Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "Don't remember them? What happened?"

  "Well, apparently the head came off really easily and there was this sharp spike which also gave off an electric shock."

  "Nice."

  "Not really. So obviously he couldn't flog many in this country. Last thing we heard the Triads were using them - you know, to poke their enemies' eyes out with, oh, and I think some African dictator had bought a job lot."

  "So, not all bad news then."

  She laughs.

  "Depends how you look at it. Piers always looks on the bright side."

  "Yeah, he does, doesn't he?" There is a pause as we both look up at the stars. Then I say: "I would like to find him you know."

  "I'm sure you would."

  "I won't land you in it."

  "I don't care if you do. He won't hold it against me - I'm one of his best customers." She mimes a rolling action with the tips of her fingers.

  "Can I ring you about it?"

  "I'll ring you."

  Then I go to find Nora. She is talking to a couple of people and seems ready to leave when I suggest it. We find a taxi in Kensington High Street and although Notting Hill isn't strictly on the way we decide to drop her off first. Once inside I tell her what Anastasia Huntsman has told me.

  "That's great," she says.

  "It's not great, it's terrible. Piers is a total spiv."

  "Well, at least we know something more about his business background. This girl, Huntsman's daughter, is bound to hear from him at some point. Give her a call tomorrow and have another chat."

  "She wouldn't give me her number but she's got mine and said she'd call me when she heard from him," I say, wondering what it must be like to be as angry and bored all the time as Anastasia.

  "OK, well if you haven't heard by the end of the day tell me and I'll get her number for you."

  We sit in silence for a moment and then I say: "I bumped into my Dad and he basically just said get out of it."

  "The advertising man, was he there?"

  "How did you know my Dad was in advertising?"

  "You mentioned it the other night," she says quickly. "Anyway, he says get out, does he? Well, he's probably right but you might as well just follow up this Piers thing and then leave it. One more day can't do any harm can it?"

  I think about it. The harm it could do is to get me sent to prison or beaten to a pulp but something, some stupid, headstrong, irresponsible part of me agrees with her. Most of all, I just want to prove to my Dad that I can do what he did. Even if it doesn't work, I want to show I didn't walk away without trying.

  We set off up Kensington Church Street past the antique shops full of the kind of furniture we've just been walking past and sitting on and getting sexually assaulted amongst. After a few minutes I ask: "Did you see your friend Anna in the end?"

  "Anna? Er, no, I don't think she made it."

  "Probably because she doesn't exist."

  "Yes, she does," says Nora, half heartedly.

  "No, she doesn't. You just made her up. We basically just crashed that party, didn't we?"

  "And very successfully," she says, turning to me and raising one eyebrow elegantly.

  We reach Nora's and I get out to her see her to the door. We do the key thing again. She rabbits on about what she's got to write tomorrow while she searches around what tonight is only a tiny dress handbag but seems to have a Tardis quality about it. Then she produces the key and holds it up.

  "Knew it was in here somewhere," she laughs breathily. She's like a little girl with her big dark eyes and her cheeky grin. I suddenly wonder whether she has anyone to protect her, to put his arms round her, to listen to her when she's got herself into trouble at work - again.

  I don't think she has.

  This girl is trouble, I remind myself. She's lied to me, she's already got me into various horribly embarrassing situations, she's made the 2cool problem a thousand times worse, she seems to have only a light grip on reality and she is either unaware of or unconcerned about what problems she causes other people. But somehow I find myself wanting to get closer to her, feel her skin on mine.

  Looking up at me, she licks her lips, almost subconsciously. We're standing inches away from each other.

  "Night then," I tell her.

  "Good night, Charlie," she says.

  I slip into bed with Lauren. She groans slightly in her sleep and turns and backs into me. I put my arms around her sleeping body and gently drift off.

  Although there seems very little point in going to the office the next day, I'm there by 10am. Scarlett comes in an hour later and Zac drifts in at lunch time.

  "I got you a carrot, apple and ginger to help you detox," she says. "After last night."

  "Thanks, doll," I say and tell her about last night - minus the Lady H episode. I came so close to kissing Nora last night and I still don't really know why. As I finish talking about the party the phone rings with someone about payment again. I'm polite but firm - they'll have to wait.

  "Fuck," says Scarlett over her alfalfa sprout roll.

  "Let me just finish this email and I'll be right over," says Zac.

  "In your dreams, net nerd."

  "What's the matter?" I ask.

  "Have you seen the Standard today?"

  "Oh, God, now what?"

  "It's about your friend Nora."

  I'm at Scarlett's desk in a moment. She points to a piece in the Londoner's Diary. It's a picture of Nora next to one of Piers.

  Post columnist Nora Bentall has become something of an expert on style-over-substance website 2cool2btrue.com. At a party thrown by financier Sir James Huntsman at his Kensington mansion last night she was seen on the arm of her latest squeeze, former male model and internet guru Charlie Barrett.

  But her connection with 2cool goes beyond Barrett, the public face of the fast disintegrating luxury goods outfit. Her cousin Piers Gough-Pugh founded and financed the site but has since disappeared. In addition to a full blown police investigation which now includes the Fraud Squad, American born Bentall, 27, has been carrying out her own enquiries into her cousin's whereabouts.

  "Nora is very tenacious and if anyone can find Piers it will be her. She's bound to be there before the police", says a friend.

  "Latest squeeze?" asks Scarlett.

  "No, no. Me and Nora? Not at all." I look at the paper again. "And they've got this wrong too. Nora isn't Piers' cousin - how can she be?" But even as I'm saying it I'm realising how very possible it is. That's how Piers knew her in the first place. She's done it again. How could she? She's lied to me again. Tricked me again. Fucking betrayed my trust. The bitch, how could she? I think about that moment on her doorstep last night. We nearly kissed, let's be honest I wanted to kiss her. I actually felt very close to her and all the time she was taking me for a ride. Lying to me. Again.

  "You all right?" It's Scarlett.

  I look round at her. She squeezes my hand.

  "Yeah, just...why didn't she say?" Somehow, even though I didn't mention her much when I was talking about the party, I think that Scarlett can tell that I feel something for Nora.

  "She's bad news that girl."

  "Tell me about it."

  I go back to my desk, take a moment to collect my thoughts and then ring her.

  "Hello, did you get back all right then?" she asks brightly.

  "Yeah, thanks. Look Nora. Have you seen the Standard today?"

  "The Standard? Oh, that piece. Horrid isn't it? Talk about shitting on your own. And the thing about you being my squeeze. How embarrassing. I hope your girlfriend doesn't see it. Just blame the journalist if she does." I let her gabble on for a moment.

  "What about this stuff about you being Piers' cousin?"

  "Oh that."

  "Yeah, that." I let her say something but there is no response. "It's not true, is it?"

  "Oh, honestly, who really bothers about these things?"

  I grip the receiver tight and my teeth are gritted, I know the others are lis
tening in intently but I don't care.

  "Nora. Tell me. Is it true? Are you and Piers cousins?" There is a pause. "Listen. I don't want any more surprises, okay. I can't stand it. Either you're honest with me, completely honest and tell me everything or we never speak to each other again, do you understand me?"

  The silence at the other end goes on for so long that I'm just about to ask whether she's still there when she says in a small voice:

  "All right, we're cousins. I just forgot to tell you. I'm sorry. I know it's silly, I know I should have but I just forgot and then it just didn't seem relevant. We're not exactly close."

  "It doesn't matter if you're not close. You're still cousins, you're still related. Why didn't you fucking tell me?"

  "Charlie, what difference did it make?"

  "But you could have told me. What else are you lying about?"

  "Excuse me, don't speak to me like that. I don't have to listen to this. We are cousins yes, but as I said, we're not close. It didn't have any bearing on what I wrote about 2cool or our attempts to find him." The best form of defence is obviously attack, she's decided. I can sort of see her point. I take a deep breath.

  "OK, from now on we're completely honest with each other, you understand me? We tell each other everything."

  "Of course, Charlie."

  "No, 'of course' about it. Do you promise?"

  "Yes, I promise. Now I've said I'm sorry so let's just leave it. I've got some more calls to make about Piers. Just because I'm his cousin and we share grandparents way back when, doesn't mean I have any more of an idea where he is than you do. Less in fact. We've hardly seen each other since we were kids. Now, listen I'm getting a number for that Huntsman girl so you can call her."

  "Okay, ring me when you've got it," I tell her and put the phone down.

  "I wouldn't trust that woman as far as I could spit her," says Scarlett.

  She's so right.

  Chapter Twenty

  The people I least want to speak to after Nora are the police so naturally DI Slapton calls on the entry phone. He's downstairs. It doesn't help that Scarlett who picks up the receiver announces him as the ‘Pig-lice’ with the receiver inches away from her mouth. I hope he just thinks she's got a stutter.

  "We need to take some documents away with us as well as your computers," he says, arriving at the top of the stairs and panting slightly. He is accompanied by three junior officers carrying large plastic boxes.

  "You've got a warrant and everything then?" I ask, trying to make it sound like I'm not a total soft touch.

  Slapton looks slightly surprised at my question and then contemptuous. His sarcasm is all the more intimidating for its subtlety.

  "Oh, yes, we've got all the right paperwork," he says standing very close to me. "You see, we've done this before, son."

  The four of them move in.

  "Stand away from the computers, please," one of the other officers tells Scarlett and Zac. Uncertainly, they get up and move away from their desks. The officer takes out a polaroid camera and photographs the computer screens then he begins to pull plugs out of the wall.

  "Hey," says Zac, suddenly animated. "Let me close these things down properly, will you."

  "Sorry, sir, can't do that. We have to take them as they are," says the officer, grimacing slightly as he pulls at a particularly reluctant plug under a desk. The Macs and the other pieces of hardware die slowly in front of us, fans slowing, lights flickering off.

  "It's standard practice," Slapton informs me. "We've got the photos to show what's on the screens when we unplugged them. You see don't want it to look like we've changed any documents - or allowed you to amend or delete anything that could be incriminating," he adds, snapping on some rubber gloves. From their boxes the officers produce piles of clear polythene bags with orange borders. They begin filling them with our carefully sorted invoices, ripping off strips and sealing them with one officer laboriously filling in the form printed each one of them and 'Police Evidence' in big letters.

  Slapton consults some printed notes, obviously telling him and the others what to take. I notice him fill in a series of forms to show where in the office the various papers and computers were seized from. After a couple of hours they've filled almost all the evidence bags and they seem satisfied. Loading the computers and the processing units into evidence boxes and bigger polythene envelopes takes some time. I offer to help one officer who is obviously struggling, but he grunts: "Can't allow you, sir, I'm afraid," and carries on.

  Having packed up computers belonging to Guy, Piers and Zac, they're obviously debating whether to take the remaining machines when I jump in because we'll need something to keep the site going and also, it has to be said, to continue making our own enquiries with.

  "Look there's nothing interesting on these. All the financial stuff is on the two you've already got - Zac can give you the passwords if you want. If you could leave these it would mean we could still keep the site going."

  The other policemen look to Slapton for guidance.

  "Look, erm, the thing is," says Scarlett, getting up from her desk. "It's not just about the money, we've never been much good at that." She blinks and sniffs. "The site means a hell of a lot to us, we've put our whole lives into it for the last month or so. We've been working on it 24/7, hardly slept or eaten." A single tear rolls down her left cheek. "I know you've got your job to do but we'd really appreciate if you could just leave us enough to keep 2cool going, keep our dream alive for a bit longer. That would be very kind, thanks..."

  I'm more stunned than our visitors. I had no idea that it was so important to her. Slapton approaches her, smiles kindly at her and says very quietly:"No."

  I see a couple of the other officers exchange glances and smother grins. Then Slapton asks me a few questions, most of which I can't answer and gets me to sign his notes as well as a receipt for the goods taken.

  "When do you think we might get them back?" I ask.

  His blood shot eyes narrow.

  "You'll get back when we've finished with them, son."

  As the door closes I hear a slow hand clap behind me. I turn to see the ever horizontal Zac grinning and looking at us both.

  "Zac, just..." I tell him. But by this time Scarlett has released herself from my arms. She is grinning too and wiping away her tears.

  "Thank you," she says, bowing deep. "Thank you, all."

  "And the Oscar for Best Actress Talking Bullshit goes to..." announces Zac.

  "I'd like to thank my agent, my mother, Krishna, and all the producers I've ever slept with," gushes Scarlett, clasping an imaginary Oscar to her breast. We're all helpless with laughter for a few moments then I manage to say:

  "You're unbelievable."

  "Au contraire," says Zac. "You're very plausible. Just not quite plausible enough, unfortunately."

  "Oh, well. Thank you, anyway. It helped slightly that I've got my clit ring caught in my knickers," says Scarlett, wriggling around and pulling at her crotch.

  We take it in turns to stay in the office and fend off the calls requesting, well, demanding payment while the others go out shopping or in Zac's case to play pinball. I try to ring Lauren but I just get her voice mail. I decide just to leave a message asking her to ring me. A magazine journalist rings up wanting to do a piece following up on our survey about the number of men spending more on clothes than their female partners and so I give her a quote, explaining that it is all part of broader, socio-economic developments in society and the changing self-image of men or some such bollocks.

  When Scarlett comes back to do her shift and I'm unplugging my mobile from the charger, ready to go out, I tell her: "Look, you don't have to keep coming in, if you've got better things to do."

  She looks slightly embarrassed.

  "Oh, well, I'll give you a hand for a while..."

  "I know we're all getting paid but there's nothing else we can do."

  "No, but.." she pauses, looking down and then says quickly: "You're a
good bloke, Charlie, I don't want you in this shit on your own so I'll hang around, at least while I'm still getting paid." She looks up. "Besides you might need someone to protect you from those attackers."

  "Thanks, Scarlett. I appreciate it." I give her a peck on the cheek and then go out.

  Because we haven't got any computers I have to go to a cafe down the road to use the internet. I look in the online newspaper archives for something more about Sir James Huntsman. There is nothing particularly interesting other than various stories about his companies and a story in the Daily Mail about Anastasia getting chucked out of Rhodene for possession of drugs.

  Then I check for 'Nora Bentall'. Lots of her freelance writing comes up. But there is a piece in the Observer about her. Really it's about her father who is a doctor who has worked with doctors in third world countries. "Some of his friends have suggested that this extensive work abroad might be to escape personal and professional problems in the US." It adds mysteriously. There is also a letter in The Times from him berating the large drugs companies for not offering sufficient discounts to patients in the poorest countries.

  I step back out on to the street, wondering what to do for the next few hours. The thought of shopping reminds me that even if my 2cool salary goes through this month and that's looking increasingly unlikely, I'll need to earn something for the following month. I ring Karyn. Unfortunately Brad from the women's division answers the phone instead of her.

  "Jet Models. Can I help you?"

  "Is Karyn there, please?" I ask.

  "Sure, who may I say is calling?" he says smoothly.

  "It's, er, it's a personal call."

  "A personal call? One moment please." I know he's recognised my voice but he can't prove it's me, can he? And anyway, I can't be bothered to talk anyone else. There is a few seconds of some dance music and then: "Karyn speaking."

  I realise how much I love her soft, clear voice.

  "Hi, darling, it's me, Charlie."

  "Oh, hi."

  "You all right?"

  "Yeah" she says awkwardly.

  "Can't talk?"

  "No, that's right."

  "Sorry, shall I call back?"