Model Guy

by Brooke, Simon

  'Good. That's what most of my guys do it for. We've got everyone from resting actors to accountants who have a bit of spare time on their hands. Makes sense, doesn't it?'

  'Yes,' I said a bit too quickly. 'I mean, why not?'

  'Why not indeed, Andrew. How old are you?'

  'Twenty ... nnnnnine.'

  Jonathan looked at me for a moment.

  'Was that twenty-nine?' he asked, smiling again.

  'Yes,' I said defensively.

  'I don't believe you,' he said, casually shuffling some papers on his desk to make it clear he wasn't even going to countenance twenty-nine. Somehow I didn't blame him.

  'Twenty-six,' I bid. He looked at me again. 'All right, twenty-four. Really.'

  'Yeah, that's possible,' said Jonathan kindly.

  'I am ... really.'

  'All right, I believe you,' he laughed. 'You're probably a bit young for my team but what the heck. I'm sure we'll find you some work. You're a good-looking bloke.' I felt myself blushing. 'No, I've got to say it. That's the business I'm in. You look Italian, you know, with your dark hair, brown eyes. No? Just wondered. You wouldn't believe the monsters I've had in here since that piece appeared.' We both laughed this time. 'What about sex?'

  'Sorry?'

  'Sex. What if these women want sex?'

  'Er, yeah, I'm up for that. Oh, yeah, huh, why not?'

  Jonathan shook his head and smiled. 'You are so not up for that.'

  'Yeah, I am, I mean if they want to-'

  'Don't worry, they won't. Well, ninety per cent of them won't, anyway. Our clients just want to talk and feel appreciated. They want a bit of flirtation and they want to be made to feel beautiful. Someone to open a door for them and get the bill. Sex really is out of the question, I wasn't just saying that for the Standard, you know'.

  'Oh, OK,' I said casually. Christ! That was quite a relief, actually. What if we got to that stage and things, you know, didn't quite work out? Not that that's ever happened in the past, of course, but this is a different thing altogether. Would they want their money back? But Jonathan was talking again. 'Right, admin,' he said, shuffling some papers around on his desk. 'I'll need some photos if you've got them.'

  'Yep, I can get those,' I said. I decided to give him a few snaps we had taken for an internal promotion thing at the office.

  'Great. Now let me see: hair? Dark brown. Eyes? Brown?'

  'Er, yep,' I said, looking away from him for some reason. 'OK, height? You're what, six two?' I nodded. 'Good height, they don't like men too tall. You keep in shape, obviously.' Oh, Christ, the sex thing again. I suddenly panicked that he was going to ask me to take my clothes off or something. He laughed. 'Don't worry, it's just that a beer gut and drooping shoulders don't look too good, you know.' I smiled, feeling a bit of a fool for appearing so obviously horror-struck by something so innocent and obvious.

  'OK, payment. You fill in their credit card details on this slip and then ask them to sign it.' I nodded. 'It's a duplicate, see.' Jonathan nimbly rubbed the two sheets apart with his thumb and forefinger. 'You give them the bottom copy for their records and give me the top one. Just pop it in the post the next day, should be all right. You'll usually get your money about a few weeks after you did the job minus a few of my expenses but you'll soon pay those off.'

  'Sure,' I said. Anyway, the forms seemed easier than the paperwork we have to fill in at work when one of our clients actually buys a slot in the paper, I thought, so I should be able to do that bit right even if I do order red wine with fish and drink the finger bowl.

  'I take twenty per cent commission and most of our clients pay about £200.' I do a quick calculation - £160. Worth having.

  'I presume you don't have a girlfriend at the moment.'

  'No,' I said, too quickly again. 'I mean I have had one, had a few, that is. I went out with a girl for over two years at university but then she started going out with someone else.'

  Oh, shit, I don't want to start thinking about Helen again now, but I find myself remembering that ridiculous conversation while she was planning to come back from France. My suggesting I meet her at the airport and her explaining that, don't worry, she would take a taxi with Didier, who was this guy she had met while she was out there and she was really sorry, she had been going to try and tell me this before but it had all happened so quickly.

  A simple chat about logistics that had changed my whole life, it seemed.

  'Oh, sorry,' said Jonathan, looking away, realizing what a can of emotional worms he had inadvertently opened.

  'I've been out with a couple of other girls in London since but nothing serious,' I said helpfully.

  'Don't worry,' said Jonathan, apparently embarrassed for the first time in our conversation. 'It just, you know, makes things easier.'

  I signed a piece of paper, took some of the credit card slips and left, having agreed to be available at home the following evening if he needed me.

  So that's it, I thought, as I made my way back through the darkening streets to my own flat. I was going to escort women to dinner, to the theatre, to parties, to drinks at the Savoy and make witty conversation with them. I'd have to make sure I'd read reviews of all the latest films, of course. Read a few books. Read the papers so I'd know about current affairs. Read Hello! Well, perhaps not.

  And sex? Well, if it happens, it happens. As Jonathan said, that's not really part of the service.

  Just as I was pondering this point, a bloke in a pinstriped suit came striding round the corner carrying an evil-smelling curry in a plastic bag and yelling into his mobile. 'I know, I know, I thought someone had already done it. I'm sorry, I'll have it all on your desk by eight tomorrow morning ...'

  Call me an escort, call me a gigolo, but going out to smart restaurants to make interesting conversation and getting paid for it had to be better than that guy's evening.