Page 10 of Washed Up
“That bad, huh?”
Reid flops backwards on the bed. “Pretty dire.”
“How come?”
He rolls over so that he’s facing me, and I mirror his pose. He seeks my hands and holds them in his between us. For a minute or so, his focus remains on our fingers, and it’s clear he’s chewing over what to tell me. I suppose it’s natural that he’d be cautious. As Wynter pointed out, they don’t know me, and given my financial situation, it’s reasonable to assume I might sell them out.
“You guys totally blew up two years back, and then these last eighteen months, silence.” They were slated to do great things. The music press loved them, but recently, there’ve been comparisons with other bands—The Stone Roses—that hit it big but never realised the potential their first offering predicted. Over the last few months there’s been rumours that they’ll split.
Reid flashes me a grin. “I guess you might call it a lack of confidence. You need music and lyrics to record a follow-up and the Wynter well is dry.”
“Oh! How come? Did something happen?”
“Kinda. We got fucked over by a producer.”
“I was going to guess relationship break up. I know my creativity tanks when I’m depressed.”
“You’re a musician?”
“Hell, no. I don’t know one end of a guitar from the other. Photographer. Leastways, I’d like to be. It’s the eventual plan, just isn’t… It’s kinda stalled at the minute.” I’ve won awards, but that doesn’t guarantee work, and I can’t afford to set up on my own, not while I need to plough all my earnings into securing an alternate home for myself.
“Take some pictures of me.”
“What? No.” I wave him away.
“Seriously. Why not? You don’t think some sexy pics of my half naked body will net interest in you, or make you some cash?”
I think they probably would. What I say is, “You’re not half naked.”
Why did I say that?
Instantly, he’s tugging his top off, revealing a toned torso, and yeah, some ink, but a lot less of it than I expected. What he does have are two very fine lines, forming a V, pointing down beneath the low-slung waist of his joggers. “Reid, I don’t have a camera.”
“Hm.” He poses with one finger pressed across his full lips and the rest of his fingers splayed beneath his chin. “Not sure if I should run and get you one, or…” He holds that thought internally. “Make believe.” He uses his thumb and forefinger to symbolise an imaginary camera. “How would you pose me?”
How would I pose Reid Rushmore? Exactly as he is right now, so at ease, so comfortable on my bed, half naked. The coppery light from outside painting the contours of his abs, and not a stitch of designer clothing in sight. “I’d just want you to be you.”
“Come on, then. I’m not seeing any of these candid snaps being taken.”
I try to bat him away again, but in the end, I play along with his wishes and take shot after shot with my imaginary camera. Close ups, and long shots. He sprawls on the bed. It’s obvious he’s had some experience of being photographed. Not a surprise, he’s very photogenic.
“You know this island belongs to Alaric Liddell,” he says, while I’m standing straddled across his body, taking fake downward looking shots.
“I’ve heard that, yeah.”
“It’s true. I could introduce you, if you like.”
“Why would you do that?” Alaric Liddell is one of the world’s top photographers. He had an exhibition at the Tate St Ives not so long ago that I visited repeatedly during its four-month run.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He beckons me with a curled finger. “Come here, Little Mermaid.” I kneel. Reid crunches into a sitting position, which leaves me straddled across his lap, him in his joggers and me in his boxer briefs. The combined heat of our bodies is tangible. “Hi,” he says, eyes twinkling.
I bite my lip. “Hey.”
He tilts his head. Blinks in a way that can only be described as flirtatious.
Fuck! Is he going to kiss me?
He nudges my nose with his nose.
