Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  That had gotten her a big laugh and a round of applause, but inside it hurt. It hurt to think that the venomous bitch was getting away with telling lies about Nick and about Anna, too. Not only getting away with it, but making money from it. There was no justice.

  Brendan gasped again and Anna lost it.

  “What? What!” she snarled, stalking around the kitchen table and grabbing the book from Brendan’s hands.

  “Oooh, I don’t think you should read that page!” he squeaked, cringing away from her.

  Nick was a sex machine. We did it three or four times a day, sometimes more. My legs were always open, so was my mouth. He couldn’t get enough of me.

  “God, Mol! You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m going to cum all over your tits.”

  He wasn’t allowed to have sex before a match but we did it all the time anyway. He said that being full of man-juice made him a better player. We did it at half-time all the time, too.

  Anna screamed and threw the book across the room, narrowly missing Brendan who had ducked behind his chair and was holding the toaster over his head for protection.

  “I hate her!” Anna yelled. “I hate her so much! And her writing doesn’t even make sense!”

  And she burst into tears, sinking into her chair and sobbing on the kitchen table.

  Brendan emerged slowly, checking it was safe before he pulled his chair next to Anna and propped an arm around her shoulders.

  “She’s not worth crying about,” he said, stroking her hair gently. “She’s just a withered old tart, with more cosmetic enhancements than a makeup counter at Harrods.”

  Anna wailed and Brendan cringed as the piercing noise sliced through his left ear. He’d never known her to be so emotional. If it was pregnancy hormones doing this to her, it could be a long few months ahead.

  He patted her arm.

  “Look at this way: these days you’re the one getting all those lovely man-juices, not her. Everyone knows that Nick dumped her scraggy arse when she cheated on him. Kenny-boy hardly gets more than a paragraph, by the way. She doesn’t even mention his name. It’s just a lot of crap about well, crap.”

  “I know I’m being ridiculous,” Anna cried. “It’s just not fair!”

  Brendan sighed.

  “The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after. So there.”

  Anna opened one puffy eye and glared at him.

  “Did you just quote Buffy to me?”

  “Who me? I wouldn’t dare!”

  Anna gave a reluctant smile and accepted the tissue that Brendan passed to her.

  “Annie, I know this is hard. I mean, I don’t know, because I’ve never had my ultra-hot and somewhat famous boyfriend maligned in bad purple prose by a trollop with boobs like a bouncy castle. What I’m saying is, I can see how this makes you feel. But, honey, this too shall pass. She’s had her 15 minutes of fame, the ugly old tart. How many times can she sell the same non-story? The real story is what you and Nick have together—and that’s beautiful.”

  Anna nodded tearfully.

  “You’re right. Don’t make me say that again.”

  “I won’t. But can I remind you of it later?”

  Anna gave a weak laugh and Brendan beamed at her.

  “Did Auntie Brenda make it all better?”

  Anna flung her arms around his neck, squeezing until he squirmed, then kissed him on the cheek.

  “You always make it better, Bren.”

  “Thank God. Now let’s order pizza and drink Diet Coke. Don’t tell Nick.”

  ANNA WAS WORKING on her manuscript when the phone call came in.

  “Hey, Mark! How are you?”

  “Anna, I have news: Molly McKinney’s publishers have capitulated. They want to cut a deal.”

  Anna sat up straight.

  “How much are they asking for now?”

  “Fifty thousand plus legal fees.” He paused as he heard her intake of breath. “I know that’s still a substantial sum, but it’s considerably less than the £175,000 they were after. And if you accept, they’ll also drop their challenge against Adrienne Catalano’s agency.”

  Anna chewed her lip. They’d still have to sell one of Nick’s investment properties that he was counting on for his retirement income.

  “I don’t know. It bugs the hell out of me that she gets away with it. She must have made a ton of money on that awful book, as well.”

  Mark sighed.

  “I know. It was a bad day when Nick met that little madam. I tried to talk to him before I called you but his phone is turned off.”

  “He’ll be at team practice right now.”

  “Well, if you could pass on my message and ask him to call me.”

  “I will. And Mark, thank you.”

  His voice softened.

  “You’re welcome.”

  NICK WAS FRUSTRATED with the team, but he’d fallen in love with Carcassonne. He’d thought that the south of France would be sleepy and the pace of life slow. In some ways that was true, but there was another side to it.

  The people and colours were vibrant. Conversations in rapid French exploded all around him. Many of the townspeople seemed to know who he was and came out of bars and cafés to shake his hand. Several took selfies.

  At first, he thought it was to do with being part of the Cuirassiers, but Bernard had laughed and told him that Massimo’s calendar with Nick on the cover had been the biggest selling one since the charity project had started. In fact, they’d had to reprint three times. It was one of the reasons that the Cuirassiers had been so accommodating when they offered him a contract.

  “It is your famous derrière, mon ami,” Bernard explained, nodding philosophically and slapping Nick on his shoulder.

  That information had left Nick feeling bemused: even in a rugby-loving town, he was better known for the calendar shoot he’d done than having led two national teams to win the World Cup. In the end, he’d shrugged his shoulders and smiled for as many selfies as his fans wanted.

  He’d been told that a small brasserie in the town plaza, Chez Felix, was one of the club’s sponsors. It was a family run business with great coffee and beef served on the bloody side. That took some getting used to, but the warmth of his welcome helped him overlook the small detail.

  It seemed as though the Cuirassiers were a community club, with half the town involved in one way or another.

  He couldn’t wait to visit the amazing farmers’ markets with Anna, held twice a week in the town square. He’d gone on his first Sunday and loved the stunning displays of fresh food: huge, ripe tomatoes, melons, peaches, apples that gleamed in the sun, plums, damsons, and a kaleidoscope of coloured vegetables that he couldn’t identify. Traditional folk tunes played by local musicians rang out on every corner. Nick loved it already; he hoped that Anna would, too.

  He was surprised when his phone rang with a Paris area code.

  “Hello? Bonjour?”

  “Monsieur Nick Renshaw?”

  “Yes, I mean oui?”

  “I’m Miriam Duchat, personal assistant to Hugo Compain,” she paused as if waiting for the significance of this name to sink in, but Nick was none the wiser.

  “Yes?” said Nick.

  There was a soft huff at the other end of the line.

  “Hugo is the editor for Vogues Hommes International. He would be interested in arranging a photo shoot with you.”

  “Oh right, thanks,” said Nick, surprised. “But I’m not really modelling anymore.”

  There was a shocked intake of breath.

  “But he wants you!”

  “Um, well, that’s good to hear, but I have a full-time job and it’s difficult for me to get away.”

  “He would be prepared to send the photographer to London,” the woman said sharply.

  “Eh, I’m not in London very oft
en. I live in Carcassonne now.”

  “C’est vrai? Truly, you are in France?”

  “Yep. I’m playing for the Cuirassiers.”

  The woman’s voice rose an octave.

  “But that is very exciting news! Adrienne said you were retired!”

  “I was, but…”

  “Hugo is a huge rugby fan. I know he will want this shoot. We can send the photographer to Carcassonne, or we will fly you to Paris.”

  Nick was taken aback.

  “Well, I guess that would be okay. It would have to fit around practices and games.”

  He could hear furious typing at the other end.

  “Send me your schedule and we will set this up. Your agent is still Adrienne Catalano in New York?”

  Nick hadn’t talked to Adrienne in a while, but if he had an agent at all, she was it.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said.

  “We’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”

  And she was gone. Nick stared at his phone. He’d assumed that his modelling days were over, but now it seemed his two worlds were about to collide. And if he knew anything at all about rugby players, he was about to have the piss ripped out of him.

  Who did she say the shoot was for?

  He soon found out because just ten minutes later Adrienne was lighting up his phone with text after text, which meant one or more of several possibilities:

  a) She was excited

  b) There was money in the deal

  c) She’d taken too many happy pills

  d) All of the above.

  When he read her texts, he began to understand what the big deal was. Even Nick had heard of Vogue, although he hadn’t been aware that twice a year a men’s international version was published. He was now, and when he read what they were prepared to pay him for one day’s work, it was a no-brainer. Every penny he earned was going into the anti-Molly fighting fund.

  His phone rang again, and since Adrienne was calling him this time, he felt obliged to answer.

  He made his way through the market crowd and found a small coffee shop where old men were smoking the foul-smelling Gitanes and arguing about the government.

  “Nick, baby! You are the luckiest s.o.b. on the planet. Are you shitting me? Vogues Hommes wants you for the cover!”

  He ordered an espresso and a glass of water, then sat enjoying the noise and colour of Carcassonne.

  “I’m guessing that’s a pretty big deal then?”

  He could almost hear her rolling her eyes four thousand miles away.

  “Yes, Nick,” she said firmly. “It is a very big deal. It’s the kind of deal that models wait for their whole lives. Tell me I’m setting this up for you, Nick!”

  So he agreed. One more photoshoot.

  The following day, Adrienne called him back.

  “I’ve checked your calendar with the Club, and the shoot is scheduled for four weeks from Thursday—be in Paris by lunchtime. And Nick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Enjoy it, baby. This could open a lot of doors for you.”

  It was probably a good thing that Adrienne couldn’t see the indifference on Nick’s face. Anna was his first priority and rugby the next. There wasn’t room for much else. But the Cuirassiers publicity department had turned cartwheels when they found out that he was wanted for a Vogue shoot. They’d immediately sent out a press release and were fielding calls from reporters across France and even in the UK. Nick was happy to let them deal with that—he had other things on his mind.

  He’d been thinking about the deal that Molly’s lawyers had offered. Fifty thousand was a lot less than they’d originally asked for and it meant that Adrienne’s agency wouldn’t be affected either, but Nick was still torn—he didn’t see why Molly should get anything else from him.

  He hated that she could still get to him like this, that he had to think about her at all. And he hated that it affected Anna, too. She said she’d support his decision, whatever he decided.

  If he paid the money, it would all be over much sooner, he knew that.

  He pulled out his phone and called his lawyers.

  “This is Nick Renshaw. I want you to pass on a message to Molly McKinney: tell her, no deal. And I’ll see her in court.”

  He ended the call, wondering if he’d just lit the fuse that was going to blow his life apart.

  AS ANNA AND Brendan walked down the steps from their small plane, a wave of heat washed over them.

  “Bliss!” Brendan sighed, slipping his Aviators over his eyes.

  Anna had to agree. The warm air felt wonderful after the cold snap that London had been experiencing. And the tiny airport of Perpignan was in stark contrast to the concrete wasteland of Heathrow in other ways, too.

  Instead of rows of Victorian terrace houses and grey apartment buildings, they’d flown over pale green fields, burned almost golden by the long French summer, and the rocky coastline where low hills and ancient stone villages brushed up against the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

  Brendan walked through Immigration, simply flashing his British passport. He was a citizen of Europe for now, although not for much longer once Britain pulled out of the EU. It took a little longer for Anna to reach the arrivals hall.

  Nick and Brendan were standing together, smiling and laughing. She paused, watching them both, happy that the two most important men in her life were friends, happy to be in France, happy to be reuniting with her fiancée. And with the father of my child, she whispered to herself.

  Nick glanced across and saw her, his smile widening.

  He strode across the small arrivals hall and wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her against his chest. He smelled of cinnamon and spice, sunshine and Nick. He smelled wonderful. He smelled like home.

  They stood together, not talking, not thinking, just being.

  Then he cupped her face in his large, rough hands, and kissed her lips softly.

  Anna sighed against him, losing herself in the kiss, until…

  “Hello! I am here, too, you know! And no one has given me a welcome snog!”

  “Shut up, Brendan,” Nick and Anna said together, then burst out laughing.

  “Well, that’s nice,” he grouched. “I come all this way, carry her ladyship’s luggage, and all I get is a manly handshake.”

  Nick slung his arm around Brendan’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

  “That’s hardly a snog,” Brendan complained, but he seemed mollified.

  The hour’s drive to Carcassonne passed quickly, as each of them swapped news, commented on the small villages and towns that they passed, the gentle curves of the hills and the sudden, stark rocky outcrops.

  In the distance, the Pyrenees soared toward the clouds, a natural barrier between France and Spain, just a few miles to the south.

  Anna rested her left hand on Nick’s thigh and he glanced across to smile at her.

  “No feeling up the driver unless I can play, too,” Brendan sang from the backseat.

  “Then you’ll have to find your own driver,” Anna sang back.

  “Ooh! That sounds fun,” said Brendan, perking up. “I need to renew my license.”

  Anna groaned. She was too tired to play word games with him.

  “I think you’ll like it here,” Nick said quietly.

  Anna already loved it.

  ANNA AND BRENDAN’S first night in Carcassone was full of fun and laughter, good food and friendship, and memories that she’d treasure forever.

  She still remembered the hurt she’d felt when Nick first told her about Bernard’s offer, but now it was clear that it had been the right move for Nick … the right move for their relationship. Doubts lingered, but they were more distant now, more insubstantial and shadowy.

  Nick’s housemates had arranged a barbeque in their honour, but it wasn’t a case of just throwing some steaks on the grill, but a banquet eaten outdoors.

  A buffet table had been dragged outside and was laden with delicious fresh fruits, amazing sala
ds, a variety of cold meats and several different cheeses, all pungent. The smell of freshly baked bread from a local boulangerie made her mouth water and her stomach rumbled loudly.

  Inoke, the Fijian Prop, a very large man with a surprisingly high voice, had contributed a dish of Kokoda from his native country, a tuna-like fish marinated in freshly squeezed lemon juice and left to cook for several hours. It was delicious and Anna was ravenous.

  She was touched by the effort that they’d all gone to, and it was good to see how relaxed Nick felt around them. She’d wondered if they might be more reserved since he was their Captain, but no, they were friends and teammates.

  Brendan was rather restrained around them at first, waiting to see how well they’d accept him, but after the first hour and the first round of drinks, he fit in perfectly, especially as he could hold two conversations at the same time: one in English, and one in French.

  A carafe of local wine was passed around again and Nick waved away a small glass which Anna cast longing looks at as she sipped her Perrier water.

  As the sun sank slowly, the stone wall behind them radiated heat that it had absorbed during the day, and crickets, Sauterelles, chirped loudly in the warm night air.

  Anna felt sleepy and satiated as she leaned against Nick, his fingers brushing up and down her bare arm, her head on his shoulder.

  She was even happier when Nick’s teammates promised that they’d give Brendan a great night on the town, leaving the house empty for Nick and Anna to have some alone time.

  Brendan was in seventh heaven at the prospect of a night out with three hot rugby players, and when they scooped him up, he went willingly.

  The moment they were alone, Nick’s lips fastened on Anna’s, and she found that she was suddenly wide awake and not at all tired. He picked her up honeymoon style, his lips moving to her neck as he trod the narrow stairs to the small white room, where they made love, bathed in the moon’s mellow light.

  THE NEXT DAY, Nick and Anna went house-hunting.

  With the club’s help, Anna had found two possible properties for them to look at with a view to renting for the rest of the season. Much as she genuinely liked his new teammates, sharing a small house with so many people wasn’t going to work long term, although Brendan mentioned that he was thoroughly enjoying the scenery around the swimming pool.