Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  When we first moved in, sometimes as we were making love, I would catch Lauren looking across at these mirrors, at the images of the two of us entwined. Her long legs around me or her perfect breasts cupped in my hands as she straddled me. At first I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or annoyed. Was she looking at me or at herself? Was it because the sex was so good? Or was it because it was so boring that she needed some sort of extra stimulation? Was she enjoying it or being subtly critical - making a note to work her thighs a bit more at the gym or advise me to keep off the beer and chips for a while.

  Now sometimes I glance across too. There I am with my girlfriend, almost like a stranger kissing her stomach as I move down her long, honey-tanned body, holding myself above her on my elbows as I push my way into her, slowly, conscientiously kissing her breasts. My own, private version of those articles you find in men's health and fitness magazines called things like 'How to achieve the ultimate climax' or 'How to give your woman the best time ever in bed'. Or just a home-made porn movie with me starring and directing.

  Sometimes I look over at the same time Lauren does and our eyes meet. We exchange a glance of love, lust, intimacy through the glass.

  Our whole home is beautiful I must say. It's Lauren's work, of course. A ground floor flat in a large Victorian house off Chiswick High Road, it has scrubbed pine floors, white washed walls, big Roy Lichtenstein-style prints plus little things she has picked up from antique shops and from a visit a few years ago to Morocco, especially arranged for the purpose. She did all the research about freighting the things home. Spoke to couriers, checked up on the paper work, got a good deal. Bullied, begged, and bribed her way through it. People love our flat as soon as they walk in. I tell them "It's all down to Lauren" and they say "Yeah, I can believe that."

  The sound of my mobile ringing shakes me out of my reverie.

  "Ye-e-e-llow" I say.

  "Charlie?"

  "Speaking. Karyn. How are you?"

  "Good, darling. You?"

  "Pretty good."

  "How did the Sunseekers casting go?"

  "Oh, pretty crap, actually."

  "Really? Why?"

  "I was wearing these really disgusting old undies..."

  "Oh, how lovely - I'm just visualising them. Anyway, you knew it was for a body shot, didn't you?"

  "No."

  "Oh, Charlie, you did."

  "Penny gave me the details."

  "Oh, I see."

  Penny might be Karyn's boss at the agency and a frighteningly tough business woman who can screw every penny out of a client for a model - and every penny out of a model for her agency - but her ability to pass on the simplest bits of information for any casting or job is negligible.

  "I think she was probably too pissed again," I explain.

  Karyn giggles.

  "Very possibly. Anyway, this is me giving you a casting so you know it will be totally correct in every detail."

  "If you say so."

  "I do say so. Now, got a pen?"

  "Hang on, let me get of bed."

  "What?"

  "Sorry, just exhausted after that casting."

  "Tough job being a model isn't it?" snaps Karyn. "Come on, I've got other people to talk to before six."

  "Ooh, 'scuse me. Right. Here we go. Shoot."

  "OK. It's to go to 11a Kenworth Mews, W11 to see a guy called Dave Howland. It's advertising for a new dotcom company - "

  "I thought they'd all gone under."

  "Fortunately for you matey, they haven't. This one is just launching and they need some advertising and some images for their homepage which is where we come in."

  "Jolly good."

  "So it's anytime between 10 and 12 tomorrow. Go smart-casual, you know, like a young entrepreneur."

  "I'm going to get this job." I tell her, remembering Lauren's sensible words.

  "'Course you are dear," says Karyn with exaggerated condescension, “just make sure you're wearing clean pants."

  Chapter Two

  I am the face of Lord James cigarettes.

  In Uruguay, that is. Laughing, talking to my friends, getting the girl, sipping a cocktail, elegantly smoking a cigarette - my picture appears in magazines and bill boards from Montevideo to Punte de l'Este. I'm on the side of the buses as they snort and push their way through the swirling exhaust fumes and jostling traffic on stiflingly hot days in the palm-filled squares, past crumbling former colonial mansions and along newly-built express ways. Peasant women from the outlying regions and girls from Spanish Catholic schools in stripy uniforms get on these buses and they must sometimes look up at my face smiling down at them.

  Do those women really believe that I am some British aristo who likes nothing more than to enjoy a relaxing ciggie with his smart friends? Do those school girls giggle and wonder who am I, what I'm like in real life and where I live? Or do they think I'm just another tosser in a stupid ad? (Obviously I hope not - although in strictly moral terms, it is probably more acceptable than their being so overwhelmed with my handsome face and the mood of effortless elegance which I embody that they actually start smoking the disgusting things that I'm advertising).

  And when those buses go back to their corrugated iron sheds at night in the outskirts of the city I'm still smiling, smoking, talking to my friends, my face inches away from my face on another bus or pressed up against the image of a dark haired woman advertising a Brazilian soap opera.

  So, although I've never been to Uruguay and I don't particularly want to go, I suppose that if I walked down the street in Montevideo, somebody would stop and stare and nudge someone else and say: "Hey, that's the guy from the Lord James ads". That's fame, you see - someone knows you even if you don't know them.

  People have done it to me in Britain. I was once standing on a tube station platform when two women with shopping bags looked across at me and began to giggle. I smiled back, slightly bemused. Then I checked my fly and rubbed my mouth just to make sure that it didn't still have toothpaste on it or something. What's their problem? I thought, irritably. It was only when I turned round that I noticed a huge poster behind me on the tube station wall: my smiling face looking up at a stewardess in an advertisement for a business class airline seats.

  With my swept back blond hair, linen suit and smooth, tanned skin, I'm also the face of Lord James cigarettes in Paraguay, Ecuador, New Guinea and various specified southern states of Brazil and associated territories for poster, print and point of sale advertising with no specific conditions attached until June 2005 when the license will have to be renewed. And, if it is (oh, please, oh, please), I'll get another big, fat cheque - for doing absolutely nothing.

  I remember being in the agency when the call came to say that I had got the job. Since it was the end of the day one of the girls dashed out to the corner shop and bought a bottle of Australian Chardonnay. We toasted my success with our plastic cups. "Well done, darling," said Karyn, kissing me on the lips. "Thanks, babe," I said, putting my arm around her waist, knowing it looked pretty cool, but hoping all the same that it was okay by her.

  Penny also kissed me on the lips so that I could taste her bright red lipstick, as well as the stale alcohol on her breath from her lunchtime session.

  "Congrats, darling," she growled at me. "You're an absolute bloody star. Isn't he, everyone?" There were murmurs of agreement from all around me.

  I'd never been in the agency before when one of these big jobs came through - previously I'd just be told about it on the phone so I wasn't sure of the etiquette, whether to say 'Thanks' to them for helping me or just look pleased with myself. I suddenly felt rather embarrassed at being the centre of attention. It's not like I could explain how I got the role, what special skill or strategy I'd employed. I’d just turned up at the casting, showed some guy my book, let them take a Polaroid of me, as they always do for some unfathomable reason even though they've got your card with half a dozen pictures on it anyway, said 'Thanks very much' and went home. But somehow I d
id it. So there I was. The man of the hour.

  "Hey, bud!" Brad, one of the girls' bookers, gave me the high-five model handshake, a giant pec moving under his skin tight 'Army' T-shirt. "Mr Uruguay!" It wasn't very funny really, but we all laughed, glad to have something to laugh about. Then we stood in silence and everyone sipped, eyes looking up for someone to speak next. I took a deep breath. "I could do with a cigarette." I said. "Shame I don't smoke". Everyone laughed again.

  "Sophisticated, confident, European," the brief from the ad people had said. That's me. Well, if they say so, but then who am I to argue?

  I arrive at the casting early because I know it'll get busier later, old pro that I am. Unfortunately lots of other old pros are there too having had the same idea. But perhaps the other reason I'm usually early for these things is simply because I hate hanging around with other models. I nod hello to a few familiar faces and have a brief chat with a red headed guy called Brian, who is from Glasgow and who I did a job with a few months ago when we both spent an afternoon in a brand new office in Docklands, pouring over a laptop computer and then shaking hands - doing what is known in the trade as the 'grip and grin'.

  On the way here I've been doing Lauren's thing and telling myself that I'm the man they're looking for and this is the perfect job for me, but I always feel a bit of burk doing it - thank goodness no one can hear me. Unless, of course, I'm actually talking out loud. The clients are late, natch. At nearly half past ten when the room is beginning to fill up and I've read most of my paper and am sliding a creased old copy of Men’s Health out from under a precarious pile of magazines on the coffee table, two thirty-something guys burst in, one gushing apologies at everyone and telling us that his breakfast meeting ran over, the other standing back and offering a quiet 'So, sorry' to the girl running the casting.

  She offers them both coffee and the talkative guy reacts as if she's just left him her house in her will. They are shown into another room, Mr Verbosity still apologising and thanking everyone in sight. Somehow the collective malevolence radiating from us models - especially those of us who have been here now for nearly three quarters of an hour - escapes him and he just smiles wildly at us.

  "Sorry guys." He says lightly. We smile back absolution with varying degrees of sincerity, each thinking 'Just shut up and get on with it, you incompetent tosser.' The other guy seems to pick up this vibe and looks genuinely embarrassed, smiling nervously.

  I'm fourth in. There is a strict order in these matters even if no one is keeping a list. First come, first served. Anyone who tries to get ahead risks being ripped limb from limb by their fellow models. Got to get off to another casting? Haven't we all, mate? Got a job in half an hour? Go and do it then. Car on a meter? Should have taken the bus. Need urgent dialysis? Bite on a towel, bud. You can steel my money, take my girlfriend, shoot my dog, but don't ever try and get ahead of me in a casting.

  I walk in and say:

  "Hello, Charlie Barrett. Good to meet you."

  "Charlie. Excellent. Piers," says the talkative one, extending a hand. "My associate, Guy." I shake hands with him too and then hand them my book. It's the standard format - good, strong headshot at the front then a mixture of fashion, lifestyle, business - me with suit looking at watch, staring down into laptop, walking fast with another guy- then a bit of young Dad stuff with a girl and a four year old, plus a couple of my weddings. They flick through and I give them my well-rehearsed anecdotes. "That was actually taken at seven in the morning, even though I'm wearing a DJ", "That kid was such a brat", "The girl I'm with there presents something on Sky TV now", "That one? Thanks. Actually the photographer got really drunk at lunchtime, I'm just amazed it's in focus. Ha, ha."

  Piers laughs uproariously and Guy smiles and asks more questions. They ask me how long I've been modelling and I tell them since I left University.

  "What did you read?" says Piers, obviously surprised that someone in such a brainless profession could have gone to university. Don't worry about it Piers, I'm used to it.

  "Marketing. At Leeds," I tell him.

  "Really? Why are you...?"

  "In this daft game?" I laugh. Does that sound too cynical? Oops, never mind - plenty more jobs out there. "I thought I'd do it for a while after university and, well, here I am eight years later."

  "It's a form of marketing, I suppose," says Guy.

  "Yeah, I suppose it is." I say, hoping to recover the situation.

  "OK, Charlie, that's splendid," says Piers. "Absolutely fantastic. Great pictures. Thanks very much for coming in to see us."

  "Thanks, Charlie" says Guy.

  I smile, take my book back, and then it's the next bloke's turn.

  First come first served is how I first met Lauren. I'd seen her at castings before a couple of times. Even in a room dotted with stunning women you couldn't fail to spot Lauren. There was something about her manner and her self-assurance. She certainly knew how to make an entrance too, she breezed in as if she was doing a catwalk show, ignoring looks of interest from the boys and depressed resentment from the girls.

  It was a casting for a new type of mobile phone. Europe wide. Lots of money. Even more models up for it. She gave her name, turned around without looking at anybody else and found a seat. Then she dipped into her bag and took out a book called 'Know the market: Choosing the best ISA for you.' 'What?' I thought. Around her other female models are reading Marie Claire or novels about girls with fat thighs, a Chardonnay habit and no boyfriends. This girl even seemed to be enjoying her improving tome. She brought a pen out of her bag and made a note in the margin.

  I knew I was staring and I knew she would sense it and look up in a moment but I didn't care. In fact her eyes didn't move away from her book so I went back to my own reading matter - a mindless thriller. A few moments later I realised that there was some discussion going on about whose turn it was next, because one girl had arrived late but had been allowed to go in early. I could sense the tension rising. The girl at the desk was checking her list and muttering "Just hang on a sec....what was your name again?". Another model said something about being before someone else and having to be away by four because she had to pick her daughter up from her boyfriend. Lauren was also looking up from her book now. I wasn't that bothered - I had all day with nothing else to do and the sight of a model cat fight always amuses me. But suddenly Lauren was speaking and the others were quiet.

  "It's you next, then you, because you agreed to let her go ahead" she said talking to another girl. "And then you, followed by me. OK?"

  Whether that was the right order or not, there was something about Lauren's confident tone that prohibited any further discussion. A challenge to 'Argue with that, if you dare', seemed to hang in the air as the other models decided slowly that it probably made sense. Lauren went back to her book and everyone else fell silent, either satisfied or terrified.

  Fucking hell, I thought. Luckily my turn came before hers and I hung around afterwards, clutching my rucksack and an A to Z, pretending that I was just in the process of leaving and, hey, gosh, you got another casting, too? I'd also thought of mentioning something about ISAs but I couldn't think of anything intelligent or funny to say about them. Know any ISA jokes, anyone?

  In fact she nearly breezed past me, so I had rush after her and catch her up.

  "Hi," I said.

  "Oh, hello," she said, looking slightly surprised.

  "You were just in that casting weren't you?" I had hoped to do this a bit more subtly but I was in for it now and so there was no turning back.

  "Oh, yes" she said, not having to add: 'Were you? I didn't notice you.'

  "Erm, how did it go?"

  She stopped walking and turned to look at me properly.

  "Not bad. I don't think I got it, though - I think I'm too English looking for the kind of girl they were looking for. I asked the casting director which countries it's being sold to and I think they wanted someone more American, more West Coast, sort of a Kirsten Dunst or a Camero
n Diaz."

  "Yes," I said dumbly.

  "How about you?" Well in my case the agency told me to go and I'd gone. That was it.

  "Erm, seemed okay, but I don't think I got it either."

  She looked at me for a moment. Then she said:

  "Never mind, you always learn something about your look and the potential market for it at every casting I think, don't you?"

  "Yes, I suppose so." She smiled (patronisingly?) and then carried on walking. I heard myself calling after her: "I wondered, actually, whether you'd like to go for a drink sometime?"

  She stopped again and then slowly walked back towards me.

  "What's your name?" she asked.

  "Erm." Oh shit, what is my name? I thought, panic gripping me like an anaconda. "Charlie, Charlie Barrett" I said, at last. It sounded like I'd just made it up. That was right, wasn't it? Yeah, Charlie Barrett, that's me.

  "Thing is Charlie Barrett, I'm booked up all this week -"

  "Ohrightnoproblemsureofcoursejustwonderednevermind," I spewed elegantly.

  "But I could do lunch on Wednesday."

  "Lunch?"

  "Yeah, why not? You do have lunch don't you?"

  "Yes I have lunch every Wednesday," I said. It was supposed to be a joke but I'm still not sure how it sounded.

  "Give me your number and I'll ring you in the morning to confirm where and when," she said. I thought, 'Oh I see, that's a nice way to do it'. You won't ring, you'll accidentally lose it and I'll be too embarrassed to mention it if we ever meet again at a casting. Slightly despondently I gave her my number and expected nothing.

  But she did ring me. We went out to a little Italian restaurant in Soho where she had fish and salad because she was on a high protein/low carb diet. I ordered chicken kiev. I didn't particularly want it but I'd been too busy talking to look at the menu and when the waiter came it was the first thing I saw.

  "You're not doing any swimwear stuff at the moment," she said as I gave my order.