‘Last shot and then that’s it for the day,’ shouted Sally Stevenson, art director of Your Wedding magazine, adjusting the tiara on Summer Sinclair’s head and smoothing down the undulating layers of the Vera Wang gown. Summer groaned with relief. She could see it was already pitch-black outside the French windows of the location house, and she was dying to get home and soak her feet. All day she had wriggled in and out of white meringues and slinky ivory columns, her hair had been pinned up and blow-dried down and she had run through every expression from poetic wistfulness to carefree laughter. In short, she’d spent the day being trussed up like a toilet doily and she was exhausted. Still, at least some of today had been fun, thought Summer, glancing at Charlie McDonald, the male model who had been playing the dashing groom to her blushing bride. Charlie had made her giggle all day long, doing impressions of Stefan the surly Swedish photographer, and chasing the three tiny bridesmaids around the studio creating pandemonium. He was good looking, too, in a preppy, Ralph Lauren kind of way, she thought. Although not my type at all, she corrected herself quickly. Summer tended to go for older men – rich, older men – something her mother had drilled into her since she was a girl.
‘He might be handsome,’ she could hear her mum saying, ‘but can a handsome man get you a private jet?’ No, Charlie was no more than her age, and the last time she had been out with a twenty-four-year-old she had been sixteen – and, even then, he’d been a banking heir.
‘Right now, I want something sexy, something romantic,’ said Stefan sternly. ‘Charlie, can you move to the side of the staircase?’ he directed. ‘And slip your arm around Summer’s waist.’
Charlie moved in close. Bloody hell, he was handsome. Narrow green eyes framed by sooty lashes, clear, lightly tanned skin, a mop of dark blond hair. Without the square jaw he would have been pretty, but the angles of his face toughened him up like a fifties film star. ‘Now, I want you to kiss her gently on the lips.’
Awkwardly, Summer turned her head, feeling her heart beat faster as his lips brushed hers. Charlie was so good looking it was hard to be completely professional, to dissociate desire like you were turning off a tap. It had been over a year since she’d had any sort of intimate contact: despite her looks, Summer rarely dated.
‘Come on, Summer. You’re supposed to have just married this guy!’ shouted Sally. ‘Don’t look at him as if you’re scared stiff.’
Summer forced a smile and moved closer to Charlie as Sally and her assistant began throwing silver and white balloons into the shot.
‘Come on, pretend that you love me,’ Charlie whispered with a soft smile. ‘Then we can all go home.’
The highly strung photographer threw his hands up in the air in frustration. ‘These British!’ he moaned. ‘They are so uptight!’
Sally Stevenson rushed in, clapping her hands. ‘Okay, thank you everyone, that was great,’ she said, lifting her hands above her head for the traditional end-of-shoot applause.
‘So, who wants to come for a drink?’ she asked, looking hopefully at Charlie, who she had booked specially because she fancied him.
‘Don’t mind if I do …’ he said, not taking his eyes off Summer as he spoke.
Summer went into the bathroom to take the thick foundation off her face. She scrambled out of the creamy meringue. Bloody wedding shoots, she thought, staring into the mirror. Then again, she wasn’t exactly Kate Moss, was she?
Come on, Summer, get real and stop grumbling, she chided herself. A fashion shoot for Your Wedding wasn’t the edgy, ground-breaking high-fashion editorial she had dreamt of doing when she had first started modelling; but at least it was work, something she hadn’t had a great deal of since Christmas. At twenty-four, Summer knew that her modelling shelf-life was running out.
Charlie McDonald was waiting for her in the marbled hall, swatting at the balloons as the bridesmaids were bundled into thick duffle coats by their beaming parents.
‘Are you coming for that drink?’ asked Charlie, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
‘Only if you’re buying,’ said Summer playfully.
‘So, how come I haven’t seen you in castings before?’ asked Charlie as they walked towards the door.
‘I’ve been out of the country for the last few years.’
‘Oh yeah? New York?’
‘Japan,’ said Summer, a little embarrassed. She knew Tokyo was considered rather down-market as far as modelling was concerned. The very top girls went to New York where they could make millions of dollars, while the tall, skinny girls went to Paris where they would make couture dresses look even more exclusive and luxurious. Toyko barely even made it onto the fashion map, but the commercial Japanese market had loved Summer’s glorious girl-next-door perfection, with her flawless, peachy complexion, rosy lips and watery, lavender-blue eyes that shined with such innocence that no one noticed that they were there to sell you overpriced cosmetics. She had been one of the top girls at her Tokyo agency, a big star in her tiny neon universe. It was four years of hard work, but it had boosted her confidence, given her plenty and, most importantly, it meant her mother’s seal of approval.
‘Wow, Tokyo? That’s fantastic!’ said Charlie, without any hint of snobbery. ‘I thought about going out there myself to make a bit of money. Apparently they don’t mind short-arses over there.’
Summer laughed. Charlie probably just scraped six foot, but she could sympathize. The lack of work in London for girls her height – five feet seven – was one of the reasons why she went to Japan in the first place.
‘You should go,’ said Summer, ‘it’s an amazing place. A little strange and fantastically polite, but amazing all the same.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I have a band. The only reason I model is to pay for guitar strings.
‘Ah-ha!’ said Summer triumphantly, ‘I knew it! So you’re the next Noel Gallagher.’ She had always been jealous of male models. While they rarely got the big bucks that the top female models could command, most men she met on the circuit were using modelling as a stopgap or a passport to other things: students working off a bank loan, wannabe TV presenters getting visibility or actors making a quick buck.
‘Yeah, just like Noel Gallagher,’ smiled Charlie, ‘but with better teeth.’
They walked out onto the streets of Belgravia. With the tall white Georgian houses stretching up around them, her hair still in a bouffant, carriage streetlamps glowing like dandelion clocks, she felt like a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Sally, Stefan and some of the crew were still huddled in the doorway of the house, sheltering from the spitting rain and debating where to go to drink.
‘What about the Blue Bar for a cocktail?’
‘I’m not paying a tenner for a drink,’ grumbled Charlie. ‘Aren’t there any pubs around here?’
‘Well, what about the Grenadier?’ said Sally looking directly at Charlie. ‘I saw Madonna in there once.’
‘No one famous is going to be out tonight,’ said Jenny the make-up artist, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. ‘It’s that big party in South London tonight, isn’t it?’
Summer felt a sudden sense of panic. ‘Oh shit!’ she said, and started looking up and down the street for a taxi.
‘What’s up?’ asked Charlie.
‘I promised my mum I’d go out with her,’ groaned Summer.
‘Hot date at the bingo?’
Summer laughed at the image. ‘My mum is probably more rock ’n’ roll than anyone you’ve ever met in the music industry.’
‘Excellent!