Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  "Obviously not but I came back at just before midnight and went to bed. Now where were you?"

  "I was out with someone from work." We don't have to say who. "You were with Peter, weren't you?"

  "Yes, I was as a matter of fact I was. We had a drink with a friend of his who's a commissioning editor at Channel Four and then I got a taxi home and went to bed."

  It all sounds so reasonable. Oh, my God, how could I have doubted her?

  "Lauren I know you're sleeping with him." It comes out more considered, more assertive than I expected.

  She finishes putting her stuff in the bag and turns towards me: "Oh, Charlie that's complete crap. How can you say that when you've been out all night, fucking that weird, horrible woman who's knifed you in the back time after time?"

  I stand up and walk over to the window.

  "Charlie," she says more quietly. "I want you to move out. For a while at least."

  "So that Peter can move in?" As soon as I say it, I regret it. It sounds cheap and silly - and I don't mean it. Perhaps I just want to hurt her. Why can't Peter just take his silly floppy fringe and his TV talk and his commissioning editor friends and leave us alone?

  "No. I just need some space, that's all. I think we both do. Last night was just...just the final straw."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Having stuffed some carelessly chosen clothes and a hand full of toiletries into a bag I walk out of the flat and slam the door behind me without saying anything to her. I stomp purposefully along the street into the main road and then stop and look around.

  What the hell am I going to do now?

  I walk back down the road parallel to ours ('ours?' can I still say that?) and sit down on a wall. A woman with a briefcase marches along and gives me a suspicious glance as she passes me. That's right, dear, I'm just casing the joint.

  Where can I go? I don't want to move in with Nora - that would be too much. I could never go back to Lauren if I'd been staying there. Anyway, it's not like I want to set up a new life with her, it's just that... Just that what? I'm enjoying playing away from home? Getting at Lauren. Perhaps. Either way, it's no reason to try and set up a new life with someone. Lauren's words, sensible words of course, come back to me: "That weird, horrible woman who's knifed you in the back time after time."

  I decide to focus on practical considerations again. I can't land on Sarah and Mark or any of mine and Lauren's common friends - it's just not fair on them. I can hardly arrive at Becky's with her new baby and a boyfriend I haven't met yet.

  I find myself thinking about me, Lauren and children. It seems further away than ever. A pointless day dream. Being unfaithful and staying out all night is hardly the best way to prepare for children.

  I realise that I have few other friends that are close enough just to crash out for a few nights with anyway. I can imagine my mates' girlfriends who I hardly know whispering in the kitchen about how long I'm going to be sleeping on the settee. I fidget at the thought of a settee and a sleeping bag. Why are living rooms always so cold at night, colder than bedrooms, somehow? I even contemplate the office - there's a loo, a kitchenette and a long sofa there. What an awful thought, somehow it's only one up from a doorway.

  I need a bed and preferably my own room. I can't land on my Mum and anyway, that house is too depressing and so I consider the other parent. Besides, his spare room is en suite. With a Jacuzzi. And a 40 inch plasma screen. What am I waiting for?

  I dig out my mobile from my bag and ring him at work where I manage to catch him. He comes on the phone via the squawk box. He says: "Yeah? Oh, shame," when I tell him about Lauren. I would have quite liked some paternal words of comfort or advice but, then again, this is a man whose TV commercials last longer than his relationships.

  "Nothing lasts forever," he adds profoundly, his voice distant and distorted through the loudspeaker.

  "No, I suppose not. Hang on isn't that a line from that beer commercial you made a few months ago?"

  "Yeah, well spotted, kiddo," he says, delighted. "It just won an award at the TV ads International festival in Toronto. Our third!"

  "Well done."

  My Dad's secretary arranges for a key to be waiting for me at the block's marketing suite. I set off up the road and decide to pop into the shopping centre in Hammersmith to buy some magazines to read on my never-ending tube journey to the other side of the world. My soft leather hold by Loewe looks slightly out of the place in thenHammersmith mall amongst the Safeway carriers and Burger King bags. It'll probably get snatched and then I'll be completely unencumbered, with literally nothing but the clothes I'm standing up in.

  There is a strong stink of piss by the entrance to the mall and as I walk in an enormous teenage girl in black leggings and a bomber jacket is coming out shouting: "Leave my fucking dad alone, you slag. Go on, fuck off, I know you're sleeping with him."

  At first I think she's just bonkers, shouting at the world in general and I really wouldn't blame her for that. Then I see the object of her tirade: another girl, also a teenager who is now shouting something back.

  I buy GQ, Vogue Hommes and FHM plus the Post and The Times and set off to the tube station. As I wander along the street, replaying my last (last ever?) conversation with Lauren in my mind, I pass a dirty nappy lying on the pavement, a tiny smear of shit nestling in the stay dry fabric. Nearby, a mother is changing her baby in a push chair, humming to herself and blithely throwing dirty wipes down on the ground. The smell makes me feel slightly sick.

  At the station I flick through a magazine and manage to read the whole of it without a train coming. I wait a bit longer and then walk up the platform and find a London Underground man.

  "What's the delay?"

  "There's no delay."

  "There must be, I've been waiting for over 20 minutes." Small exaggeration.

  "There's no delay."

  "OK, when's the next train?"

  "Don't know, probably not for another couple of hours."

  "A couple of hours?"

  "Yep, eastbound Piccadilly line services are suspended until further notice from here as far as Green Park due to a person under a train at Knightsbridge. Harrods sale again. Like this every time - they go down like nine pins."

  "Oh, right." I sigh and consider my options. "Wait a minute; I thought you said there was no delay."

  "Aha," says the man triumphantly. "There isn't a delay, there's a suspension of service, which strictly speaking is not a delay."

  I decide to take the bus into town and go to the office and start calling round model agencies. Eventually a bus comes. Needless to say it's absolutely packed. I'm just about to get on when a little old lady pulls me off. I step back onto the pavement.

  "You will let me get on first, I think," she says in a heavy Eastern European accent.

  "Yeah, sure," I say, allowing her to go ahead with a melancholy flourish of my hand.

  I wait nearly an hour outside the bus station for the next. This is ridiculous but what else have I got to do?

  I get to the office and speak to a very nice French journalist who is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She wants to know more about the site but I explain that it's over, kaput, finis. She asks for an interview and I say no and smile sadly. She looks slightly disappointed and wanders off. You're not the only one who's disappointed by the demise of 2cool, love, really.

  I make myself a cappuccino from the machine in the corner - the first time we've ever used it. Now it will have to go back. We told our readers it was the chicest thing to put in your open plan kitchen which the manufacturers must have been pleased about but then we suggested another, more expensive, brand a couple of days later. Immediately a freebie arrived from that company. Where did the new one go?, I wonder, looking around.

  Then I take a deep breath, pick up the phone and ring round the three model agencies I've been considering working with. I leave messages for the head booker in each case. Then I try a couple more that I hadn't originally considered
contacting.

  "We see new faces between 10 and 12 on Wednesdays," says a girl when I explain why I'm ringing.

  "I'm not a new face," I tell her sniffily and put the phone down.

  What am I then? An old face?

  By three I've had enough. I'm beginning to get sick of this place, anyway. I don't even like it; I don't think I ever did. Coming here is like an addiction - I hate it but I can't stop doing it.

  I get to docklands at nearly half past four. As usual the cab driver has never heard of the development and we drive past it a couple of times on the wrong side of the dual carriage way with me pointing frantically, trying to make him understand where I want to go. Finally he deposits me by the barrier, next to the skip and the burnt out car. I walk over the unfinished road along to the marketing suite. It smells damply of filter coffee and dodgy gas heater.

  "I've come to pick up a key from Mr Barrett in the penthouse," I tell a girl with shoulder-length blonde hair, a dark suit and lots of makeup.

  "Oh, yes of course," she says, smiling ecstatically. "Now, I'm afraid, the penthouse has actually been sold but -"

  "Sorry, I don't want to buy anything, I'm staying here with Mr Barrett, he's my dad. I've come to pick up the key. He said you'd have it."

  Her face falls.

  "Oh, OK. She opens a drawer in her desk and takes out an envelope with my name on it. Then she pauses for a moment. "We do have some properties with a river view on the fourth floor, though."

  I look at her bewildered.

  "No, I'm just staying here. I don't want to buy anything."

  "Oh, of course." She hands over the envelope.

  "Thanks." I open to check that the key is in there but she is saying something else. "Sorry?"

  "Would you like to go on our mailing list?"

  "No, thank -"

  "Please," she says. She looks desperate. "I need three more names by the end of today."

  So I give her my address in Chiswick and trudge off over the loose rubble and broken bricks to the special Penthouse entrance. Once inside I dump my bag in the room and wonder over to the stereo. It's so minimalist that it looks like a rectangle of brushed stainless steel with one dark circle in it but fortunately I was there when my Dad first got it and we spent a Saturday afternoon together working out how to operate it.

  I choose some music - a dance compilation that I'm kind of guessing Nikki, Mari, Toni, Traci or one of the 'i's probably bought - and turn up the volume with the remote as far as it will go which is pretty loud. My ears are almost ringing. I potter round the apartment and wait till the music ends. Then I ring Nora. She hasn't heard anything from Piers. I don't tell her about Lauren even though she must be wondering after our night together.

  "You're not writing about him are you?"

  "What? Piers? For a piece? No, honestly Charlie."

  "Sorry, just wondered."

  "And you haven't called the police?"

  "No, no, don't worry. I think he'd cause trouble if he did speak to them."

  "Oh, well. Just wondered." I'm about to say 'bye' when she says: "You all right, Charlie? You sound really down."

  "No, fine, don't worry, just tired."

  "Will, erm, I see you tonight?"

  "Oh, er, no, sorry I'm going out with a friend -"

  "Sure, no problem. I'll speak to you tomorrow, then, perhaps."

  "Yep. Bye."

  I look out across towards the City and central London just as the sun is setting in a glorious pink and blue mess like a strawberry ice cream melting on a pale blue plate. The lights are coming on in the office blocks and along the roads. I can see the appeal of living up here in this ethereal sanctuary, watching the rest of the world as if it was all happening on giant TV screens.

  I decide to have a Jacuzzi. While it's filling I get myself a drink. One fridge is full of nothing but champagne I discover, but another has a few bottles of white wine so I open one and take a glass into the Jacuzzi. Cold wine and a hot Jacuzzi - it should be wonderfully, luxuriously, self-indulgent but in fact, sitting alone in this vast white echoey sensory deprivation tank I feel like crying.

  My Dad gets home around eight, still on his mobile to what I guess must be his New York office. I mime a drinking action to him and he mouths 'white wine, please' back at me. I suddenly notice the vintage of the bottle I've already opened - 1982. Oops, I hope he wasn't saving it for a special occasion, then I remember that my Dad's whole life is a special occasion.

  He takes the glass from me, gives me a wink of thanks and goes into his bedroom, telling New York: "We'll need to see the last five years billings at least, together with future projections for this year and next plus...oh, bullshit, Marty, course they can. Get them over to me and I'll have a look at them later tonight."

  When he comes back he is wearing a sort of kaftan and smelling of cologne.

  "So what kind of day have you had?" he asks collapsing on the settee.

  I give him an exasperated look.

  "Well, pretty shit actually."

  "Mmm? Oh, yeah. Lauren. Women just suddenly get these things into her head. So, what's the matter with her? Time of the month?" He flicks on Bloomberg Business News on the telly. I feel quite indignant on Lauren's behalf.

  "No, she's not like that, she's very level headed, as you know," I say, hoping he'll remember that he has met her frequently over the last six years. "She's just got this thing about getting into television. Met this awful bloke called Peter Beaumont-Crowther."

  "Oh, right, Freak Productions."

  "That's him. Do you know him?"

  "Met him a couple of times. I think he's produced some infomercials for us."

  "What do you think of him?"

  Still watching the telly my dad shrugs his shoulders dismissively. Either he doesn't know much about PBC or he doesn't think much of him.

  "Where's, erm..." What's her bloody name?

  "English lesson," intercepts my Dad. "I told her I could get someone over here to do it but she insists on going to this school in Soho or something."

  A cynical thought about her desire to get away and mix with her own age groups in the bars of Soho crosses my mind. But my Dad is asking me about 2cool. I don't tell him about Piers. I just tell him that the site is no longer up on the net and that we're waiting to hear back from the Fraud Squad."

  "But you've done nothing wrong, you're sure of that?" he asks looking round at me severely.

  "No, I told you - I signed a few cheques."

  "But that was before the other two disappeared, before there was any suggestion that finances might not be healthy."

  "Yes, I said."

  "I did tell you about those revenue streams," says my dad, flicking over to CNN Financial.

  "Yeah, I know," I say sadly, wondering suddenly what Nora's doing tonight.

  "What do you want to eat?" he asks.

  I'm about to ask what he's got in the flat but then the absurdity of this notion, strikes me.

  "Whatever."

  "There's this new online sushi place," says my Dad. He presses a button on the TV console. A keyboard appears from the table next to him and the TV screen turns to an internet home page. He types in an address and suddenly a picture of a sushi bar appears before us. The chef, looking slightly surprised, bows and says "Harrow, may I take your ordah?"

  "You can see it all being made in front of you on webcam before it's sent off to your home," my Dad explains to me. Then he says into the mike: "What do you recommend today?"

  "The brue marrin is very good."

  "What? Oh, blue marlin? Yep, give us a couple of those. Any fugu fish?" The chef looks alarmed.

  "No fugu fish today," he says decisively.

  "Fugu fish is the poisonous one, if it isn't filleted in exactly the right way, the venom remains in the flesh and you'll be dead in seconds," explains Dad.

  "Shame they haven't got any, then," I say.

  "What else do you fancy, kiddo?"

  "I don't know. Salmon? Tuna?"
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  "Good idea."

  My dad orders lots of things I've never heard of and then we watch them being prepared on screen, the paper thin, surgically sharp knives stroking the fish into tiny strips and cubes and the rice being patted and cut into shape. The only slightly disconcerting thing is the one non Japanese member of the team who stands at the back, watching the other chefs at work and picking his nose disconsolately from time to time. Unfortunately the camera pans away from him just as he has finished the extraction process so we don't see where his quarry ends up.

  Anyway, twenty minutes later our sushi, beautifully laid out with intricately carved vegetables and mysterious fronds of greenery, arrives with a slightly overwhelmed guy on a bike and we set it out on the coffee table before us.

  Dad puts the screen back to television mode. He's got over 600 channels I've already discovered. On one we find a rerun of Fawlty Towers. We smile and sit back, mid sushi. We used to watch it when me and my sister were kids and he and Mum were still together. But he just wants to check what's on the other 599 channels and by the same we've scanned through all of them and got back to Fawlty Towers on 178 - the seventies sitcom channel - it's over and instead there's Are you Being Served? which we don't like.

  At about eleven I announce that I'm going to bed and he says he's going to do some work until what's-her-name comes back (he doesn't call her that, of course, but I just cannot remember this girl's name. Read into that what you will).

  I brush my teeth in my own bathroom and get into bed. Was ever any bed too big for one person? I feel as if I'm in a hospital ward. Lauren will be in our bed. I hope she's on her own, the idea of Peter with his head on my pillow, looking lovingly across at her, inches away from her face under our sheets makes me shudder.

  I stare at the ceiling for a while gently torturing myself and then I reach across to the lighting control panel. I press a button and the ceiling lights dim slightly but some others by the dressing table come on. I touch another knob and the ceiling lights come back on and so do the ones by the Jacuzzi. I try a third and the Jacuzzi lights go off along with the main lights but some others by the bedside tables come on. The fourth puts the main light on dimly and the Jacuzzi lights on brightly. The fifth and sixth still leave lights on in various places in the room. By this time I've run out of buttons - and patience - so I whack the whole panel a couple times and finally I'm in complete darkness.