Chapter Text
Anthony J Crowley was a beautiful man. High cheekbones formed a triangle with his sharp jaw. His arching brows sat under a sweep of dark red hair that was always styled in the fashion of the day. But his eyes were his crowning glory – a light amber, all the more striking as they seemed too pale for his skin tone. He became a model, as some beautiful men do. Back in the ‘90s when skinny models were the height of fashion. He walked the catwalks with the ‘waifs’, bare chested and sunken cheeked in low slung leather trousers, one of the fashion elite.
Of course, Anthony J Crowley was now in his mid-40s. And aside from the occasional novelty cover-shoot, the modelling world was still the domain of the young. Anthony very swiftly found himself out of favour, bookings falling away faster than the fine lines appearing around his eyes.
But he was an optimist. He believed the universe would look after him, and it usually did. And he had two things going for him that put him ahead of many of his peers. First, he was a man - however feminine he had presented over the years. And men weren’t judged as harshly as women in his industry. He was allowed to age - as long as he did it discreetly. And second, his biggest advantage: he had kept his looks. He hadn’t filled out in middle age. He was still pretty, and angular. He had all his hair, and he was still achingly fashionable. So people forgave him the sin of the passage of time – especially when he kept his shades on in all weathers to hide his crow’s feet. He was able to carve out a new career in the only industry he’d ever known, telling people what to wear, rather than showing them.
Anthony J Crowley, former model, current fashion editor of Hell Magazine1, was standing in line for his regular large espresso on his way to work. There was an editorial meeting that morning for the next edition, and he needed to be on form. Being two minutes late, but caffeinated, seemed the best option. Nina lifted her head in acknowledgment as he neared the front of the queue, so he knew his drink would be ready to collect by the time he got to the counter. Fabulous – he wouldn’t even be late. He looked out of the window distractedly as he waited. From here he could see the massive old bookshop, the record shop, the textiles shop, so familiar to him now. He loved this little corner of London. His office was in Hanover square – barely a five-minute walk from his Mayfair flat – but when he could, he would take a 10 minute detour into Soho to grab a coffee, or a wine depending on the time of day, and occasionally some food. He enjoyed the cobbled streets, the hanging baskets, the old-fashioned pub and the squat, independent shops. It felt more comfortable, somehow, than the towering marble store-fronts where he lived and worked. Of course, this was his secret. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy this vibe. And he certainly never brought co-workers or clients here.
Mr Azir Fell was a beautiful man. He had round cheeks, a full mouth, an unusual nose. His eyes were a striking grey-blue, like the ocean on a cloudy day, his hair was white-blond and of a texture that refused to be tamed. But his crowning glory was his smile. Wide and joyous, it lit his entire face – brought the sun out onto the sparkling ocean of his eyes, dimpled his cheeks and exposed straight, white teeth. It also appeared frequently, as Mr Azir Fell enjoyed life’s simple pleasures and drew excitement from the smallest things. In his twenties he had been broad shouldered and athletic, and while he had softened somewhat with age, he was still a fine figure of a man – with a strong posture and sturdy limbs. His eyes were crinkled in the corners from frequent smiling, and his kindly demeanour and impeccable manners meant he made friends wherever he went.
He had inherited his paternal grandmother’s family business – a rare book dealership – and the accompanying premises, on his father’s death some twenty years previously. He had re-opened the place as soon as he had finished his degree. His siblings had had no interest in the business and were happy with their inheritance of larger properties and assorted assets in Berkshire. This left Mr Fell, a confirmed bachelor, to live alone above the shop he had loved before he could even read. And now his days were spent pleasantly – reading, acquiring and selling books, travelling to see friends and indulging in long lunches.
Every morning, Mr Fell, owner and proprietor of A Z Fell & Co, Soho, prepared himself for the day ahead. He would stand in his pyjamas, steaming mug in hand, looking down from the window in the flat above the shop. He enjoyed seeing commuters fill the pavements for an hour or so before the street emptied out again, the calm before the storm of shoppers and tourists. His shop looked ‘oldie-worldy’, with its leaded windows and wooden frames, and attracted far too many tourists seeking to experience ‘authentic’ London sites but not actually buy any books. He was content with people taking selfies in front of his doors – they were picturesque, he conceded, but he so wished they didn’t venture inside. Groups of tourists clunking through his shop, phones and packets of crisps in hand, carelessly handling his treasured tomes as if they were airport paperbacks made his heckles rise. It was one reason he had been known to close the shop abruptly in the middle of the day. He considered his opening hours more of a general guide than strict rules of operation.
That morning, Mr Fell watched as a streak of black emerged from Nina’s café directly opposite his shop, clutching a to-go cup. This person turned on their heal and strutted – there was no other word for it – down the pavement, long legs almost crossing over each-other as they moved. Azir gave a small smile as he stood in his tartan PJs – he had seen the Dark Commuter, as he called the person, on several occasions over the past year or more. He was always struck by the cool glamour of their all-black ensembles and the almost serpentine way they moved down the dingy Soho pavement, as if they were stepping off a Paris catwalk. Azir waited until the Dark Commuter disappeared into the crowd before he turned away from the window and changed into a freshly pressed shirt and bow tie. Today was a Monday, he thought buoyantly, which usually meant fewer customers, and more time to read.