure that he liked much of what he’d found.

  Nick wasn’t short of money exactly. He’d saved up during his four-and-a-half years with the Phoenixes, but he was only 34 and the money he’d earned had to last a long time, assuming he made three-score-and-ten as a minimum. He’d invested his testimonial windfall into his small property portfolio of two suburban houses in southeast London. The income from those was going towards keeping him in New York.

  But a lot of the younger models that he met were right on the edge of struggling. Most worked two or three jobs, hoping to hit a well-paid modelling contract and be able to give up waiting on tables, courier work, dog walking, or other employment that allowed them a reasonable amount of flexibility to go to castings.

  Most of them were broke.

  If their agent decided it wasn’t working for them in the US, they’d be shipped off to do a round of casting calls in Germany, say, and if that didn’t work, on to London. And even though the agency bought the plane tickets, the money had to be paid back out of any work they found.

  If they didn’t find work, they were even more in debt and doubly screwed.

  It was one of the reasons why they were all desperate to build up their social media presences—they wanted all the exposure they could get.

  Nick, on the other hand, didn’t have any intention of using social media: he’d been ripped apart by the British Press over the years, and he’d had his fill of it.

  The week before he left for Miami, he spent time in the gym, putting in the hours of cardio, mostly running on a treadmill, to achieve the lean, ripped look that the swimwear company who’d booked him wanted—nothing too bulky.

  He also shaved his chest and made an appointment for a fake tan and the inevitable manscaping that seemed to be a necessary part of the biz. Just nice and trimmed: bushes went out in the seventies, Adrienne said.

  Nick shook his head—his life was certainly strange, although he’d found that he did enjoy mudpacks: really relaxing.

  Following that, Adrienne gave him and two other models a rapid-fire lesson in how to walk on a catwalk—which apparently involved a lot more than just putting one foot in front of another.

  “You can’t just show up and walk like you normally would on the street: you don’t want to look like an ape, rolling from hip to hip; and you don’t want to be too feminine, either—women on the catwalk have one foot directly in front of the other; you need to be side by side, but without lurching. No, the male runway walk is somewhere in the middle. It needs to be elegant and confident; you need to command the room.

  “Orion, don’t look down—take long, steady strides; let your arms swing natura
lly by your side. Nick, don’t make eye contact or interact with the audience unless the client asks you to. Look past the audience and focus on an imaginary point just beyond them. Keep your mouth natural. Don’t smile unless the client wants that. Don’t swing your arms that much!”

  It all felt weird to Nick and seemed like the hardest command was to be natural. Suddenly, his arms felt bizarre, hanging at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  Adrienne watched them walk up and down the room again, frowning as they paused at the end for the room, pretending it was a catwalk. Nick felt like a right knob.

  “Practise good posture,” she called. “Walk tall with your body straight and your shoulders back. Bend your knees—not that much—try to relax. You don’t want to look like a robot. More confidence, Orion. Nick: strong, purposeful, you’re already naturally sexy.”

  But he practised because he wanted to look good; he wanted to succeed at whatever he tried. Even this.

  NICK LANDED IN Miami mid-afternoon.

  The air quivered with damp heat, and Nick immediately felt sweat break out across the small of his back. The light denim jacket that he’d worn in New York felt heavy in Florida’s high summer.

  Fortunately, his cab was air conditioned. The driver wove his way through a knot of concrete flyovers, nodding his head and tapping his hands to the rhythm of a Spanish-language radio station, until suddenly they were heading west along a high bridge with brilliant blue water on either side of them, leading to the impossibly white sands and decorative palm trees of South Beach.

  They stopped outside a small hotel where Nick had reserved two rooms—one for him and Anna, and one for Brendan—near all the action but a little out of the way, too. It was only five floors and set on a quiet side street where you caught glimpses of the ocean, sparkling in the distance.

  Nick collected his room key, pleased with the large, comfortable bed and pretty white bedroom. He ached with longing for Anna; the fact that she would be with him in two days made the need more intense.

  His first job was to check in at the Convention Center where Swim Week as taking place, meet the client and see where he’d be working.