I take a deep breath and hold a piece of sky in my mouth

I'm not home yet. Well, OK so I *am* home, but only in body because my spirit is really everywhere but here. On Thursday last week I've been home for a month and while I adore New York, and this is not the last time you hear of it, it's not as if I feel particularly like I'm still in New York. I just feel anywhere but here.

A few weeks ago we had our 'team day' where we all bonded and such, which wasn't nearly as awful as I thought. I made my presentation and after a few days had gone by, my boss lady came up to me and said "I thought you would say that you love travelling". Huh? That was my highly intelligent response to that and then she started telling me about how I'd flewn to London over the weekend in 2009 followed shortly after by an almost month long trip to the great US of A. Then in 2010 I hadn't been anywhere which she thought was a bit bizarre only I went to New York this year for a week. Surely I must love travelling.

I don't really feel that way. I don't mind not going anywhere as long as I feel good where I am and while I lived in Copenhagen I was thrilled to just be. Somehow now, I search for any excuse to go somewhere. Be that New York, Vegas (BABY!), San Francisco, London or Paris. Hell, if I had the chance I'd whisk myself off to Blackpool. While this makes it sound as if I have a terrible life here, I really don't. My appartment is decent (although the rent is a bit steep for a place like this), I love my job (there seems to be a bit much of that lately) and my parents aren't all that intrusive (which is rather odd). It's really just the city I suppose and the fact that most of my friends moved on while I was gone. Two years later, all the friends I have left of my 'old' friends is my bestest friend evah, a darling colleague girl and, Dullface he admitted reluctantly. Fairly sad.

Not to sound too sad and pathetic, I did manage to meet a few new peeps, but I'm rather picky when it comes to meeting new friends. Unlike in other parts of my life. This is also why I ended up going to New York alone. My bestest friend evah was unavailable or as he would say - out of funds and there was no way in hells I'd take Dullface.

Now, let's steer back to travelling again. I get sidetracked easiely. I've been thinking about how it'll be at least a year until I'll go somewhere again. To be honest I find that unbearable, so I have been airing the idea of a few days in London. Travelling Scary Air and staying in some mucky hotel for a few days is better than nothing I suppose. This would mean I could go see this in London



on Sunday..

Of course that's completely crazy but a few days in London would be wonderful. Maybe I'd feel ready to get back to the daily trials and tribulations then?

Not another World Cup post

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Fully sick

I don't know what it is - Part II

Miss K and I had a lovely brunch. She was only slightly miffed that I was late. Turns out, she was late herself, so she only waited 5 minutes. We ended up going shopping after brunch, and then off to Christopher Kanes studio to look at some creations she had on hold. They didn't work for the event she had in mind, but we ended up taking a bunch of them back to her place anyway. Just to be on the safe side.

The topic of Aiden showing up with the skank came up. I said he was a friend of ours, and that I was feeling a little under the weather. Obviously Miss K couldn't believe I'd associate myself with a two bit Asda model like that, but after I told her that Aiden was doing photos for this post modern exhibition on supermarket trash, she let up. So I didn't tell her. I know, I should have as we are dear friends. Still, she had a whole to do to get to later so I didn't want to ruin her day. I figured I'd just go home, get the locks changed and crack open a bottle of bubbly to toast my new singleness. At least I can whore around now. Anyone interested in a fit, 42 year old ex underwear model?

Maybe I should do porn. I could move to the US and do porn. Afterall I know how to look good naked, so how hard (ahem) could it be. Although, I've got a nice and cushy life here and with my investments I could probably live comfortable for the rest of my life without lifting a finger. Oh, yes I am not as stupid as I look. I've made quite a bit of money like that. Thanks to Cal, my bank person. Wait, I must get a lawyer. Shit! Aiden probably already has one.

So instead of calling a lawyer, I show up at the most prestigious law firm in town. They know me, as I did some work for them after I just got my law degree. There is this woman you see, Jen Davis who is a total shark. I want her.

We have coffee for 10 minutes in her office, and I explain the situation, and she takes on my case on the spot. Of course I'm thrilled and we make arrangements to meet again with all the papers and such. It's going to get messy, I'm sure. Aiden never took anything laying down (ahem, at least not with me). By now I'm in complete damage control mode, and so I get all these things done. Even sending out my CV just for the hell of it.

When I get home, Aidens there looking for a camera. I meet him in the walk in closet where the skank is trying on one of my shirts. I'm like, oh no you didn't just do that! Aiden tells me to let it go, besides I'm wearing his shoes and jacket. Oh, right. It's different though, because it's not Aiden wearing my shirt, it's his skanky fuckbuddy. It's.. Gross. (I later end up ritually burning the shirt in Aidens office because like EW!) I strip down to my underwear and change into nothing but tracksuit bottoms. Just to see if I've still got it. They are both checking me out. It feels good, or actually, ew! skanky pants is checking me out. Just up and die already. Still, I try to come off as civil when I ask him for his name. He blinks, like he doesn't understand the question. Um, er, Scott? he says. Like it's a question. I raise an eyebrow and ask him if he's sure. Aiden glares at me. Well, it sounded like he wasn't sure, I say. Scott looks at me confused, and I smile at him in my most condescending way. Bless him.

I still love Aiden though. Sure, I'm bitter and pissed and confused. Why would he trade me in for that skanky Asda model. He could have almost anyone and he picks some two bit trash. It's so beneath him. Not to mention very insulting for me. Hey, skanky pants could you give us a minute alone please, I hear myself say. Neither Aiden, nor skanky pants seem impressed by this. I suspect it's for different reasons entirely. When he passes me by the door I trip him. Granted, that wasn't a stellar move, but it worked in Showgirls. Aiden doesn't see this, and apparently skanky thinks he just tripped over the threshold. Hah.

First Aiden starts mumbling something, but I interrupt him and tell him that I've got a lawyer. He looks hurt. Why would he look hurt, he put this in motion and where's his wedding ring? I tell him that it's the natural thing to do when someone decides to end a marriage. So he just looks at me, gets up and grabs his camera. Without saying another word. What's that about. I follow him, and I keep talking all the way to the elevator. Maybe that's why he is leaving. I talk too much? That skanky Scott guy doesn't seem to be able to put together a complete sentence.

I do talk a lot, and I tend to talk about myself a lot. Of course, since I either sit at home, or end up going out to glitzy affairs or famous brunches it's only natural. Isn't it. Suddenly I'm very aware of how much I talk. Especially about myself. Then I get to thinking that all my friends are the same way. Although I'm sort of this model has-been, I still get interviewed and end up on VH-1 and those hideous "wealthiest models in the world" shows. You know, the ones with that man voice over thing that always sounds sooooo obnoxious and yet offended that P. Diddy has a 500 ft. yacht or something. I'm not offended by that, I just wish I did. I'm not that rich, sadly.

Then my mind goes to fashion. Maybe I should get into designing. I love fashion, and I have the connections. You'd think that the only thing I need is the talent, but I've actually got some old sketches somewhere and while I may not be perfect at sewing I am fairly good. My mother called me domestic, because I repaired and altered my clothes. At the very least I might be able to squeeze myself onto the creative team behind Miss Ks next lingerie collection. What are friends for, right?

I go to the bar and mix a batch of gin martinis and sit down. Alicia hasn't been here today. There's still glass and other crap on the floor from the other night. Why didn't she come in today? Maybe Aiden sacked her. I wouldn't be surprised if he did. He always thought that since I didn't work, I might as well do a bit of housework. Yeah, right. Like I'm going to clean up your shit mate. That was pretty much my response to that, when he suggested it oh so many years ago. So we interviewed a couple, and it came down to two. Alicia and Randy, but there was simply way too many double entendres and Aiden wasn't comfortable hiring a man. No matter how much, he so wasn't my type. Bless her, Alicia won out and while she's a very poor maid she was the least inoffensive one we could find.

My phone rings, and it's my assistant Cat. I realise I make a lot of obnoxious nicknames, but Cathrine actually prefers Cat. Plus she's a total minx, there is no way anyone could resist calling her Cat. Hey Cat darrrrrling, how are you doing today my love? I say. She giggles and I could almost hear her batting her eyelashes as she responds. Nate, my dear! I'm fabulous, and I was just making sure you guys remember attending the new museum exhibition at the V&A tomorrow. She senses something's wrong from the silence. My brain goes into overdrive as I think. Cat thoughtfully reminds me of the 1950s fashion photography exhibit. Oh..That.. Well, I'm not really up for it, I say. I tell her how Aiden and I have broken up, and that he's probably bringing his trashy boytoy with him. Cat doesn't care. She's paid to make me feel better, and force me to attend even the most tacky of events (approved by my manager, because everyone has a manager right?)

Images of me, standing alone near a WW2 canon at the Imperial War Museum with a plastic cup of white wine out of a cardboard box, waiting for an ancient man in a ragged uniform to finish putting people to sleep with his tiresome and very elaborate speech. It almost made you wish the Nazis had killed him, that or they would come and kill you (or better, him) now. The evening was a complete waste. Nobody of interest showed up, and for years to come I was invited to everything that had the faintest bit to do with history and war. I tell you, I nearly fell over reading my first invitation after that. It started with "Dear fellow history buff". At first I thought it was a friend of mine playing a joke on me, but I called and they meant it. The lady on the other end of the line seemed a little insulted when I couldn't stop my, you are shitting me right?. Bless her though.

Cat asks if I'm still there. Oh, yes I'm still here, I say. So you are attending, she asks. I suppose I should get out there. So, she says she'll make sure to get me on the VIP list. We say our goodbyes, and I go fetch a bottle of Bollinger and settle on the chaise.

I don't know what it is - Part I

Ok, so I'm sitting here on a chaise in our living room with a glass of Champagne. No, scratch that, I may as well be honest, that was at 9pm last night. By now it's 7am and now it's an almost empty bottle of gin. Isn't it strange how suddenly your life just changes?

The plan was for Aiden (that's my husband) and I to attend the opening of the Tous store here in London. I had put on my new silver suit (ok, maybe it does sound a bit naff but it reminds me of my modelling days) from Dolce & Gabbana and I was waiting for him to come home from work so we could go. Then of course Aiden's late. He finally comes home, it was about 8pm by then, and sits me down and says he wants a divorce. I'm outraged - obviously! - and start yelling and crying and making a complete fool of myself. Of course I knew about his affair with that Asda model Scott but I assumed it would die out. Like it did with Miles, Sambad, Thomas and who can remember the rest. It didn't mean anything, it was just sex. Right?

So I just kind of alternated between throwing stuff at him, yelling, and fumbling my way towards the Champagne cooler. Aiden ducked and covered with the best of them, and said he was moving out. For the time being, he said. Like he's ever getting in here again, hah! Good one. His affairs must have started about the time we got married, about 10 years ago and we've been together 15 years. Today is our anniversary, funny that.

I really love Aiden, and I ignored the cheating because I figured that he always ended up back with me. He didn't love those two bit skanks who, quite frankly, only participated because they thought it would boost their modelling career. This is when you think, hah, who are you to talk. Aiden's a 51 year old world renowned fashion photographer and you are a 39 year old (OK, honesty is the best policy I suppose, 42) ex underwear model and you do the math. Well, it does look bad, but really it isn't. You just think all models are skanks who screw whatever to get on the cover of Elle, Vogue or whatever is the premier fashion magazine at the time. You'd be quite right, been there and done that. Yet, I never whored around after I met Aiden and I never used him to get ahead (ahem!). I didn't.

The thing is, everyone thinks models are whoring around and using everyone to get ahead. They will be quite right, but as I mentioned before, I stopped doing that when I met Aiden. I loved him. Well, I love him. I'm bitter, surly, angry, hateful and I still love him.

I look down at my platinum wedding ring with diamonds all around the band. Apparently I've taken it off earlier and been holding it in my hand. Suddenly, I throw the ring at the 62 inch flatscreen TV. As I watch it fly towards the TV, I regret throwing it and get up to go pick it up. The room is now spinning, like that time some cow spiked my drink at a Jean Paul Gaultier after party at Paris fashion week in 1997. I fall to my knees and crawl to my destination. It looks like there are two rings. How could there be two, it's like friggin Alice in Wonderland. Will the wrong one make me small? How could I feel smaller than I feel now, lying on the living room floor in a naff silver suit from Dolce Gabbana staring at two rings - and is that dust behind the sofa over there, or is the Mad Hatter coming to get me? Must mention it to Alice, no Alicia. Our cleaning lady is Alicia, isn't it?

The phone wakes me up three hours later. Apparently Miss K wants to know why only Aiden and 'some guy' showed up last night at Tous. Oh, and do you want to do brunch? Um, OK...? When, what time is it now? It's 10am. Well Ok then, in an hour at the usual place. Right. Miss K is rarely in town these days, and I fear that I need the company. I put on the wedding ring and wonder for a second if I'll get any smaller. No, and the other ring is gone. Must call Alicia about the dust then.

I take a quick shower, and think of how I do love my bathroom. It's positively divine. The shower and bath tub are the best parts though, but then I picked those out.

You still can't get over the whole, he's an ex model who didn't whore around on his partner, am I right? I know, even I'm baffled. It just never occurred to me because I loved him. Also you are thinking money, Nathaniel (that's my name, but my friends call me Nate) probably didn't have any and his famous photographer boyfriend turned husband probably had loads. You are wrong, I thought we were fairly equal in that sense. Aiden had a great career etc., and I was just an underwear model.

I could have been like that, had I done all that stuff (read. drugs, parties, vacations) my colleages did. When they were all partying in Acapulco, I was off working. Photoshoots, fashion runways, commercials etc. My parents were right about money, put it away and once you're done modelling you can go to law school or something. Of course, I ended up retiring earlier because of Aiden fairly rich. Aiden wanted me to stop working so he'd be the only one seeing me in my underwear, and I did. Partly because I loved Aiden, and partly because I thought I'd be able to do something else. Yet, in those last 15 years I never got around to finding out what that something would be.

On some level I probably thought the only thing I was good at was modelling. That's not completely true, because I did pass all the exams to become a lawyer. At some point I got sick and tired of only being this accessory only to be worn out at parties. I suddenly had deep sympathy for my old Hermés ascot that I hadn't worn in ages. Eventually I took it to a nice little vintage fashion shop down the corner, and bought a pair of 1972 Manolo Blahnik shoes. I know, how gay is that. And yet, I'm a collector. By now I must have over 300 pairs of Manolo Blahniks. They don't get worn, but they get adored at any chance I get. Aiden found that extremely funny, but he has this weird pen fetish, so he's one to talk. It's not like I go about mocking his Mont Blanc collection.

Here I am, telling you about Aidens Mont Blanc collection and my ridiculously large Manolo collection but I never told you how we met. Sorry. This is where everyone says, it's really kind of funny, or, it's really kind of romantic the way we met. With kind of, being the emphasis. Because it really isn't, is it, unless of course you were there perhaps but then again. Maybe not.

It was love at first sight, on my part anyway. We met at a gallery opening in New York that had an exhibit on fashion photography. He had taken a few of the photos and everyone was gushing over him.

Sorry, I just have to put on my black Jean Paul Gaultier trousers and that striped Paul Smith shirt, and grab some orange juice before I pass out.

Well, I caught his eye while I was looking at this black and white four foot blow up of a halfnaked man in the shower. It wasn't his work, and he came over. I pretended to be a student of fashion photography, and he bought it. I gushed over the photo, knowing full well he hadn't taken it, and he was pointing out all the flaws. He ended up giving me a tour of the exhibit and asked me on a date. At the time I was a total workaholic and had a shoot the next morning at 5.30am so I declined. He insisted and we made arrangements the night before I was set to fly back to London. I was immediately attracted to him, although I'd heard he had a thing for these Italian dancer types named Gianluca and Paulo. They usually didn't last long, and I thought maybe I would last, at least a bit longer. I was right about that, turns out, but not as I'd hoped forever.

In the end I ended up back in New York and went on 2 more dates with Aiden. He still had no idea, I was a model, and I didn't really want him to know. The photography student thing was working so well. Turns out, I had been booked to do an underwear shoot for Calvin Klein, and there had been a change of photographer. Who walked into that shoot, but Aiden Donovan. I nearly died. He pretended not to notice but after the shoot he used this cheesy line on me and asked me out again, and that's it. We dated for a while and ended up moving in together. Which is easy to do, when he was based in New York, and I had a studio flat in a scummy part of London and shared a flat with 10 other models in Paris and Milano.

Now I'm off to meet Miss K for brunch, and I'm late. She's usually 10 minutes late, but if the Tube doesn't have delays I'll be 20 minutes late. I'll never hear the end of it. Last thing before leaving is the key, phone, wallet and bags under eyes check. God, I look old. Wait, shoes! Must wear shoes. Black Prada loafers, yes. Wait, they are Aiden's, oh who gives a shit. He might though, hah! I put on his black Boss jacket and leave.