Max Davies was a male model. He was tall and thin, but built. He didn’t look malnourished or pale or unhappy like a lot of the male models she saw. He had a sharp jaw and warmly tanned skin and brown hair that fell gently, stopping just above his shoulders - although he normally kept it tied up in a bun, from which stray strands would escape and float softly beside his ears and near his forehead. He had green eyes, strong brows, good clothes, and a happy laugh. They used to see each other often; at auditions, fittings, rehearsals, shows, after-parties, after-after-parties, and even randomly on the streets of Hackney. They became, quite simply, best friends. They both had wickedly dry senses of humour and both believed that niceness was criminally underrated. In fact, Max Davies was somewhat of an inspiration to Iliffe. He was kind and gentle and calm and patient and warm. She thought of it as “his little sun” which was right in the center of his chest. Most days his little sun burned bright and shone outwards from right within him, warming his entire body like a miniature furnace. Some days his little sun couldn’t shine as bright, but he never let it affect anyone else. Iliffe loved him. She wasn’t in love with him, but she really truly loved him. They had their disagreements, of course. He didn’t like her smoking or her swearing or the way she spat when her saliva was thick. He also didn’t like her staying inside all day and would constantly call, text, and drop by to get her to come out with him. One day she woke up at 12:30 in the afternoon and prepared a glorious bath. She had bubbles, bath bombs, candles, a book, some fruit to eat - the lot. And just after 15 short minutes of soaking in the hot water, she heard a familiar knock on the door. She knew that knock like she knew the sound of her own laughter. And she was not pleased. She got up out of her bath, wrapped a towel around her, and opened the front door for Max, giving him her usual look of irritation.Â
“Haven’t you checked your phone?” was the first thing he said to her in his deep Manchester accent. She turned and scanned her floor for her flip-phone and spotted it lying on a plate next to some crinkled cigarette butts. When she flipped it open, she found 12 missed calls, 9 texts, and 2 messages. She flashed him another look and he just shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled a mischievous smirk.
“Normally when someone doesn’t answer their phone it means they’re busy…or sleeping,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“Well yeah I figured but I’m bored let’s do something.”
That was usually the type of thing he would say within 2 minutes of arriving. Max didn’t like staying in one spot for too long, least of all Iliffe’s flat. It reeked of stale cigarettes, which was a stench he couldn’t tolerate for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time (with the exception of drunken nights when he didn’t remember it bothered him).
“Don’t you have anyone else to bother while they’re trying to take a bath?” she replied as she turned away from him, dropped her towel, and began sliding into her clothes. Max had seen her fully naked, so she didn’t mind changing with him in the room. It wasn’t because they had sex; it was an accident the first time. Iliffe never locked her door and Max – knowing this about her – waltzed right into her flat without knocking when she was right about to put her clothes on. Neither of them really cared after that. Besides, they both only ever slept in just their pants anyway. But he did start knocking since then.
“Where do you wanna go?” she asked him, realizing he chose to ignore her previous question.
“I dunno, brick lane or something? We could pick up some lunch and just walk around.”
That was also usually the type of thing he said.
And she usually agreed.
Max was rich. And he had his success in modeling to thank for it. He walked for all the big names for all the separate fashion weeks. He knew all the best places to hang out in all the best cities in the world. And it all started when he was scouted at the Nando’s he waited tables for in Man-City during university. He soon joined an agency, moved to London, and became one of Topshop’s poster boys. One thing led to another and before long Max had bought himself a rather large and gorgeous open-concept flat in fancy Knightsbridge, to which Iliffe often invited herself over.
His flat overlooked the city, and Iliffe loved sleeping over because it meant getting to see all the tiny lights of Greater London sparkling in the quiet darkness. There was a wall that was entirely made of thick glass and she’d sit in front of it wrapped up in a blanket watching the nighttime bustle from her perch. London never slept, yet it was so quiet. All she could hear was the hum of the refrigerator and Max’s soft snoring as he slept soundly on his couch, where he had collapsed after coming back from a few too many drinks. She was so removed and yet she was right in the center of it all. It was a magical feeling. And on those nights she wished she could never leave that spot and that the night would never turn to day. But of course, her wish never came true, and the night would always turn into the day and she would wake up in an uncomfortable position in front of that glass wall and jump back with surprise at how high up she was and Max would make her a hangover remedy drink as she squinted through the sudden blast of sunshine.
