The Sunny Side (The Model Agency Book 1) by Lily Morton

Author:Lily Morton [Morton, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-05T16:00:00+00:00

It’s early evening when we rock up at the backstage door. I give my name to the security guard and stand back as he checks his list. Pip is bouncing on his feet like a toddler who’s been promised a balloon, and my neck is already warm from the stares of the people waiting outside to see a real-life model in the flesh. Good luck with that, I think, watching as someone arranges a banner proposing marriage to Dean. Models are much more complex than they appear in pictures.

“You can come in,” the guard says, stepping back and opening the door for us to the accompaniment of groans from the crowd.

“So exciting,” Pip whispers. “It reminds me of when I snuck backstage at an Olly Murrs concert.”

“I don’t want to know,” I say in a repressive tone.

“Why?”

“Because all your stories have a sexual connotation.”

He considers that for a second and then shrugs. “Yeah. Fair point.”

We enter into an explosion of sound and colour. People are everywhere, music plays loudly, and the air is choked with hairspray fumes and the scent of dozens of colognes and perfumes. Workstations are positioned around the room, their surfaces covered in cosmetics. Models and makeup artists talk loudly over the pounding beat of French pop music.

I look around and spy Dean’s distinctive blond head at the room’s far end.

“This way,” I say, grabbing Pip’s arm and steering him out of the way as he stares at a naked male model standing casually with his kit out while a makeup artist paints a tiger skin over his torso.

We edge around clothing racks—they’re all festooned with photos of a model wearing different outfits so the assistants can get the look perfectly.

I exchange nods and smiles with some of my own models who are in the room, aware of the buzz of gossip behind me with a sense of profound resignation. Finally, we rock up at Dean’s station. He’s wearing a loose dark blue robe that contrasts with his tanned skin prettily. His hair is up in a bun, and a young lady is painting half of his face to resemble a peacock’s tail. Sylvie, one of my top models, is sitting on the counter beside him swinging her long legs and laughing at something he just said

He looks up, and his face breaks into an enormous smile. “Jonas,” he exclaims, and then, as an afterthought, he offers a kind “Pip,” but my assistant doesn’t notice as he’s staring avidly around.

“This is a spank bank in the making,” Pip whispers, which I promptly ignore.

The makeup artist huffs. “Dean, you knobhead,” she says, punching him gently. “You just ruined a fucking feather.”

“Dean,” I say, unable to stop my mouth from twitching into a smile. “Sylvie, how are you?”

She grins at me. She, too, is dressed in a silk robe, her feet bare. Half of her face and body have been painted with ivy with strands that curl over her pale skin. “Jonas, how are you?” she says in her Yorkshire accent.

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