Model Boyfriend

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Molly laughed again, thoroughly enjoying being in the spotlight, and inching closer to Nick so Roy could get them both in the same shot.

  “Stay and have some fun, Nicky,” she grinned at the camera. “You’re being paid well enough.”

  “That’s right,” said Roy. “You can’t leave or you’ll be in breach of contract.”

  “Fuck the contract!” Nick snarled.

  “Aw, don’t tell me you’re still upset about our little misunderstanding? I thought you’d be over all that by now.”

  Nick stared at her incredulously.

  “You cheated on me with a teammate when I was injured, the guy I’d asked to be Best Man at our wedding; when I finished with you, I even let you keep the sodding ring which you flogged on eBay; when I started seeing Anna, you began a vendetta that cost her career; and you lied to the Press about everything. Did I leave anything out?”

  Molly gripped his arm and gave him a hard look, her false nails sinking into his flesh.

  “You signed the contract, Nicky. The money has already been transferred to your account. If you leave, my publishers will sue you.”

  He shook her hand off, staring down at her coldly.

  “You think I give a shit about that? I don’t. Let them sue me—but I’ll be damned if I pose for a book cover with you! If there ever was a book in the first place.”

  She put one hand on her hip and struck a pose, making her fake breasts jiggle oddly.

  “Oh, there’s a book alright,” she smirked. “Naughty Nick: My Life with the Real Nick Renshaw by Molly McKinney. It’s going to be a bestseller.”

  Nick’s icy rage continued to grow. He knew that if he didn’t leave now, they’d all regret it.

  “Is this the person you want to be, Mol?” he said, biting out each word. “You want to be remembered for being a cheat and a liar? And just for the record, you never did know anything about me.”

  Her eyes sparked with malice.

  “Oh no? A little bird told me that you’ve been partying it up on tramadol … or was it diazepam?” Her gaze narrowed. “I wonder what Dr. Anna Scott would think about that. She’s been very vocal about the misuse of prescription painkillers in sport, hasn’t she?”

  Nick shook his head, disturbed at the level of sleuthing Molly had being doing.

  “I had career-ending surgery for a torn rotator cuff. Christ, you’re unbelievable.”

  “Ooh, Nicky! Hit a sore spot, did I? You thought no one knew. Well, let me tell you this, Mr. Big Shot, there are always people watching. And anyway, I’m not the one trying to make it as a professional model,” she laughed coldly. “Your agent told us you were available any day this week or next. Not having too much luck, are you? And where’s dear little Anna? Home alone with all your old teammates to keep her company?”

  Nick’s voice grew stone cold as he leaned toward her, his eyes dangerously dark.

  “You’re the one who’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Molly? I spoke to Kenny at my testimonial. He told me everything, how you’d come onto him when I was laid up after surgery, and then he apologized for making the biggest mistake of his life. Yeah, that’s what he said. And he dumped your cheating arse, didn’t he?”

  He turned and left the room.

  As he strode past, the photographer got in his face, continuing to take shot after shot.

  A younger Nick would have grabbed the man’s camera and slammed it against the wall, shattering the lens. A more hot-headed Nick would have punched the sleazy photographer, the consequences be damned. And a less mindful Nick would have told Molly that she was a sour-faced cunt and the worst lay he’d ever had.

  But Nick was older and wiser now, and knew that confrontation was exactly what they wanted.

  Nick pushed past them both as Molly screamed obscenities at him.

  “You’ll be sorry for the way you’ve treated me, Nicky!” she yelled. “You’re so fucking finished! A has-been! I hate you!”

  With grim satisfaction, Nick slammed the studio door behind him and jogged down the stairs.

  Out on the streets of Manhattan, he stood breathing deeply, his hands shaking and his heart pounding from the strain of reining in his fury.

  Think, he told himself. You need to think.

  He pulled out his phone and called Adrienne.

  “Nick? You’re supposed to be at a shoot. What’s going on?”

  “It was a set up,” he snarled into the phone as he stared up at the pale blue sky. “Fuckers set me up.”

  NICK WENT STRAIGHT to Adrienne’s office, cutting through the busy Manhattan streets easily. Seeing the cloud of anger surrounding him, people stepped out of his way, half afraid.

  Nick knew that he’d been foolish to give Molly and Roy any reaction: showing his anger had given them exactly what they wanted. But only a robot could have stayed stony-faced when confronted by their lies and deception.

  He wanted to call Anna but he knew that she was interviewing Jason Oduba about his retirement from rugby, his new job as an assistant coach at Bath RFU, and plans for the future—all material for her new book on how professional athletes transitioned to ordinary, regular lives. Since Nick’s retirement, her research and motivation had taken a more personal turn.

  Yeah, and right now that could redefine irony.

  Once he reached the Midtown agency, Shonda showed him into Adrienne’s office, giving him a sympathetic look, the kind that a vet uses when telling you bad news about your furry friend.

  “Nick, have a seat. Tell me in your own words exactly what happened.”

  Nick explained everything: his engagement to Molly, finding her fucking his former friend, the court case, meeting Anna, Molly’s revenge—everything in nauseating detail—images that he’d long tried to block.

  He didn’t mention her accusation about being addicted to tramadol, but secretly promised himself that he’d ease back or even stop.

  Adrienne listened to it all, recording the conversation on her phone and occasionally taking notes.

  When he admitted that he’d lost his temper and tossed around a few f-bombs, she winced, sighed, and carefully laid her pen on her desk.

  “Nick, it’s like this: you walked off set from a photoshoot that you’d already been paid for. Did you touch either of them? Because if you did, you could be looking at a charge of assault, too.”

  “I had to push past the photographer because he was stopping me from leaving the room.”

  “And it’s your word against theirs—and you’ve just told me that you were previously found guilty of assault against the woman. You see what I’m saying? Even if they don’t take that route, I wouldn’t be surprised if the publishers sue you for the cost of delay, studio hire, Ms. McKinney’s and Mr. Greenside’s time, the cost of their flights and hotels, some sort of damages or reparation. You’ll definitely be sued for the return of your fee.”

  She leaned back and rubbed her temples.

  “Your reputation is in shit city right now. I know the way these types operate—and no one will want to work with a model who causes trouble or someone caught up in a scandal. Bookings will be non-existent and if you’d had any work lined up, it would already have been cancelled. Word gets around in this town.”

  “So what do I do? Let them fuck me over? Let Molly win again?”

  She sucked her teeth, tapping her pen on the desk.

  “You’ve got two choices: keep quiet, pay up, and hope it all blows over.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “They want the scandal—they don’t want it to blow over. What’s the other choice?”

  “Go on the offensive. Get a Press interview lined up and give them your side first. That’s almost always the side that people remember. Do you know any reporters in the UK who’d be more likely to side with you? This Greenside guy sounds like a real scumbag. Who’s he pissed off in the past?”

  A germ of an idea took root in Nick’s mind.

  “There’s a TV reporter that’s always been fa
ir to me,” he said reflectively. “Jasmine Khan. I’ve given her two exclusives. I could ask her.”

  “So she owes you?”

  “I suppose so. Sort of.”

  “Good. And she’s a woman, too. Even better. Call her now. Set up a phone interview today, then get your ass back to London for another exclusive.”

  “London?”

  Adrienne gave him a grim look.

  “Nick, even when you’ve put a positive spin on this, you’re finished in New York. Maybe in six months I can get you more work, but right now, you’ll be industry poison. Clients won’t be associated with scandal,” and she gave him a knowing look. “Not the kind that you’d want to work for, anyways.” She shrugged. “And it might be the best idea to get out of town in case there’s a warrant for your arrest. Unlikely, but don’t take the chance. Act first, act fast.”

  Nick left Adrienne’s office reeling. It definitely wasn’t how he’d expected this day to go.

  He jogged back to his cheap room, threw all his clothes in his bags, binned what he couldn’t pack, and checked out.

  He had no idea if Molly would try to get him arrested, but given her history, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  Flagging down the first yellow cab he saw, he headed for JFK, contacting Jasmine’s office. For once, luck was with him: she was still at work and he gave his interview from the back of the taxi, leaving nothing out.

  She was delighted with her scoop, and agreed to film another interview as soon as he landed back in London.

  His second piece of luck was finding a flight leaving for Heathrow in just over an hour. Nick bought his ticket then sweated his way through the security line, making boarding by a cosy five minutes.

  He still hadn’t had time to phone Anna, so he sent her a text as he settled into his economy seat.

  On my way home.

  Molly tried to screw with me again.

  Jasmine Khan has the story.

  I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Love you x

  Anna had enjoyed her dinner with Jason more than she’d expected. He’d kept the flirting to a minimum and had been surprisingly insightful about what the end of his playing career meant to him, and why he’d decided to stay with the sport and become an assistant coach. He hoped that one day he’d eventually graduate to being manager.

  The only part of the night that she hadn’t enjoyed was when they’d arrived at The Ivy and a lone paparazzo had gotten pictures of them walking into the restaurant with Jason’s arm around her shoulders.

  Jason hugged everyone, but she knew that wasn’t how it would look in the newspapers. She could imagine the headlines. She was so used to being cast as an anti-heroine that she was almost past caring.

  Anna was just wrapping up her post-dinner interview with Jason when she picked up Nick’s text. Her heart catapulted in her chest and she felt alternatively icy cold and boiling hot.

  She dropped her head in her hands, her pulse still galloping.

  “Shit! Are you alright?”

  Jason’s meaty arm was slung around her and his worried face peered into hers.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she mumbled.

  “Are you in the family way?” he asked, his voice concerned.

  “What?”

  “In the club?”

  “What club?”

  Jason rolled his eyes.

  “Bloody hell, doc! Are you pregnant?”

  Irritation helped restore her equilibrium.

  “No! Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Then she sighed. “Don’t answer—my muffin top, I know, I know.”

  Jason gave her a sheepish grin.

  “Aw, no, you’re not that fat. You just looked like you were about to faint. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yes, no, I don’t know. Look at this!” and she handed her phone to Jason.

  His expression darkened.

  “What’s that stupid bitch done now?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Well, give him a bell,” Jason said encouragingly.

  Anna had been in London long enough to know that Jason was telling her to call Nick. She followed his advice but was sent straight to voicemail.

  “He’s not answering. He must have caught a flight already. I’m sorry, Jason. I have to call Jasmine right now.”

  “Yeah, no worries, luv. Tell your old man to phone me when he’s back. Bastard owes me a pint. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  Three stories broke while Nick was halfway across the Atlantic.

  Molly and Roy had lost no time in giving their side of the sordid non-story. But Jasmine Khan, with an eye on her career and a genuine liking and respect for Nick, had managed to get her exclusive interview with him out first:

  When Ex’s Turn Evil—Nick Renshaw’s Stalker Nightmare!

  “I feel sorry for my ex,” says rugby’s Mr. Nice Guy.

  Nick had told Jasmine everything, including swearing at his ex- and at Roy Greenside, and that he regretted his loss of temper. Adrienne had done her part and returned the modelling fee in full, including her fifteen per cent.

  Molly and Roy hit back with a far more lurid version of the story, in which Nick had terrorized them and threatened them with physical violence. The photographs of Nick’s angry face were cited as ‘evidence’.

  Nasty Nick in Photoshoot Frenzy

  “He’s violent and unpredictable—I genuinely thought he’d hit me again.”

  There were photographs of Molly looking tearful, her eyeliner artfully smudged. But the fact that they’d flown out to New York and booked Nick for a shoot without revealing their identities played against them, and most people seemed to think they were in the wrong.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Adrienne’s agency and Nick being sued by Molly’s publisher—they would be asking for damages in excess of a hundred-thousand pounds. The writ was being couriered to Nick’s house and Adrienne’s offices.

  This wasn’t a problem that would go away overnight. So far there was no mention of Molly’s accusations of drug abuse, but Nick knew her—she hadn’t forgotten. She had her reasons for saving that salacious piece of gossip. It was probably in her damn book.

  The woman clung to publicity the way Spanx clung to an Oscar nominee’s backside.

  The third story wouldn’t have warranted much interest if it hadn’t been for the first two, but the pap who’d snapped Anna and Jason together was making the most of a minor windfall, and one of the seedier tabloids had picked it up.

  Naughty Nick’s Fiancée Enjoys Intimate Dinner with Ex-teammate

  And one newspaper had put all the stories together: one-plus-one-plus-one, making four…

  Renshaw Races to Save Relationship

  Journalists were camped outside Anna’s front door within ten minutes of Jasmine’s story hitting the internet.

  But this time, Anna was prepared. She’d already used the two hour head-start to adopt a siege mentality and turn their home into a fortress. Despite the lateness of the hour, she’d phoned Brendan for backup and moral support. Next, she called Nick’s former rugby agent Mark Lipman for legal help and because he was someone she trusted. Even though Mark was now in his seventies and had been retired for three years, he knew his way around a scandal or two.

  Third, she packed a suitcase and booked two hotel rooms under Brendan’s name. And finally, she’d asked Jason to meet Nick at Heathrow in the morning. It would be a good way to squelch the embers of speculation regarding story number three.

  Anna had learned from her years of being in the Press’s spotlight: she wasn’t going to be a victim ever again.

  She’d toyed with the idea of using a car service to collect Nick from the airport, but she wasn’t sure if he would check his phone before making a run through the terminal building. He might not look out for a driver holding up his name on an iPad, but he wouldn’t miss a 6’ 6” former teammate.

  Jason wasn’t the calmest guy ever, and tended to get into more fights and ‘situa
tions’ than any other player, but he was also a good friend—and right now, Anna thought Nick needed that the most.

  Brendan arrived at her house breathless with excitement and dragging an enormous suitcase, laptop and shoulder bag.

  “We’re going to a hotel, not witness protection,” Anna said, eyeing his bulging bags.

  “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your sweet little tush if you get papped wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, whilst I am the epitome of glamour, Little Miss Know-it All,” he sniped back.

  Anna shook her head. Only Brendan could make her smile at a time like this.

  While he carried their combined luggage out to the Range Rover, Anna drew all the curtains in the house, double-checked that every door and window was locked, threw half a pint of milk down the kitchen sink and said goodbye to her home. It was upsetting not to know how long she’d be away, but she hoped it would only be a couple of weeks.

  She’d learned the hard way that toughing it out didn’t work with the paparazzi. Hiding until they’d gotten bored or a more recent story hit the headlines worked much better. Or, as Brendan always said, “Don’t feed the beast.”

  NICK WASN’T PARTICULARLY well known in New York, but in London, he was someone. Unfortunately, most people with even a kissing cousin to fame would tell you that the two worst places for getting papped are LAX and pretty much anywhere in London, but especially Heathrow airport.

  The Press had gone crazy over the latest ‘Naughty Nick’ scandal, and he arrived back to over thirty photographers, journalists and two news crews waiting for a quote.

  But, like Anna, he’d learned how to deal with reporters, so he wore his sunglasses, kept a smile on his face, and simply told them that he was happy to be home and looking forward to seeing his fiancée.

  When he spotted Jason Oduba in the crowd, his smile widened. Jason hugged the crap out of him, damn near lifting him off his feet.

  “Welcome home, shorty,” laughed Jason.

  “You tosser! It’s good to see you!”