Page 52 of Worth Every Moment
It’s from Dad. He’s sent the same fucking word three times now and so far I’ve ignored them all. The first one came after the images of me smashing a camera on Harley Street appeared on social media. When I opened it, the message sent a chill through me. Only he could send a one word message that fills me with fear.
It’s been a week since then, and although the word doesn’t quite have the impact it did the first time, I can’t shake the feeling of apprehension that settles over me when his name pops up on my phone. I reckon he’s watching me. Sometimes, I suspect someone’s following me, but I’m probably being paranoid. But either way, the words he spoke at our last meeting have been haunting me.
You have four months of freedom. Do whatever you want with it, but keep it discreet. Then you marry Diana.
Smashing a camera on Harley Street in front of dozens of people, and ushering one of the most famous women in the world into the back of my car, is far from discreet, and what I’m about to do is even worse.
I push Dad and his messages out of mind because if I think too hard on it, and the threats he made, I’ll break out into a cold sweat.
Erica appears, looking beautiful, but casual, in a white t-shirt and jeans as she greets me and we exchange pleasantries. She hooks her arm in mine. “I’ve made all the calls, so we’ll be able to redo all the marketing materials for the launch. The posters, billboards… all of it.”
“Couldn’t we have slid an article into the tabloids instead?” I ask.
“We’ll do that too when we formally announce our relationship status,” she says as though it’s all been decided.
She waves me off to the changing rooms, where I strip off and put all my stuff in a locker, putting my birthday in as the code. A prickle runs up my spine as I do it, and although no one’s here, I get that sensation of being watched again. It’s creepy, so I sling on the robe I’ve been given and leave.
Outside, an assistant greets me and escorts me to sit with a makeup artist, who pads my face with powder and god knows what. A hair stylist applies something sticky to my hair, and then two more makeup artists appear, working in unison to paint tattoos on my forearms and chest, all the way up my neck. The image is a specific one; an infinity symbol, which is the symbol for Erica’s brand, and also the name of the fragrance she’s launching. It takes hours.
By the time they finish, my muscles are aching from trying to hold still. Two more people appear and help me change into an all-black outfit—boots, jeans and button-up shirt. They roll the sleeves up carefully to expose the tattoos, but it leaves me wondering why the fuck I have tattoos on my chest if I’m wearing a shirt.
Finally, the photographer tells me to take a seat before a huge white screen.
I’m not a self-conscious guy, but this is fucking weird, what with all the lights and the cameras and the people milling around. When Erica suggested this, I thought we’d be doing a quiet shoot. Me and her and the photographer. Not this spectacle. These clothes. The body paint.
“Which agency are you with?” the photographer asks me as he walks around me, testing out the lens of his camera, coming up close and taking pictures of my face.
I blink as the camera clicks in my face. “What?”
“Which modelling agency?” He gives a low whistle as he looks at the digital screen of his camera. “I know Erica picked you for this, but whose books are you on?”
“He’s not a model,” comes Erica’s voice, and the photographer looks up from his camera, breaking into a smile as she approaches. “He’s actually my boyfriend.”
Boyfriend.
The word is a pinprick to my heart, sliding in like a needle that makes me wince. It’s so fucking cruel that the first time I hear her say it, it’s not real. But my reaction to the word is nothing compared to the insane twisting-flipping thing my stomach is doing at the sight of her. She’s wearing only underwear and heels and looks every inch the model. Black lace skims over her breasts, thin strips of it gracing each hipbone. Her stomach is toned and flat and those legs really are the length of the fucking Nile.So. Much. Skin.
Fuck me.
The photographer greets her like an old friend, and Erica thanks him for doing this for us at late notice. I can’t concentrate on what they’re saying because this is the first time I’ve ever seen her wearing as little as this in real life, and with her hair and makeup done too…it’s a lot.She’s like a pinup from a magazine come to life.
She’s a different woman from the eighteen-year-old I saw in the housekeeper’s catalogue all those years ago, swamped in that cheap jumper and trousers. Then, she was beautiful but innocent. Now, she looks like sin, and I would follow her to hell without a second thought.
I’m not the only person who’s noticed, because the general bustle around us has stopped. People have slowed down to watch her, and the other guys around the set are suddenly sitting upright like a load of dogs waiting for her to drop treats into their open mouths.
I have to grip the edge of my seat to stop myself from erupting and throwing them all out.
“This is great news. You two will be completely comfortable with each other,” the photographer says. “What are we going for?” He pulls out his phone and scrolls as though he’s checking some list. “‘Love that lasts forever. Passion across lifetimes. Desire that can never be exhausted’.”
“Yeah,” Erica says. “I know we were going for purity and innocence, but we’re making some last minute changes. This is all about sensuality. Sexuality. The infinite love that everyone wants to find.”
“Perfect. Love it,” the photographer says.
Erica turns her attention to me. “You look great. Suits you,” she says, taking me in. “You’re not so preppy anymore.”
I pull back. “Preppy?”
“Yeah. You know. When you’re not in a suit, you’re always wearing polo shirts and chinos. You’re a hair’s breadth from tying a cashmere jumper around your neck and sailing down the Thames.” She mimes vomiting, and my mouth drops open. I had no idea that’s what she thought of my casual attire. “You do look great in a suit though,” she says, reaching out and rubbing my knee like she thinks I need the reassurance. Her touch burns through the jeans.
