by Simon Brooke
“Yep, will do. Do you think the site will suffer without them? They are the leading lights aren’t they?”
“They developed the concept, that’s true.”
“And raised the finance.”
“Yes. Anyway, as I say, it was just in case you hear something.”
“Sure, sure. So it’s just the three of you left.”
“Yeah, well no. Not left as such; I’m sure Guy and Piers will be back soon. I just wish they’d told us where they were going, that’s all.”
“Are you going to their homes?”
“Might as well, have a quick look around, see if there’s any sign of life.”
“Where do they live?”
“Guy lives in Chelsea and—”
“Piers lives in Fulham, doesn’t he?”
“Er, yeah, that’s right. Anyway—”
“What about the police?”
“I’m not sure. It’s difficult. I don’t want to alarm people unnecessarily. I think we’ll give it a few more days. Presumably if they’re missing their family or friends would do that.”
“That’s true.”
“Anyway, I’ll keep you informed.”
“What’s Zac’s surname again?”
“Zac’s surname? What’s that got to do with anything? Nora, you’re not going to write about this in the bloody paper are you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, it might help, mightn’t it?”
“Help bugger up the whole thing completely, you mean. Look, you’d better not.”
“Okay,” she says halfheartedly.
“Nora, please don’t.”
“Oh, honestly Charlie.”
“I said ‘don’t’!”
“And I heard you. I’d better make some calls. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I set off to Chelsea first of all, having made the others promise to call me the minute they hear something. I’m sure everything’s fine but it’s beginning to dawn on me that of three of us “left” as Nora puts it, I’m the only one with any sort of responsibility or common sense. I realise that the suit I’m wearing today is Armando Basi, bought by 2cool, and that most of what I wear these days comes from the company, via our stylists or via my smart, new, totally transparent, 2cool-branded credit card. Like I say, I’m sure it’s all kosher and aboveboard, but if there were something, well, dodgy, I’d have to admit that I’ve had my fair share of goodies from this little operation. Even my skin is glowing from a free facial, courtesy of a new men’s grooming studio we’ve hooked up with.
Guy lives in a basement flat not far from South Kensington tube station. I walk down a tiny staircase and peer into the window. The living room itself is traditionally furnished with an old chesterfield couch, patterned rug and some repro landscape paintings. There is a fireplace with some china ornaments on it and some invitations. Next to it is a large telly.
On the floor, on the chesterfield settee, on the shelves either side of the chimney breast and on almost every available space, are piles of paper and magazines. Hundreds of them. Thousands probably. Some neatly stacked up, some toppling over. A sock hangs limply out of one pile. There are precariously balanced towers of thick glossy magazines all around the floor and on the coffee table, which must make watching telly almost impossible.
There is not much else I can do, other than knock on the window hard and shout through the letterbox. As I do, a gentle gust of cold, stale air greets me. If anything, this visit has made me feel more anxious.
There is no answer from Piers’s small terraced house in Fulham, either. He has the same kind of country-house-in-a-London-box furniture but the place is sort of casually messy, not maniacally so. Again I bang on the window and do some pointless shouting before setting off along the street. I ring Scarlett and tell her that I’ve drawn a blank and I’m coming back to the office. After I finish the call, something makes me turn just before I’ve got to the main road, and I see a bloke taking photographs. He looks pretty professional—angler’s jacket full of gear, automatic rewind on his camera, another camera around his neck.
He is definitely shooting Piers’s house.
The next day, Saturday, for once I’m up before Lauren is awake and I dash out to buy the Post. Walking back to the flat I begin to flick through. There is nothing on the first few pages. I smile at a picture of someone I know from my old agency, advertising a laptop by looking harassed as he walks across an airport concourse. What a crap shot. That guy just cannot act. But when I turn the next page there is a massive picture of me, plus one of Piers, next to a smaller one of his house.
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I have to stop and take a deep breath before I can read it.
EXCLUSIVE
Cool Two Go Missing
Hyper-cool website 2cool2btrue.com was in chaos last night following revelations that its two leading lights, Guy Watkins and Piers Gough-Pugh, have disappeared. Watkins and Gough-Pugh have been missing nearly a week.
Questions were being asked about the location of the two marketing whiz kids whose website has grabbed the attention of the nation’s smartest young things and boasts a host of celebrity fans. Some commentators have been arguing that 2cool has even signalled a return of business confidence in the Internet.
With only three members of staff left to run the website—which has signed deals with a host of designer labels and luxury goods manufacturers—experts were yesterday predicting that it would be difficult for the company to build on its remarkably successful launch, which followed a party at Frederica’s nightclub in Berkeley Square, attended by rock star Sir Josh Langdon and aristo model Henrietta Banbury amongst others. The site recently revealed that it has already received half a million “hits” after just three weeks’ trading.
Speaking exclusively to the Post, the face of the new site, former male model Charlie Barrett said, “We’re all very worried indeed. We haven’t seen Guy since Monday and Piers since Tuesday. It’s difficult because they’re the ones who developed the concept and raised the finance.”
Gough-Pugh, a former City trader and financier, was not at his £500,000 Fulham house yesterday. One neighbour said, “He’s a nice young man, always very polite and charming. He’s been working long hours so he doesn’t seem to have much time for friends.”
Barrett has not yet reported the disappearance of the two to police because of concerns that the news might affect the image and financial position of the site. However, a spokeswoman for the Metropolitan Police Missing Persons Unit confirmed, “If we are contacted we will take the case as seriously as we always do with any report of a missing person.”
By the time I get back to the flat, Lauren is pottering around the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” she says in a sleep-croaky voice.
“Yeah, there was something in the paper today about Piers and Guy.”
“You’re kidding.”
I open it again and present it to her. Seeing my stupid face grinning at us makes me feel sick again. I turn away to carry on making the coffee. By the time it is dripping through the filter Lauren has finished reading the piece.
“Well?” I ask.
“Doesn’t look good, does it? Why haven’t you contacted the police?”
“Well, why should I? Haven’t they got friends or family or something?”
“How would I know?” She opens the fridge and takes out the orange juice.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll ring the police on Monday. Can’t do any harm. I’ll bet they’ll come back if I do.”
“Why did you say all this to the paper?”
“I didn’t. I, oh, for God’s sake, I rang Nora because she knows Piers anyway and I just wondered—”
“Did she write it?” asks Lauren, snatching back the paper. “Oh, well, what did you expect? You ring a journalist, tell her all this and expect her not to write about it?”
“All right, I know, I’m completely stupid. I thought she might be able to separate her professional life from her private life.�
�
“You thought you could trust a journalist?”
“I was ringing her as a friend.”
Oh shit, that doesn’t sound right.
Lauren laughs irritably and rolls her eyes. “I’m going to have a shower.”
I decide to ring my dad and get some advice from him. A girl answers the phone with a sleepy voice.
“Hallo, is John there?”
“Qui? Who?”
I’ve definitely got the right number—it’s on speed dial—so I persist.
“Sorry, is Jared there?”
“No, er, no, he run.”
“What? He’s gone for a run? Okay, ask him to call his son when he gets back, will you?”
“Er, call?”
“Oh, fuck.” I’m actually quite used to this now so I run through the usual list of possibilities. “Parlez-vous francais?”
“Er, sorry?”
“Habla usted español?”
“Er?”
“Parla italiano?”
“Er, sorry?”
My Serbo-Croat—usually a good bet these days—has deserted me, but fortunately at that moment my dad takes the phone from her.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me, Charlie. Are you around this morning?”
“Yeah, sure, we were going shopping but we can do that later. Everything all right?”
“Not really.” My throat suddenly feels a bit tight.
“You and Lauren?”
“Erm, partly. There’s a piece in the paper today about the site; Guy and Piers, the guys who started it, the guys I work for—they’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Look, can we meet for coffee or something?”
We arrange to meet for breakfast at a new restaurant in Knightsbridge which specialises in a mixture of French and Thai food. I manage to extract a normal cappuccino out of them and wait for my pop who is fashionably late.
“Hiya,” he says, slapping my arm. “This is Marika, Mari for short.”
“Hello.” I smile. She is tall with long blonde hair—you know the deal. “Where are you from?”
She looks confused for a moment and then my dad rescues her.
“Hungary,” he says proudly. “Or somewhere like that.”
I make a mental note to get a Hungarian phrase book.
Dad has fresh fruit and yogurt, I have a couple of muffin things which apparently have some Far Eastern connection although you could hardly tell, and Mari eats for a week: omelette with Thai spiced prawns, muffins, croissants, toast and some sort of porridgelike thing with passion fruit in it. I show Dad the cutting from the Post.
“Why did you say all this?” he asks.
“Oh, fuck. I know, I’m so naive. She knows Piers, so I thought she might be able to help as a friend. How can she stab me in the back like that? I asked her not to.”
“Charlie, she’s a journalist.”
I look down at my plate.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay; so you learnt a lesson in business.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so.”
“First thing you’ve got to do is try and find these guys. I’ll put out some feelers too. I’ll find out more about them.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“What are the books looking like?”
“What?”
My dad smiles sadly. “What kind of financial shape is the company in?”
“We’ve achieved our two-monthly target of hits in just three weeks.”
“Yeah, yeah, great, but are those visitors spending money?”
“It’s not just about people spending money—”
“Charlie, listen, son, it’s always about people spending money.”
“Erm, I don’t know. I’ve never looked at the financial side of it.”
There is a flicker of concern across my dad’s immaculate, tanned, moisturised face. Is he wearing eyeliner again today? Never mind, I’ve got slightly more important things to worry about.
“You’d better have a look first thing on Monday.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not a director are you?”
“Er, yeah.”
“You are.” Suddenly he looks more serious. And I wanted him to be proud of me. “So you’re a signatory on the chequebooks?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you ever signed a cheque?”
“A few, of course, for some of the suppliers.”
My dad looks thoughtfully at me. “I’m sure you’re fine if you’ve still got the invoices and things then, but you’ve got to be careful you don’t implicate yourself in anything.”
“No, of course.”
“You realise that as a director, you’re legally responsible. If it can be proved that you’ve acted negligently or fraudulently you can be prosecuted or sued.”
I suddenly feel slightly sick. Like when I was a kid and I got stopped by the police for throwing stones and breaking the windows of an empty factory down the road. It was the naughtiest thing I had ever done—until now.
“Really?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t come to that, but watch out, hey, son,” he says kindly, reaching across and patting me on the shoulder. “And if you’ve got any questions, just give me a call.”
“Will do, sure.”
“Can they carry on paying you?”
“Yes, for the time being. Scarlett, who also works there, checked with the bank, and the account that our salaries come out of looks pretty healthy at the moment.” I don’t like to think about what state the other accounts 2cool has around the world might be in.
“Well, that’s one good thing.” Dad smiles broadly and then reaches across and squeezes my shoulder again. “Mari and I are going shopping. Wanna come?”
Chapter
16
The conversation with my dad gives me a sleepless night. Lauren tuts and moans as I turn over yet again. I can see myself being portrayed suddenly on some TV documentary as a crook. I’ve defrauded people. Interviews with angry creditors and innocent investors who were taken in by me. I think of the money we’ve been spending.
I suppose the most I can hope for is that I look naive, not criminal.
On Sunday, Lauren and I go to a lunchtime barbecue in Clapham with some other models from the agency and some friends of hers. Sarah and Mark are there, and as we stand by the French windows, glasses of Merlot in hand, we have a quiet, conspiratorial laugh together about how much—Sh!!—we actually hate barbecues.
“Botulism in a bun,” says Sarah, taking a drag of a ciggie and watching our host manfully trying to flip a crumbling homemade hamburger with an unwieldy kitchen utensil while being advised by his spouse.
Then she asks, “So, how’s the new job going?”
“Bit difficult at the moment,” I say, looking out at the garden.
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” There is a pause. “Don’t want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Sure. Look, Mark and I were thinking, why don’t you and Lauren come and spend a weekend with us at my parents’ place in France. Go on! It would be a laugh. Lots of lovely food and wine. Sunshine and swimming. Watching my parents bickering. Great spectator sport.”
I laugh. “I’d love to. I mean, we’d love to. I’ll go and ask her in a minute. Thanks.”
To avoid talking to anyone else about the site and answering the inevitable questions, I end up playing with the kids. Jack, who is two, and Lily, who is five, invent a game with some pebbles, toy cars and dollies and it keeps them occupied for hours. Me too.
“You’re so good with the children. Everyone’s very grateful to you for keeping them quiet,” says a woman I don’t know as she carries some dirty plates over my head into the kitchen.
When we get back there are two messages on the answer machine. My heart leaps. Perhaps, finally a call from Guy and Piers. The first is from Lauren’s mum, just ringing for a chat and sending me her love, and the second is
from my old mate Becky whom I haven’t seen for years.
“Hi, Charlie. It’s Becky. Long time no speak. Hope you’re well. Just ringing to say that I’ve had a baby. Louise Emily. Just over seven pounds. The father is a guy called Daniel, don’t think you’ve met him. We’ve been going out for two years. Not yet got around to the marriage thing—on my list of things to do, though. Sure we will. Always wanted to see Vegas!” She laughs. “Anyway, come and meet her! It would be really nice to see you.” She sends her love and leaves a number.
Becky and I had a minifling just before I met Lauren. It could have been my child, in another life. I could have been a father. I remember the woman at the party: “You’re so good with children.” So is Lauren actually, but then she is good at most things so perhaps it doesn’t really count.
On Monday I wait until lunchtime to make absolutely sure that Guy and Piers really aren’t coming into the office again, and then I tell Scarlett I’m going to ring the police.
“Good idea,” she says. Serious Scarlett is really frightening me now.
I decide not to ring 999. After all, it’s not really an emergency is it? Well, not yet. I didn’t sleep much on Saturday night after my conversation with Dad. Somehow reporting Guy and Piers missing will make it official: we really are in trouble, but, on the other hand, it also feels like I’m doing the right thing.
I speak to someone at the Missing Persons Unit. A woman with a kind voice takes all the details. She seems slightly surprised when I explain that I’m calling about two people.
“Two? Oh, right. Are they in a relationship?”
“With each other? No. Well, just a business relationship.”
“I see. What relation are you to either of them?”
“I work with them. For them.” Suddenly, following the conversation with my father, the distinction seems very important.
“Let me just check the database to make sure we haven’t had anyone else reporting them missing already.” She taps away for a moment and then says, “No. Funny. Usually it’s family and friends that report it first. Have you spoken to these men’s relations or people they know outside work?”