Until We Lay

By Sara-Lisa Andersson

Sometimes the last thing you want is exactly what you need.

Until We Lay is the story of Lainey and Palle, an American supermodel and a Danish sociology student, whose paths cross when Lainey is hired to do a show during Copenhagen Fashion Week.

Venice of the North doesn't quite live up to its romantic reputation in cold and gray February, and when Lainey's extravagant but shallow life suddenly starts to crumble around her, she finds herself stuck in a purgatory of freezing rainstorms, lies, and memories that threaten to shatter what little hope she has of picking up the pieces.
 
Palle is determined to save the world, one person at a time, and when a real live damsel-in-distress suddenly stands barefoot in front of him in the freezing rain, he jumps at the chance to prove that he is not too soft to deal with the realities of a social worker's caseload. But perhaps he got a hold of the entirely wrong end of this particular stick, and sometimes good intentions and a sweet disposition just aren't enough to deal with actual problems.
 
  
Until We Lay is a stand-alone contemporary romance with an HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordbuilder
• Release date: Apr 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386004325

Book preview

Prologue

The limousine stopped rather abruptly, and Lainey scowled at the driver in the rear-view mirror. I'm sorry, Miss Cartwright, he mumbled. Someone stepped out into the street right in front of ...

So? Lainey rearranged her stunning features in what had become her signature look, tilted her face in a flattering angle and snapped a selfie while she waited for someone to open the door. Then she uploaded the image to her Instagram account. There was no need for filters or adjustments. She looked great. #openingnight #copenhagen #CFW

Someone opened the door for her. Of course. Someone always did.

She exited the limousine slowly, preceded by one of her mile-long legs. As soon as one of the sparkling and studded Christian Louboutin pumps hit the red carpet, all the camera flashes on the block went off. The only thing that would show up on all of those photographers' proof sheets would be her right leg. Not much to bring to a photo editor, one would think. But what a leg it was.

Lainey sighed, pressed her eyes closed briefly and took a deep breath. Showtime. Again.

She stood up outside of the limousine and was immediately grabbed by the arm by a big, burly man in a black suit. This way, Miss Cartwright, he said and tried to pull her toward the entrance of the building at the other end of the red carpet. Without batting one of those ridiculously long eyelashes, Lainey yanked herself free of his grip and turned towards the cordon separating the arrival area from the waiting photographers and fans.

Do not touch me, she muttered under her breath to the man who despite being almost six five and extremely muscular shied away from the steel in her voice.

I apologize, miss Cart—

She dismissed him with a flick of the wrist and took one step past him so that the photographers would have a clear shot. She didn't smile at them. Smiles were for amateurs. Smiles gave one wrinkles. She just struck a pose that best showed off not only the astronomically expensive designer dress that she was wearing but also the body. Her body. The body.

She held the pose for only a short while, but the few seconds was enough. Hundreds of photos were taken and automatically uploaded to the editors standing by at the fashion magazines, the international news desks at the world's largest newspapers, and anyone on the Internet. Yeah, someone in that crowd was surely broadcasting this on Periscope.

Lainey released the pose, walked a few steps and then struck another one. Another angle of the dress was shown off, but the look on her face when she turned toward the photographers was the same. Her Lainey face.

It's going to make you a million bucks, her first manager, Terence, had said. He had been right. It had also gotten her a better manager. Someone who had secured contracts that made her tens of millions of dollars instead. Terence had given her that first break, but the problem with him was that he thought small. He dreamed small. He was small.

She, on the other hand, was 5 feet and 10 inches tall. And the staggering heels on her $3500 pumps didn't exactly do their best to minimize her height. On the contrary. Lainey took another few steps towards the entrance and struck yet another pose. From up here she could see that at least one of the bodyguards trying to protect her from the crowds was going bald. Try a comb-over, dude, a voice inside her head said.

Perhaps one of all the thousands of images that were taken at that exact moment managed to capture the confusion that flashed through her eyes when her inner calm was assailed by memories of someone she used to know. Someone she used to be. But only a very observant photo editor would have noticed that, and most of them were looking at the dress, anyway.

A few more steps, one last pose, and then Lainey disappeared in through the large open doors of the building where Copenhagen Fashion Week was held.

Part I

Wednesday

1

Lainey

The fashion show had been a complete disaster from start to finish. Every show had run long, until the time plan had to be thrown out, and in order to accommodate the participants’ traveling arrangements, showings were re-scheduled in a manner that was indicative of significant creativity and a certain disrespect for humans’ poor ability of being in more than one place at the time. After a long and chaotic day, where not much had gone according to plan, everyone was tired and frazzled and no one knew where they were expected to be and when. Somehow a few of the garments for the final show had been misplaced in the mess backstage and since some people had already left for the day, there were not even close to enough makeup artists or hair stylists to perfect the looks that the designer had envisioned to go with the outfits. It was a catastrophe and no one seemed to be in charge of anything.

That's it, said Lainey, when the red-faced stage manager waved at her from the curtained area right behind the stage entrance. I'm going to have to walk this runway naked. This day could not be over soon enough. She was hungry, something that she ignored in her usual manner, and thirsty, since the assistant that she had sent for some proper bottled water and not the cheap stuff they kept bringing her seemed to have gone all the way to Evian, France to get some, but the thing that bothered her the most was that all the little things that she would normally just ignore really was starting to get to her. Ten years ago, when she was starting out, she never noticed any off it, just happy to be working, making do with what the designers and her manager flung at her, always just making it work, somehow. But lately, she had felt a nagging frustration over most every part of her job, and it was a worrying realization.

Perhaps I'm getting too old for this shit, she thought, not for the first time today, and reached for her phone to tweet her frustration, only to remember that she didn't have it on her. She could have sworn that she had felt it vibrating against her hip when in fact it was safely tucked away in her purse in her dressing room. She couldn't have her phone on her while she was working. The garment she was wearing didn't even have any pockets to put it in.

She was wearing only an almost spider-web thin, short kimono-style dressing gown, exactly like the one that all the other models were wearing between outfits. The finale piece she was supposed to wear down the runway any minute now was cut in such an experimental fashion that she couldn't even wear the usual nudie bra and flesh colored panties underneath. The robe only provided a symbolic sense of modesty and did nothing whatsoever to protect her from the draft coming from above. The black walls around her were temporary structures, mostly made from fabric with Copenhagen Fashion Week's logo printed all over them, and a few feet above her head there was a big gap between the top of the wall and the semi-transparent glass ceiling that was slanting in different angles. The pouring rain made rivulets in every direction. Even the weather was bad. This was probably some kind of convention center that transformed from week to week, depending on needs and requirements. Not that unusual when it came to fashion shows, but still. Not at all what she had become accustomed to after almost ten years in the business.

You can pull it off, said Greta and gave her a sideways poisonous look while at the same time shrugging into her own outfit, that had not been misplaced. It was green, mostly, and seemed to have more than the required amount of sleeves.

Lainey shrugged. Sure, she said and raised one very skillfully plucked eyebrow. Greta had walked the same runways as her for a couple of years now. Always the understudy, but never wearing the finale outfit. Not as long as Lainey was still here. It would be almost like that show in Brazil, last year. Do you remember? The thongs and just a couple of beaded straps on top.

Greta couldn't help herself and laughed. Yeah. I'm glad my mother wasn't there to see that.

Lainey didn't answer. Although she would rather die than admit it in front of someone like Greta, she would have given anything for her mother to have seen the shows she had done. Even the one in Brazil. And even this catastrophe.

An assistant dressed all in black came running with a garment bag. Finally, Lainey muttered under her breath and started to untie the sash on her dressing gown. The assistant unzipped the bag and revealed ... a completely different garment than the one Lainey was supposed to model.

That's it, said Lainey and felt something give. That was absolutely it. The end of her tether, or whatever they called it. She was too old for this. She couldn’t take it anymore. This had to end. Salvatore! Where is that man? She stormed off leaving the assistant staring helplessly after her with tears in her eyes. Salvatore!

Her manager was nowhere to be found. That was just typical! The money he made off her, he ought to be constantly by her side. He ought to make sure that these disasters never happened, or at the very least that Lainey didn't have to suffer for them. The show was almost over, and she would not have time to model anything, least of all the stunning finale outfit that would take forever to dress her in. She had to talk to Salvatore, make sure that her contract stated that she would still get paid even if she never set foot on the runway. Salvatore! Where was that slimy bastard?

The backstage area was a labyrinth of temporary walls and curtained off areas, and Lainey stormed through it while cursing and calling her agent's name. People were looking at her, but she didn't care. She had had about enough of this. It was the same chaos and stress at every show. She shouldn't have to deal with this. She was Lainey, for goodness sake. The Lainey. She should never have to take this kind of crap. It was beneath her; that's what it was.

Well, Salvatore would take care of it. The man was a pit bull when it came to negotiations. A rabid pit bull. He would have made sure that there was some clause in her contract that guaranteed that she would get paid even if she never even made it to Copenhagen.

Thank goodness for Salvatore, she thought. There was, at least, someone who was looking out for her. Not like a friend, no, not at all. But like a big and fierce pit bull, trained to guard her and only her. It was nice to have someone like that in her life. And Enrique, of course. The spectacularly handsome male model had been her boyfriend for almost a year now, and Lainey appreciated having someone by her side, someone who knew the business, someone who traveled the same circuit as she did, New York, Paris, Milan, Tokyo. He had already done his shows and was probably waiting in her dressing room for her to finish, with a bottle of champagne and fresh cut roses. Perhaps some jewelry.

Lainey took a deep breath and slowed down. What was she getting so worked up about, really? So, the show had been a disaster. What difference did that make? She would still get paid, thanks to her manager Salvatore. And she had someone who was waiting for her in her dressing room, someone who loved her (well, sort of) and was going to make her forget all about this horrible day when they finally got to be alone together. Everything was going to be alright.

She turned and walked back towards her dressing room. She didn't have to get upset about any of this. None of it was any of her concern. She was just going to have some champagne and let Enrique make her forget all about this disaster.

Copenhagen. Well, she was never going to set foot in this dump ever again.

She found her room and opened the door. There was a strange noise coming from inside. Slowly she pushed the door to the side and stared at her boyfriend. And her manager. Having sex.

So you like this, huh? said Enrique and thrust hard against Salvatore's muscular backside. Do you like it when I fuck you, just like I fuck Lainey?

Salvatore groaned and laughed. Oh, honey. Lainey is getting totally ... ah ... fucked by both of us. She just doesn't have a clue ... ah ... that I'm shafting her ... ah ... just as hard as you are.

And then they both laughed.

Lainey just stared at them for a split second. Then she turned and started walking away. Shock and disappointment and confusion and disbelief welled up inside her, and she just stumbled along the corridor. For some reason she couldn’t quite grasp, tears started welling up and she could hardly see where she was going, but she could tell that there were people everywhere and that they seemed to be staring at the half naked woman who was pushing through the crowds, sobbing. She caught a glimpse of an Exit sign in the corner of her eye, and instinctively turned towards it. There was a green emergency exit bar across the wide gray door, and she threw herself at it. The door opened, and she stumbled out into some sort of back passage for deliveries and service personnel. There was a dead end on her left, so she turned to the right and just kept walking.

The passage ended out by the huge parking lot that surrounded the enormous convention center. It was dark outside and raining. The lights were reflected on the wet asphalt, and it was strangely quiet. And intensely cold. Lainey stopped and looked from side to side, confused, dazed, wondering what had happened and what she was going to do. All the frustrations from the day kept replaying in her mind, and the scenes from her dressing room flashed on her retina. The sound of the men laughing at her echoed through her brain and she found it hard to breathe. Everything she had thought she knew, everything she had believed to be true, started to crack. She was the Lainey, for crying out loud. This type of thing never happened to her. Men worshipped her. Women wanted to be her. She was beautiful. She was strong. She was a rich and powerful bitch that made waiters and assistants cry on a regular basis. People did as she told them to, and on the double. They did not deceive her. They did not screw her over. And they most certainly did not laugh at her behind her back.

The glints on the night-black asphalt caught her eye, and despite the confusion that clouded her mind she automatically reached for her cell phone to take a picture for Instagram but of course, her phone was in her dressing room, and there was no way she was going back in there.

Then a door slammed behind her in the passage.

Lainey! someone shouted. Was it Salvatore? She didn't care. The panic grabbed her again, and she just took off.

The parking lot behind the convention center was intersected by waist-high shrubberies, partitioning the space. They helped her keep out of sight but did nothing to shield her from the wind. There weren't many people out here in the dark and whenever she heard a voice or saw a car move, she veered and ran the other way, desperate just to get away. Suddenly the parking lot ended, and she found herself next to a wide but rather deserted street. On the other side were some elevated train tracks and beyond them some apartment buildings. A car pulled out of its parking space and its headlights sweeped across the area where Lainey was huddling. She stepped through a gap in the hedge and ran across the street. There weren't any cars but when she reached the other side she was almost run over by a man on a bicycle. She hurried into the shadows behind the concrete pylons supporting the train tracks. Her heart was pounding, and she gasped for air when she pressed herself against the damp and rough surface. It was unbelievably cold outside. The rain had quickly soaked her flimsy dressing gown, and her bare feet felt like numb blocks of ice.

Remind me never to go outside naked in February ever again, a voice inside her head said, and she realized that her brain couldn't help itself. It kept formulating tweets and attaching hashtags to everything that happened. #disaster #fuckingcold #imgonnakillmyboyfriend #exboyfriendthatis

She wrapped her arms around her and turned her back against the wind. It didn't help much. She was going to die of exposure out here. But she would rather die than go back inside that convention center. Her mind couldn't quite comprehend what had happened or what it meant, but she knew that she could never go back. But where could she go? What was she going to do? #help #somebodyplease

For the first time in her life, her razor sharp brain came up with nothing. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere of getting there, if she had. No one to turn to.

2

Salvatore

The door slammed, and Salvatore quickly turned his head. What was that? he gasped.

Enrique shuddered and grasped him hard across the torso. That was ... great, he muttered and licked Salvatore's neck slowly. Exactly what I needed. Do you want me to blow you now?

Salvatore shook his head, pulled up his leather pants and zipped them. Someone was here, he said and stared at the door. He hadn't seen who it was, just a movement in the corner of his eye. Who had it been? Not Lainey, for sure. She was walking the runway just this minute. Or wasn't she?

No one was here, said Enrique and reached for the glass of champagne that he had left on the dressing table. He looked at himself in the lighted mirror and struck a pose. He looked like an Italian Renaissance statue, except for the huge cock. He wasn't particularly good at walking the runway, but the designers knew that all the women in the audience, and most of the men, loved seeing the bulge he made in every outfit, and hoped that they might think that it was the clothes that got them all excited.

It also didn't hurt that the paparazzi photographed him with Lainey everywhere they went, Salvatore thought. They both looked great and took great photos, but together they were magic, playing off each other's strengths, matching each other's coloring. He had two first-class clients, and by combining them in the right way, he could make more money out of both of them. And he was making lots of money.

But who had that been, at the door?

Salvatore opened the door and stepped outside. It was a madhouse out here. People everywhere, coming, going, getting dressed, getting undressed. He looked at the monitors that were placed here and there so that everyone backstage could see the show on the runway. They were showing highlights from previous shows. What? Was the show over already? What was this?

He hurried toward the staging area, looking for Lainey. Greta was being zipped out of her ridiculous garment, sipping champagne and scratching her butt. Classy, that broad. Is the show already over?

Greta turned and looked at him under her thick false eyelashes, like a pair of fat caterpillars crawling across her face. Yeah. The finale outfit was misplaced. Lainey threw a hissy fit and stormed off looking for you. I guess she didn't find you, huh?

Salvatore just stared at her. Then he shook his head slowly. It felt as if someone had just walked over his grave. Lainey had been looking for him? Just now? Uh-oh. No, I guess she didn't, he said, turned and hurried back towards her dressing room.

Enrique was still naked, still staring at himself in the mirror.

Did Lainey turn up here? Salvatore asked. He didn't completely manage to conceal the anxiety in his voice.

No, man, said Enrique. She's working.

Salvatore slammed the door shut and looked around. Damn. Had she come here, upset? Had she opened that door and seen ... that, just now? Damn. This was not good. But where had she gone? Was she talking to someone? A friend? He almost laughed out loud. What was he thinking? This was Lainey, remember. She didn't do friends. But where had she gone then?

He approached one of the huge burly men with earpieces that were spread out in the backstage area. Have you seen Miss Cartwright?

The man nodded. She went that way.

That way? Salvatore hurried after her. Not that it mattered, but he really would like to find her and talk to her, before she did something stupid. Like, talk to the press. Or to someone that would talk to the press. Or decided that she wanted another manager. Now, that would be problematic.

Salvatore had many clients, but Lainey was his prize goose, and he needed her to keep laying those golden eggs on every runway between New York and Tokyo, just for a couple more years. Then he would be set for life.

The next guard that stood posted a bit further along the corridor hadn't seen Lainey. Salvatore backtracked and checked all the nooks and crannies in between the two guards. Where had she gone? There were people everywhere, but no upset supermodel in a flimsy dressing gown.

He stopped and looked around. There was an emergency exit in an alcove to his left. A green bar across it, for easy evacuation in case of fire or another disaster. She wouldn't. Would she? He walked over to the door and pressed the bar. The door opened with a click, and he felt a gust of ice-cold air hitting his by now rather clammy skin. No, she wouldn't have gone out here. She was more or less naked, for crying out loud. But he couldn't help but call out her name. Just once. No response. There was no-one here.

He walked back into the building and back to the guard that had been the last to see her. I'm going to need some assistance, he muttered and leaned in close to the big man. There's a problem with one of the models. It seems that she has run off ... She might have had some kind of ... break-down. I'm going to require your help in finding her so that she can receive adequate care.

The man stared at him. What kind of break-down?

Salvatore shook his head. It doesn't matter. The most important thing is that she mustn't be allowed to ... She might not be capable of taking care of herself, at this time. We need to find her before she comes to any harm.

The man nodded. Miss Cartwright? he said and looked stern.

Yes, Salvatore said, almost apologetically. It seems that she has had some bad news from home, he lied and was pleased with himself for thinking of it. It made her very upset, and I'm worried about her. Perhaps she even went outside. You saw what she was wearing. She'll catch her death.

The man lifted his right arm and spoke into his cuff. Salvatore took a small step back and looked around. The security people would find her. Of course, they would. She couldn't have gotten very far, in only a dressing gown, with no money and no place to go.

They would find her, and his golden goose would soon be safe back in her pen again.

3

Palle

It was raining. It was cold, well, not cold for February, but still cold. Cold and raining. Typical Danish winter weather. Palle heard the other students complain when they exited the lecture hall, but he just pulled on his Gore-Tex all-weather jacket on top of his knitted sweater and flipped the hood up. His bicycle was crammed in the middle of a bunch of others, and it took him a while to extricate it. His fingers were freezing before he could wipe the seat with the sleeve of his sweater and get on the bike.

There were wide bicycle lanes in both directions outside the university, and he had to wait a while before there was a gap in the heavy two-wheeled traffic. Then he stepped elegantly onto the bike and pedaled south.

The rain was coming in from the southwest and hit him on the side of the face. Soon it was seeping in under the neck of his shirt