Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,12
pieces. This followed by what sounded like someone kicking in the side of an aluminum pizza pan.
“The way that man spends my money!” Ian complained.
“David,” Jeremy said, moving things along, “would you like to introduce yourself? Tell us a little about you.”
Gilles was about to let loose another volley when Aleksei clapped a hand over Gilles’s mouth. It worked!
“I’m David Laurant.” Like the others, he was abnormally handsome in a young, waif kind of way. But David had a different kind of look. His hair was dyed a bright white and was spiked up, and between the hair and the oversized Tom Ford tortoiseshell horn-rim glasses that made up most of his face, he had a constant look of being surprised. His eyes were bright and mischievous. I could tell right from the start he was going to be bubbly, energetic, and a whole lot of entertainment and drama. But not a lot of substance. And I was not disappointed.
“I’ve modeled since I was sixteen for Armani, Gucci, Tom Ford, and I was the lead model at Alberto Garelli’s 2006 Hobo Show.”
“That show set the standard. Fabulous!” Aleksei said with a didactic seriousness.
“I know, wasn’t it?” David agreed. “The show director said I actually looked like I had tuberculosis. That’s how I got to be the opening and closing model. They don’t have shows like that anymore!”
“Having the models crawl out of cardboard boxes at the beginning and the end of the show... totally brilliant!” Aleksei relished.
“The press was really unkind to Alberto because of that show,” David defended. “Everyone is so PC nowadays. You can’t even make fun of the homeless anymore. I personally have nothing against them, but if they didn’t smell like sour milk . . . Hey, I have an idea. Perfume for the homeless! Genius! I thought of it first,” David added, then pulled out his iPhone and began texting his million-dollar idea to what I presumed was his good friend, Karl Lagerfeld.
“Is there anything else that you’d like to tell us about yourself, David?” Jeremy plied.
“No, I’m a very in-demand model. What else can there be worth telling?”
Then we came to the square peg in the round hole: Marcus Blade. Marcus was the complete opposite of everyone at the table. Unlike the skinny, androgynous physiques that made the other men into perfect, human clothes hangers, Marcus was built like a brick shithouse, his body so puffed up by steroids that he looked like an overstuffed knockwurst engorged with blood. He was short, too: a sapling in this forest of redwoods. I managed to get a good look at him when we were milling about earlier and he couldn’t have been much taller than five feet six inches. He didn’t even attempt to squeeze himself into the fine European clothing the other guys were sporting. Oh no, little Marcus had obviously spent much of his life in the gym and he wanted us to be sure of that fact, with a T-shirt stretched so tight you could actually see his abdominal muscles through it: a rare eight-pack. I counted. The other models probably had visible abdominal muscles, too, but there’s a difference between those created from strenuous crunches and those induced by frequent bulimic vomiting.
“I’m Marcus Blade. Most of you know me. I’m Ian’s personal trainer.”
There was a violent fit of coughing around the table. One look at Ian’s blubbery body and it was clear that either Marcus was a miserable failure as a trainer or he was Ian’s stud. I guessed the latter. The participants around the table looked at Marcus, expecting more, but nothing came. There were some whisperings about his height, followed by some tittering. I guess that was it for Marcus. He was obviously paid to screw Ian and didn’t care to pretend that he was anything else. At least he was honest.
Jeremy then turned to me. “Amanda here,” he explained, “is Ian’s good friend.”
This comment got even blanker stares from the contestants than Keith’s comment about being a bulk texter. There were a few disbelieving snorts, and no wonder. Those close enough to Ian would know that Jeremy’s proclamation was patently false, and those who were just bedmates for Ian probably didn’t give a shit. I was a woman and, therefore, no threat. Of course, I could have explained that I was a Realtor there to eventually list Ian’s house for sale, but I was forbidden by contract to let on to this fact. The smarter boys would no doubt