Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  Anna shivered, pulling her thick cardigan around herself more tightly and felt ridiculously grateful for the furry panda slippers that Trish had given her the previous Christmas.

  Nick was downstairs in the basement, and Anna could hear the faint sounds of his pounding feet on the treadmill. She wished that some engineer could come up with a way of turning all that energy into heating for the old house. The high ceilings and large rooms that had caught her eye when they’d been house hunting, had needed a lot of wall insulation and new double-glazing to make them bearable in winter, and because she felt the cold keenly, Nick had also splurged out on underfloor heating downstairs. An indulgent luxury that she was thankful for every day, especially now.

  Soft flakes drifted past her window, the panes frosted with ice at the corners. Outside, the world was white and almost silent. The roads had been salted and gritted the day before, but snow ploughs seemed to be few and far between in London, except for the main arterial roads, and only compacted ice lay dangerously beyond their driveway.

  Anna turned her attention away from the Christmassy scene and back to her laptop, soon becoming absorbed in her work. Ninety minutes later, a damp and sweaty Nick appeared from the basement, radiating heat like a furnace. Anna didn’t know whether to hug him or toss him in the shower. Not that she could toss 180 pounds of muscled man anywhere.

  “How’s the writing going?” Nick asked.

  “Good. Flowing a little more today. What are you going to do now?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “I could make something for lunch.”

  “It’s only eleven o’clock, babe.”

  “Oh, right.” He glanced out of the window. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  “It’s about twenty degrees out there and it’s snowing—it’s practically a blizzard!”

  Nick gave her a half smile.

  “Yeah, but I thought I’d walk across the Heath, maybe take some photographs. This is the first time it’s snowed this much since I’ve been in London.”

  He strode out of the room and Anna heard him running up the stairs then rummaging around in one of the closets. She was glad to see him enthusiastic about something: not much had caught his interest since he’d been back in London. He hadn’t even been that interested in her, it seemed. After the amazing, outdoor sex that they’d had in France, they hit a dry patch. In fact, they’d hardly made love since they’d been home, maybe once a week if she initiated it—not like the twice a day it used to be. Twice a day at the least. Nick’s continuing lack of interest battered her confidence daily.

  If she’d hoped that the photoshoot with Massimo would change everything for the better, she’d been disappointed.

  Anna sighed and went back to work. With Nick’s absence, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

  Minutes later, he reappeared dressed in walking boots, a fleece-lined waterproof coat, black beanie and thick gloves, and with a camera bag slung over his shoulder. He seemed more animated than usual and gave her a lingering kiss on her lips, then winked at her as he walked out of the room.

  “Wait! You have a real camera? How come I’ve never seen that before?”

  His head appeared around the door, his expression surprised.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “No, never.”

  He shrugged.

  “I used to like to do a bit of photography. I just got busy, you know. Seeing Massimo at work reminded me that I haven’t done any in a while.”

  Jeez, thought Anna, we’ve been together nearly five years—that’s a long while! But she didn’t say that.

  “Wow, that’s pretty cool!”

  “I just thought I’d mess around with it,” he shrugged.

  “Well … have fun,” she called after him. “If you see Santa, get a selfie!”

  She smiled when she heard his laughter echoing down the hallway. Then her smile faded—his laughter seemed rarer these days, too.

  Forcing herself to get back to work, she turned her gaze to her laptop, but her thoughts drifted to Nick like the snow falling past her window.

  Two hours later he returned, his eyes bright and his cheeks red from the cold. His boots were heavy with snow and the bottom of his pants were white. He stamped his feet on the doorstep, then bent to unlace his boots.

  “It’s amazing out there,” he said, shaking flakes of snow from the hair that escaped his beanie. “I got some great shots. I wish I had a better lens.”

  Using the viewfinder, he scrolled through the photographs of Hampstead Heath in the snow, the landscape stark and unfamiliar.

  “These are really good,” Anna said, surprised and pleased. “What kind of camera is this?”

  Nick lifted a shoulder.

  “It’s a Nikon D6-10, a digital SLR.”

  That didn’t mean anything to Anna, but she thought the pictures were really wonderful.

  “You could get some of them printed out and framed for your office,” she suggested.

  “Yeah, I might do that,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m going to download them and edit them.”

  Her smile vanished as Nick left the room. The warmth and connection they’d found in France had disappeared into short conversations and deeper silence. He seemed further away than ever.

  An hour later, and Anna’s stomach was growling with hunger. Nick hadn’t appeared from his office, so she went to find him there.

  He was still at his laptop, absorbed in editing the snowy scenes he’d just taken.

  “Stunning,” Anna breathed, admiring his photographs. “They look even more amazing seeing them that size. You’re talented, Nick.”

  Nick blinked, surprised he hadn’t heard her coming in.

  “Thanks, they came out pretty good.”

  “Can I look?”

  Nick rolled his chair away from the computer so Anna could flick through them.

  “You should frame that one and … wait, what are these?”

  She saw a series of photographs from France, pictures that she hadn’t even been aware Nick was taking.

  “Did you use for phone for these?”

  “Yeah.”

  There were scenes from their hotel including one of her sleeping that took her breath away. She looked so peaceful—and the soft lighting of early morning was flattering.

  “You look beautiful,” Nick said quietly.

  “Thank you. I … wow, I had no idea you’d taken all these.”

  She scrolled through a series of shots taken behind the scenes at Massimo’s shoot in the studio and from the island. It was fascinating seeing the Maestro and his team at work, seeing the way Nick had seen them.

  “Oh, by the way, you got a package from Massimo. It must be a copy of the calendar. I didn’t open it, but only because I have an iron will,” she teased.

  Nick cringed.

  “Oh crap, I’m not sure I want to see it.”

  “Well, I do! Hurry up and open it! I want to see if you’re Mr. December.”

  Nick threw her a look, but opened up the package that she handed to him, pulling out a shrink-wrapped calendar. His eyebrows shot up.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Eh, they’ve put me on the front,” Nick said, sounding surprised.

  The cover was a beach shot, one of the last of the day, showing Nick striding from the sea, water pouring from his shoulders and chest, his hair slicked back. In the photograph, backlit by the setting sun, he looked beautiful and athletic, but it was suggestive too, and you couldn’t tell that Nick was naked.

  “Oh my God! You look amazing! I wonder if Massimo would give me a print because I’d frame that.”

  “Yeah, and we can stick it in the bog,” Nick muttered.

  “Shut up! I love it! Ooh, I wonder if he’s used any other pictures of you.”

  Anna peeled off the cellophane while Nick hovered over her shoulder, not sure if he wanted to see anymore pictures or not. He hoped none of the lads would hear about his nude modelling photoshoot before h
e saw them on Saturday, because he was pretty certain he’d get the piss ripped out of him.

  In fact, there were two more photographs of Nick inside, both from the studio shots where he had been obviously naked.

  It was strange seeing himself there in black and white. He could see it was him, but it was separate from who he was, maybe like being an actor. He could see the concentration and that he’d been in the moment, but it was weird viewing himself like that.

  “These are so beautiful, Nick, really artistic. And hot!” Anna gave a quick laugh and fanned herself. “How does it feel?”

  He shrugged.

  “Hopefully they’ll raise a lot of money for charity.”

  “I’d say that’s a given,” Anna agreed, staring at the erotic images of her fiancé.

  “I’m going to make lunch,” he mumbled, leaving Anna to look at the other athletes in the calendar.

  Soon, the delicious aromas emanating from the kitchen pulled Anna from her reveries. Nick’s stir-fried Asian vegetables were to die for and so darn healthy she could practically feel her body soaking up the minerals and vitamins. It was a good thing she’d hidden some cupcakes in her office. A balanced diet was so important.

  “I’m going to see the Phoenixes play on Saturday,” Nick announced, as he sipped a glass of some suspiciously green juice.

  “Oh, that’s great!” she said, too brightly. “Did Jason get in touch?”

  “Yep. His last home game.”

  Anna was pleased . They’d all been friends since Nick had arrived in London, and Jason didn’t have many games left with the top league team: he used that fact to extract Nick’s promise that he’d go.

  “Don’t you want to see the Phoenixes play?” Anna asked, puzzled by his lack of interest in the team that had been his home for four years.

  Nick frowned.

  “Yes, no, not really,” he said quietly.

  Anna had an idea about his ambivalence but she wanted him to spell it out for her. One of her dad’s favourite sayings was that ‘to assume makes an ass out of u and me’. And second-guessing Nick wasn’t getting her far these days.

  “Yeah, I’ll go to see Jason and support the lads,” he said. “But it’s different, being in the Stands. I’ll still want to get out there on the field, I know that much, but at the same time, I’ve made a clean break from rugby.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows, but as she thought about it, he was telling the truth. Even when the Six Nations had been on TV, an international series of games between the three countries of the UK, plus Ireland, France and Italy, he’d only glanced, watching just a few minutes of each game.

  She’d guessed at his mixed emotions, but hadn’t realized how important the clean break was to him.

  This would be the first time that he’d gone to see some of his rugby friends and attended a home game.

  Anna nodded slowly.

  “Yes, I saw that back home in the States with some of the football players I worked with. You’d think players would be fans, but that’s not always the case. Some love to watch it and go to the games—others, not so much. It’s understandable.”

  Nick rubbed his face.

  “I used to like going back to the amateur clubs I played for when I was growing up, just to watch. It’s different, you know? The ties to the club as a kid. But with a professional club that you used to play for, being in the Stands can be hard. I’ll go and see Jason because he’ll give me a bollocking if I don’t, but yeah, I’d rather play than watch.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Anna offered.

  Nick gave her a quick smile.

  “Nah, that’s okay. It’ll be freezing cold on Saturday. And anyway, Jason will want to have a few drinks afterwards.”

  Anna smiled to herself. She knew that was code for the whole team going to get blitzed, even though Nick wasn’t much of a drinker himself. Not anymore.

  “Fair enough—a guys’ night out then.”

  Nick looked as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to go, but Anna thought it would make a change for him. He’d hardly seen any of his friends since returning from France or since his testimonial, in fact.

  Over the next couple of days, Anna’s mind drifted back to the photoshoot, but it wasn’t Massimo’s images that drew her attention, but the photographs Nick had taken. Maybe she was clutching at those proverbial straws again, but his interest in photography was fresh. He didn’t really have any hobbies—he’d always been too busy before. The occasional poker night with his teammates hardly counted, especially since he didn’t even do that anymore.

  On impulse, Anna sent an email to Massimo, attaching Nick’s snowy landscapes and behind-the-scenes photos from the shoot, and asking his advice about additional lenses for Nick’s camera.

  He replied that evening with encouraging comments. She was slightly taken aback when he suggested that she buy two new lenses, one 50 ml and one 85 ml, and a tripod for Nick, purchases totalling over £1,000. Nevertheless, she placed the order online and crossed her fingers.

  NICK’S HOPE THAT the calendar shoot would stay under the radar for a few more days was blown to smithereens the next day. It seemed that Massimo, or the charity’s marketing people, had also sent copies of the calendar to the British Press.

  Nick was notorious once again. The headlines ranged from fairly restrained:

  Rugby Rocket Turns Top Model

  Renshaw’s Calendar Debut

  to the more excitable tabloid Press, screaming their headlines in three inch high capital letters:

  Rugby Ace Gets Raunchy

  Naughty Nick in the Nude

  Nick Strips Off.

  But the first Nick and Anna knew about it was when the phone wouldn’t stop ringing with journalists wanting quotes. Anna put Brendan to work answering all their calls, and sending out a hastily cobbled together press release that explained the charity’s aims, with a brief quote from Nick simply saying that he’d enjoyed working with Massimo.

  But when Nick arrived at the Phoenixes’ stadium on Saturday afternoon, he walked into a locker room that had been papered with photocopies of his calendar shoot, all with the additions of moustaches, DD-breasts, three nipples, giant dicks, and various other graffiti.

  “Naughty Nick, will you sign my boobies?” Jason screeched when he saw him.

  “Fuck off,” he replied mildly, having both dreaded and expected this.

  The team razzed him for the next ten minutes until Sim Andrews, the head coach, rescued him by telling the team to focus on the coming game.

  They shook hands, and Nick’s former boss gave him a wry smile.

  “Good to see you, Nick, but you picked your moment to come for a visit.”

  “It didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time!” Nick groaned.

  Sim laughed.

  “I think you’ve played a blinder, mate. You’ll have other photographers lining up to take a picture of your ugly mug.”

  Nick blinked.

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I reckon. And publishers wanting to write your autobiography for you.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “I’ve already had some of those after my testimonial. And I’m only 34—that’s a bit young for an autobiography, I think.”

  Sim shrugged.

  “Dunno, mate. It seems to be that some of these popstars have books about them before they’ve hit puberty. But what do I know? I’m just an old fuddy-duddy. Right, better get this lot in shape. You gonna be in the Stands or the Box with the bigwigs?”

  “I’ll be line-side,” said Nick, earning an approving shoulder thump from Sim.

  “See you down there, lad.”

  Nick stared around the locker room, taking in the organized chaos as the fifteen players littered the place with clothes and rugby uniforms; physios applied support bandages and the room was filled with the scent of Tiger Balm, Vic and Deep Heat.

  He missed it with a pain that nearly crushed him. He wanted to walk out and never come back, but
he couldn’t: he’d made promises. Instead, he headed line-side and chatted with the fans and supporters he met.

  The air was cold and crisp, but at least the snow had disappeared. It rarely stayed long in the soft South of England.

  As the game progressed to the second half, Nick felt the tension build in his body, the unused adrenaline coursing through him as he watched the plays and found himself mentally playing the game with the lads, cheering when they did well, throwing his hands in the air when they made a mistake or fumbled the ball. It felt like torture because his body and mind were telling him he should be out there with them, leading his team.

  But there was another part of him that wanted to get the hell out of there—even though he stamped his feet and jumped up and down, the cold seeped into his body, setting off an ache in his shoulder that reminded him of his most recent surgery, less than a year ago, followed by a birthday the previous October that took him into his mid-thirties.

  He had to face it: 34 was too old for a rough game.

  Just one more match, begged his heart.

  Too old, mate, his head replied.

  Nick would have left at the end of the game if he hadn’t promised Jason that he’d go for a drink with him and the lads from the team.

  The younger players were gratifyingly in awe of him—after all, Nick was the Captain who’d led the Phoenixes to more wins than any other before him, and had taken England to two World Cup victories.

  But he was part of their history, not their present, not their future.

  He would have given a lot to be able to lose himself in a haze of alcohol, but an early brush with alcoholism had left him wary of boozing it up with the lads. Instead, he had one lager, then stuck to water.

  “We wuz the best, weren’t we, mate?” Jason announced, draping a huge arm around Nick’s shoulders. “Best Backs a team ever had. We were legends, mate, legends.” Then he turned to look at him. “How do you do it? How do you retire? ‘Cos I fuckin’ ‘aven’t got a clue. I tell ya, Nick, I’m dreading it. I’ll feel like me todger dropped off.” He gave a cynical laugh. “Maybe I’ll do what you do and get me knob out for money. You fink I could be a calendar model?”