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 often. 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.