Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  “Guess not,” said another.

  “Where are you from, Nick?”

  “The UK.”

  “Uh-huh. And how long have you been in the Big Apple?”

  “I arrived yesterday.”

  “Uh-huh. Have you modeled before?”

  “Just once. I did a calendar shoot for Massimo Igashi.”

  The man stopped writing notes and looked up.

  “You did a shoot with Massimo?”

  “Yes, the photographs are in my portf— book,” and he pointed to a couple of images.

  “And you’re a … rugby player?”

  “Uh, yeah … I’m … on a break,” Nick said, not wanting to admit that he was officially retired.

  That just sounded so old.

  The interviewers exchanged looks with each other and made some more notes.

  “Well, thank you for stopping by.”

  Nick dragged his clothes back on, picked up his portfolio, and walked out of the room.

  Orion was waiting for him.

  “You strike out, too?”

  “Yep. I was in there less than a minute.”

  Orion laughed ruefully.

  “Pretty brutal, huh? Welcome to the Big Apple. Better head to the next one.”

  At the second call, Nick was in for nearly five minutes and thought he might have a chance, but when they asked him to put on the clothes that they’d laid out and he couldn’t even get the trousers over his quads, he knew that he wouldn’t be hearing back from them.

  When he looked at the models he was competing with, although they were athletic, they weren’t as muscled as him. So even though he was pounds lighter than his playing days, he was still b-i-g.

  The third casting went the same way. The fourth one decided that he had too many tattoos. The fifth one was cancelled with no notice, but the sixth one was an open casting with over a hundred guys lined up through the hallway and down the stairs. One young lad had flown in from Ohio and was devastated when he’d been shown the door in less than three minutes.

  Nick felt for him, but there was no advice he could offer.

  Orion had had a similarly luckless day.

  “You wanna go get a beer?”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” Nick agreed tiredly.

  They sat and drank for a couple of hours and Orion admitted that his real name was ‘Ryan’ but that he used a stage name for his modelling career.

  “So you haven’t really done much modelling, brah,” Orion surmised.

  “Nope. Just gonna see how the cards fall.”

  Orion finished his third beer and ordered a fourth.

  “Well, lookout for the sleazoid photographers—there are plenty of those around.”

  Nick frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you do nudes, brah?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “No, I told Adrienne that I wouldn’t do that.”

  It was true and she hadn’t been happy about it. But Nick knew that if those types of photographs got into the British tabloid press, the media storm wouldn’t be pleasant, for him or Anna. It had been hard for him to trust Massimo Igashi, but seeing the results of the shoot in the calendar hadn’t been too bad, and no dick pics had reached the newspapers or websites.

  “Smart move, brah,” Orion said, nodding thoughtfully. “Some just want to see you naked. Some photographers make it a requirement if you shoot with them, you have to shoot nudes which they can keep or sell to private collectors. It’s the same with girls, I’d guess.”

  “Private collectors?”

  He definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Yeah, and even the ones who don’t do nudes can be just as bad—they sleaze all over you.” Orion waved his bottle around. “You’ll see.”

  THE REST OF the week passed the same way. At each casting call, there was something wrong with him and the rejections kept on coming. Everyone assured him it was normal, but it was hard to take.

  Nick realized that it really wasn’t unusual to do as many as twenty castings in a day, every day, for a whole week. Hell, it wouldn’t be easy to stay positive when you were rejected that many times in a day. By the end of the week, yeah, he was so over it.

  But at least he was getting to see New York. He loved that there was a Starbucks on every corner and that he could walk everywhere in Manhattan. He was also learning his way around the Subway system.

  He was used to the fast pace of London life, but this was even more frenetic. By the end of two weeks, he was striding along the streets as fast as a native. He even found a few spare hours to visit Times Square, went to the movies—twice—and checked out all the Thai food in the area, a guilty pleasure.

  He missed Anna and Facetimed her every night, trying to talk positively about yet another round of rejections. She was remorselessly upbeat, certain that he’d get work soon. He didn’t like to disabuse her ideas and point out that at each casting there were younger, better-looking, more eager guys. And most of them could wear normal jeans over their quads.

  That evening, Adrienne gave him details of a party in Lower Manhattan that he needed to attend, dressed ‘smart casual’, whatever the hell that meant. Nick preferred either jeans and a t-shirt, or a three piece suit. He disliked trying to do something in between.

  In the end, he wore his favourite black jeans, with a plain white shirt. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Good enough.

  It felt odd turning up at a party where he didn’t know the hosts or any of the people going, but when he rang the buzzer to the penthouse suite in a large apartment building, he was ushered in with no questions asked.

  The room was full to bursting, with dozens of people spilling out onto the wraparound balcony that gave a stunning view across the East River and toward Brooklyn.

  Nick was happy to stand outside, leaning on the balcony with a cold beer in his hand. For one thing, the room was thick with cigarette smoke, and Nick valued his lungs too much to stay inside.

  He glanced down as a woman came to stand beside him.

  “Quite a view, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” he said.

  “Oh my God! I just love your accent! Scotland, right?”

  Nick shook his head bemused. She was the second person who’d thought he was from north of the border.

  “No, Yorkshire. But I guess I have quite a strong accent,” he chuckled.

  The woman eyed his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

  “What brought you to the Big Apple?”

  He answered slightly self-consciously.

  “I’ve signed with a modelling agency, so I’m just seeing how it goes for a while.”

  She smiled broadly.

  “I shoulda guessed,” and she held out her hand. “I’m Kirsten.”

  “Nick. Pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” she purred, shaking out her hair of thick, honey-coloured curls and smiling seductively.

  Nick couldn’t help noticing that she had an impressive chest. Unfortunately, she caught him glancing down and immediately got the wrong impression.

  “Well, that’s a little premature, Nick, but maybe if you bring me another drink…”

  Nick’s eyes widened as he shook his head.

  “Sorry, um, sorry! I … uh … no offence, but I’m engaged.”

  Kirsten laughed loudly at his panicked expression.

  “Oh well, in that case, maybe we can have an old fashioned conversation?”

  Nick smiled with relief.

  “That would be great.”

  They chatted for another hour and Nick did absolutely no networking whatsoever. Then they decided to leave the party to find somewhere to get some food.

  As they left the apartment, Nick opened the door for Kirsten, who smiled up at him appreciatively.

  Suddenly, Nick was blinded by a flash as a reporter snapped a picture.

  “Bloody hell, mate!” Nick protested.

  The man ignored him, s
napped another couple of pictures then turned to his colleague who hadn’t even raised his camera.

  “You know the dude?”

  “Nah, man. He’s no one.”

  Nick knew that it was better that no one over here recognized him, but the insult stung.

  “Couple of charmers, huh?” said Kirsten, shaking her head.

  Still irritated, Nick escorted her to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant where they enjoyed each other’s company, before Kirsten called a cab and kissed Nick on the cheek when she left.

  THE NEXT DAY, Nick got his first ‘yes’.

  The casting had gone well, and the clients had seemed genuinely interested in his rugby career. They asked a lot of questions about the sport and how long he’d played, and then told him they wanted him for some sportswear ads that they’d be doing for a well-known company.

  Feeling good, Nick considered blowing off the final casting of the day, but decided that since his luck was changing, he’d make the effort.

  Orion was already there and came right over to Nick.

  “Man! I heard you got the Walmart job! Nice one!”

  Nick raised his eyebrows.

  “How do you know it’s for Walmart? Even I don’t know that.”

  Orion grinned.

  “Word gets around, but one of my buddies recognized the marketing woman who interviewed you because she saw him last year for a different campaign.” He shrugged. “Like I said, word gets around.” Then he side-eyed Nick. “I heard that Bruce Waters is the photographer on that.”

  “I don’t know, they didn’t say.”

  “Walmart use him sometimes. Just … look out for him.”

  “What?”

  Orion pulled a face.

  “He’s kind of sleazy.”

  Nick’s face hardened.

  A COUPLE OF days later, a car arrived at Nick’s hotel to take him to the shoot. He’d been keyed up about it ever since Orion’s cryptic comment. He’d Googled the photographer’s name, but nothing of concern had shown up. Anna had said he shouldn’t take the job if he had doubts, so Nick decided to play it by ear.

  He felt better when he saw that the shoot was at a gym that was part of a well-known fitness chain. Nothing sleazy about that.

  He was met at the door by a fresh-faced, smiling woman of about 23, who immediately offered him coffee, water and bagels.

  “Eh, sorry,” he smiled. “No food for me until the shoot’s over, but I’ll take a black coffee.”

  She blushed bright red.

  “Oh em gee! I’m so sorry! I completely forgot! I’m an intern—this is the first shoot I’ve done. I’ll get you that coffee. And, oh wow, I’m real sorry.”

  “I’ll take over from here, Laura,” said a short, whip-thin man with a shaved head and a Frank Zappa beard and moustache.

  “It’s Alana,” muttered the girl as she scurried away.

  “I’m Bruce,” the man said, holding Nick’s hand for just half a second too long. “My goodness, Mike, you’re even more imposing in person than in print.”

  “It’s Nick.”

  The man didn’t appear to hear him, too busy examining Nick’s body, his lips wet and his eyes moist.

  “Now, Mike, I’d just like to have a word with you in private—discuss what we’ll be doing today.”

  Assuming a blank expression, Nick followed him.

  “We have the gym’s studio booked all day,” said Bruce. “So I thought it might be fun to do some work that’s a little more expressive, more creative, once the bread and butter shots are finished. What do you say? I think we could create something wonderful together.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Nick asked, folding his arms over his chest, definitely not feeling relaxed.

  “Call me Bruce,” he said, touching Nick’s shoulder, then patting his arm. “And of course there’s more money, as a little sweetener. You have a beautiful face,” and he ran a finger along Nick’s jaw before he could step back. “But let’s chat later.”

  Nick had a pretty shrewd idea what the after-shoot would involve, thanks to Orion’s heads-up. But it wasn’t hard to pick up the sleazy vibe either.

  But if Nick thought the man would be easy to deflect, he was dead wrong.

  Bruce was too touchy-feely, invading Nick’s personal space at every possible opportunity. He criticized the hair stylist to the point of making her cry, and then insisted on running his hands through Nick’s hair and massaging his scalp. Then the makeup artist was also declared incompetent, according to Bruce, and he had to take over brushing powder over Nick’s face, stroking the brush along his cheekbones repeatedly.

  The final straw for Nick was when Bruce shimmied across with a bottle of baby oil with the clear intention of rubbing it over him personally.

  “Thanks,” said Nick, grabbing the bottle. “I can do that.”

  There was silence in the studio as all the assistants pretended not to see the tense standoff.

  Bruce walked away with an annoyed huff as Nick applied oil to his chest, arms, legs and back.

  After that, the shoot went more smoothly. Bruce’s instructions were terse, but if there was one thing Nick knew, it was how to look the part in sportswear.

  But at the end of the shoot, Bruce packed up his equipment without speaking to anyone, except to yell at Alana to call him a cab.

  He heard later that Bruce had called Adrienne to complain about Nick’s ‘unprofessional attitude’.

  To make things worse, Nick’s innocent encounter with Kirsten had been published in the British press with a suggestive headline:

  Naughty Nick—up to his old tricks in New York

  The photograph showed him smiling warmly at Kirsten. Her low-cut dress showcased the chest that had caught Nick’s eye, and the two of them looked very cosy together.

  The story was two days old—which meant that Anna must have been aware of it for two days, but hadn’t said a word.

  Nick phoned her immediately.

  “I just saw what they’re saying about me in the tabloids,” he began. “You know it’s just rubbish, don’t you?”

  There was a long pause and Anna sighed.

  “Yeah, I figured that. But when you didn’t say anything…”

  Nick rubbed his forehead.

  “I didn’t know there was anything to say! I met her weeks ago…”

  At Anna’s sharp intake of breath, Nick knew that he’d said the wrong thing and backtracked hurriedly.

  “She was just someone I met at a party. We talked for a while and then went to grab dinner. I haven’t seen her since. That’s it.”

  Anna’s voice sounded very small.

  “That happened weeks ago but you never said a word?”

  Nick grimaced.

  “I didn’t want you to worry. God, I’ve made it worse, but I swear! Nothing happened! You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Anna said softly. “Of course I do, but Nick, don’t let me read about it in the newspapers next time; don’t let me be the last to know. You have no idea how much that hurt.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I had journalists outside the door asking how I felt about your new girlfriend.”

  Nick felt like the biggest shit ever.

  “I’m sorry, Anna. I love you. I’d never hurt you—not knowingly.”

  “I know.”

  Nick’s heart cracked at the sadness in her voice, and he promised himself that he’d never keep anything from her again, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

  NICK’S EXPERIENCE WITH the sleazy photographer was nothing new, according to Orion. And all the models he met at other castings had similar stories. It seemed to be accepted as part of the industry, unpleasant, but inevitable.

  Some of the models said they would have taken the extra bucks, and a twenty-something guy named Eduardo summed up that attitude:

  “If he wants to jerk off to photos of me with my dick out, why should I care? At least I’ve gotten a better chance of getting picked for another campaign in
the future.”

  Nick wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t see a family-oriented company like Walmart wanting models who could end up on porn sites, but he kept his opinions to himself.

  He realized how amazingly lucky he’d been to work with a genuine artist like Massimo.

  When he told Anna, she was appalled.

  “I can’t believe that photographer gets away with it! What did Adrienne say?”

  Nick settled back on his hotel bed during their nightly Facetime.

  “She said that she knew, but he hadn’t crossed any boundaries and that’s how he gets away with it. Because I made it clear I wasn’t interested, he didn’t go any further.”

  Anna looked furious.

  “Yes, but imagine if you’re 19 and alone in New York and trying to make it as a model, getting deeper and deeper into debt, believing someone like that when they tell you all the models do it. You’d have no one to talk to, nowhere to turn. Ugh, it makes me sick!”

  Nick had to agree. The whole encounter had left him feeling unclean. But there was no doubt that the work had dried up.

  Now, he was bored and feeling stir crazy.

  In the past two weeks, he’d only been to three castings and hadn’t received a single call back.

  That evening, he’d picked up and discarded his iPad a dozen times, checked out at least fifty of the hotel’s free TV channels before he got bored of that, too. He even wished he’d brought his guitar, although it had been months since he’d picked it up and played it. He didn’t like feeling bored, it seemed such a waste of life. But he’d already been for a six mile run and a two-hour workout. He missed Anna more each day, the loneliness and sense of failure adding another brick to the weight pressing down on him. Back in London, their quiet evenings while they cooked dinner together were special. Sometimes they went to the cinema or a sport fundraiser. Nick liked his home and he missed it.

  But he was also smart enough to know that if he was at home now, that sense of dissatisfaction, the failure that he carried with him would be just the same. Being in New York proved the point that wherever you go, you take your problems with you.

  He hadn’t expected it to be easy, so he just kept going: another day, another dollar. He was here, so he was going to make the most of it.