EX Files

by Jane Moore

  She said nothing.

  “Being jilted on your wedding day has to be one of the most humiliating experiences of life, but you know what? I’m glad it happened, because it made me realize what I want in life . . . and that’s you.”

  She was openly crying now, though silently. “I don’t know, Mark, I—”

  “Please give me another chance. Then, say in a month or two, if you still think you’ll never be able to trust me again, I’ll take no for an answer. I promise.” He placed his hand on his heart.

  “I’ll do you a deal.”

  “Anything,” he said, sensing a chink in her armor.

  “Let’s take it a day at a time, and I reserve my right to drop you at a moment’s notice if I think it’s not going to work.” She pulled one of her hands out of his and gave him a warning tap in the middle of the chest. “The ball is very much in my court, you owe me that.”

  “I certainly do,” he grinned.

  “Good,” she said. “In that case, we’ll start with dinner this week, and take it slowly from there.”

  Suddenly, he was serious. “I promise you won’t regret this, Kate.”

  “Hmm, we’ll see. As I said, you’re on probation.”

  “Oh, and one other thing . . .” He tightened his hold on her hands.

  “What? Don’t push it . . .”

  “Do I have to wait until next week to snog your face off?”

  She burst out laughing, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. “I thought you’d never bloody ask.”

  Saturday, December 7

  11 a.m.

  “If I bend my leg any more it’s going to bloody snap in half,” muttered Faye.

  She was lying on a cold concrete floor with a twenty-five-year-old male model sprawled across her. One of her legs was outstretched, the other curled round him.

  “Well, frankly, you look a bit deformed at the moment, dear. So either bend it round a bit more, or move it further down his thigh.” Adam was standing about three feet away, his head cocked to one side as he surveyed the scene.

  “And wouldn’t the budget stretch to a carpet?” she whined. “This floor is arse-clenchingly cold.”

  Adam looked at the male model. “Women! I’m getting such déjà-moo here.”

  “Sorry?” The young lad looked confused.

  “Déjà-moo. The feeling that you’ve heard all this bullshit before.” He turned to Faye. “Darling, the theme of the shoot is concrete chic. A bit of shag pile would just ruin the effect.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Stylist.” She gave him a fake smile. “But could I just make an impassioned plea that we get this over with before I lose the use of my legs altogether?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m quite enjoying myself,” said the male model, peering down the front of her gray gypsy top. It was the longest and most lucid sentence he’d uttered in the past two hours.

  “Really?” Faye looked at him disparagingly. “Well, while we’re having these intimate moments together, may I humbly request that if we ever work together again, you forgo the particularly strong pickled onion you’ve just enjoyed with your plowman’s lunch? It’s making me want to heave.”

  Adam tapped his watch. “Come on, come on. The quicker we get these next few shots out of the way, the quicker we can all bugger off home.”

  The shot was for Couture, where Adam was now the senior stylist after seeing off the aging stick insect who’d been doing it for ten years previously. She’d hung on for as long as she could, but when she’d suggested something last-season as a fashion idea, the owner had decided it was time to get rid of her. Of course Adam had doctored the story somewhat and had told everyone it was because she’d suggested a feature on support tights.

  Immediately after the French farrago, Faye had returned home and wallowed in self-pity. Despite Adam’s overtures, she had flatly refused to leave her home on anything other than work assignments, and had lost herself in the twilight world of takeout and late-night television. Consequently, she put on about ten pounds.

  Then, almost a month after it had started, she had banished the self-pity and adopted a whole new lifestyle in a bid to shed the excess weight and dig herself out of the emotional trough. She’d started attending evening yoga classes three times a week, which mellowed her to the extent that she found it a lot easier to get to sleep at night. She still treated herself to junk food every so often, but for the most part she was making a concerted effort to eat sensibly. After reading a magazine article about healthy cooking, she’d gone straight out and bought a juicer and a steamer, and they were now a daily part of her life. She still couldn’t get used to drinking two liters of water a day, but forced herself to do it. Within weeks, her complexion was glowing and her usually fine hair seemed thicker and shinier.

  Luckily for her, her new regime had coincided with the demise of the extra-thin model, seen off after a particularly ferocious newspaper campaign that had castigated it as a poor example to impressionable teenagers. The healthy, sun-kissed look was back in, and Faye found herself in great demand, specifically by Adam and the trend-leading Couture.

  After she had appeared on the magazine’s cover, an article in the Daily Mail singled her out as a positive role model for the nation’s young, and her profile went through the roof. Invitations to the latest film première or club opening poured into her agency, but for the most part she stayed away. If there was a specific reason to go—to help out a favorite charity, perhaps—she put on her best bib and tucker and turned out. But if it was just the social merry-go-round, Faye preferred not to get on board. She’d crossed her boredom threshold on the showbiz circuit years ago.

  “It’s the same people every single time,” she said to Adam, on one recent, rare occasion when they’d attended a restaurant opening. They were squashed together in a corner, clutching neon-blue cocktails and peering into the gloom as the latest It girl air-kissed her way round the room. “I mean, look at her. Doesn’t she have anything else to do with her life?”

  “They’re probably saying the same about us,” Adam had retorted.

  He was still quite partial to high-profile parties, mainly because he hoped he might meet Mr. Right there, or at least Mr. Will Do for Tonight. He wanted Faye to be his permanent party buddy; he liked her company and he also knew she could look after herself if he suddenly met Mr. WDFT, unlike some of his other friends who were like a sack of potatoes round his neck at such glittering functions. But it took all his persuasive powers to drag her out.

  Tonight, post-shoot, Adam wanted her to attend the launch of a new boy band’s début single, but she was having none of it. As she changed out of her concrete chic and back into a sweatshirt and cord jeans, he pushed back the cubicle curtain. “If you really loved me, you’d come.” He pouted.

  “Well, that answers the question, doesn’t it?” she said, fastening her fly button.

  He jutted out his bottom lip, so that he resembled a small child. “I might find a new man and you should want to see me happy.”

  “I do, darling, but you’re just as capable of finding one of your own. It’ll be full of people you know anyway.”

  “Not the same,” he said, in a toddler voice, and stamped his cork-soled sandal on the floor.

  “Sorry, I’m not changing my mind.”

  “So selfish . . .” he muttered, and bent down to pick up a belt that had fallen on to the floor.

  Faye was brushing her hair while simultaneously ramming her feet into a pair of slip-on sneakers with no backs. “I’ve got a late lunch with Mum in a minute, but I’ll be home by five, so give me a call and we’ll go through our usual rigmarole of you deciding what to wear.”

  “Will do.” Adam turned as he heard footsteps approaching them. It was Troy, the male model.

  “Um, hi,” he said, looking straight at Faye.

  “Yes, hi. I haven’t seen you since . . . oooh, two minutes ago.”

  “Listen, I was wondering if you fancied getting a drink w
ith me?” He shuffled from one foot to another, but looked gorgeous nonetheless.

  Faye tutted to feign disappointment, then said, “Sorry, I can’t. I’m meeting my mother for lunch.” She picked up her handbag and threw it over her shoulder.

  He seemed unperturbed. “How about another time, then?”

  She gave him a quick smile. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Let’s just keep things professional, shall we?”

  Adam had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout this little exchange, but suddenly saw his chance. “I’m free right now if you fancy a drink.” He gave him one of his sincere smiles.

  Troy’s lip curled in distaste. “No, thanks. I’m straight.”

  “A drink, I said, not a shag!” Adam retorted, to his retreating back. “Bloody hell, models are so fucking arrogant.”

  “Yes, darling. I’m sure you’ve changed and were only interested in his fascinating conversational skills.” Faye punched his shoulder playfully.

  “Talking of change,” he said, in a singsong voice, “get you.”

  “What?”

  “Turning down Troy-boy there. In the old days, you’d have used him as a rather cute time-waster until someone better came along.”

  She smiled “True, but I’m a new woman. I’m kinda happy with my own company, these days. Besides, dating one male model is quite enough grief in a girl’s life.”

  “Dear, dear Nat,” said Adam, in mock-Shakespearean tones. “I had him in on a shoot last week, but thought better of booking you at the same time.”

  She smiled fondly. “How is the old rogue?”

  “Looking a bit frayed at the edges, actually. It must be all the partying he does.”

  “Is he still with McLaren?” she asked, out of nosiness rather than real interest.

  “Nah, he says he hit the buffers shortly after you-know-what.” This was the phrase Adam used now to refer to the wedding, mainly because Faye had banned any mention of it. “He’s going out with some up-and-coming It girl.”

  Faye yawned dramatically. “It exhausts me even to think about it.” She glanced at her watch. “Must go, I’m late.”

  Adam gave her a hug. “Speak to you later. If you change your mind about coming along, let me know.”

  “I won’t. Unlike some, I’m way past the boy-band thing.”

  Alice, as usual, was early. She’d already read the complimentary copy of the Evening Standard by the time Faye arrived at the small café in a Covent Garden side street.

  “Hello, love.” She pointed to the glass in front of her. “I’ve already ordered your champagne. I hope that’s OK.”

  “Great, thanks.” Only Mum could look for reassurance over ordering a glass of champagne, Faye thought.

  But Alice’s nervousness no longer irritated her. In fact, since her leveling—not to mention humbling—experience in France, Faye had been making a concerted effort to understand her mother, to figure out what made her tick.

  Modeling assignments allowing, it had become their routine to meet for lunch every Saturday, and they invariably chose the same café where the accommodating staff always found them a table without needing to book.

  Here, the simple act of spending a little more time together had led to them speaking far more freely to each other.

  “You know,” said Faye, tapping her glass against her mother’s cranberry juice, “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

  “Does that surprise you?” said Alice quietly.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that we seem so much easier with each other these days. Something has settled down between us.”

  Alice looked at her daughter affectionately. “That, if you don’t mind me saying so, is because you’ve changed so much.”

  “Have I?” She was surprised. “In what way?”

  Sipping her juice, Alice narrowed her eyes in thought. “It’s difficult to put my finger on it, but you seem to have calmed down a lot. You’re not as hard as you were . . .” She paused. “You don’t seem to have as much to prove.”

  Faye considered this for a few moments then nodded in agreement. “That’s probably true. There’s nothing like a major embarrassment to bring you down to earth with a crash.”

  “Did you feel embarrassed by what happened?” asked Alice, breaking off a piece of her bread roll.

  “What? Dozens of guests schlepping over to France and gathering on the lawn to see me get married, only to be told the wedding was off?” Faye took a gulp of champagne at the mere thought of it. “Yes, it was pretty embarrassing.”

  When the wedding had been canceled so suddenly, Alice’s main concern as a mother had been to check that her daughter was all right. When she had eventually tracked her down in the château, Faye had assured her she was fine. She hadn’t elaborated further and, unassuming as ever, Alice hadn’t asked. Instead, she had kept a close, motherly eye on her daughter over the next few months, biding her time until the moment felt right to ask more.

  That time was now.

  She coughed. “So . . . why did you . . . call it off, then?”

  Faye pursed her lips and thought for a moment. She knew she could fudge the issue by saying she had just panicked and bottled out, but she decided to give her mother a watered-down version of the truth. She propped her elbows on the table. “Because the weekend before the wedding I met a man in a wine bar and found myself very attracted to him. I didn’t actually do anything, but I wanted to.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . I figured that if I was ogling other men just a week before my wedding . . .” Faye looked at her questioningly.

  “Darling, it tells you that you’re normal,” said Alice. “The important thing to remember is that you didn’t do anything, presumably because your feelings for Mark stopped you.”

  It crossed Faye’s mind fleetingly to tell her mother everything, but something stopped her. “I know what you’re saying, but there’s more to it than that,” she said vaguely. “I suppose it just made me face up to what I’d been burying for a while . . .”

  “Which was?”

  “That I was marrying Mark because I wanted to prove to everyone that I could sustain a relationship.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, myself, I suppose. I was always acutely aware that certain people thought I was this selfish, high-maintenance woman who put her own feelings before anyone else’s . . .” she stared at the far wall “. . . which was true, to some extent.”

  “What certain people?”

  “Oh, just people in the trade, really, no one you know.”

  Alice looked disbelieving. “I know I’m one of life’s worriers, but you never struck me as someone who would fret about what people think of you.”

  “I did, but not anymore. After all the commotion, I did a lot of thinking and realized it’s only the opinion of people you care about that matters. Everyone else can go to hell.” She held her glass aloft to toast what she’d just said.

  “Hear! hear! Want to know what I think?” said Alice, raising her glass too.

  “Of course.”

  “I think you did absolutely the right thing. Mark was a lovely boy, but not right for you.”

  Faye raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Alice laughed. “And you would have taken notice, would you? I don’t think so.”

  “You’re probably right. Adam said it, Mark’s friend Brian wasn’t keen, and even Mark’s brother made it clear in no uncertain terms that he thought it had ‘disaster’ written all over it.” She paused, almost imperceptibly, as she thought about the showdown with Tony. “He told me he was against it not long after he met me for the first time.”

  Alice gestured to the waiter for another drink. “He touched on the subject with me on the Saturday morning over breakfast.”

  “Oh?” Faye turned pale. “What did he say?”

  “Not much, except that he thought you were an odd couple. He asked me my opinion,
but I was diplomatic because I didn’t know him.” She wasn’t lying: she just didn’t realize quite how much she’d revealed to Tony over their shared breakfast.

  Faye waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, thankfully it’s all in the past now. Onwards and upwards, as they say.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Alice. “So, tell me to mind my own business if you like, but is there anyone new on the horizon?”

  “No, not really. I’ve been on a couple of first dates, but realized they weren’t going to be a permanent fixture so knocked it on the head.” She stopped talking as the waiter placed Alice’s drink on the table. “I’m much happier with my own company, these days, and I don’t feel the need to fill my time with people who don’t mean anything to me.”

  “Gosh.” Alice looked impressed. “You really have grown up.”

  “Oh, I still have my moments, believe me. I’m not an easy person to have a relationship with—but, then, you know that.” She looked out of the window on to the street. It was packed with people, some strolling, some rushing along self-importantly with mobile phones pressed to their ears. A fresh glass of champagne had arrived at the table, and Faye took a sip. It tasted delicious, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by a feeling of contentment, sitting here with her mother, watching the world go by.

  “I’m so sorry, Mum.” The words just slipped out.

  Alice looked taken aback. “For what?”

  “For being a cow to you so many times, and for putting you through that wedding business. I really don’t know how you put up with me.”

  Alice pushed her salad around her plate, blinking rapidly as if she was trying to hold back tears. “You were never a cow, darling, just a little demanding sometimes. And as for me putting up with you, well, I should have disciplined you much more from an early age, but I couldn’t bear to.”

  “Did motherly love get in the way?” smiled Faye.

  “No. It was more that I had such a miserable childhood myself.” Her mother’s voice wobbled. “I was determined you weren’t going to endure the same. Trouble is, I went too far the other way and let you get away with murder. That’s not good for a child either.”