Page 33

Twenty-three

Ysolde

I’ve just finished my meeting with Jilly and the head of the agency, Margaux Welles, at Lagans Brasserie.

Pix was with us too—I brought her along in case there was anything I needed to action, but it was just a catch up, really.

Margaux just likes me, Jilly said. Actually, after that meeting, I’m quite sure Margaux actually more likes my boyfriend, but that’s neither here nor there and who can blame her.

If I wasn’t dating Joah, I’d probably have a lot of questions about him too. I mean, fuck—I am dating him and I still do.

Pixie gets along with everyone on the planet, and her and Margaux got along crazy well—chatting away, primarily about my boyfriend and his music, which was strange to witness but sort of nice because then I didn’t have to talk about us.

Jilly warned me about it… She said it’ll feel like a pain to have flown back in from Milan for it, but that it’s important to keep her sweet.

After Jilly and Margaux leave, I send Pix home and I stay on by myself—I’m not by myself much these days.

I’m not even really by myself now. Aleki’s in a car out front waiting for me. We’re both reading the same book at the minute—we started doing that a few months ago. At the minute we’re reading The Bridges of Madison County .

He’s ahead of me because every time I try to read, Joah plucks it out of my hands and tosses it away.

“What are ya readin’ for?” He’d give me a look. “Don’t like reading.”

“I’m not asking you to read—” I’d tell him.

It’s around then that he usually plucks the book from my hands. “If you’ve got time to read, you’ve got time for snogging.”—Which is honestly really, really hard to argue with when you have the soul-penetrating blue eyes of Joah Harrigan right in your face.

So, admittedly, yes—reading has fallen to the wayside lately, and I’m using now to catch up.

I’m three coffees deep when a voice I can’t quite place but do know, says my name.

“Ysolde.”

I look up only to see Mick Sloane.

I’m not honestly overjoyed to see him. Why would I be?

This is the first time I’m seeing him properly, I think.

It’s not at nighttime, we’re not at a show, it’s not through the blur of stress that Joah’s murdered the lead singer of Bright Line, it’s not when he’s ready himself to bottle me in the head for being the reason Joah fucked up an interview with Rolling Stone —and even still, I’m not mad on him.

And I don’t mean to be unkind…but he doesn’t… not …remind me of a used car salesman.

“Mick.” I force a smile. “Hi.”

There’s just something sort of desperate to him. Sweaty?

And he always looks a bit red? Not sunburnt, though—I mean, gosh, it’s London in March, what sun?

—he just always looks a little bit red in the face.

Which is unfortunate because he sort of has red hair.

Strawberry-blond hair, technically. But when I told Joah that his manager had strawberry-blond hair, Joah said, “Don’t fucking tell him that,” and I asked why, and he said, “Because it’d break his spirit.

” To which then I said that that was crazy, strawberry-blond hair is beautiful, and then Jo said that he didn’t reckon it would really be on Mick’s list of priorities to be beautiful, and I said, “Well, you never know ,” and he laughed and kissed me.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine.” I nod.

He glances around us. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just had a meeting with Jilly and Margaux Welles—”

“Head of Rain.” He nods, impressed. “I know her well.”

Though I suspect he actually does not.

He nods at the plate in front of me. Caviar. Beluga, obviously.

He smirks. “Model’s diet?”

I give him an unimpressed smile—which, sorry—maybe I shouldn’t have—it’s a man’s world, I know. I just don’t really like my diet being questioned by a little man with a pinkish hue.

“Something like that,” I say.

He nods. “You coming to Manchester?”

I breathe in through my nose, shaking my head. “No.”

“Oh.” Looks genuinely surprised by that. “Why?”

“Because—” I close my book now, dog-earring the page I’m on. “Joah said…not to…”

“Oh.” Mick’s mouth pulls into a confused frown. “Why?”

I shrug. “I suppose there’s been so much—like—you know— whatever … I didn’t want to detract from their show—”

He nods sympathetically. “That’s sweet—” he says, looking at his cell phone. It’s one of those new little Ericsson GH337s. Quite small, actually. I like it—I hadn’t seen it in person till now, but I could fit that in bags.

He finally drags his eyes up from his phone back to me. I don’t know what he’s looking at, really—what could even be on there that’s that interesting? I feel like he might just like to feel important.

“You wouldn’t, though,” Mick tells me. “You should go.”

I feel bad for thinking he just wants to be important now that he’s being nice to me.

I sit up straighter. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods emphatically. “Yeah, you’re his girlfriend. He loves you—You should be there—!” He nods to himself, some distant cogs in his head turning—I can sort of see behind his eyes. “He’d want you there,” he tells me before tacking on an encouraging smile at the end. “You should go.”

And I won’t lie—I’m kind of completely delighted. This has warmed him to me plenty.

“Okay.” I’m smiling now, properly.

People like it when a supermodel smiles at them—he likes my approval, I think. He looks chuffed.

“Do you want me to put you on a flight up there?” he offers.

“Oh—” I pause, contemplating the offer. That would be so great actually. “Would that be annoying?”

“No—” He swats his hand through the air. “Least I can do.”

Least he can do for what? I wonder for a second, but then he says, “I’ll call Jilly with the flight details.”

“Okay!”

“Don’t tell him though, okay—” He gives me a warning look. “Jo could use a nice surprise.”

I nod in agreement, and Mick gives me a wink. “I’ll see you up there.”