Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "Oh, yeah, sorry about that, mate," says Piers.

  So far we've ascertained that after deciding to go AWOL Piers stayed in a cheap hotel in Earl's Court for a few days before realising that with his picture over so many newspapers he wasn't safe. "I wore a false beard but it kept falling off," he told us, sadly.

  "How annoying," I say.

  "It was pretty embarrassing, especially when you're having a curry. Obviously I couldn't even take it back to the shop after that, either."

  The fact that all the stress, humiliation and misery I've suffered over the last few weeks has been caused by this idiot makes me feel a whole lot worse. I can't even boast that I've been exploited and tricked by a proper villain.

  According to Piers he bumped into Anastasia in a late night supermarket in Earl's Court Road and being a very shrewd sort she recognised him through his fiendish disguise. They started talking drugs, of course, and so she came up with the idea of staying at one of the squats used by his drug contacts. A bloke called Twange or something found him this place.

  "It was pretty grim at first but I've made it quite cosy, haven't I?" he says, pointing to the tent he's erected in one corner of the room. Inside is a sleeping bag and there is a tiny gas stove set up in the middle of the room. I might have known he'd been a Boy Scout. "Loo facilities are bit basic. It's round to the right if you want to go."

  Nora and I, sipping whiskey out of brightly coloured plastic camping cups, decline. With the whiskey warming me, I feel ready to ask Piers some more questions. I just can't think where to begin but, of course, Nora starts first.

  "So, Piers, can I just check, have you actually done anything that's against the law?"

  "Erm, not really," he says, thoughtfully, feeling the side of his head again. "It's not our fault that 2cool didn't actually make any money, well not enough money, anyway. We told all the investors exactly what it was and how it worked, they saw the prospectus, it was all legal and above board."

  "But they're not stupid. There are some very shrewd, experienced business people who've put money into it," I point out.

  "They knew what they were laying themselves open to. The point is that it was young and hip and fun and glamorous, of course, and so everybody wanted a piece of it. Popstars, movie stars, designers - they all thought it was going to be like the best sex they'd ever had - which it was, of course. And as for those older ones, it was their children or mistresses or whatever who persuaded them." He looks thoughtful again. "It all made sense - we were just a bit vague about revenue streams that's all."

  "You mean how it would actually make any money?"

  "Yeah, I mean it did make some money, you know through selling those luxury products and things, but just not enough. The punters were always using the site, reading the articles, doing the competitions, looking at the porn but the buggers just weren't buying anything or giving us any of their cash. We did sell some advertising space on it but even then it wasn't enough."

  "But didn't the accountants say something about all this money we were spending, you know, with the launch party and everything?" I ask.

  "Oh, all the time, you know what they're like. Penny pinchers!"

  "So you've done nothing wrong?" repeats Nora.

  "Oh, no," says Piers. "More whiskey?" We both accept another splash.

  "So, if you did nothing wrong, why are the Fraud Squad all over us?" I ask him, taking another sip.

  "I don't know. One of the investors must have said something to them I suppose. Or perhaps the accountants became suspicious because they'd never seen anyone spend money so quickly and go into the red so fast. Also, let's face it, for the police, it was a high profile case - can you imagine if they had managed to make a make an arrest?" He whistles and pours himself some more whiskey. "It would have given them huge a PR coup." That arrest could have been me, I realise.

  "So they won't find anything dodgy in the accounts or anything?" I ask.

  "Well," says Piers, frowning thoughtfully. "The accounts are a bit of a mess, as you know."

  "I sort of did notice."

  "But there is nothing actually illegal."

  "So when Josh Langdon says he's thinking of taking us, I mean, 2cool," I say choosing my words carefully, "to court to get his money back, because it was obtained under false pretences or something, he's talking rubbish?"

  Piers smiles enigmatically. "Oh, I don't think Josh'll be taking us to court somehow. I don't think any of our main investors will be rushing to cause trouble. Don't worry about that mate. Anyway, caveat emptor, I say."

  "What?"

  "Let the buyer beware," says Nora, "it's Latin."

  "So why did you disappear and leave me to handle it all?"

  "Oh, yeah, sorry about that, mate. Look it was all getting a bit too hot to handle and then Guy disappeared -"

  "Where is he?" asks Nora before I can get the question out.

  "I don't know," says Piers, looking just for once, as if he has realised how serious the situation is. "That's the thing. He just vanished that night. I haven't heard from him since."

  "We thought you'd both gone together," I say.

  "Oh, no."

  "That morning, you came into the office looking like shit and said you'd had a bit of a night of it. That was when -"

  "I had had a bit of night of it, a hell of a night of it in fact; I'd been looking for him everywhere: at his flat, ringing his phone, asking around his friends. All night and nothing, I didn't hear a word from him."

  "Why didn't you tell us?" I ask.

  Piers shrugs his shoulders.

  "I didn't want to worry you."

  "So you have no idea where he is now?" asks Nora before I can question Piers' logic.

  "No. Mind you, bit of a funny character, our Guy. Never could quite suss him out," he says, conspiratorially. This just gets worse and worse.

  "So, are you going to come back then, to the office, I mean?" I ask.

  "We-e-e-ll, bit difficult. I think I'll think about it if you don't mind."

  "For God's sake Piers, you can't just leave me to handle it on my own. The police are on my back every day. Not to mention the press." Nora seems to ignore the dig.

  "Old Bill being a bit of nuisance are they?"

  "More than that, they've taken away the computers, half the paperwork - all those bills," I say, suddenly remembering the drawers and boxes full of paper that had given me such a heart attack. "I've never seen so many bit of paper."

  "Oh, yeah. Did you manage to sort that lot out? I always was a bit crap at filing. Kept meaning to ask Scarlett to do it."

  "They've been to my flat, and yours and Guy's," I tell him.

  "Oh, dear. What will the neighbours say?" He laughs. "Anyway, like I told you, we haven't actually done anything wrong, it's just that we spent rather a lot of money rather quickly, that's all. 2cool could still come back with a vengeance, like a phoenix rising from the -."

  "Don't be stupid," I tell him.

  "Oh, OK." He takes another sip of whiskey.

  "I could just ring the police now, of course," I say slowly.

  "Oh, no," says Nora. "That's not fair."

  "Fair? What's fair? I've been hounded, humiliated, beaten up -"

  "Beaten up?" says Nora, looking at me, concerned.

  "Well, some bloke tried to."

  "Ooh, nasty," says Piers. "But you gave as good you got, yeah?" He mimes a kind of left hook.

  "I didn't have to," I say, too overwhelmed and confused to be macho about it. "He walked into the door and then fell downstairs."

  Piers looks quizzical and then suddenly roars with laughter.

  "Hang on; was he about my height, bit thinner?"

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  "Orangey-brown hair?"

  "I couldn't tell really, he had a biker's helmet on."

  "Oh, that's definitely Shagger," he laughs. "Old Shagger Potts. We used to call him Shagger because he never got any. God, he's a clumsy bastard. Worse than you," he tells Nora.
"Especially with that stupid helmet on. So he wants his money, does he? Huh, back of the queue for you, Shagger!" He laughs.

  "Anyway, Piers, the point is, are you going to the police or are you going to stay here?" I ask.

  "If you don't mind, I think I'll stay here. Lie low for a bit."

  "I do mind, actually."

  "Oh, Charlie, come on," says Nora. "Like Piers says, they haven't actually done anything wrong, just been a bit spendthrift."

  "And I am trying to find Guy," says Piers. "For you, of course."

  "How?"

  "I've got people looking for him as we speak and if he contacts anyone it'll be me." He sees my sceptical look. "I've got my mobile, it's just that I don't leave it on, I collect my messages a couple of times a day."

  I take a long look at Piers. Wearing a blue and white striped city shirt, a pair of chinos which are remarkably clean given his squalid surroundings and a pair of scuffed docksiders, he stands next to his school boy tent, in this derelict, rat infested shit hole. I decide to leave him to wallow in it. Besides, at least he can't wreak any more havoc here. I get the feeling that if he were interrogated by Slapton - even with a good lawyer present - he would end up digging himself into a hole which he couldn't get out of and somehow I'd up falling into as well.

  "Come on, Nora, we'd better be going."

  "Oh, OK, cheers then," says Piers, putting down his cup. "Well, good to see you again."

  I laugh bitterly.

  "Yeah, and you."

  "Keep in touch," he says. "Just leave a message on my mobile if you hear anything and I'll call you right back. Oh, Nora. You haven't got any chocolate, have you?"

  "No, Piers, sorry," she says.

  Even she seems a bit exasperated by him by now.

  With me holding the torch and Piers illuminating us from overheard we carefully make our way out. I really do hope there are giant rats in that place. Lost in thought I wonder down the road to the car. At least it's stopped raining. We get to the car and I stand by it, waiting for Nora to open the door.

  "Want a lift home?" she says.

  At this point I come back to earth.

  "No, 'course not. Sorry, Nora, but we can't risk you driving this thing again without a licence or insurance or anything. Look, let's get a taxi and your friend will have to pick it up tomorrow."

  "Oh, OK," says Nora, clearly slightly relieved that she doesn't have repeat her hair-raising performance behind the wheel.

  We find a mini cab office and an enormously fat man, overflowing a typing chair, assigns a driver who has offered us a selection of good quality leather coats which his brother imports together with a mobile phone, cheaper than we can find in a shop and some CDs, even before we've got north of the river. In a break during the sales pitch I say to Nora: "You're not going to write about that, are you?"

  "About Piers? No, of course not." I'm trying to work out what she's thinking but she's looking out of the window and won't look round at me.

  "I mean in some ways it doesn't matter to me whether you do or not," I say.

  "Oh, but I wouldn't. We agreed, remember?"

  We drive on in a silence broken only by a special deal on some carpets which are going for just £20 each.

  "What did Piers mean about Josh Langdon and people not taking us to court? I was glad to hear him say it but I don't quite understand why he's so confident."

  "I've no idea," she says, looking out of the window.

  By the time we've reached Vauxhall Bridge it's decision time. Do we go to hers or do we say good-bye in a minute and go our separate ways? The fact that she's fiddling furiously with a stray piece of thread from her jacket suggests that she's also aware of the dilemma. As we zip up to Victoria at frightening speed, a shit hot deal on portable CD players falling on deaf ears, I make my choice.

  "I think I'll get out here," I tell her. "And get the tube."

  She looks round at me and for a moment I think she's going to ask me to stay like she did the other night but instead she says: "Oh, sure, of course."

  "We'll speak tomorrow, decide what to do next."

  "Yes." I ask the driver to stop and let me out and then I move to kiss her but she's not expecting it.

  "Oh," she says. I pull away but then she turns to me and moves to kiss me. It's all a bit awkward and when the driver swerves into the curb I end with a mouthful of her hair while she ends up kissing my neck. I get out and walk towards the tube, turning to wave good-bye but the car has already darted in front of a bus and is off. I haven't even given her some money towards the fare, I realise.

  I get home at nearly ten. It's the second cold, dark apparently empty house I've walked into this evening. Somehow it feels even more uninviting. I put the lights on, put the heating on, even though it's not exact chilly outside yet and pour myself a glass of wine. There is no note from Lauren. I check my mobile - no message. I do the same with the answer phone and there is nothing except something from my Mum hoping that I'm OK. Why hasn't she left a message? I'm hungry but nothing in the fridge or the cupboard appeals. Anyway, there's a funny smell in the fridge. It's the milk. It's off. Sour milk in our fridge. In our cold, dark house. Oh, God, what's happening to us?

  I ring Lauren's mobile assuming I'll get the voicemail. It's worse than that - it rings once and then goes on to voicemail. Can she have seen it was me and decided not to take the call? What is she doing that means she can't even say 'Hi, I'll ring you back.'? I don't know whether to be angry or hurt. I'm probably both.

  I switch on the telly where a woman is giving some advice on how to choose bathroom furniture. "Make sure there is enough room for you to sit on the loo," she says, posing on the bog herself and moving her legs around her to demonstrate exactly what she means as she looks up at the camera seriously. TV makes me think of Lauren, the new Lauren, these days.

  I switch it off and ring Nora. Half an hour later I'm getting out of a cab and buzzing on her door.

  We've been drinking warm white wine and talking about Piers and Guy and the usual stuff, turning it over as we try and work out where Guy could have gone and whether 2cool could ever have made any money. Suddenly it's gone midnight and we both know that I'm not going home. As I brush my teeth with her toothbrush I'm trying to work out to what extent I'm doing this because I want to be with Nora and how much it is simply to spite Lauren. At the moment, standing there naked in Nora's bathroom, a bathroom that's not even as nice as mine and Lauren's at home with its wicker basket bought from a catalogue, warm white towels and classic chunky basin and shiny taps, I wonder whether spite is the main motivation - after all, she's out doing it with that fat, ugly twat Peter - but when I slip into bed with Nora and she lifts her head for me to put my arm around her, I realise, that it's also a desire to be with this woman who doesn't bother with details like driving licences, was so much braver than me this evening and was the only light in her father's terrible darkness.

  When I wake up disorientated at first by the feel of different pillows and sheets and a strange bed underneath me, she leans over me and smiles.

  "Morning," she says.

  "Oh, hi, morning," I mutter, swallowing and closing my eyes again. Pushing her hair behind her ear she reaches down and kisses me. Her mouth is cool and fresh and tastes of toothpaste.

  I pull her down on top of me and she giggles. We kiss again and I feel her breasts pushing against me. I'm naked and in a moment I've lifted her T shirt above her head. I've still got my morning erection and I push it against her. She groans and closes her eyes, reaching down and biting my ear. I'm thinking about condoms and wondering whether there are any in the drawer but in the next moment I'm inside her and she is beginning to move up and down.

  After I've come she falls down beside me, sweating slightly.

  "Did you...come?" I feel embarrassed asking it, but I want to know.

  "Eh? Oh, yes, of course," she laughs and looks away. Then she reaches over and kisses me some more.

  It's nearly nine o'clock so she
makes me toast while I have a quick shower and then she has a shower herself. I kiss her good-bye outside the tube station as she sets off for work and watch her walk up the steps and then I begin to trudge up Ladbroke Grove. The unfamiliarity of the streets makes me feel unsettled. I shouldn't be here now. Despite a feeling of sickening uneasiness about what I've done, I realise that I'm actually still quite hungry having eaten nothing last night so I find a greasy spoon and order scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, toast and a large tea for £3.50.

  I spread the newspapers across the next table and try to decide what to do next. I really, really don't want to go home. I don't want to face Lauren if she's there but neither do I want to find that she's not there, that she's done what I've done.

  Even though Nora and I made love this morning, even though we giggled as I tried to get her shower to work, my huge frame turning in the tiny space, nearly tearing down the shower curtain in the process, even though we kissed as she went into the tube station like a proper couple, the simple truth is that when I woke up in that strange bed and saw Nora's face, not Lauren's looking down on me, I felt a sudden stab of depression.

  I get home at nearly ten thirty and open the front door. She's in. She's on the phone, talking to her booker at the agency it sounds like, checking the venue and fee for a job the next day. I know she's thorough but it seems to take for ages. I wait in the living room, staring at the wall.

  Finally she says "OK, bye, Lou, take care," and puts the phone down. Then there seems to be a lot of paper shuffling. Oh, come on. Finally she walks in and jumps slightly when she sees me.

  "You gave me a shock."

  I say nothing. She puts some papers in her bag which is on the chair next to me. "Where were you last night?" she asks not looking up.

  It doesn't really matter how we start this thing, we both know where it's going to go, well roughly anyway.

  "I was out."

  She stops what she's doing for a moment.

  "Yes, I know that, where?" "Never mind, where we you?"

  She looks at the far wall.

  "I was here, Charlie, in our flat. In our bed."

  "Not when I came home."