Model Boyfriend

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  THE NEXT DAY, Nick caught a flight to Paris. He was met at Charles de Gaulle airport by a limo service and whisked past the Arc de Triomphe, past the Tour Eiffel, and through the bustling streets of Paris. No one tried to peer through the tinted windows, but Nick still felt like a celebrity.

  He pushed a button to lower the window a crack, and immediately sneezed as a bus belching diesel accelerated into the lane next to him, making his eyes water. He rolled the window up hastily and leaned back in the leather seat, willing the pain away. A tramadol would feel pretty good about now, but he’d almost managed to give them up. Unless he’d been hammered on the pitch, then all bets were off. But he was trying.

  With red, watering eyes, Nick saw that the driver had turned into a nondescript street and stopped outside a building that looked like a warehouse.

  The driver opened Nick’s door and smoothly pocketed the €10 tip with a sleight of hand a magician could be proud of.

  Nick stared up at the brick building and felt that first tingle of excitement that he had before a game, the same mix of nerves that he’d had before Massimo’s shoot, but not since.

  He’d spent so much time resenting the interruption to working with his team, that he’d forgotten that there were many things about doing a photoshoot that he enjoyed, especially if he could learn from the photographer, too.

  He was just about to ring the buzzer when the front door opened, and from then on, Nick learned that things were done differently on a Vogue shoot.

  A man who could have been Brendan’s French twin ushered Nick inside, introducing him in perfect if heavily accented English to the team: hairdresser, makeup artist and manicurist, senior stylist and her two assistants, one of whom was a trained tailor, lighting engineer, art director, and finally the photographer, Henri Cassavell, who was the king of the show, greeting Nick regally and seemed fascinated by his damaged face.

  The photographer was a vigorous man in his late sixties, with deeply tanned skin and a face like a ploughed field. His hair stuck up in odd tufts like cotton balls, and his eyebrows were thick and grey, perching over his nose expectantly.

  But his dark eyes were clear and penetrating, and he examined Nick minutely, then nodded briskly.

  “Bon! Let’s get to work!”

  He clapped his hands and all the assistants who’d been holding their breath flew into action.

  Nick was hustled away, given water and strong coffee, as the senior stylist conferred with Monsieur Cassavell.

  Several suits in different tones of charcoal were brought out, inspected and dismissed, until the correct shade was found. Then the same process with suits in navy blue.

  Seven crisp white shirts were rejected before one in fine Egyptian cotton was selected. One of the assistants hung it up and used a steamer to take out the creases.

  Four pairs of gleaming Tom Ford shoes in Nick’s size were brought out, displayed in their shoe boxes, emerging from swathes of white tissue paper.

  He lost count of the number of ties that were presented to the senior stylist, before three were chosen to show to Monsieur Cassavell.

  Nick was offered a robe and changed quickly while discussions in rapid French took place all around him. He was pleased that he understood most of what was said. He also managed to take some behind-the-scenes shots, earning a curious look from the photographer.

  Nick wondered if he’d committed some sort of Vogue sin, but the man merely came over to examine Nick’s camera and ask some questions.

  “What sort of camera have you got? Oh I see you’re using a 50 ml lens. How do you find it?”

  “I like using it for close-up shots and behind the scenes and interiors, especially when there’s low lighting. Is that alright? Do you mind if I take a few pictures? While you’re not shooting, of course.”

  “That’s fine. Are you interested in being a photographer?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “I just like taking pictures, but who knows?”

  Monsieur Cassavell smiled and slapped Nick on the shoulder. It felt like the ice had been broken.

  Often, models were treated like mere content, literally clotheshorses on which to hang designer outfits; Nick was much happier when he was treated as a person.

  But then it was all business again.

  The makeup artist insisted on shaving his chest again even though Nick had done it the day before, inspecting his skin minutely before massaging in some oil that smelled sharply of citrus.

  Then twenty minutes of combing and trimming his beard was followed by makeup sponged onto his face, neck, chest and the backs of his hands. The manicurist tutted and fussed over his bent fingers, trimming the nails, then polishing them to a glass-like sheen.

  There was a long conversation between the makeup artist who looked despairingly at Nick’s battered face, and the photographer who seemed to want to emphasize the damage. In the end, the slight blackness under his left eye wasn’t covered up with foundation—if anything, it was emphasized.

  It all seemed bizarre to Nick, but Monsieur Cassavell was pleased.

  Eyeliner, lip-gloss, mascara and powder were applied, and then the hair stylist gripped his hair between her hands, moulding and pulling, combing and gelling into tousled perfection.

  When Nick slid on the underwear, shirt and suit that had been prepared for him, for the first time in his life he had clothes-envy. Everything fit him perfectly, but even then, the tailor made minute adjustments, slightly altering the hang of the jacket across his broad shoulders.

  God, it felt good, and he even though he wasn’t vain, he loved the way it looked.

  “How much would this suit cost?” Nick asked.

  “This item,” said the tailor, “is a Trader Blu suit in Batavia Twill. This Armani retails at a little under €3,000.”

  Nick swallowed—that was his monthly wage at Carcassonne.

  With a swooping sensation, Nick realised that all these outfits, even the ones that had been discarded, had been ordered specially for this shoot. He’d always known that his athletic body-type couldn’t be easily accommodated by off-the-peg clothes. It was humbling and oddly exhilarating.

  As Nick’s transformation was completed, Henri Cassavell talked to him in depth about his vision for the shoot—to show the work behind the creation of a rugby star, his words. He wanted to see the bent fingers, the defined muscles, the scar through Nick’s eyebrow, the evidence of surgery on his shoulder, elbow, Achilles tendons as the body beneath the suit was revealed, and, of course, his black eye.

  The set had been dressed with a background of heavy silk cascading to the floor behind a formal drawing room chair; the lighting was stark, giving the room a monochrome effect.

  The photographer was intense but focussed, totally in command of his material—Nick.

  He photographed every part of him, even asking him to remove his shoes and socks, exposing vulnerability, as he put it, in Nick’s bare feet.

  “Nick, more intense. No, intense, not angry … that’s it. Raise your left shoulder, dip your chin, yes, good. That’s it! Hold it! Don’t move!”

  And the camera shutter rattled like a machine gun.

  “Good, extend you right leg, more relaxed, don’t look at the camera, look past the camera. Down a little, move your chin to the right.”

  Nick was almost waiting for him to say, ‘Rub your stomach and pat your head’.

  “Now look directly at the camera, yes, good. That’s it! That’s it! That’s the look! Hold it, don’t move! Yes, that’s what I want! You’re strong, you’re powerful! Show me strong! Show me you’re undefeated! You’re a warrior, a winner! Yes, yes, that look! Those eyes! That’s it! That’s what I need! Hold it!”

  The photographer was slightly reserved, but polite and gracious to everyone—he was captain of his ship, and Nick could respect that.

  Nick moved, posed, focussed, followed and found himself intrigued by the work, the psychology that went into the shoot. He listened to everything he was told
, completely intent on doing the best job he could.

  Three hours flew by, and Nick was surprised and a little disappointed when they were finally done. It had been a fascinating experience and he’d learned so much. Even though he was still pretty much a novice, no one had made him feel ignorant, and God, the clothes were fantastic! He wondered if he’d be allowed to keep them. It seemed unlikely, and he sighed as he pulled on his jeans and t-shirt.

  The senior stylist noticed the glances he’d been casting at the suit, and gave a small smile.

  “Monsieur Nick, would you do us the honour of keeping this suit?” she asked.

  Nick’s grin was wide.

  “Really? It’s okay?”

  “It has been altered for you—we couldn’t sell it,” she shrugged.

  “Heck, yeah! I thought you’d never ask,” Nick joked as she passed him the suit in a carrier.

  Nick was delighted. He’d never been able to keep any of the clothes from a shoot before.

  Henri Cassavell shook his hand fervently.

  “It has been a pleasure, mon ami. We will make a beautiful cover for Vogue Hommes International, yes?”

  Nick blinked.

  “The cover?”

  The photographer laughed, highly amused.

  “Mais oui! No one told you this?”

  Nick gave the photographer an apologetic smile.

  “Uh, yeah sorry. I forgot.”

  “It will be a great cover, Nick Renshaw. The camera loves you … and your black eye,” and he laughed. “And we French love our rugby heroes. We love the cut of a good suit even more,” and he smiled broadly.

  AS NICK BOARDED his flight back to Carcassonne, the whole day in Paris seemed surreal.

  The only sign that he’d modelled for a Vogue photoshoot was the gel in his hair and the suit-carrier in the overhead locker.

  Now he was back to the day job of captaining a rugby team who were still struggling.

  Yes, they’d started to win a few games, but the team was inconsistent and still suffering from the odour of bullying.

  The idea of talking it all out definitely had merit, and Nick was going to use the long bus ride to their next game to force the team to bond, once and for all.

  The team boarded the coach for the five hour drive to Grenobles. It was an important game, but one they’d be playing without two key members, since Grégoire and Laurent were both suspended. Their punishment was to sit line-side but not be permitted to play. For an athlete, to be fit and ready and have to sit on the side-lines was torture. But they both knew that they’d earned it.

  At the front of the bus sat the physios, Bernard and Nick. But at the back, Nick could hear Laurent mouthing off.

  Banter was one thing, but the guy just didn’t let up and he didn’t learn. When Nick twisted around to see what was going on, he could see Grégoire’s face changing, growing angrier as the needling went on and on.

  He was well aware that rugby lads liked to joke around and that some of the horseplay could be rough, but this was divisive and bad for team morale.

  Nick stood up to make his way to the back of the bus and Laurent smirked at him, raising one eyebrow, a direct challenge to Nick’s authority.

  “Laurent, you’re bang out of order!”

  He was so angry that he’d spoken in English, even though he’d picked up a fair bit of French over the last few months, but his meaning had definitely communicated itself.

  “Monsieur Captiaine Passif,” Laurent said slyly to his crony, implying that Nick was the bottom in a gay relationship, the passive partner.

  It was Grégoire who hit breaking point first.

  “Enough! This is boring me now! Yes I’m gay! You all know that. If any of you have a problem with that, with me, say it now to my face.”

  He turned to Laurent slowly.

  “We are all grown men here, so if you have a problem with me or how I play, say it! Do I smell? No! I smell great!”

  He sniffed his armpits as several of the players laughed.

  “Definitely not that. Is it my haircut? My awesome fashion sense?” and he winked at a few players. “Or perhaps it is the fact that I am the only gay player in this team!”

  The bus fell silent.

  “Shall we have a conversation? We do not have to speak only with loud grunts and burps, we can hold down intelligent conversations—the mindless violence happens on the pitch; we are civilized off the pitch.”

  Laurent turned his head to gaze out of the window.

  Grégoire frowned, his eyes darkening with anger.

  “Fuck it! You know what? Let’s get all the crazy fucking questions you want to ask out of the way today; all those questions that you don’t have the balls to ask me one-on-one. This is your chance to ask me anything. Maybe then I can just concentrate on my job—I like the banter as much as any of you, but sometimes it goes too far and I need a break from the yap, yap, yap in my ears, like a small Jack Russell nipping at my ankles. Everyone has a breaking point and I’m not far from knocking one of you out, and that is something I most definitely will regret. We are a team, aren’t we? In this together? Even if sometimes we piss each other off, or we don’t always agree. Right, Laurent?”

  Laurent shook his head, but he was listening, and Grégoire’s voice grew louder.

  “That is the truth—we get over it for the sake of the team, because that’s what teams do!”

  He looked at the rest of the players challengingly.

  “You have fifteen minutes, boys, so go for it! Ask me anything you want. Go on! I know you’re curious. Ask me!”

  He lifted his chin and stared down at his teammates.

  Russ broke the silence.

  “Grég, mate, do you swing both ways, because my girlfriend thinks you’re a good looking bastard and I want to know if I should be worried?”

  Grégoire burst out laughing.

  “She’s too beautiful for you, mon ami, that is true! But no—I only like guys. Although it depends on the guy.” And he shot a dark look at Laurent. “I have high standards.”

  The team fired question after question, their curiosity given free rein.

  “Are you a giver or a taker, Grég?” asked Inoke, a big smile on his face.

  “Both,” Grégoire answered evenly, “but you’re not my type either. Sorry, Noakes.”

  Inoke pretended to look disappointed and Grégoire threw a wink at him.

  “Have you always liked guys?” Maurice asked, a small frown creasing his forehead.

  Grégoire matched his expression, thinking about his response.

  “I always knew I liked guys,” he said quietly, “but I never thought it was right.”

  His answer was sobering and it made some of the team think a little more, finally figuring out that being a gay athlete wasn’t easy.

  “What is your type then?” Raul asked curiously.

  “You’re safe, don’t worry, Raul. You’re too hairy for my taste. We would call you ‘ourson’ a baby bear! But to put your mind at rest, my type is … Brendan.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Raul asked, throwing a quick look at Nick.

  “Yes, Bren is my boyfriend. I hope you will make him welcome again next time he visits.”

  Grégoire worked through the questions one after another, sometimes answering seriously, sometimes with funny comments or anecdotes, making the lads laugh, and everyone except Laurent took part. Even the players who’d sided with the older player before had noticeably abandoned him.

  Nick went back to his seat, feeling more relaxed. He noticed that Laurent still didn’t seem impressed, but Laurent was never impressed by anything.

  Grégoire had found the perfect answer to the constant banter. His Q&A session had broken down barriers, and the other members of the team had got all the questions off their chests.

  By the end of the bus journey, Grégoire’s sexuality had lost much of the curiosity factor and they’d moved on to talking about the team they’d be taking on the following day.


  Nick gave a wry smile: if only all situations could be solved with a 15 minute question time.

  Bernard nudged him.

  “That was interesting. Let’s hope it has a long-term effect.

  Nick nodded.

  “Yeah, I hope so. Good on Grég for that—no fear at all, just like on the pitch. He’s really impressed me today. I always admired him, he’s a strong player and a character in the team. It’ll be interesting to see how Laurent responds, now he’s lost his audience.”

  Bernard clapped him on the back.

  “Yes, very educational.”

  The following day, the Cuirassiers were in high spirits and Nick couldn’t help thinking that clearing the air had been nothing but positive. Laurent and Grégoire sat side by side as the team played without them. They didn’t speak to each other once, but Grégoire didn’t seem to notice, jumping up and down and encouraging the team.

  They played better than ever before, and scraped a win against Grenobles. Only four points, but a win was a win.

  AS THE SEASON progressed and the days grew shorter and colder with snow visible on the distant mountains, more wins followed—and Laurent kept his mouth shut. His playing was mature and his experience showed, but he was still not part of the team. Bernard and the management were talking about trading him. Only Nick was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was hard to explain why, but he understood the older man’s frustration at playing in what was probably his last season and in a second league team.

  He just didn’t have to be a dickhead about it.

  Bernard was smiling when Nick entered the tiny, cramped office of the management team.

  “Nick, good game today. Please, sit.”

  Nick shook hands with the Coach, Manager and Chief Executive. He’d been called into this meeting immediately after the last game, and he expected it was to do with Laurent’s future. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that: Laurent had played well and his experience could be a great benefit to the team; but Grégoire was improving game by game, his confidence increasing, letting his skills show. Plus, he was a team player.