EX Files

by Jane Moore

  Adam lobbed his olive pit into the bin. “I don’t think either gender screw around if they’re serious about something, but it’s a scientific fact that some men can have a one-night stand without it affecting a serious relationship while women can’t. They’re different.” When in doubt, he always used the “scientific fact” argument, fictional or otherwise.

  “But are we naturally different?” she asked. “Or are we just brought up to think and behave in a way that suits men?”

  He made a face. “This is all getting very deep. All I’m basically saying is, I hope you’re doing the right thing.”

  Faye stood up to pour herself more champagne. “Of course I am. Once I’m married to Mark, I’ll be faithful, I promise.” She placed her fingers against her temple in the Brownie salute. “Besides, if it makes you feel any better to hear it, I hate myself for my little indiscretion. It was a cheap thing to do and I wouldn’t want to repeat it.”

  Adam stretched, pulled down his T-shirt, which bore a sequined heart on the front, and leaped up from the bed. He went to gaze out of the mullioned window that led onto an ancient stone balcony. “God, this place is beautiful.”

  She walked across to stand next to him, and they were silent for a few minutes, absorbing the stunning Provençal scenery, lush after an unusually rain-soaked winter and early spring.

  Faye had stayed at Château Montferrier for a magazine fashion shoot a couple of years previously and fallen in love with the place. A few kilometers outside Grasse, it was perched on the side of a hill and had once belonged to an aristocratic family who, through lack of funds, had allowed it to fall into disrepair. Just before the new millennium had dawned, they had moved to a smaller estate, and sold it to an exclusive hotel chain. A few million had restored it to much more than its former glory.

  After years of living with the constant noise of London, Faye relished the silence, punctuated only by bird calls or the occasional sound of car tires on the gravel drive. From the moment she had arrived there on her modeling assignment, she had felt the stresses and strains of everyday life ebb away to be replaced by a relaxed serenity. She’d always vowed that, when she met the right man, she would be married there.

  Now here she was, just a day away from pledging her future to Mark Hawkins, a fantastic but struggling chef, and all-round wonderful man. “Let’s see if my dress has survived the journey,” she said, keen to get into the spirit of the occasion. She walked across to the mirrored wardrobes that lined one side of the room and opened a door.

  There, protected by a vinyl cover, was the dress she and Adam had spent weeks choosing and perfecting for her big day. It was made from snow-white chiffon, with a scoop neck, sheer sleeves and a long, bias-cut skirt. Adam described it as “classic.”

  She rummaged around underneath it, and pulled out a small cardboard box with “Jenny Wick” embossed on top: the handmade crystal tiara she’d bought for an extra touch of glamour. “All present and correct.” She peered inside the wardrobe and checked the box that contained the dainty Kurt Geiger sandals. “Shall I risk asking the staff to steam the dress?”

  “Definitely.” Adam nodded. “It creases so easily.” He returned to the bed and fell back onto the silk-tasseled cushions placed along the headboard. “Have you thought any more about your hair?”

  “I just want to look like me, really. So many people have some boring updo for their wedding day, and I always think it looks rather staid.”

  “True.” He smiled affectionately. “Besides, those trophy-cup ears of yours are best kept hidden.”

  “Have you ever thought of getting a job with the diplomatic corps?” She poked out her tongue. “Thought not.”

  She opened the suitcase perched on the end of the bed, and pulled out a pair of seamless beige panties and a sheer white bra with clear plastic straps. “It’s all very well wearing sexy underwear on your wedding day, but with most fitted dresses it’s impossible.” She sighed. “I can only wear these passion-killers under mine. Anything else would show through.”

  She looked at Adam, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring into the distance, deep in thought. Then he spoke: “Are you absolutely positive you’re in love with Mark?”

  Faye made a face. She’d thought that the conversation had moved on. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.”

  “But I must say,” she continued, “it’s hard to believe that anyone can stay interested in the same person all their life.”

  Adam pursed his lips. “Coming from any woman, I’d find that remark sad, but from a woman who’s getting married tomorrow, it’s seriously worrying.”

  Faye walked over to him, took his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry. Just be happy for me . . . Pretty please?”

  “I’ll try.”

  She dropped his hand and gave him a full-beam smile. “That’s the spirit. I want you to be fun, not to rain on my parade.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I’ll always tell you the truth, however brutal.”

  Faye knew that Adam’s impeccable sense of style would be invaluable on her wedding day, but she wished he’d left his disarming honesty behind. She recalled getting a dose of it the first time they’d met . . .

  Pausing outside the giant metal doors leading to the warehouse, Faye took a few deep breaths. She was nervous about this assignment with Couture magazine, a glossy trend bible considered to be the upmarket brand leader and, consequently, run by phenomenal snobs who could pick and choose from the best the fashion world had to offer.

  Her modeling break had come when, according to press reports, one of the “supermodels” on her agency’s books had suffered “a particularly debilitating case of food poisoning,” otherwise known as a tricky Ecstasy tablet.

  Faye had been drafted as an eleventh-hour replacement and it was the first time she’d posed for Couture. While she was undoubtedly a very pretty girl, she didn’t have the extra something that placed her on the most-wanted list. Her long sandy hair, green eyes, and smattering of freckles were too Californian and healthy in an era when waif chic and urchin cuts were the hot look, but Faye made a comfortable living from posing for mid-market magazines.

  She walked into the tiny reception area, and stopped in front of a desk made from corrugated iron. Above it was a lurid painting of two dogs mating. “Hello, I’m here to see Adam Sissons,” she said to the receptionist, a sullen girl with four or five hoops through her nose. She was reading a copy of Bizarre magazine.

  The girl punched numbers into a phone. “Adam, someone for you.” She looked at Faye. “Name?”

  “Faye Parker.”

  “Faye Parker,” she echoed, then put down the phone. “Studio Five,” she said, gestured behind her, and returned to her magazine.

  At first, Faye couldn’t see a soul as she wandered through the door marked “5.” Then she heard a lavatory flush and a man walked out of a small door to her right. “Sorry, nature called,” he trilled. With his closely shaved head and well-toned torso trying to escape his tight white T-shirt with “All this and brains” written on the front, he was an eye-catching figure. “I’m Adam.”

  Faye shook his hand, and followed him round a corner to where various trendy types were rushing around like worker bees.

  “Put this on.” Adam lobbed a flimsy black dress in her direction.

  She held it against her. “I’m sure you know best,” she purred, lowering her eyelids and trying to look coy, “but black drains me.” She pointed at a nearby clothes rack. “Could I wear that gorgeous stripy thing instead?”

  “Nope.” His voice was clipped. “You’re not slim enough for that. Black will hide those lumps and bumps.”

  As he strutted back to the clothes rack, Faye stood stock still, feeling as if she’d instantaneously ballooned to the size of the Michelin Man. She hadn’t been expecting such an important assignment, so she hadn’t been watching her weight very closely, but lumpy? Hardly.

  She had started attending yoga classes recentl
y, but after two or three weeks she had started missing sessions if something better came up. Eventually she had fallen so far behind the rest of the class she had given up.

  “If God had wanted me to touch my toes, he’d have put them on my knees,” she’d muttered to the instructor, during one particularly strenuous session.

  “And by the way,” Adam shouted over his shoulder while hurling the stripy number at some raven-haired, chalk-skinned pipe-cleaner, whose diet clearly consisted of cigarettes, vodka, and Advil, “it’s useless trying to flirt with me. I’m gay.”

  Fortunately, Faye’s mutinous expression fitted in rather nicely with the current trend favoring miserable models, but Adam pushed her so far back in the pictures that only her head and shoulders could be seen behind the four others. As someone who was used to being the center of attention on photo shoots, she found the whole experience uncomfortable and humbling, particularly when he left her out of the last picture altogether.

  Faye returned to where she’d left her clothes, and fumbled with the buttons of her jeans. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes.

  Adam walked over to her. “Are you upset?” He kept his voice low.

  “No.” Faye was aware she didn’t sound convincing.

  “It’s nothing personal,” he said. “It’s just that you’re different from the other three and I wanted a uniform look for the last shot.”

  “Whatever,” she replied, and kicked herself inwardly for sounding so standoffish.

  His face was set. “It’s my job to criticize,” he said calmly. “If I didn’t, the fashion shoots would look like shit.” He bent down and gathered up a couple of Polaroids that had fallen on to the floor. “The magazine’s reputation is based on being the best, and you don’t get to the top by worrying about hurting people’s feelings. You also don’t get it by booking lazy models who take their looks and figure for granted.”

  Faye’s face blazed with humiliation. “As you know, it was a last-minute booking,” she muttered.

  “Not the point,” he said, and blew a kiss to one of the departing models. “You have a fantastic face and, with a little more effort on your part, I’d book you all the time. But you need to watch those hips. They have to be slimmer to cope with this season’s tailored looks. Sorry, but that’s the brutal truth.”

  “No one else complains,” she said stiffly. “I get plenty of work, thank you very much.”

  Adam sighed. “Well, if you’re happy being the darling of the supermarket catalogues . . . If I were you, I’d go on a diet, dear. When your knees become fatter than your legs, start eating again.” He swiveled on his glittered Cuban heel and walked off to where the photographer and his assistant were deep in conversation.

  Faye was left gasping like a fish out of water, struck dumb. What galled her was that deep down inside, she knew that every word he’d said had been true. A total stranger had skewered her with pinpoint accuracy and it wounded. Grabbing her handbag from under the clothes rack, she walked out without uttering another word to him or anyone else.

  Two weeks went by. Then a booker from her agency rang in a state of high excitement to say that Adam had been in touch and wanted her to call him. “Maybe it’s a Couture cover,” the woman gushed.

  “More likely the ‘before’ picture for a cosmetic surgery article,” Faye gulped to herself when she’d put the phone down.

  Of course, if he’d been a heterosexual man possibly asking for a date, Faye would have waited several days before calling him, but as he was gay and in charge of booking models for the country’s most prestigious magazine, she rang him immediately. “Hi, is that Adam? It’s Faye Parker, the woman with the childbearing hips.”

  He laughed. “Sorry about that. On reflection, I was rather harsh.”

  “I think they call it being cruel to be kind,” she replied. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “Mainly to apologize, but also to see if you fancied doing another small job with me. It’s nothing to do with Couture, it’s for a friend of mine who runs an ad agency. They need a model who looks good in a sarong.”

  “Ah, the good old hip-covering sarong. Perfect for me.” She smiled to herself. “When and where?”

  It had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

  Friday, June 28

  2:20 p.m.

  They were standing in the château’s spectacular hall, with its mahogany wall paneling and ceiling frescos of plump clouds and even plumper cherubs. Directly in front of the vast oak entrance door, a marble staircase lined with oil paintings of past French monarchs curled upstairs, and a small visitors’ book lay on a Louis XIV bureau.

  “Ohmigod, this is to die for!” squealed Adam, finding a wrought-iron handle secured to the paneling. He pushed it down and a concealed door swung open into the library. “Ooh, I’m like Alice in Wonderland!” he said, placing a glittery Skecher on the threshold.

  Faye was about to follow him when she glanced back and saw her mother struggling through the front door with a battered suitcase. A frustrated-looking porter was following, trying to wrestle it from her grasp.

  “No, no, leave it, thanks. I’ll take it to the room myself,” said Alice firmly, using the loud, staccato voice she adopted with all foreigners.

  “Hello, Mother.” Faye strolled over and planted a kiss on her hot pink cheek. “Why don’t you let him help you?” She nodded towards the porter.

  Alice shook her head. “They only want money for it, dear. It’s not worth the bother. I’ll have it up there myself in no time.”

  “This is a five-star hotel.” Faye’s heart sank at the thought of an entire weekend of her mother’s little ways. “And it has a strict no-tipping policy.”

  Alice pushed ancient sunglasses to the top of her head and wiped her forehead with the crisp cotton handkerchief she had pulled out of her sleeve. “Nothing is free in life, dear. You should know that by now.” She made a small tutting noise as if her daughter’s imagined naiveté had disappointed her.

  “Alice! How lovely to see you!” Adam had emerged from the library and was bearing down on them, arms outstretched. If Alice was surprised to be given a bear hug by someone she’d met only twice, she didn’t show it. “Good trip?” he asked.

  Faye winced. She knew what was coming: her mother had spent three weeks planning her journey with military precision, and was only too eager to relate the details.

  “Not really,” said Alice. “First of all, the train to Dover was two hours late—no, ninety-eight minutes to be precise—then the ferry crossing was rather choppy . . .”

  Faye wandered to the front desk and left them to it. When she returned five minutes later, her mother’s room key in her hand, Adam’s expression suggested he was gradually decomposing.

  “. . . but it turned out the local bus only went as far as the bottom of the hill, so I’ve had to walk the last two miles in that heat.”

  “Mum! Why didn’t you just get a cab up here? You know I’d have given you the money,” Faye demanded.

  Alice looked at her as if she’d just stepped off the banana boat. “Darling, the minute those cab drivers know you’re a stranger in their country, they automatically double the fare and then short-change you. It’s a fact.”

  Faye couldn’t be bothered to argue. “Come on, I’ve got your key and Adam will carry your bag. He won’t want paying.”

  Back in her room, Faye patted Adam’s leg with one hand and poured champagne, into his empty martini glass with the other. “Now then,” she said, “no more dreary talk. Let’s have some fun.”

  He gave her a warm smile. “It’s a deal.” Knocking back a mouthful of champagne, he winced as some of it dribbled down his chin. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you fill me in on who’s staying here as well as us? I want all the dirt.” He plumped up a cushion and stuck it behind his head. “I feel like I’m on one of those murder mystery weekends.”

  Faye laughed. “Considering the cast there could well be a few dead bodies by the end
of it, and my mother might be the first if she does any more journey anecdotes.”

  “It’s the exes I’m interested in,” said Adam, who seemed to be salivating at the thought. “I can’t belieeeeeve they’re coming!” He rubbed his hands with undisguised glee. “Only you could dream up that one.”

  “It was Mark’s idea, actually. He’s still quite chummy with a couple of his ex-girlfriends and wanted to invite them, so I felt I should do likewise.” She grinned mischievously. “Trouble is, I had to track them down first.”

  Adam screeched with laughter. “You are priceless! Nothing like making your wedding day a meaningful one with just close friends.”

  “I’m just making sure things start on an equal footing, that’s all.” She pouted.

  He looked unconvinced. “I couldn’t believe it when you rang and said you wanted me to get Nat’s new number for you. He’s such an arsehole, although a bloody gorgeous one.”

  “At least you’ll have him to ogle at if you get bored.”

  “True. I still can’t believe you’ve invited him, though, especially after all the terrible things you said about him.”

  Faye frowned. Over the two years that she had known Adam, she had discovered that gay menfriends were significantly different from their female equivalents. When you pour out your heart, soul, or post-relationship vitriol to another woman, an unspoken etiquette has it that if you end up back with or even marrying the man in question, the lurid details of what you said in distress are not mentioned again. Not so with a gay man. If she said something derogatory about anyone who’d upset her—another model, perhaps, or casual acquaintance—Adam would always remind her of it if he ever saw her being friendly to them.

  She decided to move on. “My other invited ex is Rich . . . I’ve told you about him before.”

  Adam drained his glass and placed it on the bedside table. “You did, but I didn’t pay much attention because I didn’t think I’d ever meet him.”