2cool2btrue (12 page)

“Uh, huh? Really,” says Nora, obviously scribbling away.

“Yeah, of course. It’s not there for a bunch of adolescent boys to jerk—I mean, drool over.” I look meaningfully at Zac but he is tapping at his keyboard and checking something on the screen.

“So you don’t think this is offensive?”

“No, because our audience gets the joke,” I explain. “It’s poking fun at porn itself.”

“Okay, ironic porn. Interesting concept.”

“Interesting concepts are what 2cool is all about,” I tell her. Guy gives me a thumbs-up and I begin to feel that I have finally managed to beat Nora and him in one go. I decide to quit while I’m ahead. “Hope that all makes sense.”

“Sure. If that’s what you want to say.”

“Yep, that’s about it,” I tell her.

“Okay, thanks very much, Charlie. Speak soon. Bye.”

“Bye.” I put the phone down.

Piers immediately gives me a round of applause.

“Well done,” says Scarlett. “Wheatgrass?”

I’d prefer a drink.

When I see the piece in the paper the next day while sitting on the tube, I feel relieved but quite removed from the whole thing. Detached, neutral.

I can’t help smiling at the idea that I am “heading up the site.” Guy and Piers will love that. But why am I
still
a former male model? On the other hand, they can’t complain about the quote. It sounds pretty good. I quite like being a spokesman. At least there are no pictures of me this time.

In the office I’m greeted as something of a hero. Everyone has a copy of the
Post.

“Excellent publicity,” says Piers, tapping the article.

“Perfect positioning,” Guy tells me. “You got the message across beautifully.”

“Mate of mine at Goldman Sachs says all the traders are already looking at the site,” says Piers. “It’s all part of the marketing mix along with the Ferrari Testarossa and the Armani suits.”

“I see,” I say, sitting down at my desk. “I suppose you guys know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, Zac, tell him,” says Piers.

The perpetually horizontal Zac, who has just got to, please God,
got
to fall off his chair on to his authentically distressed antique 501-clad ass, takes the floor.

“Some company IT systems have filters these days that can, like you know, sense excessive areas of skin tone in an incoming email or website and block them so that people at their desks can’t check out porno pics at work,” he explains. “But I’ve included this little gizmo in the 2cool site protocol to override them.”

“Incredible, eh?” says Piers. “Ours is the only T & A that most of my pals on the trading floors can actually look at while they’re at work.”

“I’m so proud,” I tell him.

“Zac, you’re a genius,” says Scarlett. “A gentleman, a scholar—and a pornographer.”

“I revel in your laudatory portraiture,” says Zac, finishing off a Dr Pepper and stamping on the tin rather unnecessarily.

Did he detect her sarcasm? Was he being sarcastic in return? Perhaps she wasn’t being sarcastic after all? Perhaps it was just ironic? Perhaps
he
was being ironic too? Perhaps she was being sarcastic and he was being ironic in return? Perhaps I’ve OD’d on irony so much recently that I just can’t recognise it any more.

Later that morning Guy tells me that he wants me to develop my relationship with Nora.

“What relationship?”

He looks slightly startled.

“You’ve established a good working relationship with her, haven’t you?”

“Erm, I suppose so. Yes, she’s a useful contact, isn’t she?”

“Exactly. Anyway, apparently she also freelances for
Esquire
and various other magazines, you know, like
High Life
and
Elle
and things, so we need to cultivate her a bit.”

“Oh, okay.”

“We’ve done a deal with this new bar in Clerkenwell,” says Guy in his silky smooth sales voice. “Take her there one evening this week. It’ll be a nice contrast to the ‘Extra Curricula’ section. Make the point that the pictures are just one part of the package and that whatever those moral crusaders say, we’re the coolest, smartest thing in cyberspace.”

“Evening?”

“Yes, you don’t mind working the occasional evening do you? Come in later the next day, if you want,” he says as if I’m not showing the necessary team spirit.

“No, evenings are fine,” I tell him.

What
is
wrong with an evening, anyway? Just a quiet bottle of wine, bit of a chat…cosy bar, settee in the corner. Oh, for God’s sake. It’s just a drink for work. Like Lauren and Peter do every now and then. Somehow that doesn’t make it any better.

“Yes, okay,” I say. “It’s useful for coverage isn’t it? I mean, if we can get her to write articles for some other magazines it might be helpful, especially
High Life,
that’s the British Airways in-flight mag, isn’t it?” But I’m gabbling, chattering away, protesting too much.

“Just take her there for a drink at this place and, you know…”

“Show her a good time,” says Scarlett lecherously from the other side of the room.

A
s it happens, Nora’s packed diary means that she can only make that evening so we arrange to meet at 7
P.M
. at the bar Guy has suggested. She manages to make it sound like a bit of a drag. I’m tempted to say that I’m only doing it because I’ve been asked to, but I don’t. I ring Lauren and let her know that I won’t be home till late. Well, not that late, quite early in fact.

“It’s a work thing,” I say. “Very boring. I’ve got to charm this journalist because Piers wants her to write something else about us in another magazine.”

“Oh, okay. I see.”

“Sorry about this.”

“Don’t worry. If they want you to meet her you’d better do it.”

“You out with Peter?” I ask, trying to change the subject but sounding like I’m making a point.

“Peter? No, he’s in New York at the moment. Make sure you keep the receipt—and charge them for a taxi home.”

“Will do. What’re you doing tonight, then?” I’m pleased that just for once she’s not seeing that twat, but I’m disappointed that we won’t be able to enjoy a quiet evening alone together.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Why don’t you give Sarah a ring or something, have a girls’ night out.”

“Why would I want a girls’ night out?” She laughs.

“I don’t know—might be fun.” Why is this developing into a fight?

“No, I’ll just potter around the flat. I’ve got to sort out some paperwork, actually.”

“Oh, right, good idea.”

There is a pause and I’m about to check again that she doesn’t mind about tonight, but then I hear her talking to someone else.

“Babe, listen gotta go, they’re ready to shoot again.”

“Love you.”

“You too.” She ends the call.

Nora is late. I’m waiting at the bar, talking to the owner who is struggling to explain the concept behind it.

“It’s very now,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, encouragingly.

“Its look is very much of its time, very
fin de siècle.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

“But it doesn’t take itself too seriously. See this bar: pure antique aluminium. Came from an old brasserie in Paris—so it’s
fin de siècle,
well the last
siècle.”

“Really? I love it,” I say, rubbing my fingers over it. He does the same. We both caress the cold, smeary metal as he tries to think of something else to say about the place and I wish to God Nora would hurry up and get here.

I listen to the music on the sound system for a while, a boy band. They sing:

The guy who owns the joint is just telling me about the colour scheme when she walks in.

No apology. “Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere more inconvenient?” She smiles. “I know a bar in Aberdeen that’s slightly nearer.”

I ignore her remark, mainly because the bar owner looks rather upset about the idea that his place is so off the beaten track.

“This is Jim, the owner,” I say pointedly. “He was just telling me about the decor.”

“I was just saying it’s very now,” begins Jim again. I’m actually slightly relieved when Nora slams her bag down on the floor and says, “I’m sure it is. Can I have a G and T—a large one.”

“Okay,” says Jim, slightly miffed that he won’t get a chance to do his spiel. “What can I get you, Charlie?”

“I’ll have a beer,” I say.

He offers me some new Thai beer that is exclusive to the place.

“Very 2cool,” says Nora, cleaning her glasses on her silk scarf and looking around her.

“Yeah, we’ve done a deal with them. A sort of synergy thing,” I explain, hoping she won’t press me on this as I’ve no idea what I’m talking about. What did Guy say again? Oh, yes. “Even though we’re a virtual concept we know that we also need to have a real dimension, a physical presence.” Or something like that.

Nora is looking at me, nodding her head slightly and giving me that knowing, mocking look.

“You see?” I say, as Jim hands us our drinks.

“Not really,” she says, taking a large mouthful.

“Well…”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’m used to hearing things I don’t understand and just nodding and looking interested. Anyway, I’m bored with 2cool, aren’t you?”

“Er, no, not really.”

“Oh, perhaps I’ve just got a short attention span.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway, why did you come if you don’t want to talk about the site?” I ask, fool that I am.

Nora swallows a mouthful of G and T and raises her eyebrows at me.

“Okay, how was your day at work? Any more embarrassing emails?” I say quickly.

“No, thank goodness. I managed to go a whole day without embarrassing myself—apart from a little incident with a cup of coffee which wasn’t my fault. If people will leave them lying around on their desks…”

“What are you writing about at the moment?”

“Erm, I’ve been interviewing Lara Trewin, you know, that actress. She’s set up a homeopathic hospital for animals at her farm in Sussex. Went down there. That’s why I’m a bit late.”

“Oh, interesting.”

“No. Ludicrous. I
so
ripped the piss out of her,” says Nora, taking a large gulp of G and T. “Mmm. I needed that.”

We talk a bit more about her writing and 2cool and I pepper the conversation with references to Lauren and our flat, how long we’ve been going out together and the surprise trip to Venice I’m organising for her birthday.

“Venice,” says Nora, shaking her empty glass at Jim. “Ah, La Serenissima.”

“Yes,” I say, irritated that she can make even my wonderful, inspired, romantic gesture sound vaguely ridiculous. Perhaps she’s just jealous. Yeah, that’s it.

“It’s stunning actually. God, I’m picking up that English habit of saying ‘actually’ every five seconds. No, it
is
beautiful. Don’t go in the summer, though, go in the winter when it’s deserted and grey and foggy. It’s sort of sinister.”

“I’m not sure we want a sinister holiday.”

“No, no, you’re missing the point—that’s the real Venice. Mysterious, decaying, inscrutable, corrupt. Hey, you should meet my friend Peta; she studied art history there. Says the place is impossible to know unless you’ve been there for at least a year. All the best restaurants are hidden behind closed doors; tourists never notice them.”

“I’m sure we’ll find them,” I tell her through thin lips.

“Sorry, didn’t want to put a downer on it. You’ll have a great time, I bet,” she says, touching my knee. “Hey, I’ll get Peta to email you some places to go, some of those hidden restaurants. Harry’s Bar. You must go there. Just have a drink—”

“A Bellini.”

“That’s the one. Don’t eat there, though; it’s a rip-off. But for a drink it’s great, with the waiters in their white jackets and the dark panelled walls. It was one of Hemingway’s favourites, wasn’t it? Oh, it’ll be great, I wish I was going.”

Why not? I can imagine what effect that would have on Lauren.

“So why did you leave the States and come here?” I ask her.

“I thought it might be fun. Change of scene. Get away from a country where the sixteen-inch chilli dog is considered haute cuisine, and where only five per cent of the population hold a passport, which is, coincidentally, the same number that believe they’ve been abducted by aliens at some point in their lives.”

It sounds like a frequently repeated rant. I wonder how often she makes this kind of comment. I smile.

“But mainly because my then boyfriend came over here. And promptly dumped me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” she says, a little too emphatically. “I’m so much better off without him. He was an asshole, a tosser, as you’d say, started working for a glossy men’s magazine here and decided he needed a glossy men’s girlfriend to go with it.”

“You’re pretty glossy, though.” I laugh. I’m not sure what I mean by that.

“Thanks,” she beams.

By the time we leave it is much later than I had realised and it is pouring with rain.

“How are you getting home?” I ask her.

“Taxi I suppose,” she says, looking in vain around the deserted, rainy streets for one.

“Sure, let’s find you a cab then. Where do you live?”

“Notting Hill.”

“Very nice.”

“I only moved there because of the film. Looked like a nice place—all those gorgeous movie stars and bumbling, charming, floppy-haired Englishmen wandering around spilling things every five minutes. Where do you live?”

“Chiswick.”

“Oh, I know, friend of mine who works at the BBC lives there. It’s just a bit further out west than me isn’t it? We may as well share a cab.”

Yes, we may as well. How convenient.

We eventually find a cab. In fact Nora hails him by throwing herself in the road in front of him. She lives in a flat in Oxford Gardens, off Ladbroke Grove.

“I’ll just see the lady in,” I shout to the cab driver.

“Oh, how charming, how Hugh Grant. It must be the effect of Notting Hill,” says Nora, opening the door. “You don’t have to.”

“Better to be on the safe side,” I tell her manfully.

We walk up the garden path past the overflowing bins, lager cans and grocery bags. Nora opens her bag while telling me about a diet she’s doing a piece on which consists of eating only fruit in the morning and corn on the cob in the evening. She is still ferreting around in her shiny pink retro-kitsch vinyl handbag after some time, and I look round just to reassure the cab driver and check that he doesn’t give up the ghost and leave without me.

“We’ve got three women who have been on it for a month and we’re checking their progress. One fell off the wagon last week and had a Mars Bar but that makes it more interesting in a way. She felt terrible about it though—”

“Um, Nora, have you got your key?”

“Somewhere. Men are so lucky not being afflicted with these things—handbags I mean—I can never find anything in here.”

I’d been quite enjoying watching Nora feel shy, self-conscious about me being on her doorstep. For once this bright, aggressive girl is out of her depth, not in control. Now, though, her nervous gabbling is making me nervous. What’s she worried about? I’m not coming in for coffee. This isn’t a date, after all.

“Here it is,” she says, holding up a couple of keys on a ring. “Phew! That’s a relief. Well, night then.”

“Night, Nora. See you soon,” I tell the back of her head as she opens the front door and disappears inside.

In the taxi back I try to decide which is worse—smart, sneering Nora or shy, nervous Nora. Both are pretty hard to deal with.

The next day we have a meeting with our new PR company.

“What happened to Simon and The Communications Game?” I ask Guy.

“They were appropriate for the launch, for the financing and corporate positioning, but now we need a luxury goods specialist,” he says. “Someone who really knows how luxury goods work.”

Two blonde girls called Lucinda and Annabella from a company called Glambusters arrive dead on eleven carrying Louis Vuitton briefcases and we gather around Guy’s desk.

“Before we start, can I just say how thrilled we are to be working on this project,” says one of them while the other agrees. “It’s a dream account for us.”

“Well, we’re very glad you’ve agreed to help us,” says Guy.

“And we’re very glad to be helping you,” says the other blonde girl, nodding vigorously.

“And I’m very glad that you’re very glad about us being glad that you’ve agreed to work with us,” I add. It’s supposed to be a joke (obviously) but the others just smile and nod in agreement at me. I realise that Guy just doesn’t do jokes. Life is too serious for him.