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?”
“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, snapped 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.
He’d also done a lot of sightseeing, capturing his experiences on film, and enjoyed sharing them with Anna when they Facetimed each evening.
There were times that he wished she was with him, but she was busy at home with work and her own life; there were also times when Nick enjoyed doing something for himself and by himself. He’d been part of team life since he was a kid—it was refreshing to make a go of things on his own.
He walked everywhere, believing it was the best way to get to know a new area. He’d done that when they first moved to London, and still enjoyed exploring new parts of the city.
One thing that had surprised him about New Yorkers was how upfront they were. Both men and women hit on him when he was out, even joining him at a restaurant table while he enjoyed a meal alone.
At first, he’d simply told the truth and would say that he was travelling by himself, but he was engaged. That didn’t seem to put off anyone; in fact some women had taken that as a come-on, and twice women had simply sat down at his table and started talking to him.
No matter how politely he tried to tell them that he wasn’t interested, they just wouldn’t take no for an answer until he’d actually stood up and walked out.
So many times, in fact, that he’d started telling people that he was rushing to catch a flight, and then he’d end up bolting his meal and getting indigestion. He didn’t know what it was, but New Yorkers were a lot harder to blow off than the British.
Occasionally, he bought a boxed salad or deli meal and took it back to the hotel to eat in peace; but just recently he’d found a diner that had a counter you could sit at, and since he started getting to know the staff, they intervened if they found him stuck with another admirer.
“You’re too nice,” the owner, Franco, had told him. “Just tell ‘em to take a hike.”
Nick shook his head.
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Well, imagine that your girlfriend was the one being hit on. What would ya say then?”
Nick glowered, his eyes narrowing.
Franco laughed.
“Give ‘em that look, buddy!”
But that evening, since Nick had already eaten and had a light beer on his way back to the hotel, he didn’t even have the excuse to go out to get some food.
Just as he’d decided to go back to the gym for another workout, his cellphone rang and Orion’s name flashed up.
Normally, Nick would have let it go to voicemail, but tonight he was bored enough to answer.
“Nick, buddy! How ya doin’?”
“Not bad. How are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good, great! Adrienne is sending me for another casting with a top clothing company next week. She’s really excited about it—she says it could be the big one.”
Nick didn’t bother to reply. He’d had the same conversation with Orion a dozen times before. The guy was always convinced that the next call would be from Giorgio Armani in person, offering him a six-figure contract. Either he really believed that or he’d read in a self-help book that portraying a positive image would bring its own rewards. He certainly didn’t believe in downplaying his assets, which meant that he and Nick had almost nothing in common—other than their agent.
But Nick had no friends in New York, so Orion was it.
“You busy tonight?”
Nick was cautious.
“Got a few things I was going to take care of…”
“Can them, brah. I’ve been invited to this party tonight and I was told to bring some friends. Word is, it’s going to be amazing. Everyone will be there—great place to get noticed. You in?”
Nick had done the club scene in his twenties—it was mostly about drinking and hooking up, neither of which he was interested in doing. He also wasn’t interested in repeating the Kirsten fiasco.
Orion sensed his hesitation.
“Ah, come on, man! It’s kind of a big deal—a lot of scouts and agents will be there—see and be seen, right?”
Nick weighed up the choices: another night in by himself, or hang out with Orion and his friends for a few hours.
In the end, Nick found himself agreeing to meet Orion in Greenwich Village at a bar they’d gone to once before.
Orion was sitting with three other guys in their mid to late twenties who were all trying to make it in the modelling biz. Nick recognized the quick appraisal they gave him, the look that he saw at every casting as the other models assessed the competition.
He shook hands with them, then sat down on a barstool while Orion went to the bathroom and then to get the drinks. Nick had asked for a bottle of Heineken, but Orion reappeared with a tray of tequila shots.
They downed two each in quick succession, then Brodie, who seemed to be the one with the connections, announced it was time to leave. Orion was almost leaping out of his seat, so antsy to leave. From the way his pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, Nick guessed that more than a bathroom break had taken place.
He didn’t like being around drugs—it reminded him of how out of control he’d been when he was drinking during a really low point in his life. He promised himself that whatever went down at the party, he’d only drink water.
Brodie led them down a side alley, stopped at a heavy steel door and knocked twice.
An enormous doorman waved them in, then signaled his equally vast colleague to pat them down. He found Orion’s stash of … whatever it was, probably speed … but handed the packet back to him. But the phones were confiscated.
Nick gripped his phone in his hand and narrowed his eyes at Orion who shrugged.
“Lot of powerful people here, brah, like I said. You gotta go with the flow.”
Reluctantly, Nick handed over his phone, then they were allowed to enter.
The narrow staircase opened out into an enormous warehouse apartment, with runway lighting turned down low, and the music turned up.
Everywhere Nick looked, people were dancing and drinking. The smell of weed was thick in the heated air, and Nick felt sweat breaking out across his body. Orion pushed a bottle of beer into his hand and yelled something in his ear that sounded like ‘rabid arty’ or possibly something about rabbits. Oh, wait, ‘rad party’. Was it 1990 again?
Nick thought it was more naff than rad, or ‘lame’ as Orion might have said if he wasn’t so jacked on speed. He’d rather have a beer with his mates down the pub than stand around watching strangers getting stoned. Any athlete who took drugs risked his career: urine tests were random, four picked from the team sheet or training sheet—and mandatory.
A representative from the drug testing company would watch you piss into a tube, two samples, and a positive result for a banned substance would result in a ban: six months for amphetamines, and up to two years for steroids.
Even common cold remedies could contain banned substances.
“Let’s get our party on!” yelled Orion, ripping off his shirt.
He wasn’t the only one. Anyone who was young and hot was showing a lot of skin. Several of the girls were wearing bikinis, although Nick hadn’t seen a pool. The older party guests exuded wealth and power, and wore designer clothes and expensive jewellery.
Nick grimaced and turned in the other direction, pushing his way through the crowds. Men and women were openly snorting coke, their eyes too bright, their laughter too loud, acting like they were having the best time on earth.
It was pretty obvious that a number of the partiers were underage: definitely under 21, probably still in their teens. Nick winced as a girl who looked like she should still be at school, smoked something that wasn’t a cigarette or a spliff, her eyes glazing over and rolling back in her head. The surrounding people laughed as a guy caught her when her knees gave way and carried her from the room.
And it wasn’t just girls. Young, thin, pretty boys who looked as though they were enjoying a growth spurt strutted around the room in muscle vests and skinny jeans, hanging off the arms of the rich and powerful, hoping that some of the shine would come their way.
It was as if the #MeToo campaign had never happened.
Nick recognized the sleazy photographer from the week before, the short guy with the roving hands.
“The bad boy brooding look really works on you, sugar.”
Nick frowned down at a woman who’d been hiding her age behind Botox for at least three decades.
“I’m gonna take a guess and say … you’re a model. Am I right?”
Nick nodded, his stance wary.
“Come sit with me a little bit. I have friends who could use a guy like you. All you need is the right connections and you’re golden.”
She patted the sofa and crossed her legs, letting the thigh high split in her dress reveal her lack of underwear.
“No, thanks,” Nick said, his lip curling as he backed away.
“You’re quite a prude, aren’t you?”
Nick’s eyes darkened with anger. As a rule, he wasn’t prone to losing his temper anymore, but he’d been on edge since he arrived.
“If you think using these kids is prudish, then yeah. If you think telling them that they’re going to get rich and famous by sleeping with people old enough to be their grandparents is prudish, definitely.”
She laughed in his face.
“How long you been in the Big Apple, sugar?”
“Too bloody long,” Nick muttered as he walked away.
He dumped the rest of his beer and headed for the stairs. Orion had disappeared and Nick had no intention of looking for him or the other models he’d arrived with.
He passed two girls making out, half naked, ringed by a group of much older men cheering them on, one of them filming the whole scene. How the hell had he been allowed to keep his phone?
As he passed back along the corridor, the party had ramped up and couples or groups were making use of the bedrooms, fucking and being fucked. It wasn’t the sex that bothered him but the feeling that this was about people being used: young, desperate models, actors and actresses, prepared to do anything to work their way to the top, when instead, they were being sucked into the gutter.
Nick felt dirty by association and wondered if the police would be interested in this so-called party: underage drinking, probably underage sex too, maybe people being paid for sex, he wasn’t sure. There were definitely drugs available.
He jogged down the stairs and demanded his phone back from the stony-eyed doorman. Nick’s breathing was fast as his anger rose. He stood almost nose to nose with the 250 pound man, matching his cold stare until his phone was returned, then he was out in the street.
He filled his lungs with the night air, breathing in the stink of car fumes, which was preferable to the stench of money, privilege and predators in the building behind him.
And suddenly a memory came back to him, an assistant coach from one of the under-15s teams he’d played for: a creepy guy who was always around when the boys showered after practice. Nick hadn’t thought of him in years.
He pulled out his phone to call the police and then paused. He’d been present at the party—any number of people could identify him. If he called the police that would be a short hop to them finding out that he had a criminal record. And then, no one would believe a word he said.
Anna would do the right thing.
Those were the words that echoed through his mind. In the end, he bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, considering the $37 well spent when he dialled 911 and told them what he’d seen, doing his best to disguise his voice.
Then he binned the phone and headed back to his hotel, sick at heart.
“You did the right thing,” Anna whispered as Nick lay in bed.
Her day was just starting but Nick hadn’t slept yet.
“Did I? I could have done more.”
Anna sighed.
“In an ideal world, yes, you could have called the police and waited for them to arrive, then point out the perpetrators. But it’s not an ideal world and you’d have been putting yourself at risk.”
Nick closed his eyes. He’d needed to hear her words, needed to hear her voice, needed her to tell him that he wasn’t a complete shit and a coward.
“What you saw goes on in every industry, everyone knows it. With all the publicity from Weinstein onwards, more has come into the light, but there’s just as much hiding in dark corners. You can’t be everyone’s hero, Nick.” She paused. “But you are mine.”
Nick gave a quiet huff of laughter.
“How do you always know the right things to say?”
This time the pause was even longer and her voice was serious.
“Because we’ve both been through the fire, and we both know that black and white are just colours on a page.”
Nick held the phone tightly, concentrating on her voice.
The next day, Nick scanned all the news sites to see if there was anything about the party, but he couldn’t find a single mention. And when his curiosity couldn’t take it anymore, he texted Orion, but the only response he got was a winking emoji.
The party was never mentioned again.