Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "No, that's true," says Scarlett. "Perhaps they're at a meeting. Let me check their diaries."

  "I think we might have heard something though don't you?"

  "Erm, let just me have a look at what they've got booked in at the moment," murmurs Scarlett, tapping away and glancing at her screen. "No, you're right there's nothing here in their diaries, so they've obviously been murdered."

  "Thanks Scarlett, very helpful."

  "Oh, I'm just kidding don't worry, Charlie. They'll ring in soon I'm sure."

  "I suppose so but it just bugs me that they piss off like this. Someone must know where they are - haven't they got friends or something?"

  "You've met them," says Zac by way of an answer.

  "They must do," says Scarlett. "Let me ring their home numbers."

  A few moments later she reports that she got answer machines on both.

  "Like I said, they'll be in later, I'm sure," she says, putting back her headphones.

  I look round at Zac who is, as usual, nearly horizontal with one leg crossed loosely over the other. He's wearing a T-shirt that says 'Lesbian in a man's body.' He shrugs his shoulders and looks back to his screen.

  I decide to go out and get a cappuccino.

  By mid afternoon, I'm both quietly satisfied that I was right to worry, unlike the others, but at the same decidedly unnerved. We've all left more messages for them everywhere we can think of.

  "Mind you, creative people are like that," says Scarlett. "When I worked in the music business people would disappear for days and then just turn up again. They're highly sensitive, highly strung."

  "Really? What they hell had they been doing?"

  Scarlett thinks about it.

  "Drugs usually."

  I'm the last to leave the office. I decide to ring my old mate Ben. We were at college but then he got a sensible job. He's read about the site.

  "Saw that picture of you in the paper - you looked a right tosser, if you don't mind me saying," he tells me over a beer in a pub in the City where he works.

  "No, you're right; I did look like a tosser."

  "How's it going then with this thing?"

  "Really well." I say wondering whether to be honest. "We've hit our targets for visitors."

  "What are your margins like?"

  "Margins?"

  He smiles.

  "Profit margins."

  "Oh, yeah of course. Profit margins."

  He smiles again.

  "Well, how are they?"

  "Too early to tell...oh all right, fuck off smarty pants. I don't know. I don't really have a lot to do with that."

  The smile turns more patronising.

  "Let me get this straight - you're the marketing director and you don't know much about the profit margins. "It's early days, too soon to tell."

  "What about the projections? I mean the profit projections -"

  "I know what you mean. Look, Ben, all right, I don't know but I'm sure they're healthy."

  "What about the business plan?"

  "Bugger the business plan, I don't know."

  "OK, just wondered. You should ask your fellow directors, though. What are their names? Piers and Guy?"

  "Yeah, you're right, perhaps I will."

  Except one slight problem. I turn the conversation around to him and his new job at the bank.

  I get back to the flat at gone ten and Lauren still isn't home yet from seeing Peter so I make myself some baked beans on toast with extra butter and tomato ketchup.

  I wake up feeling cold and uncomfortable on the settee. There is something I don't recognise on the telly. The reason I've woken up is that Lauren has just come in.

  "Oh, hi hon, you still up?" she says, kicking off her shoes.

  "Yeah," I groan, "must have fallen asleep."

  "Come on let's get you to bed."

  "Sure." I yawn and stretch. "What time is it?"

  "Erm, just after three."

  "What?"

  "Just after three, you fell asleep in front of the telly."

  "Never mind about me, where have you been all this time?"

  In the cold, blue, flickering light of the telly Lauren looks surprised and irritated.

  "What do you mean 'Where have I been?'"

  "It's bloody three o'clock in the morning; I thought you were just going for a drink or something."

  "Then we had something to eat and then we went to a club Peter's a member of."

  "Till this time?"

  "Yes, dad."

  "Sorry, it's just a bit late, that's all." I pull myself up to standing, feeling groggy and dizzy.

  "I'm getting a bit fed up with this, Charlie. I told you I was seeing Peter tonight and I don't expect you to be holding a stop watch against me."

  She walks out and I sit back down again with my head in my hands.

  Next day there is still no sign of Piers and Guy.

  "I'm going to their homes," I tell Scarlett.

  "Good idea. I can't think of anything else to do," she says seriously. Scarlett serious. Now I'm really worried.

  "What about your friend Nora?" says Zac.

  "What about her?"

  "She knows Piers doesn't she?"

  "Actually she does, doesn't she? She might have some idea where he is or at least who might know."

  I ring her.

  "Hey Charlie, how's it going?" she says.

  "Not bad, you?"

  "Okay. Thanks for the other night. It was nice."

  "Yeah, it was, wasn't it? Nora, I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from Piers."

  "Piers? No why?"

  "Well, he seems to have disappeared. And Guy. We haven't heard from either of them for days."

  "Really? What? Nothing?"

  "No, they haven't been into the office. We've tried to track them down on their mobiles but there's no answer."

  "How bizarre."

  "It is a bit, isn't it? Never mind, just wondered if you'd heard anything. You do know Piers anyway, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do. Look I'll try and get hold of some of his other friends."

  "Thanks Nora, could you let me know if you hear anything."

  She sounds distracted for a moment.

  "Yes, of course. Sorry, when did you last see them again?"

  "Well, Piers came in on Thursday but we haven't seen Guy at all since Wednesday."

  "Mmm. Almost all week. And no one's heard anything from them?

  "No. Nothing."

  "So you've rung their mobile numbers?"

  "Yep, nothing."

  "Bit worrying isn't it?"

  "Well it is a bit. Anyway, as I say, if you hear anything just give me a ring."

  "Erm, yep will do. Do you think the site will suffer without them, they are the leading lights aren't they?"

  "Well, 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 wished 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 are 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 write about this are you?"

  "Erm, write about it?"

  "Yes, put it in the bloody pa
per."

  "Erm, well, I don't know. I mean it might help, mightn't it?"

  "Help bugger the whole thing up completely you mean. Look you'd better not."

  "Okay," she says half heartedly.

  "Nora, please don't."

  "Oh, honestly Charlie."

  "I said 'don't'!"

  "And I heard you. Look 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 the three of us 'left' as Nora's puts it, I'm the only one with any sort of responsibility or common sense. I realise that the suit I'm in today is Armando Basi, bought by 2cool and that most of what I wear these days comes from the company, either our stylists or via my smart new totally transparent 2cool branded credit card. Like I say, I'm sure it's all kosher and above board, 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 that 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 fire place with some china ornaments on it and some invitations. Next to it is a large telly.

  On the floor, on the 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 slipping 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 so which must make watching telly almost impossible.

  There is not much else I can do other than to knock on the window hard and shout through the letter box. 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' 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 back 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 back 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 house.

  I'm up before Lauren is awake for once the next day - Saturday - and I dash out to buy The Post. Walking back to the flat I begin to flick through it. 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

  2COOL TWO GO MISSING

  Hyper cool website 2cool2btrue.com was in chaos last night following the disappearance of its two leading lights, Guy Watkins and Piers Gough-Pugh. Questions were being asked about the whereabouts 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.

  Watkins and Gough-Pugh have been missing most of the week although the police have yet to be informed.

  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 difficult for the company to build on its remarkably successful launch, which followed a party at Frederica's night club in London's Belgravia, 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 half a million pound Fulham home 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 the 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 seriously as we do with any report of a missing person."

  By the time I get back to the flat Lauren is wandering 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 I present it to her. Seeing my stupid face grinning up 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 with 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. Sod's law 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 and 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 try 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-voulez 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 obviously walks in and takes the phone from her.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, it's me, Charlie."

  "Hi, kiddo."

  "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 - th
ere'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 a 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 blond hair - well, 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.

  My 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 or porridge like 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 - 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 OK, 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. Look, I'll put out some feelers too. I'll try and find out something 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 just about people spending money."

  "Erm, I don't know. I've never looked at the financial side of it."

  There is flicker of concern across my Dad's immaculate, tanned, moisturised, face. Is he wearing eye liner again today? Never mind, I've got slightly more important things to worry about.

  "You'd better have a look first thing on Monday."