"What experience have you got in marketing?" she asks, shovelling food into her mouth as if she hadn't eaten for a week.
"I've got a degree in it."
"That all?"
Her bluntness takes me by surprise but I get back into my stride: "Well, to be a successful model, you have to market yourself effectively. After all, you're selling yourself as a distinctive product at every casting and when you do a job you have to be in tune mentally with whatever you're selling, be it fashion or... I don't know, office furniture, or holidays," I waffle fluently, cobbling together some of the things Piers, Guy and Lauren have said to me recently. Sounds good, anyway - we're on a roll here.
"Suppose so. What kind of things did you model?"
I really want to get away from the modelling thing so I say quickly: "Clothes, holidays, laptop computers, but this is a more exciting challenge."
"I think I've seen your face. Did you do that one for a bank or something where you're walking across a station concourse while everyone else is in slow motion."
"Yes. So what else are you writing at the moment?" I ask pointedly, as the waiter, thankfully not the one she's just stabbed, takes our plates.
"I've got to interview a woman this afternoon who's just discovered that her husband is married to three other women." She looks up at me over the top of her heavy glasses then she pushes aside a stray hair that has fallen out of place as she has been shovelling her food.
"Three other women?"
"I know, I suppose if you're going to do these things you might as well do it big, really go for it."
"Why not? Do it in style."
"Even if you fall on your ass," she says taking a sip of wine.
We leave the restaurant at gone three o'clock. I can't believe where the time has gone but I'm just relieved it has. As we make for the door, Nora manages to take out another waiter, this time by walking into him as he is carrying a stack of dirty plates. She is telling me about a piece she did some time ago about people who have married their old school teachers, walking fast through the crowded restaurant turning her head round completely to talk to me. I try and warn her about where she is headed but perhaps she doesn't notice or she cottons on just too late and so, either way, seconds later there are plates everywhere, one of which slides elegantly down the back of a woman I recognise as a TV weather presenter.
"Oh, no," says Nora, only mildly concerned. "Did I do that? I'm so sorry."
The weather presenter's face has what could be described as a black cloud on it. She looks slightly absurd, glowering at Nora, her familiar smiley face now contorted with fury while she tries to see what kind of damage the dirty plate has done to the back of her bright pink jacket.
"Oh, shit. What a mess," says Nora. Is she enjoying this? "Don't worry", she says, "that kind of fabric dry-cleans really well. I had a jacket like that - last year."
The recipient of her helpful observation opens her mouth to say something but is speechless.
"Just send the bill to the restaurant - I would," says Nora, touching her shoulder kindly.
I say good-bye to Nora at the top of the street and suggest she gives me a ring if she has any questions. She says she will do that and that the piece should be in the paper on Monday.
As soon as I get back to the office I brief Guy and Piers on the lunch. They seem pleased with how it went although I missed out the final disastrous episode.
"She should be a useful ally in the PR campaign," says Piers. "I met her recently at a dinner party and I thought she could be helpful to us.
"Right, next thing on the agenda for you mate is the launch party," says Guy. "We've booked Frederica's - do you know it?"
"That big place in Berkeley Square?"
"Yep, we've got the whole place. Piers' dad knows the owner. Saved us a bomb. It's all booked for next Friday."
"A week tomorrow?"
"Yep, hope you can make it," says Guy, only half joking.
"Oh, yes, of course. That's brilliant." I say, genuinely impressed.
"Our PR company have developed a guest list for us. Can you look over it and let us know about any thoughts you have - anyone else you think we should ask. Ta."
Scarlett hands me a file with lists of names and their organisations. There are newspapers and magazines - Vogue, Harper's, Tatler, GQ, Esquire, Wallpaper*, some TV presenters and a batch of celebs, most of whom I've heard of, with a note of their agencies, some models with agencies and figures next to them. "Sophia Kendall - £5,000," says one.
"Is she doing a shoot for us?" I ask Scarlett, pointing to her name.
"No, that's her attendance fee."
"What? She's being paid for coming to our party?"
"Yep. For..." she runs her finger further along the line, pushing mine out of the way, until she finds what she's looking for. "For a minimum of 55 minutes. Any less and she's in breach of contract."
"Any more?" I ask, not really interested but thinking vaguely of overtime - every model's first thought (after travel expenses and buyouts).
"Sophia won't be here for thirty seconds more than her contract states - our doormen will time her entry and departure," says Scarlett, rolling her eyes towards her eyebrow ring.
There are other names on the list: aristo model Henrietta Banbury, £4,000, one hour ten minutes, Blue Peter presenter, Sarah Jones, two hours subject to other commitments on the evening, exact timing to be decided with agent by 5pm, £2,000. And, oh fuck, the weather presenter in the pink jacket, well, the pink, brown, yellow and red jacket. She'll be pleased to see me. I can't help smiling at her fee: £500.
"Simon Smith, the PR, is coming in at four to talk us through it and to confirm the other arrangements," says Scarlett.
"OK. Simon Smith." I murmur, really just trying cope with the all names and information being fired at me.
"Yes" says Scarlett, picking up her phone. "He's a tosser."
Simon Smith from The Communications Game seems like a nice bloke although he does engage in what appears to be an amateur arm wrestling match with Piers. They call each other 'Wanker', 'arse face' and 'donkey bollocks' before he sits down with me.
"We've invited A-list celebs and movers and shakers. See people like Richard Branson, Jonathan Ross, Rik Mayall," he explains, staring me hard in the face.
He fiddles with his silk cuff links as I whizz down the list and nod approvingly.
"Anyone we should add?"
"Um, there are a couple. One is the TV producer Peter Beaumont-Crowther - you've heard of him?”
"Oh, yes, of course," says Simon, scribbling on the list.
"And the other is my girlfriend, Lauren."
Simon and Scarlett exchange glances and I wonder if I've over stepped the mark. For God's sake, it's one person in 2,000.
"We don't really have much more in the budget for models," says Scarlett.
"Oh, she usually comes to parties free of charge," I say dead pan, realising what a terrible lost money making opportunity this is for her.
"Splendid," says Simon, shuffling the papers together. "I think you've approved the menus, haven't you?"
"I haven't," I say. It comes out slightly petulantly so I add: "I wouldn't mind having a look."
Silently Scarlett takes out another file and I read through the menu of Japanese-style black cod, poached sea urchins, miniature smoked reindeer soufflés. Champagnes: Pol Roger, Laurent Perrier, Krug. Price per head: £250.
"Bloody hell! £250? Times 2,000 people. That's...."
"Half a million quid," says Scarlett calmly.
Chapter Six
"When did you hear?" I ask Lauren.
"I got back from a casting this afternoon. I was just putting my key in the door when my mobile went and it was Peter."
"So what's it for again?" We're lying on the settee. We've just made love. Lauren told me about her audition within seconds of my getting in through the door and then she pounced on me. We did it in the living room - something we haven't done for ages. Well, not
since we, I mean Lauren, had the settee dry-cleaned. The mirror here is an antique faded Venetian job resting on the white limestone mantelpiece so we can hardly actually see each other in it. It often occurs to me that it must dawn on people who come for dinner or to our parties (Lauren loves entertaining) as they see our flat that we actually live the scrubbed pine, neutral coloured, elegantly understated, sun lit lifestyle we spend so much of our time advertising. Sometimes even I'm not quite sure where our work ends and our real lives begin.
I push my face into her breasts, kissing and biting them gently.
"Charlieeeee", she says pushing me away. "Stop it. Aren't you interested?"
"Of course I am. I told you, I'm so pleased for you babe, honestly. What's the show again - sort of a dating thing?"
"Well, each week we take an ordinary person and the idea is that a group of experts - psychologists, agony aunts and other people - assess who would be the right boy or girl to go out with that person and then I have to find one with the help of their friends - on the street, at a club, at work."
"That's great. How many are up for it?"
"There are just three of us - I got through the first two rounds just on the strength of my audition tape alone."
"You're a star. I told you."
"How was your day?" she asks rearranging her hair and sniffing it for some reason. Must be a girlie thing. I sniff my armpit in reply and tell her: "Pretty busy. I had lunch with this journo who's going to write something about the site."
"That's good. Did you fix that up?"
"Well, no, Piers did. She was bloody weird. Dressed like a tramp - bizarre clothes that sort of didn't match - wouldn't match anything really." I can see her now, sitting opposite me at the table. Intense and provocative. Totally unselfconscious. I've never felt quite so closely observed. Even casting directors don't look at you that deeply - they just check out your face but she seemed to be going further. Probing, penetrating. Was she taking the piss throughout the whole meal? Or is that how she is with everyone? She must be clever. When I asked her about her career she told me she went to Vasser and Columbia journalism school. Perhaps if you're as bright as her it's tempting to take the piss out of everyone else - the less bright of this world. Especially a former male model who's trying to persuade you that he works for the planet's coolest website.
"And?"
"Erm," I'm shaken out of my unexpected reverie. "Erm, oh God, and then, when were leaving she crashed into this waiter," I laugh. "Just smashed into him. Plates flying. Food everywhere." I tell her about the weather presenter. "It was so funny, Nora, this journalist, was like 'Hey, ho! These things happen."
Lauren says: "God, how embarrassing. I'd have died. That woman, what's her name, should have sued for the dry cleaning or costs, or even the whole jacket. You'd have loads of witnesses."
"It was funny." I say. I suppose you had to be there. With Nora, still intent on carrying on her conversation, oblivious to the chaos she had just caused.
"Sounds more dangerous than funny."
"You know me, I've just got a strange sense of humour." I begin to kiss her breasts, tasting the slight salty sweat on them, feeling myself get hard again.
"Oh, well," says Lauren looking down at me and squeezing my ear which she knows I like. "Makes a change from you throwing food all over the woman you're having lunch with."
I smile sarcastically.
"You still think that was an accident."
She makes a face and pushes me away.
"I think we should celebrate our successful weeks - do something fun on Saturday," I say. "Let's hire one of those £30-a-day cars and drive into the country, it's going to be lovely this weekend. We could go to -"
"I can't hon, I've got to practice for this next audition," she says, getting up and putting her bra back on.
"Oh, OK." I look at her, looking at herself in the one reflective spot of mirror. Is this how it's going to be with the new career? Weekends spent practising for auditions? What shall I do? I used to spend Saturday afternoons playing football with some old mates from University, a couple of other models and a guy called James who everyone thought was a friend of everyone else but who, it turned out, was pretty good in goal.
Then we'd go to a pub in Barnes, the game contracting and the drinking expanding, depending on the weather, how many of us turned up and how energetic those that did felt. I wonder if they still play? When Lauren and I bought this place my Saturdays were suddenly spent at Ikea, Habitat and The Pier, or painting and sanding under her direction, or just holding the end of things while Lauren made comments like "Oh, watch what you're doing, will you?"
"It'll take all Saturday, will it?" I ask in rather a small voice.
"Sorry?" Lauren is running her fingers over the mantelpiece and looking at the resultant thin film of dust irritably. Was it my week for dusting? Well, if there's still dust around, it probably was.
"It's not going to take all day, is it? Why don't we go out on Saturday evening and celebrate. I'll book La Trompette, shall I?"
"Charlie," she says, turning round. Oh fuck, now what? It's just a bit of dust, for God's sake.
"What's happening on Saturday night?" Phew, acquitted on dust charges anyway.
"This is something I should know about, isn't it?" I surmise. Accurately, as it happens.
"Yes, Saturday night, I told you."
"You didn't."
"Oh Charlie," she says shaking her head, trying not to smile. "I told you weeks ago: dinner. Tim and Sally, Mark and Sarah and I've invited Peter too."
"You didn't tell me." OK, perhaps she did but I'm a bloke and I'm no good with these things.
"I bloody well did, sieve brain. I assume you can make it."
"Yes, of course I can. Sorry babe."
"It's not your fault, you're just a boy."
"Guilty, m'lud. I mean, m'lady."
She takes my face in her hands and kisses me deeply.
"I love you."
"Love you too."
"Even if your memory is crap - and your dusting's abysmal."
While Lauren is doing her audition practice, I decide to make a duty call and go and see my Dad. My Dad lives in Docklands now and he is very happy for me to come round to his flat, I mean 'place'. As long as it's not too early that is.
He works in advertising. Ten years ago he set up an agency with two colleagues half his age. Dad is actually an accountant and was working with them in a big agency balancing the books and looking for tax breaks, but when these two guys - Cambridge educated, off the wall twenty somethings who exist in a world of street fashion labels, pop culture and wall to wall irony - decided to go solo, they realised that his dull, safe financial know-how forms an essential bedrock to the company and so they invited him to join them.
Needless to say my Mum wasn't keen. She pointed out the risks of starting a new business with reference to her auntie who had opened a wool shop in Lewes in the seventies and failed, reminded him that he was comfortably on his way to retirement and just sighed a lot when these two arguments failed to convince him. I think it was her retirement point that actually clinched it for him and made him go out and do it.
He pointed out that he had paid off the mortgage, the children had left home and, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He didn't mention the real reason: mid-life crisis, but then perhaps he wasn't aware of it.
The new company, Matthewman Kendall Barrett (the order of names should tell you something) won a clutch of big accounts with their cheeky, irreverent approach, grabbed some headlines in Campaign magazine, provoked a couple of outcries from the Daily Mail over risqué copy lines and then quickly floated. Suddenly my Dad was 50 and a millionaire. He decided to get a new wardrobe and a new car. He got rid of his old suits, his Volvo estate and his wife and set up home in a Docklands' penthouse flat that has its own lift, speakers in the ceiling and panoramic views of the Thames - just beyond some corrugated irons sheds and a double glazing storage depot that is.
Getting there is near impossible: you have to go to a perpetually windswept DLR station and then ring for a taxi which takes you along the dual carriageways, through the post-industrial wasteland to a shimmering white residential Fort Knox, which has a surly security guard and a 'Marketing Suite' which is permanently open.
Dad has had a number of girlfriends since he left my Mum but to be honest I tend to get them confused: they're all thirty years younger than him, all blonde, all leggy and have names that end in 'i' like Linzi, Leoni, Nikki and Toni. I'm sure most of them put a smiley face in the dot of the 'i' when they sign their names although none of them have ever written to me.
Amongst other things my Dad bought was a coffee table supported with the kneeling fibre glass figure of a naked woman in a leather Basque which he proudly showed to me when I went over there once. Holding our shots of frozen flavoured vodka, we circled it, studying it intensely.
"Sexy, eh?" said my old man, eyeing up the cellulite free, rock hard curves of her behind in a way that still makes me shudder slightly.
"I think it's supposed to be ironic, Dad." I said uneasily, trying to make out the woman's expression. He walked round to get a better view of her face too.
"Yeah, whatever," he said.
When I finally penetrate the security and arrive at my Dad's flat he has obviously just got up and is still in a sort of Kimono thing. My initial reaction is to say 'I think you're a bit old for that, aren't you?' but then, of course, that observation applies to his entire life so really what's the point? Dad thinks he is Hugh Heffner made over by Stussy. My sister says that he is more Austin Powers meets Burton's.
"Hey Charlie," he says, hugging me and slapping me on the back. Unlike my mother, Dad does call me Charlie and he seems to really like the name. Whose idea was Keith anyway? But I still call him Dad, not Jared, as he sometimes asks me to. I suppose Jared is similar to John, but then it was John who was married to my mother and fathered me so I'm a bit sensitive about that.
"Hi Dad," I say, wondering in and looking around with a mixture of intrigue and trepidation for his latest purchase. "Pool table's gone."
Model Guy Page 6