Marshall
Mayfair Model Series
Claire Castle
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Claire Castle
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author, except for using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing provided by: Lisa Cullinan
Warning: Intended for a mature 18+ audience only. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.
Index of Terms
Haud your wheesht - be quiet!
Donder - take a leisurely stroll
Didnae - do not
Nae - no
99s - ice cream cone made with soft ice
cream with a Flake bar added
Tom Keeter - fictional fashion brand
Inverochtie - fictional Scottish town
Maltesers - British confectionery
Lead - British usage for leash
Dedication
For all the readers who have read and enjoyed my stories.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Claire Castle
1
MARSHALL
The moment I stepped off the runway, the wardrobe assistant started to undress me. I walked over to the hangers and waited while I was handed my next outfit. “Three minutes! Three minutes!” the producer announced as he walked past. A robe was draped over my shoulders just as someone from makeup rushed over and touched up my face. Even my abs had gotten a fresh bit of contour makeup too. Made me wonder why I bothered with endless crunches.
Quickly, I pulled on the pyjama pants given to me. Once again, it was showtime. Strutting onto the runway in front of thousands for London’s Fashion Week, I was at the top of my game. I stood up tall, paraded straight ahead, and never cracked a smile. The last part was easy for me because I never really smiled anyway. It was all business.
The show had finally come to an end, and as I returned backstage, Brenna, my agent extraordinaire, was there with someone I didn’t recognize, probably wanting to ask questions or have an interview, I was sure. I breezed past to my dressing room and started to get changed into some dark denim jeans, an oatmeal-coloured jumper, and dark brown boots.
Brenna stepped in. “Ready for the meeting?”
“Sure,” I replied in a brusque tone.
Smile. Nod. Agree. I tried to keep those thoughts at the forefront of my mind as I sat in yet another briefing on what to expect for the next magazine shoot. Obviously aware I was zoning out, Brenna elbowed me, wordlessly trying to tell me to pay attention.
“Yes, thank you. That sounds agreeable. We’ll see you next week then,” I said in response to the magazine’s editor. We’d meet at a fancy mansion in Los Angeles to do a “Summer Special” section for their fashion magazine La Vie en Sass en Fanse.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Easton. We look forward to working with you,” the editor said. “Your portfolio is impressive: runways in Milan, Paris, London, and New York plus fashion spreads in all the top magazines. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“No frontal nudity. And I get full veto on any photos.” I looked over at Brenna for reassurance.
“Yes. I took care of that in the contract—as usual,” she responded.
I’d been in the modelling industry from age ten, so twenty years. My mum had dragged me to British Home Stores casting calls as well as any other commercial opportunity that’d been looking for a young, blue-eyed, dark-haired boy. After all, as I’d heard many times, she’d been a model, and so had her mother. Why that meant I should also pursue that path confounded me. It was always insinuated or drilled into me that I would follow in their footsteps.
I was athletic and had enjoyed sports but never got the opportunity to really play anything other than for fun. No after-school sports teams for me. God forbid I got a scratch on my face or broke a precious bone. Apart from that, there really wasn’t any extra time. Every spare moment, my mum had scheduled casting call after casting call.
I guess I could have changed careers, but I was good with everything that went along with this line of work, and I was bloody talented too. Not to sound egotistical, but the feedback I’d always received from any of the photographers and designers I’d worked with was that I followed direction without argument and never caused any unnecessary drama. Added to that was the fact I was handsome, which made me highly sought after with jobs lined up for weeks or months in advance. So, I continued, as did the rising fame. I was always looking forward, never back, so I couldn’t dwell on that too much.
The minute I stepped out of the magazine’s offices, some lingering young girls screamed that they loved me and asked for selfies and autographs. I paused reluctantly and waved, only because duty expected it, and I could sense Brenna at my back. If only they knew where my real loyalties lay.
Brenna would set me up with a girl every so often, especially for galas and awards events. She said I needed to keep up appearances for the masses, and having a girlfriend at these events was part and parcel of the industry. I’d play the part and then break it off within a few weeks, worried that they’d want more than kisses and stiff hugs for the camera. If anyone ever asked, I’d say it was an amicable split or that my work took up too much time. I hadn’t told Brenna I was gay. We never discussed it, although I’m sure she had more than an inkling.
Those needs were satisfied discreetly between hidden trysts in hotel rooms or the backs of nightclubs with men who would never know my real name. I was tall and broad, which I couldn’t alter, but I would add a moustache and contacts and hope my disguise worked, even if the glue was a bitch to get off the next morning. It was all worth the release to pound deep into a warm body, fuck them until they begged for more, and then disappear into the darkness. I didn’t ask many questions, and neither did they.
We slipped into the car and I was suddenly in a bad mood. Fuck them. Fuck all this covering up. I was getting sick of modelling anyway. Sure, it was a fabulous career, but lately, I could take it or leave it. And so what if my followers found out I was gay. I could take or leave them too. Despite the reports that claimed I was great to work with and very professional, I was also portrayed as a secretive workaholic by the media, one who was a moody loner with few friends I trusted. I never let anyone get c
lose.
I think I was more scared about my mum finding out. I’d never been able to tell her, though I’d been close a few times. She’d been known to go over the top in her efforts to try and set me up with other women, beautiful women, to be sure, but they never did anything for me in the way she assumed. I tried to shake off the ridiculousness, too, of being thirty years old and scared of my mum’s reaction.
Right before any of those premeditated meetings actually occurred, I would make up some excuse and phone Brenna to set me up with another woman, solely to be seen at a trendy restaurant for one date. Then, I’d break it off and gain some breathing room. Damage control.
Brenna tapped me on the knee. “Can’t you be a bit happier? I’ve been trying to land you the cover of that magazine for months, and finally, we got it. You do realize who you were vying against? That was some pretty stiff competition, Marshall.” She raised her hand as if to high-five me. In response, I folded my arms across my chest.
Sighing, she leaned back. “Fine, be that way. But it’s not me you should be mad at. Haven’t I always been there for you?”
My iron shield melted a bit. Brenna was right. She was the only person I could trust. Though I’d never voiced to her, or anyone, my deepest secret, she’d always done anything I’d asked and without question. Most would probably say she was a saint to still put up with me.
“Just let me go home, please, Brenna. Oh, I’m going out tonight. Arrange for me to get picked up at 10:00 p.m.” She knew that was my code to find someone to hook up with, just not the gender of said person, and not to bother me until at least noon the next day. I tapped the glass that separated us from the driver and asked him to drop me off at home.
While I’d made a home of sorts in London, it was more of a place to sleep in between modelling jobs. I owned a sparsely furnished loft flat that I’d had Brenna arrange to furnish when I’d been on a job in Tokyo a few years ago. The airport was close by which made it easy to travel back and forth from Heathrow.
The only shining light in it was when I opened the door to Jess, my brown and white dog I adopted last year. I’d named her after Jess from my favourite show as a kid, Postman Pat. Sure, in the show Jess was a cat, but that didn’t matter to me.
I’d been at a charity event for a pet adoption centre, and at one of the obligatory photo ops, they handed me a beautiful white and brown Cavalier King Charles spaniel to hold. While the flashes from the cameras almost blinded me, she looked up at me and I swear she smiled. Of course, I probably imagined it.
When I asked the shelter’s manager about her, they said the pup was one of the litter from a ninety-year-old woman’s beloved dog. She had to give all the puppies up because she couldn’t take proper care for them. Immediately, I asked if I could adopt her. At the time, I recall Brenna asking me if I was an idiot. I hadn’t answered.
“You’re on the road all the time. Who will look after her?”
“I’ll take more jobs closer to home. I’m not asking you,” I snapped. “I’m telling you that I’m adopting Jess.”
“Wait, you’ve already named her?”
“Yes, now Jess and I will go and sign the adoption papers. I’d appreciate if you’d find a dog walker or sitter who has stellar references and can be trusted.” I huffed and stomped off towards the office.
Thinking back to that day made me smile. Opening the door and having Jess jump into my arms made me grin from ear to ear. “Hey, how’s my girl.” I checked the counter in the kitchen and saw that the dog walker, who played with her and then walked her, had left a detailed note as usual. Perfect.
When I took off my suit jacket and put it on the arm of the sofa, Jess followed my every step. I pulled her veggies and meat out of the fridge and filled her bowl, then placed it down along with some fresh water.
The door buzzer rang for my food delivery, and Jess let out a small bark but never left her dinner bowl. After I paid the delivery guy, I set the chicken and pasta on the counter then got a beer from the fridge. I might be a model with a strict exercise regime, but I still let myself eat real food. I didn’t survive on tiny portions of rabbit food.
I sat down and checked the time. It was only 7:00 p.m. so I had a couple of hours until I would shower and go out on the prowl. While I was flipping through a photography magazine, Jess jumped up onto the sofa beside me; I put my finger under her chin and petted her and the two of us cuddled, nice and relaxed.
2
STUART
“Aye, Mum, everything is fine,” I told her while rolling my eyes. Obviously she couldn’t see, since we were on the phone, but I’m sure could sense my tone. At age twenty-four, I’d moved to London from the small Scottish town of Inverochtie. Hell, most of my friends had moved away right after school, but somehow I’d let her mind games keep me there far too long.
Now that I lived in London, “the big, bad city” according to her, she called more frequently. And she couldn’t possibly fathom that I could make it on my own.
“Do you need more money?” Mum asked as she seemed to do once a week on cue.
“No, got it covered.” I sold my sketches, paintings, and prints of mostly Scottish scenery and animals mainly online. I was good at what I did and made a healthy living from it.
Back in school, I’d loved performing in school plays, but with my artistic flair, I had always seemed to get asked to paint and design the background pieces instead. It was what started and enhanced my love of sketching, painting, and creativity.
I also dog walked. London was full of really rich people who either wanted their dog walked or needed someone to watch their house and their dog while they were travelling. My love of animals almost surpassed my love of people. They certainly were more agreeable.
I had my flatmate, Jamieson, here, but he was a flight attendant and seemed to be away a lot. When he was home, Jamieson was all social butterfly—night after night, out with his mates. I’d been looking to rent somewhere and answered his ad, and without much fuss, I’d moved in.
“Wait, what?” I paid closer attention to my mother. “You’re coming to visit? No, it’s okay. I’ll come home next, ah ...” My mother really did mean well and was supportive, but there was a reason I’d moved to London.
“I want to come and see where my boy is staying, maybe meet all the boyfriends you have.” I put my head in my hands. Time for some desperate measures. I went outside the flat and put my iPhone up to the buzzer so she’d hear it.
“Och, there’s someone at the door, so I best go now. I’ll email and we can work something out. Give Dad my love.” Then I hit End on the call, falling back dramatically onto the floor. My dad had been a farmer for his whole life and wasn’t as much as a worrier as my mum, instead he would just agree with everything she said, so I wasn’t sure if that was any better. I couldn’t count on him to take my side. Surviving a phone call like that called for ice cream.
Just as I got some out of the freezer and was about to dish it out, my phone went again. Luckily, I had the flat to myself since Jamieson was en-route to Canada. Picking it up, I didn’t look at the screen.
“No, I’m not mad at you. Yes, you can come.” I assumed it was my mother again.
“Ah, Stuart? It’s Brenna MacKay. I’ve had you walk my client’s dog, Jess, a few times?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, you’ll laugh, but I thought it was my mother. She thinks I don’t want her to come and visit, and while I’m okay with it, a telephone call with her feels like an enormous feat.” There was a long pause, so I realized I should shut up. “Ah, sorry, continue. You don’t need my life story.”
“No, that’s fine. It’s fine.” I could tell she was debating hiring me again, but I came very well respected from the dog walking agency, Paws and Pampering. It was all very discreet and we didn’t ask questions. I was sure the agency knew a lot more than I did about the clients. Many names I was sure were fake, and keeping a tight lip seemed to be the key to success. So I just focused on the animals, not the o
wners. “It’s just, I got a call from Mar— my client, and he was looking for Jess’s race-car toy. Did you see it anywhere?” I thought back to earlier when we’d played catch on the beautiful floor of the sparsely decorated flat.
“Ah, right. Yes. Jess dragged it behind the leather ottoman. In the corner by the fireplace? So, maybe she can’t get it back out again. Sorry, I thought I picked up all the toys and put them in the basket.”
“No, don’t be sorry. Could happen to anyone. Thanks, I will pass it on to him. It’ll make them both extremely happy.”
“Of course. It’s nae problem.” I hung up and ate my slightly melted ice cream while I contemplated going out for the night. Some drinks and a hot guy sounded like the perfect end to the day.
I momentarily wondered about the elusive owner of Jess. I stayed there for two hours during the day—well, we went out to the nearby park and walked for an hour, and then played inside for the other. I wasn’t nosey, not by any means, but there were no family photos, nothing to make it homey. No books, knickknacks, or paintings. Rather sad, really. He must work away from home a lot.
I got in the shower and freshened up for my evening out. Plus, my friend, Damien, would be behind the bar and on stage as his alter ego, “Dame Onyx,” at my favourite spot in Soho. I could talk to her if no one else took my fancy. I finished getting dressed and added some product in my blond hair then glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked good. Dark denim jeans, a V-neck striped top, and a denim jacket made the perfect ensemble. I grabbed my keys, phone, and wallet off the coffee table and left.
Marshall (Mayfair Model Series Book 1) Page 1
