Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  I write her a breezy reply hoping she's well and explaining that the site has closed and that I’m out of trouble now but my mind's not really on it.

  There is only one thing I can think about at the moment - what I'm going to say to Lauren. So I start to type out some thoughts: 2cool is over now and so I'm going stop behaving so selfishly and help with her new TV career but how I think she should spend a little less time with Peter, because much as I like him (and really did warm to him over breakfast) she's going out with me, not him.

  Well, that's her career plan sorted out but what the fuck am I going to do? I hope Lauren will have some ideas - she always does. I also start writing about why I slept with Nora and how it was partly to get at her for sleeping with Peter and partly because I was...was what? Going bonkers? Going on a bender? Trying to hurt the one I love because that's what you do when you're angry and confused.

  It all looks a bit daft set out on the screen, complete with typos. I find myself checking the Thesaurus for another word for sorry because I've written so many times, sprinkled uselessly across the text. I read through it all again and then I delete it all.

  I bung some washing on, change my clothes and put new sheets on the bed. Then I open Lauren's wardrobe and go to the little bit at the end which is full of her own casual clothes rather than her work outfits. I stick my head in amongst the neatly hanging jeans, shirts, trousers and jackets and breath deeply, inhaling her.

  My dad rings at 12.45. He's in the car.

  "You all right?"

  "Yeah, fine."

  "Sorry I didn't see you this morning."

  "I'm back in Chiswick at the flat."

  "Made up with Lauren?"

  "She's not here, she's back tomorrow. She's been in France with friends. Dad, can I come and see you this afternoon?" "See me? I'm pretty booked up this afternoon."

  "Tonight?"

  "Erm, can't make it tonight. I've got a...a...business thing. What about tomorrow?"

  "Oh, never mind."

  "OK, OK, I've got something at fourish that I can move. Ring Amanda and book yourself in."

  "Thanks."

  Dad keeps me waiting until twenty five past four. I sit on one of the giant black leather Bauhaus style settees in the lobby, listening to the two receptionists answer the phone.

  "Matthew Kendal Barrett, good afternoon," "Matthew Kendal Barrett, can I help you?"

  It's funny to hear my name repeated over and over again. Sometimes there's a pause as they both stare out of the giant picture windows in front of them or exchange a comment with each other ("East Enders on tonight?" "No, tomorrow. Matthew Kendal Barrett, good afternoon. I'm taping it because we're going out. Should be a good one". "See it last week? Matthew Kendal Barrett, good afternoon. What a bastard what's his name is. Engaged will you hold?") sometimes they overlap with their greeting, sometimes one follows the other immediately. On a couple of occasions they say it in perfect unison. What are the chances of that?

  Unable to take any more MTV I ignore the monitors on the wall and read 'Campaign' and 'Media Week'. I see the name of his agency in a headline and the read the story underneath. Another acquisition. I'm just about to turn the page when I realise that the guy in the photo next to it, moody, unsmiling, his face slashed with light filtering in from the Venetian blinds behind him, is my dad. He's like a stranger.

  Finally I go up to the top floor. Amanda asks me to wait again, he won't be long. We make small talk but my throat feels almost too dry to speak. Then suddenly my Dad is waving for me to go in.

  "Hiya," I say, as casually as I can. He finishes scribbling something, shouts to Amanda for some coffee and then gets up and gives me a hug.

  "So. Everything alright?"

  His office is huge. White walls, black and white prints, Wenge wood furniture. TV screens along one side - Bloomberg, MTV, a scene from the House of Commons. Framed awards along the other. His desk huge and is filled with papers. An Apple Mac computer screen faces him. In the corner of the room is a Charles Eames recliner.

  "I think so, Dad. I had a visit from the police again today."

  "Yeah?"

  "They've called off the investigation, well, the fraud bit, anyway."

  "Oh, thank God for that." He looks genuinely relieved. "Oh, that is excellent news," he says, accepting a coffee from Amanda. I smile and shake my head in answer to her offer.

  "Water?" she asks.

  "Oh, yes, that'd be great, thanks."

  "But they showed me this list of names." I'm trying to read my dad's expression but, leaning back in his huge black leather chair, he looks slightly quizzical, that's all.

  "And?"

  "Yours was on it. Along with a lot of other people, big names, rich and famous people."

  "And what was this list about?"

  "I don't know."

  "Didn't they say?"

  "No." Amanda brings in a tray with a glass, a bottle and dish of ice. It's that water again - Glacial Purity. "But almost all of them I remember have invested in 2cool."

  "Sure."

  "Well, have you invested in 2cool?"

  When my dad stands up and walks over to the window I know the answer.

  "I put some money in, yeah. So did a lot of people as you know."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  There is no answer

  "That was Guy on your phone, wasn't it?"

  My dad sighs.

  "Yes, it was."

  "Cause you know him, don't you?"

  "Well, I've met him a few times."

  I take a sip of water, hoping he'll say more but he doesn't. He just stands by the window, his back to me, looking down at the traffic halting and pushing its way round in Berkeley Square.

  "Was it your personal investment or was it Matthew Kendall

  Barr - ?"

  "It was my own money."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty grand."

  "Dad, that's quite a lot of money."

  "I can afford it," he says defiantly, turning round and watching the TV monitors. I give up on the hope that he's going to answer the big questions unprompted.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" He says nothing. I can feel anger and tears welling up inside me but I keep control. "Why didn't you say when I first got involved with 2cool? You must have been in on the start. You knew all along. Why did you pretend not to know Guy and Piers? No wonder you popped up at the Huntsman's thing. You got that first article about it faxed to you in New York. Why have you lied to me?"

  When my dad turns to look at me there are tears in his eyes and his jaw is shaking.

  "I wanted to protect you. I, I've just been caught up in this thing."

  "Caught up in what thing? 2cool? How? Why?"

  "Something bigger."

  "What?"

  "Charlie, I can't tell you. Please don't ask."

  "For God's sake, Dad, what is it?"

  "Never mind. Look why don't you and Lauren go on a holiday. Get away from it all, now you've been cleared and this whole thing is all over. You could go somewhere nice - relax, talk about your relationship - "

  "Dad, what're you talking about?"

  "I'll pay for it." He opens a drawer and takes out a cheque book.

  "Remember last year, I went to the Gazelle D'Or with, er..." He starts writing. "With...er...what's her name? We had a great time. Why don't you take Lauren there?"

  However weird and alien this conversation might seem, I can recognise my father now - practical solutions. Do something. Identify the problem and develop an effective response to it. After all, that's why those hip funky off-the-wall guys in the offices further down the corridor employed him. That's why he thought little trips to Thorpe Park would sort out his relationship with his children when his marriage was breaking up.

  I watch him write the cheque, tear it out and hold it out to me. It's for £5,000. Bloody hell, what kind of holiday would that pay for? I look up at him. He has blinked back the tears and his face is set with a positive, upbea
t look. It must be killing him. I take the cheque and put it down on the desk between us.

  "I don't want to talk to you again until you tell me the truth," I say and walk out of the office.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Out in the street again I ring Nora at the office. Someone else answers, sounding rather hassled, and snaps that she's not there, could I call back later? I end the call without saying anything and then try her mobile. Voicemail. I leave a message for her to ring me immediately.

  I walk around the streets of Mayfair for a while thinking. There are smart offices in old houses with brass name plates below the entry phones. Some of them are just surnames or initials - solicitors? PR companies? Accountants? Others have more obvious names such as West African Oil Exploration Inc or Anglo American Data Solutions Ltd.

  I make my way down to Green Park tube and go home to Chiswick. I potter around trying to decide what to do. Then I pour myself a whiskey and then lie in the bath where I can think. A couple of times I think I hear Lauren's key in the lock for some reason and I sit up.

  As well as being angry with my dad, I also feel very sorry for him. Watching your father cry is a weird experience. He's seen me cry thousands of times when I was a kid. A kid? I bawled my eyes out when that I discovered that that cow Karen Sutton was seeing my mate Tony behind my back and I was 16 then.

  Having the roles reversed is strange, though. Like when you realise for the first time that your parents are not the all knowing omni-competent beings you thought they were, like when you explain to them how some bit of technology works or what something means that they've read in the paper, or when you say goodnight to them but they're the ones who are going to bed.

  When the father helps the son both smile. When the son helps the father both cry. It's a Chinese saying I think. Watching your father cry while you're dry eyed is even worse.

  You sort of assume that a wealthy man behind a big desk is safe but perhaps not. Oh, Dad, what is it? Why can't you tell me? What have you done? Something illegal? Criminal? No, surely not. Did you just get a bit greedy? Has someone got something on you? If so, what? And what - or who - are you protecting me from? I slip underwater and stay there as long as I can manage. When I come up, my mobile is ringing.

  I reach across to the towel rail and dry my hands and then pick up the phone. It's a breathless Nora, obviously out on the street.

  "I've just been talking to Piers. We've had a long, long talk. He's been talking, really talking. Spilled his guts, man. I had to bully it out of him - told him I'd tell everyone where he was - but, my God, what a story! I know why all those people including your...I know why they haven't sued."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he and Guy have got something on them."

  "Blackmail?"

  "That's what I said and Piers said 'What an ugly word' or something. He called it 'encouragement'."

  "So what has he got on them?"

  Nora laughs hysterically.

  "You won't believe it. Let's just say it's about badgers again."

  "Badgers?"

  She laughs again.

  "Yeah, look we're going to a party again tonight."

  "Nora, what are you talking about?" I'm hanging over the edge of the bath now. "What did he say about my dad?"

  "He and Guy do know your dad. It almost certainly was Guy who rang for your dad that day."

  "Yeah, I know, I spoke to Dad this afternoon."

  "Oh, right! What did he say?" "He told me he was involved in something, something more than just 2cool."

  "That would be it!" says Nora. "Charlie, this is huge."

  That phrase again. I shiver in the steaming bath water.

  "Stop saying that. What have you found out?"

  There is a rustle of fabric and a muffled cry.

  "Oh, shit, sorry," I hear Nora say. "Are you all right?"

  "What's going on?"

  She comes back to me.

  "Sorry about that, bumped into someone. So, what else did your dad say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "He just suggested I...Lauren and I go on holiday."

  "Well, you'd better wait till tomorrow. After then it will all have blown over and it won't really matter."

  "Nora, what the fuck are you talking about?"

  "A big, big story. We're going to a party in Mayfair. Tonight. Meet me, where, where? Umm. Meet me in the bar of the Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane at eight thirty and I'll tell you everything, better still you'll see everything for yourself."

  "Nora, what do you - ? Hello? Hello?"

  I drop the phone on the floor and slump back in the bath.

  To my surprise she's already there when I arrive at eight twenty five. She smiles broadly, throws her arms around me and kisses me on the lips, pushing her tongue into my mouth, playing with my hair. I respond mechanically - not quite with it, not quite sure why I'm here but sure I don't want to kiss her.

  "What will you have to drink?" she says, eyes dancing with delight.

  "I'll have a glass of white wine."

  "Excuse me," she bellows across at the barman who makes a great of looking shocked at such over excitable behaviour in this temple of cool. Her elbow catches her own glass but I manage to rescue it just in time. "Hallo? Yes, white wine, over here. Make it a big one."

  She is wearing a simple black close fitting dress with a fur collar. And a lot of diamonds.

  "Do you like it? Got it from the fashion department. Mustn't get it dirty - or ripped or anything." She giggles, maniacally. She's scaring me now. "These rocks are paste of course, but they're so glam, aren't they? They're mine. I bought 'em in New York."

  "Nora, what is going on?"

  "You look very nice." I'm wearing a black dress shirt and a black Armani jacket courtesy of 2cool and some faded, stitched up blue jeans - 'model's own', as they say.

  "Thanks, now what on earth is going on?"

  "This party...ooh, here's your drink." She more or less throws it at me and then clinks her own against it so hard that I end up licking wine off my fingers. "This party should answer a lot of questions."

  "I wish you'd answer some questions."

  "For goodness sake, I don't know anything. All I know is what happens at this party will tell us a lot about 2cool and why all these people who have coughed up aren't that bothered about trying to find out what happened to their money."

  "So what is going to happen at this thing?"

  "I don't know," she says, opening her eyes wide. "But we'll see. Just have patience. Here, look at this." She holds up her handbag.

  "What about it?"

  She looks around and then points to what looks like a large sequin on one side of it.

  "Hidden camera."

  "What?"

  "The picture desk sorted it out for me. You just squeeze the catch here. Hang on, I'm doing it the wrong way round, yep, that's it, you just squeeze the catch here and it takes picture."

  "Why? A picture of what?"

  "What goes on at this party."

  "And you still won't tell me -?"

  "I told you, we'll have to wait and see."

  "Nora, you're really beginning to -"

  "Here he is," she says, looking over my shoulder and waving.

  I look round. A guy in a baseball cap and sunglasses is walking straight towards us. Not surprisingly most other people in the bar have spotted him too and are looking discretely but intensely to see who it is. Robbie Williams? Will Young? Oh, no, they almost certainly won't know him but I do: "Piers!"

  "Shhh," he and Nora say in stereo from either side of me.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Hello, matey," he says, looking around, coming up close to me and shaking my hand while clutching my elbow is if he's trying to stuff my arm into the black bomber jacket he's wearing.

  "What do you want to drink?" whispers Nora.

  "Oh, a real drink. Thank God," he whispers back.

  Fortunately the barma
n is being a bit more attentive this time, obviously wanting to check out the 'celeb'.

  "G&T" he hisses at Nora. "A large one. Lots of ice."

  She relays this to the barman who has in fact already heard and is looking at Piers closely.

  "Good disguise," I tell Piers, as more people turn to look at him.

  "Cheers," he says, winking behind his sunglasses, oblivious, as usual to my sarcasm.

  "Tell Piers what's happened today," says Nora. "To you, I mean."

  I leave out the Peter and Scott episode but explain about Slapton's visit and the computers. He's pleased and tells me that he knew it would all work out OK. Then I give him an edited version my conversation with my dad.

  "Your dad," laughs Piers as he takes his drink from the barman.

  "What about him?" I say, staring intensely.

  He looks surprised.

  "Well, it's just unfortunate that...you know...he's mixed up in this."

  "Unfortunate?" I say, moving slightly closer to Piers. He takes a step back.

  "Just saying. I'm sure he won't, you know get into any trouble."

  "He'd better fucking not."

  "Stop it boys," says Nora. "Aren't you glad to see each other again?"

  She really is bonkers, this woman.

  "I'm so glad to be out of that bloody warehouse place. Full of rats, I'm sure," says Piers.

  "It must be," says Nora.

  "I'm looking forward to this party, as well," sniggers Piers.

  I'm not.

  We leave about ten and walk up Park Lane a bit before turning down a side street.

  "It's Wareham Street which is just...about...here. Here we are," she says leading us into a little thoroughfare of flat fronted Mayfair houses, near Frederica's where we had our launch, a life time ago. I look round for Piers and see him flattened against a wall looking furtively around him before making this next move.

  "Oh, try and keep up, you tit," I tell him.

  "Number 25 - this is it," says Nora. She stands still for a moment and then looks round at me. She takes a deep breath. "You ready?" Now I'm feeling really nervous. She checks her hair and then her handbag camera. "What time is it?"