Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  We choose a fillet of salmon for him and some sword fish for me. Guy orders them again in his effortless Catalan and in the meanwhile we chew on fresh bread, ragged with tomato and garlic and drizzled with olive oil.

  "But in fact it was lucky for everyone else," I explain. "Rumour went round the place in no time that someone had ODed and died. They shot out of there like rats out of a trap. The photographer the Post had positioned outside, by the front door, was away for five minutes getting a cup of tea or having a pee. When he came back the place was empty. Only picture they got was the ambulance taking me away."

  "Shame."

  "Piers says," I take a deep breath. Might as well tell him. "Piers told me afterwards when he came to see me in hospital that Nora wanted to the write the story around me - after all they had the pictures of me. The story was going to be that I was so upset about the whole 2cool thing that I had taken an overdose."

  "You're kidding."

  "She told Piers that it would be good for me really. Win me the sympathy vote."

  "I was going to say how evil of her, but I'm not sure that it is."

  "No, Piers told me his - and your theory - about her. I was already drugged and he was wearing a gas mask - oh, don't ask - but it made sense to me. I honestly think she never really understood why I'd be upset."

  "You're probably right," he says. "She didn't actually want to hurt you, it just didn't register with her that you'd be upset and angry. The more I got to know about her the more I realised that she just uses people to amuse her. Even if you never spoke to her again, which I'm sure you wouldn't, she wouldn't care that much, I'm afraid."

  "Yeah, I'm sure you're right and yet..." Why has this suddenly come to me now? "When I was out of it in the hospital the next day, semi-conscious, delirious - it was before Lauren had got back and heard from my dad what had happened - I'm sure Nora came to see me. I'm sure I saw her face looking at me and saying something and then kissing my forehead." I try and remember more, taking myself back to that hospital bed, but it doesn't come to me. The doctors warned me that I might have memory loss and even hallucinations. "I don't know."

  "Perhaps, you did, you know, touch her. Connect with her."

  "I wonder." We watch the staff at work for a while, dishing out food, reaching over each other, shouting orders, banging out coffee dregs, joking and gossiping with the regulars who stand at one end of the bar smoking and glasses of drinking beer. "I suppose having parents like that must screw you up. Was it true about her father and her mother, do you think?"

  "Was what true?"

  I tell him what Piers told me. He thinks for a moment.

  "I heard about her father because a friend of mine is a doctor in New York. Piers is half right, I think. Her dad did have a habit of touching up his patients which was a trifle unfortunate but he was, well could have been, a great doctor. He was very bright, had huge potential but I suppose it was a kind of undirected, undisciplined intelligence. He couldn't put it to any positive use. Bit like Nora. You sometimes need a sheep dog for intellect - you know, round it up and point it in the right direction."

  I smile but it's just so fucking sad. For both of them.

  "So you've made it up with Lauren, then?" he asks.

  For a second I panic that Lauren's not with me. Perhaps, I dreamed that too. Perhaps we're still not speaking.

  "Yes," I tell him. "My dad got her mobile number from my phone and rang her in France where she was staying with a friend. Told her what had happened. In fact, by the time she'd got back I was out of hospital and I'd been given the all clear by the doctors."

  "So you managed to sort things out between you?"

  "Yes. She and Sarah, the friend that she was staying with, had done a lot of talking about us and our relationship and all the things that have happened over the last few months so I think that helped."

  I don't tell him all the details about the meeting that Lauren and I had at the flat when she got back. I can hardly bear to think about it now, in case I've dreamt it or in case by going over it yet again in my mind I'll somehow undo it.

  It was early evening, the last rays of the sun were filtering in through the windows and it was still quite warm. My mum who had been fussing round had just left, well finally been ejected by me. Oh, I was really grateful to her. She had brought round a shepherd’s pie - if chicken soup is Jewish penicillin, shepherd’s pie must be Barnet’s Neurofen, I suppose. But I didn't want her there when Lauren got back and I think she understood that.

  So I sat with the telly on, not taking anything in, rehearsing what I wanted to say to Lauren, trying out phrases, thinking of an apology that would really convey how sorry I felt, explaining why I'd done the stupid things I'd done but also setting out what I wanted from our relationship if it continued and trying to test these terms to see if they sounded reasonable.

  For some reason I didn't hear her key in the front door and so one minute I was just watching telly, thinking about her, praying that she would come back, would be willing to see me and the next minute she was there, standing in the doorway of the living room. I got up slowly and faced her. She was tanned, beautifully dressed as always, but her eyes looked like she'd been crying quite a bit and not sleeping much.

  She looked at me for a moment in silence and then muttered something about putting her bag in the bedroom. I nodded and stayed put. She was back moments later, saying something.

  "Sorry?" I whispered.

  "I was going to have a glass of wine, would you - ?"

  "Yes, oh, yes please. There's some in the fridge. Are you hungry? My mum brought a shepherd’s pie, you could microwave it -" I was gabbling.

  "Erm, no, thanks. I'm not hungry."

  "Sit down, I'll get the wine."

  She came into the room to let me pass and I went out into the kitchen, trying to work out from what I had seen so far whether she simply wanted to discuss arrangements for splitting up and moving out or whether something more positive was possible.

  I came back with the wine and she asked: "So, how are you?"

  "I'm okay, thanks. The doctors checked me out and they think I'm fine. No brain damage," I added, goofily.

  She smiled gently and nodded.

  "Good, I'm glad."

  "How was France?"

  "It was, it was...good. Yeah, lovely."

  I sensed we were skating around this huge hole in the ice: desperately sticking to the periphery in case we went too near the middle and fell into that icy water that could have drowned us both.

  "Lauren," I paused for a moment, trying to think when I'd last used her name rather than 'babe' or 'honey' or something. The formality and unfamiliarity of it threw me for a moment. "I'm sorry." All my arguments, defences, explanations and carefully honed phrases went completely out of my mind. "I'm just so sorry that I thought you and Peter were sleeping together, I'm sorry I slept with Nora -"

  Her face hardened at the name.

  "What's happened to her?" she asked briskly.

  "Oh, I don't know."

  "She put something in your drink?"

  "Yeah, I don't know what it was...something she was given at the party, except she used a double dose."

  Lauren shook her head in disbelief.

  "She should be prosecuted, the police -"

  "I know, but I couldn't necessarily prove it was her in a court and frankly, I just want to forget all about her, about the whole thing."

  She seemed to be thinking over my implied question: would she forget about it as well? She sighed heavily and put her glass down as I watched her closely, trying to read her thoughts.

  "I still can't believe you did that - slept with her." She could hardly bear to say it. I was silent. What could I say? "How many...?"

  This, I really couldn't bear to go over.

  "Twice. Look, there's no excuse, Lauren, I was angry with you. I was feeling lonely, you weren't around. Everything seemed different; I didn't know what I was doing." She nodded again. "Oh, God, Lauren, I'
m so sorry. Really, it was also because I was going...I don't know...a bit bonkers, I think, with the whole 2cool thing and, like I said, I was just feeling so angry with you for spending so much time with Peter."

  She laughed gently. Sensing my surprise at her reaction she said: "He told me about you finding him -"

  It took a moment to realise what she was referring to.

  "Oh, fuck, that was embarrassing. I can't believe I didn't realise he was gay. I think Sarah was about to tell me when I spoke to her on the phone at her office but she got called away. Oh, God, poor bugger - I really kicked the shit out of him."

  She laughed again.

  "Oh, don't worry; he doesn't hold it against you. Poor Peter, Scott's left him for some girl on the same course at college. He's heartbroken."

  "Oh, no," I said. "They seemed like a nice couple." The phrase stopped us both for moment. "Are we still...?" I asked. She looked me directly in the eyes.

  "I'd like us to be Charlie, if you do."

  I couldn't believe that she thought I might not. I stared back at her. That familiar face, that way of sitting, one long leg elegantly crossed over the other, her glass cradled in her lap. So composed, self-assured. Suddenly I was brought back to the thrill I got on our first dates together.

  "I've changed since this whole 2cool thing; you know that, don't you?" I told her.

  She smiled sadly.

  "Yes, Charlie, don't forget, I've seen most of it at first hand."

  "Of course. But can you live with it? I mean, could you love this new Charlie?" I wondered if I was talking her out of it. "But I haven't changed completely, though, you know."

  I could see her blinking back tears and smiling.

  "I'll still leave my underpants lying on the bedroom floor, I promise. I'll never remember when you've invited people round for dinner and you'll always have to do the dusting again after I'm supposed to have done it. There's still a lot of the old Charlie around, believe me."

  She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out, then the tears began to flow. In a moment I was kneeling in front her. Unsteadily, she put her wine down, slopping it slightly on the carpet, and rested her forehead against mine, sobbing gently. I held her head in my hands and smelt her hair. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, tasting the saltiness of her tears and then my mouth found hers. To think I'd nearly lost her, this wonderful, gorgeous person who'd been my life for nearly the last seven years.

  After we'd held each other for what seemed like hours we began to talk. It was like we'd just started going out together. She told me things about her I didn't know and I just told her about the whole 2cool thing and Nora and my Dad and everything. At some points I'd stop and say 'But you know this, don't you? Do you really want to hear it again?' and she'd say 'Yes, yes, tell me.' She said at one point it was like 'going behind the scenes,' finding out what was really happening.

  Although most of it just came out effortlessly, like a stream of consciousness, telling her about Nora was harder. I had to explain that I wanted to do something dangerous, mad, unpredictable as well as getting revenge for the Peter thing and her 'adultery'. The look in Lauren's eyes showed how painful it was for her to have to hear about our relationship and kept wondering if I should censor bits of it but I knew I had to be completely honest and in fact from her own point of view she obviously found Nora intriguing too. "Why did she do that?" she asked again and again. Finally she said: "I feel sorry for her." Whether her judgement was damning or understanding I don't know.

  When I listened in that the quiet, calm place we'd both finally reached, to her talking about Peter and what they had been doing together I found myself understanding more about their friendship. Peter had offered her something I couldn't - both professionally and personally but I began to realise that that was nothing to feel to jealous of or resentful of. Peter had, has, I should say, a part in her life and so do I. Thank God.

  Then we talked about the future, what we both wanted from now on. Sarah had done the ground work, explained to her why I wanted to do something so tough and challenging. I think coming from Sarah, rather than from me, over a glass of wine on a sunlight terrace in France rather than the familiar surroundings of our flat during one of our many rows it had been easier to take in. She also explained to Lauren, she told me later, and this must have tested all her PR skills and experience, that Lauren could be just a bit overpowering, a bit controlling at times and perhaps that's why after nearly seven years I had felt the need to rebel a bit, break out on my own and do something that she didn't understand and didn't approve of. My own seven year itch.

  Suddenly the quiet intensity of that living room conversation is shattered by the noise of the market. Guy smiles at me, realising perhaps why I have drifted off suddenly like this.

  Our next course arrives. Two plates are casually banged down in front of us. The fish is grilled to a crisp brown and is glistening with olive oil and lemon juice. There's a little pile of finely chopped garlic and parsley on top of each piece.

  "Has Lauren got a job in television, then?" asks Guy, having ordered two more glasses of Cava.

  "Oh, yeah. Well, funnily enough, Peter managed to sell a one off to the BBC about 2cool. The rise and fall of it. They were so keen to get an exclusive that they accepted Lauren as the presenter despite her lack of experience. She's good, though, everyone who knows about these things says. I've seen her practice tapes, her show reel. She really comes across well. Peter's producing it. Anyway, she's going to interview me and Piers and we persuaded lots of other big name investors to take part."

  "Persuaded?" says Guy, smiling wickedly.

  "Oh, some were a bit unwilling but just we just mentioned badgers and funnily they became much more approachable. It'd be great if you'd do an interview for them. She asked me to ask you about that. You could really explain the thinking behind it."

  Guy smiles again and looks away.

  "No, thanks. 'Fraid not."

  "Fair enough." I take a mouthful of fish and let the flavour wash through me. Oh, God, who needs drugs? "What was the thinking behind it?" I ask. "I mean did you want to get rich or was it all just a joke - an economist's prank? Ha, ha."

  "We economists are known for our sense of humour," Guy informs me gravely.

  "Of course. Seriously though..."

  "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I've also got the kind of intelligence that needs a sheep dog to keep it on the straight and narrow. If we had made some money it would have been great, really nice - certainly that was Piers' idea. But I think really I was just carrying out an experiment. Everyone wants to be involved in something cool, glamorous, stylish, something that everyone else is involved in." Suddenly his eyes are wide with excitement. "Have you heard of Charles Mackay? No, well he was a nineteenth century economist who developed the theory of the 'madness of crowds'. Basically a person wouldn't necessarily invest in something if they're the only asked to do it but if they see others investing in something, especially if it is people that they admire or equate themselves with, they'll put their money in to it as well. Even if - small detail, this - it doesn't actually exist."

  "And I was just a useful tool in your experiment."

  He puts down his knife and fork and raises his hands defensively.

  "Mea culpa. It was just that you were used to selling something virtual, something that wasn't real - a lifestyle, an image in a magazine - so it was perfect."

  "And what about the badgers, the blackmail thing?" He carries on eating. "That was Piers wasn't it?"

  "Of course. I had to admire him. We were getting stick from various people about their money, about returns and the way they could see us spending it. Then he suddenly stumbled on these, erm, parties, sort of things, and realised that most of the people that were hounding us were at these little do's and so he had something on them. He even managed to persuade a few of our more troublesome investors who hadn't been to them to go along to one - and then, of course, they were caught."

  "How did
that fit into your little experiment?"

  "It didn't, that's one reason why I had to get out of there."

  I'm wondering how to ask how desperate this desire to get out was. Was it a break down? But then he asks me: "So what are you going to do now?"

  "Well, I'm going to start a model agency. Karyn, my booker at my old agency, is going to be my business partner. My dad's investing in it. Scarlett is doing some scouting for us, you know, going to clubs and bars and finding girls and boys who might have the right look - as well as managing this band of hers. Zac's doing all the IT stuff because we're going to be more web enabled than any other agency before - "

  "And Piers is?" Guy asks, smiling enquiringly.

  "And Piers is not coming within a million miles of it."

  He laughs.

  "Oh, dear old Piers," he says. "Thing is he had the contacts, he's got the charm, the chat." Guy shakes his head thoughtfully, chasing some stray fish around his mouth with his tongue. "All he needs now is a jail sentence."

  "He certainly has the chat. I spoke to him briefly on the phone just before we came here."

  "How is he?" asks Guy, with what looks like genuine interest.

  "Apparently he's setting up a company to sell these talking lavatorials."

  Guy looks mystified.

  "You know lavatorials? Those adverts above urinals that you end up reading for a couple of minutes? Well, he's met some kid who invented a little electronic device that fits into the bowl and when it's peed on, it broadcasts a message. There's another one for the cubicles so that when people sit on the seat, the device senses the pressure and begins the spiel there too."

  Guy looks at me, still more mystified.

  "Well, I'm sure there's a demand for it," he says.

  "Piers seems to think so."

  We eat. Then I ask:

  "And what are you going to do? What are you doing?"

  Guy finishes his last piece of fish and then shrugs his shoulders.

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  "No, I don't know. Is that a crime?"