Model Boyfriend by Jane Harvey-Berrick
Ben Richards, one of the new players, grabbed Jason around the neck and rapped his knuckles on his head.
“Nah, mate. Yer too ugly, but I fancy ya anyway!” and then gave him a loud, squelchy kiss on the cheek.
Jason bellowed his indignation, and there was a brief tussle before they gave up and Jason leaned on the bar to order another round of drinks, effectively blocking out any answer Nick could have given him. Not that he had one.
He wished he did. His teammates all thought he was waving, when really he was drowning.
He couldn’t talk to them, couldn’t tell them how he really felt.
Later on that evening, when Nick was propping Jason up to stop him slipping from his barstool to the floor, he felt his phone vibrate with an incoming call, but when he saw it was an unlisted number, he let it go to voicemail.
Finally, the barman called last orders, the drinking up time, and the pub closed. The rest of the Phoenixes decided to go on to a club and make a night of it. Nick shook his head and said he was going home to Anna.
There were a number of ribald suggestions called out when he said that, several of which were anatomically impossible. Nick couldn’t wait to leave the stuffy pub and rid himself of clothes that stunk of spilled beer.
It wasn’t until he was on the Tube heading home, that he listened to the message he’d received earlier.
Hi Nick, my name is Adrienne Catalano. I have a modelling agency in Manhattan. Massimo Igashi sent me the shots from the calendar you did with him. You’ve got a look that we think is really great and we want to represent you in New York. I don’t know if you’ve considered a career in modelling, but why not come out for a month and see how it works? Give me a call and we’ll talk some more.
Nick listened to the message twice, then Googled Adrienne Catalano. He was almost more surprised when he found that she ran a legitimate modelling agency in New York.
Nick’s immediate instinct was to tell her that he wasn’t interested, but then he wondered … he had to do something with his life. He couldn’t keep living off his savings, and there was no way he’d live off Anna, despite her assurances that everything was shared—he couldn’t keep on disappointing her.
When he got home, the house was silent, but she’d left a light on for him in the hallway, a note on the kitchen table, and a glass of milk with a cookie on a plate. Nick smiled to himself as pulled out a chair and sat down heavily to read her note.
Hope you had a good evening and that Jason behaved himself (mostly).
The milk is in case you had one of those kebabs on the way home, and the cookie is homemade because I love you.
Anna x
Nick sat at the table, eating the chocolate chip biscuit and drinking the milk, thinking about what he wanted his future to look like. He sat for a long time.
Then he climbed the stairs, shedding his clothes as he went, and slid between the soft sheets, warmed by Anna’s body.
“Hey,” she said, her voice husky with sleep as her eyelids fluttered. “How was your evening? Did Jason…?”
Nick silenced her questions with a kiss, slowly emptying his mind as his body took over, making love to the woman beneath him, all words lost.
THE NEXT MORNING, Anna was still in bed when Nick told her about the modelling agent’s email.
He’d clearly been awake for hours, although she hadn’t heard him get up. But that was nothing new. He was often up and away for his morning run before she’d crawled to the shower and had drunk two cups of coffee to make herself feel human.
The scrambled eggs on toast that he’d brought her grew cold as she listened to the agent’s message.
She looked up, wondering what sort of reaction Nick expected from her, but his face was a blank sheet, and she couldn’t read him.
“Wow!” she said quietly, staring at him. “This is … wow!”
Nick raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, crazy, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say that. The pictures Massimo did turned out amazing. I guess we should have thought that you’d have gotten an offer like this. What do you think?”
Nick shrugged.
“Dunno. She seems legit. I’ve only been to New York once when…”
His voice trailed off and they were both silent. The only time Nick had been to New York was for the funeral of Anna’s father. That had been a bad day, a difficult time in their lives. Neither of them liked to think about it.
“So, do you want to try it?”
Nick settled back on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
“Your eggs are going cold.”
Anna didn’t want eggs, but he’d made them for her, so she picked up her fork and began to eat.
“Want to share?”
He shook his head.
“I had mine an hour ago. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
Anna wasn’t sure, but had she heard a note of enthusiasm in his voice? She forced herself to wake up more fully and willed her brain to make the connections.
“It wouldn’t hurt to give this woman a call, find out a little more.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll phone her on Monday.”
Anna smiled.
“Babe, that’s something you’ll have to learn—New Yorkers are always on. I bet if you called her now, she’d answer.”
Nick looked scandalized.
“It’s only, what, three, four in the morning over there!”
Anna grinned at him.
“Hmm, maybe it’s a little early,” she teased.
Nick gave her a look as if she was the crazy one, but Anna had lived in New York for years, even gone to college there—she knew how full-on it could be. It truly was the city that never sleeps.
She was about to take another bite of her cooling eggs when she realized that Nick was staring at her with hungry eyes. She was so surprised, she almost dropped her fork. Last night had been the first time in a while and now he wanted her again?
Anna’s heart gave a hopeful leap as Nick took her plate and placed it on the floor, his heavy frame looming over hers, pressing her into the mattress.
“SO WHAT DID the agent say when Nick phoned her?” Brendan asked eagerly, adding a third spoonful of sugar to his coffee on Monday morning.
Anna smiled.
“Basically, she told him to haul ass over there, go to some casting calls and see what happens. No guarantees, but she thought she’d be able to get him work as a model.”
“Oh, it’s like a fairytale,” Brendan sighed, hugging his coffee to his chest and blowing into it. “It’s like a glass slipper or lucky Speedos.”
Anna narrowed her eyes.
“I’m regretting telling you about the lucky Speedos.”
Brendan grinned at her.
“I think it’s romantic. Maybe some gorgeous hunk will give me a pair of lucky Speedos one day—preferably his own.”
“Oh my God! Do you ever stop?”
Brendan shook his head.
“Nope. I am a verified sex machine. How about you, Anna-banana? How’s your sexy life these days, because you definitely have that post-orgasmic glow this morning.”
Anna was well used to Brendan’s lack of anything resembling boundaries and forced herself not to blush.
“None of your business.”
“Oh, you so did, you little minx!” he cooed, pretending to swoon. “A good rogering by the rugby Romeo. I’m totes jelly.”
Anna tried to ignore him.
“We have work to do, just in case you were wondering.”
“Oooh, Mrs. Spiky is in the room. I thought getting laid was supposed to make you laidback.”
“Brendan!”
“Fine, fine. So, I spoke to your publisher and gave them the list of images that need to be sourced, and I’ve booked your appearance on Loose Women for the seventeenth. David Beckham’s management declined your request for an interview—boo! But both Jonnie Peacock (God, I love his name) and Jonny Wilkinson said yes, dates to be confirmed. I’v
Anna’s head shot up.
“How many?”
“I know, and that’s in just five days! It’s like dating a Bond girl, you know, you dating Mr. February, Mr. June and Mr. August. Nick can be my Valentine any day of the year, you lucky cow.”
Anna pursed her lips but didn’t reply.
In hundreds of ways it was great dating Nick, but seeing other women ogle him had gotten old the first year they were together, and that had intensified since the calendar came out. She could only imagine what it would be like if the modelling took off. What if he became as well-known as Jamie Dornan or David Gandy? How would it feel then? It was one thing to be famous as a sportsman, but Anna wasn’t naïve: modelling was about selling sex.
“Anna, what’s going through your mind? You look constipated.”
“God, Bren!”
But Anna laughed anyway. Brendan could get away with anything. He knew it and used the fact shamelessly.
“It just gets a bit tedious seeing other people, women, staring and whispering. Three of them came across to get selfies while we were having lunch at that pub by the Heath yesterday.”
“Ooh, I love it there—very romantic. I adore their food and that corner nook with the enormous fireplace.”
“Well, it was romantic until they barged in. Nick was polite, as always, but it just spoiled it.”
Brendan shook his head.
“Green is not a good colour on you. You gotta do what Swifty says and shake it off.”
“Easy for you to say—you’re not engaged to Mr. February.”
Anna’s voice was wry as Brendan grinned at her.
Pleased that he’d made her smile, he pulled out his iPad and brought up the calendar feature.
“Now, when is Nick thinking of going to New York? I need to make sure that the schedules don’t clash if you’re going to be away for a month and…”
“Bren,” Anna laid her hand on his arm. “I’m not going to New York; Nick’s going by himself.”
For once, Brendan was silenced, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Then he gave her a severe look.
“Would you like to explain that to me, Dr. Scott? Because I don’t see anything in your schedule that would prevent you from going.”
Anna bit her lip and shook her head.
“I just think he needs to do this by himself.”
Brendan tapped his finger against his chin.
“And you think that because?”
Anna sighed.
“Bren, you’ve seen what he’s been like since the testimonial. Going to France was the first time I’ve seen a spark in him since he retired. He needs to find his way on his own without me holding him back all of the time.”
Brendan’s eyes widened.
“You think you hold him back?”
“Not in so many words but … okay, yes, I do think that sometimes.”
“Uh huh, and what is it that you think he’d be doing if you weren’t here?”
Anna swallowed.
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure he’d stay in London. He’d probably go back to Yorkshire to be near his family.”
Brendan raised his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention, then pinned Anna with a look.
“Anna, you’re talking crap. Nick doesn’t know what he wants to do. And as you’ve told me a thousand times, that’s completely normal for a former athlete. He’s quite clear that he doesn’t want to coach and that he’s made a clean break from rugby, but he doesn’t know what’s next for him. So why you think you should know is a complete mystery to me. I mean I’m 29 and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Bren, you were 31 last birthday.”
“Ssh! Walls have ears!” he said dramatically. “And don’t change the subject. Why aren’t you going to New York? The truth now.”
Anna leaned back in her chair.
“Like I said: he needs to do this on his own. I don’t know if it’s what he wants and neither does he, but having me hanging around his neck isn’t helping. I’m not helping. Honestly, Bren, I think I make it worse for him, like he feels guilty because he sees me working all hours and he doesn’t have anything to focus on. I don’t want him to feel guilty. I want him to find something that he wants to do. Maybe it’s modelling, maybe it’s not, but it’s got to be because it interests him, not because he thinks that I want him to do it.”
Brendan squinted at her.
“Hmm, that makes a sort of twisted sense. What did Nick say when you told him that?”
Anna cringed.
“What did you do?” Brendan cried out.
Anna sank lower in her seat.
“I lied,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“I lied! I told him I was too busy to go to New York.”
Brendan slapped his forehead.
“Annie!”
“I know! I know! Don’t yell at me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss him so much. But I’m setting him free.”
NEW YORK CITY.
Nick felt a surge of excitement rippling through the wave of tiredness from the transatlantic flight.
And a sense of liberation. Although maybe leaving London on 1st April—April Fool’s Day—could be an omen. He hoped not.
A clean sheet.
And with that came the now familiar pinch of guilt. He missed Anna, but it was a relief to be away from her disappointment, her sadness.
She’d been so excited by the offer from the modelling agency, and encouraged him to talk to Adrienne and seriously consider modelling as a career. Anna had said all the right things, been supportive, but deep down Nick knew that she’d have said that about anything he showed the slightest interest in.
He knew that he’d been drifting since he’d retired from rugby. He missed it like hell. He missed the team, he missed the training, and God, he missed game days—the high from a big win—there was nothing like it.
He didn’t miss getting injured and he didn’t miss the pummeling his body took every weekend.
But rugby was in the past and he had to find a way to live in the present; he had to think about the future.
Maybe the modelling gig would be something. Nick hardly cared because it was so foreign compared to everything he’d ever done before—he’d never thought about his looks, never thought about the way his body was sculpted except in so far as how he could perform on the rugby field. But if a world renowned photographer like Massimo Igashi said he had what it took, he’d be a fool to ignore it.
Besides, he couldn’t stand seeing the way Anna watched him constantly, as if he was going to break apart or maybe just vanish if she took her eyes off him. She smiled, but beneath the surface, he felt her doubt, her uncertainty. Did she doubt him, or their engagement? He wasn’t sure.
But he did know that he had to find something outside their relationship; it wasn’t fair for all the responsibility of his life to weigh on Anna. He was a man and he needed to act like one. He needed to do this on his own terms.
So he’d been relieved that the main core of the agent’s contacts extended across the US, but not so much in Europe. In the UK, France, Germany and Italy, he was Nick Renshaw, Rugby World Cup champion; in America, he was an unknown—and that suited him. If he was going to make it as a model, then it would be on its own merit. He never, ever wanted to hear someone say, Didn’t he used to be somebody?
Striding across the arrivals hall at JFK, he swung his heavy backpack onto his shoulder and found the line for his pre-booked taxi along with a group of German tourists. As they drove through the darkening streets of Queens, he stared out of the window as the minivan crossed the East River into Manhattan, waiting patiently as the taxi dropped off the tourists at several hotels and then
Nick thanked the driver, gathered his bags and jogged up the short flight of steps to a glass door. A receptionist peered at him then buzzed the door open.
He smiled at her politely.
“Hi, I’m Nick Renshaw. I have an appointment with Adrienne.”
“Excuse me?”
Nick repeated himself, then watched with bemusement while she wrote down his name incorrectly three times before she got it right.
“Oh! Nick, Ren-shuer!” she said as if the light had just dawned. “It’s your accent. Are you Scottish?”
“No, from Yorkshire.”
“Is that in Scotland?”
“No, England. Northern England.”
“Oh wow, you don’t sound English. Okay, that’s cool. I’ll let Adrienne know that you’re here. Do you have your book?”
“My book?”
The woman gave him a surprised look.
“Jeez, your book! Photographs of you modelling.”
“Oh, my portfolio, yeah, right,” Nick nodded.
Elisa had sent him a selection of photographs from Massimo’s shoot: the requisite full body, half-body (waist up), and full face pictures that every potential model needed, apparently. Nick had also brought some shots of him in action playing rugby, but he was on the fence about whether or not to include them in his portfolio. Maybe someone would advise him on that.
His new agent, Adrienne Catalano, was a contact of Massimo’s. On the basis of the photographs from the calendar shoot, she’d agreed to sign Nick, but this first meeting face to face was still important to establish a good working relationship.
As he was waiting, he glanced around at his surroundings. The walls were stark white, decorated with stylish monochrome photographs of beautiful women, as well as some who looked homeless or as if they’d been dosing up on meth. Nick had never understood the appeal of heroin-chic as a look. He preferred a woman who was a healthy weight, who looked like she enjoyed her food—someone like Anna.
There were only a few pictures of guys, and none who were built like Nick. These men were all super slim fashion models, and although they had defined muscles, they weren’t ripped like he was. Several of them were downright skinny.