Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  Nick already knew how difficult it was for him to find clothes that fit. His quads were far bigger than average and getting jeans to fit over his thighs that didn’t also hang off his waist was a challenge. Thank God for stretch denim.

  “Adrienne will see you now.”

  Nick followed the receptionist down a narrow hallway decorated with more framed photographs, these all from magazine covers and in colour, and into Adrienne’s office.

  Sitting behind a heavy desk was a short, fierce-looking woman, dressed entirely in black. Her dark brown eyes were framed by thick glasses and topped by a blunt fringe.

  As she reached out to shake hands, her wrists jangled with dozens of silver bangles and bracelets.

  “Hey, Nick! It’s nice to meet you! How are you? How was the flight? Did you bring your book? Great. Have you checked into your hotel yet?”

  Nick blinked, bombarded with questions and still on London time, which by now was about midnight.

  He pulled out his portfolio and placed into Adrienne’s waiting hand.

  “Yeah, not too bad thanks,” he replied. “I thought I’d check into the hotel after this.”

  Adrienne scanned through the photographs quickly, muttering under her breath, then slid them into a pile and clasped her heavily ringed hands on top.

  “So, Nick, here’s the thing: we only have two other fitness models on our books and that’s something I want to change since it’s a growing market. In the past, we’ve focused on fashion models, which is a very different business. With your build, you wouldn’t fit into that spec, although that’s changing, too. Okay, take your shirt off, please.”

  “Now?”

  She smiled at him in amusement.

  “Gotta see the goods. Photos can be touched up.”

  Feeling slightly more self-conscious than he had with Massimo’s team, Nick removed his leather jacket and t-shirt, standing topless in front of Adrienne as she scrutinized him across her desk.

  “Nice ink. Turn around.”

  Nick followed her instructions, feeling her gaze burning across his back.

  “Okay, you can get dressed now.”

  Nick picked up his t-shirt and yanked it over his head.

  “So, the thing is, with that amount of ink, half the mean’s health magazines won’t want you. Sure, everything can be photoshopped, but that takes time, and time is money.”

  Nick deflated. He was proud of his ink—every piece meant something important to him and he didn’t regret a single hour spent in his tattooist’s chair. Had he come all this way for nothing?

  Adrienne appraised him critically.

  “But there are some niche markets that like that sort of work. I’ll be honest: I have no idea how well castings will go for you. But Massimo’s name will go a long way to get you in the door. In this business, there are people who have the stamina to keep bouncing back, and there are people who are damn quick to complain when things don’t go as they plan. I’ve been in the industry 27 years. Some models spend years submitting and attending open calls. Well, you’re only as good as your last picture. If you’re not being asked in after they’ve seen your book and comp card, you’re not right for the client right now. It doesn’t mean that you won’t be right for them in the future. There’s only a certain amount of hours for them to see twenty or thirty different models. So you’d better be ready to be rejected. But you don’t quit: you submit and resubmit your book. The industry changes like the wind. You’re in good shape—I say, let’s go for it. Are you ready to work, Nick?”

  He grinned at her.

  “I’m ready.”

  Adrienne hid a smile.

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” she sighed, amused by his enthusiasm, and handed him a piece of paper. “These are the addresses for seven castings that I’m sending you to tomorrow.”

  “Seven? Wow.”

  Adrienne raised an eyebrow.

  “You could be doing as many as twenty castings in a day. That’s quite common, but I thought I’d start you off gently. I’m sending one of my other models, Orion, as well. And this is your comp card.”

  “My what?”

  Adrienne clicked her tongue.

  “Gotta learn the lingo, Nick. Your comp card is your modelling résumé. Here…” and she handed him several stiff pieces of paper with one of Massimo’s headshots on the cover. Nick flipped it over to find that the back had thumbnail pictures from the shoot, with Nick’s vital statistics: height, weight, chest, waist, shoe size, eye and hair colour, nationality, and Adrienne’s agency details. There were no rugby photos on it: not a single one.

  Nick frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Adrienne was already finishing up and checking the emails on her laptop.

  “Now, the other way to get known is to see and be seen, which means I’ll be telling you about parties where you can make important contacts. Go, be friendly but not too friendly,” and she fixed him with a fierce stare.

  Nick gave a small frown.

  “I’m engaged.”

  “Hmm. Be polite, schmooze, but don’t drink too much. Be professional at all times. Capiche?”

  Nick nodded and Adrienne gave him a sharp look.

  “Okay, so tomorrow, the first one on the list isn’t an open call, so you’ll probably be there about twenty minutes—could be less. Same with the others. Oh wait, number six is open so you could be there longer. Good luck, Nick. Call me when you’re done. And when I find a party for you, I’ll text you the details.”

  Nick left Adrienne’s office a little stunned. He hadn’t expected to be sent to a casting so quickly—certainly not seven in one day—but maybe this was how things were done in New York. He was more than happy to be busy.

  All he needed to do now was eat and sleep. But not eat too much.

  Yeah, that was the one part of modelling he wasn’t going to enjoy.

  Bringing up his hotel’s address on his phone, he navigated his way through the evening streets, shivering slightly. New York was colder than it had been in London and he was regretting not bringing a heavier coat. Nick hadn’t brought many clothes with him because he was only staying a month.

  The hotel was one of the cheaper chains. Anna had wanted him to get something more upmarket, but Nick didn’t need much to be comfortable. At least he didn’t have to share with a teammate who snored his head off—take a bow, Jason Oduba.

  Dumping his bags on the bed, Nick tested the mattress while he called Anna. She answered on the first ring.

  “Nick! How are you?”

  She sounded tired and he knew that it was nearly two in the morning. That ever-present guilt pinched a little harder.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Yeah, okay. The usual.”

  “No problems at immigration?”

  “Nope—I had all the right paperwork and the queues weren’t that long.”

  He heard the tension leave her voice.

  “Did you meet with your agent yet?”

  “Yep, Adrienne seems nice. I’ve got a casting call in the morning. Well, seven of them.”

  “Wait, did you say seven?”

  “Yep! Crazy, isn’t it? The first one is at 8.30AM.”

  “So early? And really, seven?”

  He heard the surprise in her voice.

  “Adrienne says that twenty in one day is normal.”

  “Wow! That sounds … full on, but I know you’ll be great.”

  The warmth in her voice reached through the phone line to Nick. Why had it seemed a good idea to fly 3,000 miles away from her? But he knew that he’d always regret it if he didn’t try this.

  He decided not to tell her that he was supposed to attend parties as a way of getting noticed. He already knew that she was anxious about him being away from home—he didn’t want her to worry even more.

  They talked for a few more minutes before the time difference caught up with both of them and Anna started yawning.

  Nick promised to call her the following day as soon as he
’d been to the casting calls.

  He sat on the bed and opened his suitcase, pulling out clothes and something to wear for the next day. At the bottom, he was surprised to find his camera bag, because he knew he hadn’t packed it, along with two more small boxes containing new lenses. The first one had a note tucked inside.

  My love,

  I sent your photographs of Hampstead in the snow to Massimo. He thought they were beautiful, and recommended that you have these two extra lenses. I have no idea what they do, but I hope you find some use for them in the city.

  Be yourself. Be amazing.

  I love you.

  A x

  He unpacked the lenses, the possibilities running through his mind, then with a smile on his face and his camera bag over his shoulder, he headed out to find a light supper. When he finally got back to the hotel, he passed out for seven solid hours.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nick reached out for Anna, but his hand slid across cool, empty sheets and he remembered where he was.

  New York City, baby! And he was here to kick arse, English-style. Well, Yorkshire-style.

  He drew back the curtains, staring out at a concrete wall just a few feet from the window. Squinting upwards, the sky was the colour of charcoal, ominous with dark, heavy clouds.

  Nick didn’t care.

  He stretched out his muscles, loosening everything and chasing away the usual aches and pains he felt on waking. After warming up, he sipped a few precious drops of water, then pulled on his sweats and running shoes, and did a quick three-mile circuit of Midtown, before going back to the hotel for a cup of coffee.

  He was hungry but tried to ignore his stomach’s complaints.

  It’ll be worth it if I get a job, he told himself.

  And even if he didn’t, it would be good experience.

  He took a short shower, trimmed his beard and tied his hair back so it didn’t hang in his eyes. He wore jeans and a plain grey t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest. If the casting calls were anything like yesterday, he wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Nick shook his head in amusement: some people had damn strange jobs.

  He opened a new pack of ibuprofen, stared at it for a moment, then swapped it for tramadol and popped two into his mouth, throwing his head back as he swallowed them. His shoulder was aching from sleeping on an unfamiliar mattress, and he wanted to feel his best for the interviews or whatever they were.

  That’s what he told himself.

  SINCE THE FIRST casting call was at offices on the Upper East Side, only a couple of miles away, Nick decided to walk. Besides, he’d spent the whole of yesterday cooped up in a flying tin can.

  With his portfolio and comp cards in a messenger bag, he strode through the streets, ignoring the light misting of rain that fogged the windows of numerous diners and coffee shops.

  Everyone moved fast, everyone was in a hurry, and Nick felt the energy of the city rush through him. He felt excited, and he hadn’t felt that for a long time.

  At the last minute, he’d decided to take his camera with him. He probably wouldn’t have time to do anything, but it would be good to take some test shots and work out conditions for the new lenses, if he had the chance. He still couldn’t quite believe that Anna had done that for him, even going to the trouble of contacting Massimo.

  He was damn lucky to have her in his life. The thought brought mixed feelings, because every day since he’d retired, he felt like he was letting her down in some subtle way. Not knowing how he’d spend the next fifty years was weighing on them both. He couldn’t take another day of her relentless encouragement.

  When he reached the address for the casting, he found a warehouse building that was accessed by a metal staircase attached to the outside wall. He was disappointed to find twenty other guys already there for the audition. All were a minimum of six foot and athletic, aged between 20 and 35; all carried comp cards and portfolios. But there the similarities ended. There were guys with long hair, short hair, blond hair, black hair, red hair, dyed hair, no hair; clean shaven, bearded, moustached, designer stubbled; black skin, white skin, and every color in between, from a guy whose skin shone in ebony glory, to a guy with the reddish-bronze tones of a man who could be Native American, to the olive tones of several men who appeared to be Hispanic, and two pale-skinned Slavic types with cheekbones that you could use to chisel granite.

  Apparently, a shoot for Men’s Health magazine was pretty random in the look that they were searching for.

  He didn’t want to unpick the irony that models had to be in amazing shape 365 days of the year, but got paid the most for wearing clothes.

  He pulled out his camera and snapped a couple of quick shots—something to show Anna later.

  He approached a bored woman at the reception desk and handed her his comp card.

  “Name?”

  “Nick Renshaw.”

  “Twenty-three. Take a seat.”

  There weren’t any seats. Several guys were sitting on the floor, ear-buds in, heads nodding to music. Most of the rest were looking at their phones, and one guy seemed to be asleep.

  Nick leaned against the wall, angling himself so he could look out of the window. People-watching was endlessly fascinating in New York, and from here he could keep an eye on proceedings at the casting, as well.

  One of the models stood up from his position near the front of the line and strolled over.

  “Nick, right? I’m Orion Lucas—Adrienne Catalano said I’d be seeing you here.”

  They shook hands, sizing each other up.

  “How you liking New York?”

  “Yeah, good so far. I only got in last night so I haven’t seen much yet.”

  “You never been before?”

  “Not really, but my fiancée is from upstate so she’s told me some places that I have to visit.”

  “She with you?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “No, she had to work.”

  “Tough break. So what’s your method?”

  Nick was puzzled.

  “My method for what?”

  “You know, training and dieting for a casting call.”

  “Oh, right. Low carbs, high protein; cardio in the morning, weights in the afternoon; dehydrate for the shoot day.”

  “Man, I hate that part,” said another model, listening to the conversation. “I get so thirsty I’d cut a motha for a soda, yeah? Makes me crazy.”

  Another model joined in, complaining bitterly about having to give up beer, even over New Years.

  Nick was aware that if he was going to make it in this business, he had to be in the best shape of his life every single day, but having trained as a professional athlete, he was used to it; he was used to the discipline, enjoyed it even. The only difference now was that he was 15 pounds lighter than when he’d been playing.

  The guys droned on about their protein shakes, diets, and workouts in tedious detail. Most of them seemed to know each other, having met at other castings, and Nick was surprised by how small the pool of models seemed to be. There was camaraderie combined with competitiveness that made for an air of bored tension and frustration, and several of them bitched about the wait.

  Two were Instagram models who got called to castings even though they didn’t have agents. The business was changing, they said. Nick knew that he had a lot to learn.

  “You dating?”

  Nick glanced over and saw that Orion was talking to him again.

  “Yep, she’s back home.”

  “Oh yeah, you said. My bad. So, how long you been together?”

  “Nearly five years now.”

  “Wow, that’s like a really long time!” said Orion. “I didn’t have a girlfriend until I was 19. I was short and skinny at high school—crazy, I know. And I took a virginity pledge.”

  Nick frowned.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wait, you don’t have that in the UK? Man! In my church, they encouraged us to save ourselves for marriage, you know?”

>   Nick could see that Orion was serious.

  “What happened?”

  “I grew to 6’ 1” and began working out. Then I started getting hit on.” He shrugged. “But once you start having sex, it’s kind of hard to stop. And I know it sounds shallow, but once I went to this girl’s house just to have sex. She made me wait outside because she didn’t have her makeup on. I mean really, we were going to have sex for 20 minutes—it wasn’t a date.”

  For some reason, Orion’s words reminded Nick of Molly. That was exactly the kind of thing she’d do. He didn’t like thinking about his ex-. Ever.

  He caught a few words of the conversation that Orion was having with the model standing next to him as the guy held his two thumbs together.

  “My dick is wider than that.”

  “Mine isn’t,” said the other model sadly.

  Nick glanced at Orion and he shrugged.

  “Steroids. It makes your dick small and your hair fall out. See that bald guy?”

  Nick followed his gaze. The model’s biceps were bigger than Anna’s thighs.

  Nick wasn’t naïve. He’d seen athletes fall to temptation in the bid to get bigger and stronger, or recover from injury more quickly. But the repercussions of being caught were serious. Nick had never taken steroids—it put too much strain on the heart; all his physique had been gained the hard way.

  He thought about the tramadol he’d taken that morning.

  “He won’t get the job,” Orion continued to whisper. “I don’t know why his agent keeps sending him. Plus he’s really old, like thirty or something.”

  Nick tuned out the rest of the conversation.

  When Nick’s number was called, he walked into the room where a panel of three men and two women were sitting behind a long table.

  “Nick, if you could change into your underwear behind the screen and stand over there.”

  Nick did as he was told, wearing his lucky Speedos, but before he’d even turned around, one of the women said, “God, no, too many tats. Didn’t we put that in the spec?”