Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "So, from male model to computer whiz," says Slapton as we stand in the open doorway.

  "Hardly," I laugh. He nods thoughtfully looking at me hard, eyes boring into me so that I have to look away.

  "Perhaps myself and PC Newton here should set ourselves up as models - call ourselves Ugly Bastards Incorporated or something."

  I laugh again. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I've already clocked Slapton's face with its broken veins, the cuts and stray hairs where he hasn't shaved properly, his blood shot eyes, the chest hair poking up over the top of his collar and his stomach bulging through his cheap shirt. Call me vain but how can anyone let themselves go that like?

  "Oh, no, modelling isn't all it's cracked up to be, believe me," I mutter, opening the door. "That's why I got out of it."

  "Spending a whole day doing nothing except hanging round with beautiful women?" he says. "Eh? Can't be bad."

  "Well, it does have its good points," I laugh. "Anyway, great, thanks very much. Bye."

  I close the door and rest my head on it for a moment at which point a voice from across the room snorts sarcastically: "Well, it does have its good points, fnurr, fnurr."

  "Oh, fucking hell, Scarlett, what else I was supposed to say? At least we haven't been arrested."

  "I know" she says. "What a fucking waste of gear. They didn't even search me - this time."

  Chapter Eighteen

  It's black tie, this do at Sir James Huntsman's, as if it wasn't a pain in the arse enough already. Usually Lauren ties my bowtie for me after I've cursed and sworn for a while but this time I don't even want to ask her. She's cooking herself an omelette in the kitchen and I leave her to it.

  The final attempt looks like I've at least made an effort although the breeze from a butterfly wing in South America will probably cause it to unfurl again.

  "Bye, then," I tell her. "I won't be back too late."

  "OK," she says without looking around, her fork suspended in mid-air and her legs crossed as she sits at a stool by the breakfast bar, reading a magazine while she eats. That I'm going to this thing with Nora hasn't helped relations between us. Added to which is the fact that instead of getting out of the whole 2cool mess, I seem to be wading in even deeper.

  Even though it’s warm outside I'm wearing a Mack so that I don't look too conspicuous. I'm five minutes early at the pub and I order a whiskey for my nerves. Then another. The juke box comes on and bloke begins to sing in a thin tremulous voice:

  "It's truth, yeah, yeah, that has to be repeated:

  Our love united, yeah, babe, can never be defeated."

  Nora, funnily enough, is late.

  "Sorry," she says, spotting me at the bar. "We had a bit of a crisis at work. Hey, you look great."

  "Thanks, so do you."

  She's wearing a black lacy dress, sort of Edwardian, with some heavy costume jewellery and dark red lipstick.

  "We're running a little news piece on your survey about men spending more on clothes than women, you'll be glad to hear. Editor loves it."

  "Great," I say. I suppose 2cool might as well carry on generating news - perhaps even positive stuff - until it is finally closed down for good. I've decided to say nothing to Nora about the Fraud Squad visit.

  "I think it's a crap story, so obviously manufactured but my editor loves 2cool which is good for you - and for me, I suppose."

  "I suppose so."

  "Now, tactics for tonight. Let's start with a large G&T." I call the barman over and give her order plus another whiskey for myself.

  "So what are the tactics beyond a large gin and tonic?" I ask.

  "Well, I say we mingle, OK? We've been invited by a friend of a friend of mine called Anna. She'll be there so we'll say hello to her and she'll introduce us to Huntman's children and, hopefully, some other friends of Piers and we'll chat 'em up and see what we can find out."

  "Sounds simple enough. So who's this Huntsman geezer, then? His name's familiar."

  "He's a financier. Mainly property but also a bit in oil and airlines. Came to Britain as a kid from Poland or somewhere. You know the story - no money, name like a bad hand at scrabble. Got a job in the post room of a bank or something, changed his Polish name to Huntsman and built it up from there."

  "I see."

  She clinks her glass against mine and then starts off again: "Incidentally I've found out a little bit more about Piers' past business activities."

  "Dodgy?"

  "A bit."

  "Oh, God, like what?"

  "Well. There was one where, let me remember this right, oh yes, he'd employ out-of-work actors to come around and cook dinner for you and then stay and eat it with you and make witty conversation. An instant dining companion. You could even order two or three of them and have your own dinner party if you had the money."

  "And no friends. That sounds quite above board."

  "Well, apparently the most popular part of the service was where a girl came round, cooked you a delicious dinner with wine, made charming conversation - and then had sex with you."

  "Very nice."

  "The vice squad put a stop to that one."

  "Spoil sports."

  Sir James Huntsman welcomes us with a bored, superficial charm as we move along a sort of receiving line.

  "Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come," he drawls. White haired and florid but tall and slim, he has no trace of a Polish accent. I'm about to thank him for inviting me and explain that I'm a friend of his children's friend Anna when he turns to the person behind me and says: "Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come."

  "Hello, Pamela Huntsman. Lovely to meet you," says Lady Huntsman. She is a tall, thin woman with great cheek bones. She reminds me of someone called Diana at my agency who has cornered the mature women's market and does a brisk trade in smart, older travellers and elegant grandmothers. The only difference is that Lady Huntsman's hair seems to be backcombed to within an inch of its life and so she looks like she's just been electrocuted. "We're relying on you young ones to get the party going," she says.

  "Oh, Charlie'll get it swinging, he's known for it," says Nora, giving her a huge wink. I'm so fazed by this comment that I just stare at Lady Huntsman.

  "Super," she says and turns to the next person.

  "What the hell did you say that for?" I ask her when we've moved away from Lady H sufficiently.

  "So she'll remember you."

  "She certainly will. Right, where's your friend, then?"

  "Can't see her."

  "What does she look like?"

  "Erm, sort of short with, dark hair."

  "OK, keep any eye out for her. Do you want a drink?"

  "Gasping. Oh, look here's a tray - and some nibbles. Grab 'em."

  Knowing Nora's relationship with waiters and trays I hold her back for a moment.

  "Now, what do you want?" I ask her.

  "Champagne, please," she says, looking surprised.

  Carefully I pick up a glass of champagne and hand it to her. Before I can stop her she reaches for a smoked salmon thing. My heart stands still for a moment but she seems to manage to pick it up without sending the rest flying. I take a glass of bubbly too and ask her:

  "How do we introduce the subject of Piers and what if someone recognises me or knows your name? And why would they tell us, anyway?"

  She tuts. "Well, they're not going to say, 'Actually, since you ask, he's gone to Acapulco' or 'Oh, of course, he's hiding in my attic?' are they?"

  "No, so what are they going to say?"

  She rolls her eyes. Why do I always feel like a dumbo with Nora even though I'm usually the one making sense?

  "Well...I need another one of these to think." She drains her glass and reaches over to another tray. I close my eyes ready for the inevitable but when I look back she is holding a full glass and looking thoughtful. "The point is, Charlie, that people like to gossip, like to show off their knowledge. You find it all the time as a journalist. You think 'Why would a
nyone want to tell me that?' But they do. We'll just chat and pick up some clues, get to know something more. As I say you'd be amazed how much people are willing to gossip even when they know they shouldn't."

  "Yeah, we'll see."

  "Knowledge is power and people like to feel powerful," she says looking up at me with wide eyes. "They love reading something in the papers the next day and knowing that they contributed to it, that they're part of the story."

  "Mmm, I suppose so."

  She looks around us and then says: "Did you know that the cocktail party was invented in 1924 by Alec Waugh, brother of Evelyn?"

  "No. Was it?"

  "One of the great inventions."

  "Up there with the steam engine and television."

  "Far more useful, though. Thought you could work it into the conversation somewhere. Break the ice a bit."

  She takes another large mouthful of Champagne. I've hardly touched my glass.

  "Do you always drink this much?"

  "Only when I'm nervous," she explains.

  "Now, you're making me nervous."

  "Don't be! Big boy like you, look at the talent around here. You're bound to score."

  "Ha, ha! I'm not single, you know that," I say pointedly.

  "I know, that's what makes you extra attractive - to these Sloaney girls I mean. Anyway, let's split up and get snooping."

  "Yes, Velma. Scooby Doo, you know -"

  "Yeah, I get it. Now, let's mingle."

  I push my way gently through the crowds. There are some faces I half recognise: politicians, business people, a bloke who pops up on the teatime news to talk about whether interest rates will go up or down. There is even a TV presenter who does Newsnight sometimes, discussing something with a serious looking young guy but also looking around to see who else he should be talking to.

  Near the stairs I pass an immaculately dressed man who is talking through pursed lips to a rather harassed looking woman.

  "Now darling remember what we're going to say?" he hisses. "That's right: 'Thanks but I think I've had enough.' Yes? 'Thanks, but I think I've had enough'. Got it?"

  "'Thanks but I think I've had enough', 'Thanks but I think I've had enough'," says the woman, concentrating hard. "'Thanks but I think I've had enough.'" She takes a deep breath. "Yes, don't worry darling."

  At that moment a waiter bearing a tray passes them and she grabs two glasses of champagne from him like her life depends on it and knocks them back, one after another in one go. The man rolls his eyes.

  Other people are double kissing each other and making unfunny jokes or talking money in loud, braying, voices. Most of the women look like they've been very carefully put together from kits - every piece painstakingly assembled and polished up before being sent out. I try and work out who is my Mum's age. I'm just thinking this when I bump into my Dad. Unlike everyone else he is not in black tie. Instead he's wearing a black Nehru jacket and Mari, or what the hell her name was, is on his arm.

  "Charlie," he says, looking very surprised, almost shocked. "What are you doing here? You don't know James, do you?"

  "No, I'm with a friend. How do you know him?"

  "Well, why shouldn't I? I mean, some of his companies are clients of ours." He smiles suddenly and pats my shoulder. "Hey, looking good. You remember Mari, don't you?"

  "Yes, nice to meet you again," I say, trying to eradicate thoughts of my Mum who is probably at home, at her home, that is, watching The Bill.

  "So, where is Lauren?" He waves at someone and double kisses a gorgeous blonde woman, asking her 'how you doing?' as she moves past us.

  "Catch you later," she purrs, squeezing his arm, so obviously an ex-fuck. Mari looks on benignly - or ignorantly.

  "So, yeah, where's Lauren?" says my Dad coming back to me.

  "She's at home." At least I hope she is, not out with PBC again. Suddenly I feel a bit lonely without her by my side. You never have to worry about not having someone to talk to a party with Lauren. People sort of gravitate towards her and she's always got something to say.

  "Everything alright between you two?"

  "Not too good. I'm just here with a work friend though."

  "From 2cool?" he says, sounding slightly concerned.

  "Not exactly. Just someone who's helping me."

  "That journalist?" How did he know?

  "Well, yeah."

  He looks anxious again, nervous even.

  "Charlie, just be careful. She's a journalist OK? She's got loyalty to no one but herself. This thing is pretty big by all accounts - there's been a lot of money invested in it. People really wanted it to work, for it to make investing in the consumer side of the net sexy and fun again. Have you had a chance to look at the accounts, yet?"

  "What accounts? It's just chaos. Bills, final demands - I can't even find the bank statements." I decide not to worry him about the police visit now. Anyway, I'm not sure that there is anything about that visit to worry about - they seemed quite happy with it all.

  "Fucking hell". He thinks for a moment. "Well, I think you should just resign. Hand in your notice tomorrow. Get the fuck out of there."

  "Mmm," I tell him thoughtfully.

  "Charlie, did you hear what I said?"

  Suddenly I'm transported back to being a teenager with the old man having a go at me - again.

  "Yeah, I did, Dad, but the thing is...the thing is, it's like when I was a kid, well 15, 16 or something. What were you doing then?"

  He looks, mystified, irritated.

  "How do mean?"

  "You were working all hours with the other two in a tiny attic in Brewer Street across the landing from a girl who charged £20 a go. Remember? We had no money. You had to go to grandpa for a loan. No, I know you did, I heard you on the phone to him. And remember what Mum said, remember what your ex-boss told you? Everyone said you'd fail but you stuck at it, even when it seemed hopeless."

  "But this is different," says my Dad, frowning sadly. "Charlie, you've got to get out of this. Look, get yourself a solicitor and charge it to the company, you're quite entitled to under the law."

  "I don't think we can afford it."

  "I'll pay for it. I know a great guy. I'll give you his number."

  "Thanks, Dad."

  He is about to say something else when a big bloke with a Number One haircut and another young, blonde girl on his arm appears and says: "Jared, mate, how are you?"

  "Grey. Good, thanks. How are you? How's the movie business? This is my son Charlie."

  We shake hands and then, relieved, I say, "Excuse me" and slip away to find Nora.

  I end up talking to someone called Annette who, works in management consultancy, specialising in the person finance sector, read politics at Durham although she doesn't use her degree now – obviously -, lives in Fulham where her flat has doubled in value over the past five years, likes to go skiing but was in Bali earlier this year where she just spent the whole time lying on the beach and relaxing.

  Yep, it's one of those conversations so when another girl joins us I excuse myself and continue my quest for Nora.

  I pass a woman with huge blue/grey hair and a ball dress with massive puffed sleeves talking on her mobile.

  "He wants Gonk. No, Gonk. The thing with the bug eyes and the blue hair above the bed...What's the matter? He said what to you? Well, I don't know where he picked up that kind of language. Look, so I'm sorry but just give him his Gonk. OK, let me have a word. Hello, darling it's mummy. Maria will get it for you if you say sorry...no, I know, but you mustn't call her that...have you got it? Jolly good. Listen I can't say hallo to Gonk now because I'm a bit busy but...Oh hallo Gonk...how are you?"

  Some people are dancing by now. A middle aged couple are going for it with great seriousness. She looks like she is trying to stamp on armies of ants and he seems to be having a series of minor heart attacks in slow motion.

  Finally I find Nora talking to a middle aged woman and a young guy.

  "Hi Charlie," she says. "Lady Ph
ilips, Alex, this is my friend Charlie." Alex is a hearty looking rugger bugger City type in his early twenties and Lady Philips looks like she sits on lot of committees or something.

  I say hallo to them both and I realise that the woman thinks 'friend' means 'boyfriend'. So does Alex, perhaps he thought he was in with a chance but then again he looks like he'd be more at home with someone in an Alice band. I'm just thinking I might slip away and ring Lauren, not to check she's in, really, but just to say hallo, having a crap time, when Lady Philips and Alex bugger off and Nora asks me: "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, have you found out anything?"

  "No, not really, have you?"

  "No, nothing much. Except that apparently Piers and Lady H might have, you know, at one point."

  "What? Piers?"

  "And Lady H."

  "She's old enough to be his mother. Actually, I did learn something - apparently Sir James might have invested in 2cool."

  "Well, that's interesting."

  "But I can't even begin to imagine how we're going to find out where Piers is."

  "No, unless Lady H knows something."

  "Oh, come on, even if they were having it off - and I find that very hard to believe - she's hardly likely to know where he is now, is she?"

  "How do you know? Look, she's just over there. Let's go and talk to her."

  Before I can object, Nora has steered me over to our hostess.

  "Lady Huntsman, we were just saying what a lovely party this is," beams Nora. I nod dumbly, fear having removed my ability to speak. The woman Lady Huntsman is talking to, smiles at us both, again, no doubt, assuming we're an item.

  "Thank you," says Lady Huntsman graciously. "I was a bit nervous because they're new caterers but everything seems perfectly satisfactory."

  "New caterers? Oh, such an anxiety," says the woman she has been talking to, shaking her head knowingly.

  "I was just telling Charlie that you do so much for badgers don't you?" says Nora to our hostess. "I mean protecting them."

  "Well, I play a small part, bit of fund raising, flagging up the issue."

  "Charlie's been wanting to get into badger conservation for a long time, haven't you Charlie?"