Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "Er."

  "Or you could call me back a bit later? I'm on my mobile."

  "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, will do, babe."

  I end the call. I decide to sit at a cafe and ring again Lauren about the Standard piece.

  "Charlie Barrett?"

  I look up and am immediately blinded by a flash light.

  "What?"

  It happens again.

  "Oh, fuck. Stop that! Who are you?"

  "Just look over here, matey."

  A photographer is dancing around me, shooting from different angles before darting across the street and taking some pictures with a telephoto lens. I walk away confidently until I've turned the corner into the next street. Surely, Nora hasn't put them up to this. It can't be her, can it? Not after our conversation this morning.

  "Someone took pictures of you just now?" she says when I ring her.

  "Yes, just as I was walking out of the building," I say, adding sarcastically: "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?"

  "No, Charlie, I promise. I'm certainly not writing anything about 2cool at the moment. I'd tell you if I was. Look, let me ring the picture desk and see if they've sent someone."

  "Nora, if this is anything to do with you -"

  "Oh, for God's sakes, Charlie, believe me. Please! Look, let me find out and I'll come straight back to you."

  "OK...thanks."

  A few moments later the phone rings again.

  "Hi, Nora?" I say.

  There is a pause.

  "No, Charlie, it's not Nora."

  Oh, fucking hell. It's Lauren's voice.

  "Hi, babe."

  "I saw the piece in the Standard today."

  "Oh, God, I know. Did you get my message? I'd have called you sooner but I didn't see it. Scarlett pointed it out and we've had a hell of a day. The police have been round again."

  "So, what? What's the hell's this piece about? When were you going to tell me that you and Nora are going out together."

  I laugh in disbelief and frustration.

  "Don't be ridiculous, babe. It's completely wrong. Of course, we're not going out. How could you think that?"

  "Because I read it in the paper - like hundreds of other people we know probably have."

  "It just bollocks, that was a trouble making article that got it all wrong."

  "So your new girlfriend Nora isn't related to Piers then?"

  "She isn't my new girlfriend, OK? But, yeah, that other bit about Piers is right."

  "It's also right when it says that 2cool is going down the tubes, isn't it?"

  "Yes, probably."

  "For God's sake, Charlie, just leave it will you? Walk away."

  "I know, you're right. Look, I'm waiting for a call from Karyn at Jet. I'm going to go back to modelling."

  "That's very sensible. I'm glad to hear it," she says like a mother talking to her son who's decided he will go back to college, after all, this term. I always used to love Lauren's self assurance, her absolute conviction, but at the moment it's just a bit annoying.

  "First, though, I want to find Piers and Guy and find out what is going on" I say.

  "I don't believe it, just forget it will you?"

  "I told you I will forget it - when I've found Piers and Guy and asked them some questions."

  "Well, I can't stop you," she says quietly. "But just stay away from that Nora woman, she's trouble."

  "Seeing Peter tonight are you?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, I'm going out with Sarah but my work with Peter is totally different to your relationship with Nora. He's helping my career, she's destroying yours."

  I think about it for a moment and then I hear the 'Call waiting' bleep.

  "I've got to go, I think that's Karyn from Jet."

  "I'll see you later."

  As I press the button to get through to the other call I wonder why Lauren and I cannot talk these days without rowing.

  "Hi, it's me," says Nora.

  "Hi."

  "OK, no one at the Post has sent a photographer and I checked with the news desk and my editor and no one is doing a piece at the moment about 2cool."

  "So it must be another paper."

  "Yep. I'll ask a mate of mine on The Times if they're doing anything."

  "OK, thanks."

  "You all right, Charlie?"

  I laugh bitterly.

  "Oh, fine. My career's collapsing around me, my girlfriend has read in the paper that I'm seeing someone else, the police are visiting me almost every day and I've got no money."

  "See what you mean. Oh, well."

  "Oh well?"

  "Sorry, I didn't mean it to come out like that. It's been a tough couple of weeks for you, hasn't it? Look do you want to have a drink tonight and talk about it?"

  This woman is trouble, like Lauren says - especially after the piece in the Standard. But on the other hand Lauren's out and if she were in we'd only end up rowing. Nora, at least, knows what I'm going through at the moment.

  We arrange to go to a place near her's at seven.

  I sit at a cafe and order a cup of tea and a ham sandwich because I haven't had any lunch yet. In fact I haven't eaten much at all over the last few days. I've had no appetite recently and Lauren normally decides what we eat even if it's not her turn to cook. Like I say, I've always loved Lauren's self-assurance and her no nonsense approach, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, you just have to look at her and she'll know what to do next.

  But now I'm doing something different, something she doesn't approve of, doesn't understand - and she obviously just can't cope. Like one of those big, smart hotels that will offer you anything, as long as it’s on the menu. If you ask for something a bit odd, there is no procedure in the customer care manual to handle it. I once wanted to go swimming in a hotel pool in France after we'd been shooting a catalogue all day and they just wouldn't let me. The pool and the surrounding area was empty, I'd be very quiet, I assured them, and I just wanted to do 20 lengths or so but neither the smiley receptionist nor her smiley manager would let me. Guest. Swimming pool. After 8pm. Access Denied. Won't compute.

  Perhaps that's the thing about Lauren. You can have anything you want as long it’s on her menu, within her sphere of competence. I think about Becky and her children. I must have broached the subject three or four times but on every occasion I get this dismissive look as if I'm suggesting we get a pet snake or buy a holiday home in Bulgaria. It's not that mad, is it? I'm 30, for fuck's sake. My Dad already had two children at this age.

  Perhaps there are some things that Lauren thinks are mad or inappropriate which in fact aren't. Perhaps, amazingly enough, she might not be right all the time.

  Oh, God, I love her so much but I just need a bit of freedom to do my own thing after all these years. To do something that's not on the Lauren Tate list of officially approved activities. I realise how angry I am with her about 2cool. OK, so she doesn't think much of it but she must see how important the thing is to me, how much I want to prove that I can at least do my best, clear my name and not just look like another model who tried to do something else and failed.

  I think I deserve a little support here.

  Karyn rings me back while she's out on a very late lunch break.

  "Hi, Charlie, sorry about that."

  "No problem. How's it going?"

  "OK, what about you?"

  "Oh, from bad to worse to disastrous. I was wondering, actually if I could go back to modelling, do you think Penny would take me back?"

  Her reply takes me by surprise:

  "I'm afraid not, Charlie. We were talking about you this morning. Penny saw the piece in the Standard and she called me in and said that she doesn't want us to represent you again because of, well, all the bad publicity." I'm stunned. "Charlie? Are you there?"

  "Yeah, er, yes. You're kidding, though. I was one of her highest earning models. I've made her a shed load of money over the years."

  "Oh, Charlie, of course you have
, but you know what she's like."

  "The ungrateful bitch."

  "I'm sorry to have to tell you that but she's absolutely insistent."

  "Oh, don't worry, it's not your fault."

  "To be honest she's forbidden me to talk to you. It's a good thing you didn't give your name to Brad. Sneaky little queen, he knew it was you and I'm sure he's told her."

  "I don't want to get you into trouble, Karyn."

  "Oh, don't worry about me, I'll be OK. Look, Charlie, Nevs or MOT or SoDamnTuff would take you in a second with your book, you know that."

  "But not with my business track record and the bloody awful publicity I've had recently."

  "Oh, I'm sure they won't be bothered."

  "That's very sweet of you to say, I wish it was true. Look, I'll give you a call on your mobile in a few days or something."

  I set off back to the office. At one point a man with a TV camera walks along side me. I decide to say nothing and just carry on walking, trying to look relaxed and confident, although I feel like I'm going to throw up at any moment.

  "Cheers mate," says the cameraman nonchalantly, slipping the machine off his shoulder. In the office I suggest to the others that they go home. I tell them that they should think about other jobs. Zac informs me that he's already talking to a web design agency and Scarlett says that she's been asked to manage a new band that could end up being as big as someone I've never heard of.

  I leave early with the phones ringing. We haven't got any money to give to these people so why bother even speaking to them? After half an hour mooching around at home, cursing Penny, I decide to go swimming at the health club I'll soon have to give up my membership of. The woman at reception gives me a lingering look and checks the name on my membership card. That's right, love, I'm the guy from the poncey internet fiasco. Ha, bloody, ha.

  I spend quite a lot of time underwater, hearing my own breathing. Then I sit in the hot tub which feels good on my stiff back and shoulders.

  "Great thing about this thing is that you can fart all you want and no one else can tell," says the other bloke in there with me. I smile politely and then get out quite quickly.

  What inspires people to say these things?

  Back at home I have a shave since I couldn't be bothered to this morning and put on a black Thomas Pink shirt and faded blue jeans. Then I take that off and put on combats and my favourite B52s T shirt. Then I change that for a long sleeved ribbed T shirt and my faded blue jeans again.

  I leave early, so that I don't see Lauren and have to tell her that I'm seeing Nora tonight. I arrive at where we've agreed to meet ten minutes early cursing myself because I know Nora will be late. I pick up a paper, it's the Standard. A sense of horrid fascination forces me to look at the article with Nora and Piers. There it is. Who could fail to miss it? Half of our friends must think that me and Lauren have split up - which we haven't, of course. Not technically, anyway.

  Nora arrives almost on time. We've agreed to meet in a pub she knows. It's just an ordinary pub, nothing smart, glamorous or achingly hip. Neither is there any special treatment or any free drinks courtesy of 2cool and that's something of a relief. I'm glad to be able to go out for a drink without being an ambassador of cool. She's wearing peasant blouse and she looks good in it, quite normal, I suppose, is what I'm thinking.

  "Hi," she says, reaching up and giving me a peck on the cheek.

  "Hi, what would you like to drink? G&T is it?"

  "Double please", she says to the barman. "Charlie, this is Cole, he's an art student."

  "I am not," says Cole. "I'm studying business finance."

  "That's very useful," I tell him, with grim irony.

  "But Cole's such a brilliant artist, he should be studying art," says Nora.

  "Nora, just because you'd like something to be true, doesn't mean that you can just go round saying it is," Cole explains, dropping ice into a glass and giving me a what-can-you-do? look. I know the feeling, mate. I order a bottle of beer and we go to a quiet corner table.

  "Did you tell your girlfriend about the Standard piece?" she asks.

  "Didn't have to - she saw it herself."

  "Ouch! Was she upset?"

  "Just a bit."

  "Oh, dear. What does she do for a living?" asks Nora, taking a slip, quite a large one.

  "She's a model," I say. "Too."

  "Beautiful couple."

  I laugh. Doesn't feel like that anymore.

  "She wants to get out of it and become a TV presenter. But you know that, don't you?"

  "Do I?"

  "You said so in that first piece."

  "Did I?" I'm trying to work out if she's really this forgetful or if she's just putting it on. Under the unruly dark red hair and through the black framed specs, her eyes give nothing away. Instead she looks thoughtful for a moment and then says: "Oh, TV presenter. Doesn't every one want to be one these days? I was thinking that today when I was having lunch. Everywhere you go now, people - waiters and waitresses, shop staff, bar staff, people on the street - everyone acts like they're, well, acting, waiting to be discovered. I was having lunch with an old college friend who's a TV producer and our waitress must have known what he did for a living - she was practically doing audition pieces between the courses. Anecdotes, funny observations, chatty little asides as she took our order. If someone had had a cigarette lighter she'd have been performing in the light from it."

  I smile.

  "I know what you mean. I think Lauren will probably do it if she wants to - she's very determined."

  "Oh, I'm sure she'd be very good. I hope she makes it," says Nora, quickly.

  "She probably will."

  "I never watch TV myself. It just bugs the hell out of me."

  "Quite relaxing sometimes, though."

  "No, see, I don't think so. I hate it when you go to someone's house or apartment and the whole room is focussed on the TV. Even when it's switched off, you sense this brooding presence, almost like you should be trying to, pay it homage or at least bring it in to the conversation. You know what I mean?"

  "Blimey, you do hate them." I suddenly feel I'm squaring up for a debate here. I wonder whether to take the opposing view just for the hell of it. "Well, television can educate and inform. I've learnt lots of things from it." Please don't ask me what, though.

  "What? You couldn't have got it from a book?"

  "Well, probably but you can see moving images."

  "From your position lying on the settee."

  "And I should be reading some improving work, sitting on a hard chair, is that it?" She ignores this comment.

  "In fact, I think the size of a telly has a direct bearing on the owner's intellect."

  "Mine's 14 inches," I say. "My telly, that is". I'm not sure which is more embarrassing: the Carry On style double entendre or the claim to be some sort of superior intellect. Nora is just staring at me with interest. I wish she'd laugh or something. Instead she says: "Like this guy I dated in New York when I was at journalism school. He was a Wall Street trader, been to Stamford on a football scholarship or something."

  "A bit thick?" I ask, obvious, I know, but I'm keen to move on from my 14 incher comment.

  "Could have rented his head out for storage space."

  I laugh.

  "He caught me reading a book once, when we were staying with his folks in the Hamptons. You'd have thought I was doing drugs or picking my noise and flicking it at his family portraits. Finally told me: 'I'm going to read when I'm too old to play sport.' Can you believe it? I said 'Don't you mean you're going to stop playing sport when you're old enough to read?'"

  "Very good."

  "That was that." She drifts off for a moment.

  "You're quite angry, aren't you?" I tell her.

  "Sorry, am I moaning?"

  "No, I didn't say that, I just said 'You're quite angry'."

  "I suppose so."

  "Anger's a good thing, isn't it?" It dawns on me. "I mean anger, if it's directed prop
erly, can be quite invigorating, energising, empowering?" Why am I thinking of Lauren and 2cool when I say this? "Can't it?"

  She looks thoughtful for a moment.

  "Yeah, yeah it can. A lot of people do what they do, create things, change things, improve things because of anger, don't they I suppose."

  She looks away and I watch her, wondering what she's thinking now. She tries to catch the eye of Cole at the bar.

  "I'll get them," I say taking her empty glass.

  "You've got to be quite angry to write," she says when I come back. "Even fluff like I knock out."

  "What do you mean? Just to stir it up?"

  "Yes, I suppose so." She takes a drink and looks around the pub. "So you've had the police in."

  "How did you know that?" I ask defensively.

  "You told me," she says.

  Did I? Shit, I've forgotten what I've told to whom. "Yes, they've been in twice. They've taken away all the financial stuff we've got."

  "The Missing Persons Unit took all that?"

  "It wasn't the Missing Persons Unit, it was the Fraud Squad."

  "Shit! That's serious."

  "I wish I hadn't told you that."

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think? Because I don't want it in the paper."

  "Charlie. You still don't trust me?"

  I can't believe she's just asked me that. My silence is more damning than any words could be. She looks surprised, hurt.

  "I promise I won't mention it. Look, from now on I won't write about 2cool without talking to you, OK?"

  "I'd be very grateful," I say, underwhelmed by her offer. I look at my watch: it's gone nine. "Do you want to get something to eat?"

  "Yes, I'd love to. I mean, that would be nice."

  "Where do you fancy?"

  She thinks about it.

  "Somewhere where they have pictures of the food on the wall outside."

  "Mmm, yummy, slightly faded ones."

  "Exactly, or better still a plastic model of them."

  "Deeelicious - and probably slightly dusty."

  "Somewhere where the waiters have name badges."

  "Printed with those dymo tape machines."

  "And where they say 'Enjoy your meal'."

  "And do their audition pieces between each course, just in case you're someone who can get them on telly."

  She laughs but I'm wondering how far Lauren would go.