2cool2btrue (13 page)

We plan some more parties and develop a press release distribution list. I have an idea for a competition which the others really like.

“We thought you might do some surveys too,” says Annabella (or is it Lucinda?).

“Yes,” says her colleague. “They’re always good for easy publicity. We thought of one showing that thirty per cent of men these days spend more on clothes than their wives or girlfriends.”

“That’s a great idea,” says Guy.

“It could also show that fifty per cent of those wives and girlfriends actually resent it. You know, get a bit of a battle of the sexes going.”

“Great,” says Guy.

“Sorry, did you say you’ve
done
this survey?” I ask.

“No,” says Annabella. “We’d do it and then publish the results.”

“But how do you know the results before you’ve done the survey?” I ask.

Annabella looks at Guy for a moment. “Well obviously you don’t do these kinds of surveys unless you know roughly what the results are going to be.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, you want to find something fun and controversial and newsworthy. There’s no point in doing an investigation that finds that most women like shopping and most men don’t, for instance—everyone knows that.”

“We’ll still ask our site visitors to take part in the survey. We’ll put it in the What’s Cool page, I think, but we’ll make sure that when we’ve finished it, in, say a week’s time, that we’ve got the right result.”

“Oh, sure, of course,” I agree.

“We’ll do a Sunday for Monday release on it,” says Annabella. She turns to the slowest ship in the convoy. “I mean we’ll send it out on Sunday for the Monday papers because Monday is a very quiet news day and they’re always desperate for something,” she explains to me.

“Great,” I tell her.

I
’m cooking dinner because apparently it’s my turn. Lauren is talking to guess who? on the phone. She is laughing and saying something about “No, I don’t believe you. Get away! No!” As a result I’m chopping the peppers a little more aggressively than is strictly necessary and after a few minutes the inevitable happens. It’s not a serious cut but it does start to bleed profusely and it makes me feel a little bit sick—especially when I hear Lauren again.

“Peter!
You’re outrageous! What did she say? Mmm? She’s got a point.” Lauren giggles seductively. “Well, she
has.”

I go out into the hallway and present my bleeding finger to Lauren. “Plasters?” I mouth.

She winces at the sight of my injury. “Listen, can you hang on a minute Peter, Charlie’s cut himself. No, not seriously. It’s nothing. I’ll be right back. What did you do?” she says, putting down the phone.

“I was just cutting these peppers. It’ll be ready in a minute,” I add by way of hint that she had better finish her cosy little chat.

“You know where the plasters are, Charlie.” She opens a cupboard and takes out a First Aid box which I probably have seen before at some point “What are we having?”

“My ratatouille thing with pasta.” It’s my special, well just about the only thing I can knock up that’s edible. Peter might have his chicken thing but I’ve got my sautéed peppers, tomatoes, onions and garlic thing.

“Great,” she says, putting a plaster on my finger. “I’ll come and give you a hand when I’ve finished with PBC.”

“Who?”

“Peter—Peter Beaumont-Crowther. PBC. That’s what people call him.”

Yeah, amongst other things.

“Okay,” I mutter and go back to my chopping.

True to her word, Lauren comes in a few minutes later and takes over the cooking as I know she will. At the same time she prepares the dinner she manages to make a plate of little bruschetta, some with chopped tomatoes and basil and some with creamed artichoke. I pour us both a glass of Orvieto. Has anyone, anywhere in the world, been cooked for by someone as wonderful as Lauren? I ask myself as I sip my wine. And had a plaster put on by them?

“How did your drink go with that journalist?” she asks, stirring and chopping.

“Fine. We didn’t talk much about the site in the end…but…erm…” Oh, oh, wrong answer. I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or disappointed that Lauren makes no reaction to my confession. “We might be able to give her some more stories. We’re going to do a survey about shopping and they’ve already decided on the result, can you believe it? They’re going to find that thirty per cent of men spend more money on clothes than their wives or girlfriends.”

“That can’t be right,” says Lauren without looking up. “Never mind, I suppose if you’re going to do these surveys you’ve got to find something interesting to say, something newsworthy, haven’t you?”

“I’m sure Nora will be able get a piece out of it.”

“Nora? Was she that slightly weird woman at the launch party? The one in that bizarre Morticia Addams dress that you were having such a laugh with?”

“Nora, yes,” I say defensively.

“Was it her you were having a drink with last night then?”

“Yes. I told you.”

“No, you said a journalist.”

“I didn’t mention her name but so what?”

“This is almost ready.”

The adrenalin is flowing now. I’ve finally made Lauren jealous.

“What’s the matter? You can hardly complain after your conversation just now with Peter.”

Oh, what the fuck! Let’s go the whole hog.

“Charlie, what
are
you on about?” Lauren looks up from her cooking.

“You know—giggle, giggle!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Peter is a friend and we’re just having a chat.”

“Sounded like a very cosy chat to me.”

“Don’t be absurd. I think this whole website thing is getting on top of you,” says Lauren.

“Perhaps it is, but I think this whole PBC/TV presenter thing is getting on top of you,” I snap back, but it’s the last word that pushes it too far: “Literally.”

She looks at me for a moment. “I’m going out,” she says quietly.

I watch her go. Then I put my glass down and go after her. She is in the bedroom putting on her coat.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. She ignores me and opens the cupboard to find her shoes. “I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard what you said.” I gently close the wardrobe door. “Excuse me. I’m trying to get my shoes.”

“Please don’t get your shoes. Please don’t go out.” She avoids my eyes. “I’m sorry I said that about you and Peter.” I know I’m making some progress now so I press on.

She looks up. “I don’t know why you’ve got such a thing about him. I’ve got to do this for my career. I told you.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“Why are you so jealous of him all the time?”

“Because…because he sees more of you than I do these days.”

She runs her hand through my hair. “Oh, Charlie.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.” She plays with my hair some more and begins to massage my ear gently. “But don’t expect me to give up this part of my life. It’s very important. Don’t make me choose between you and my career, it’s not fair.”

“I know.”

She takes off her coat again, along with the rest of her clothes and, deciding that dinner can wait, we end up having great “make-up” sex. I watch us momentarily in the mirror and think again how lucky I am.

Scarlett offers me a shot of some dark brown liquid when she gets into the office the next day.

“What’s this?” I say, eyeing it with disdain.

“It’s called maruca. It’s made of peat extract or something.”

“What does it do?”

“Gives you energy, detoxes and, erm, what else did they say? Oh, yes, boosts your melatonin levels. Makes you feel good.”

I shrug my shoulders and knock it back. It’s sort of earthy initially but then the aftertaste kicks in—like farts mixed with rotting rubbish.

“Aaargh!” I gasp, looking around for something to rescue my taste buds with.

“Hey, that’s my Dr Pepper!” says Zac.

I let the sweet, fizzy liquid rinse away the taste of shit and rotting vegetables and then hand the can back to him. Once I’ve got over the experience I look at Scarlett.

“Oh, my God. How can you drink that stuff?” I mutter, still swallowing hard.

“I don’t. I’ve never tasted it before. I thought I’d try it out on you first.”

“Oh, ta, Scarlett.”

She smiles sweetly and answers the phone.

“2cool2btrue, can I help you? Guy? No, he’s not in yet, I’m afraid. No, he’s not either. Can I take a message? Okay, all right, babe, I’ll get one of them to call you. Bye.”

“Where are they? It’s gone ten,” I ask when she’s put the phone down.

“I dunno, but I’ll get them to report to your study when they get in, shall I?” she says.

“All right, I’m just saying.”

“What’s this thing down here at the bottom of the screen?” I ask Zac a bit later.

With lightning speed in response to my question he mumbles, “What you talking about?”

“This thing, this little icon at the bottom right hand on the home page? ‘Digitally Enhanced Hyper Resolution Graphics System.’ What the hell does that mean?”

“It means shag-all, as you Brits would put it.”

“Nothing? You mean it doesn’t do anything? Why have you put it in there then?”

“Cos it looks cool, man. People think it’s a new bit of kit, something that no one else has.”

“You just made it up?”

“Yup.”

“I still think it should be ‘Enhanced Hyper Resolution Digital Graphics System,’” says Scarlett. “Rolls off the tongue better.”

“Well, you’re wrong, little lady,” says Zac, not bothering to look up at her. “I’ll do the hi-tech stuff and you stick to rolling things off your tongue.”

Scarlett gives him a sarcastic smile. “Oh, Zac, I’m sure you’ll be a much nicer, more relaxed person when you finally lose your virginity.”

Fortunately the phone rings and I get it. It’s someone asking for Guy or Piers again. They’re quite insistent but all I can do is take a message.

“Where
are
they? I’m going to ring their mobiles,” I tell the others.

“Give them a piece of your mind,” says Zac.

Just at that moment the door swings open and Piers sweeps in.

“Sorry I’m late everybody—bit of a night of it last night.”

“No problem,” I say. “Quite a few people have been calling for you, that’s all.”

“I bet they have. Well, we’ve done it!” he announces, looking around at us excitedly.

“What? You and Guy last night?” asks Scarlett, raising an eyebrow.

“No. What?” says Piers. “No,
we’ve
done it—all of you! 2cool! We’ve reached our two months’ target of half a million hits in just three weeks.”

“Excellent,” I tell him. “That’s brilliant.”

“Cool,” says Scarlett. “Too cool, in fact.”

Zac says nothing, but since he wouldn’t have had anything pleasant or encouraging to say this is probably a good thing.

“That’s brilliant,” I say again.

“Isn’t it? Well done, team.” The team looks slightly embarrassed at his hearty praise. “Excellent. Yes, well done. Now I could do with something to bring me back to life after last night.”

“Yeah, you look terrible,” says Scarlett, obviously not just being rude on this occasion. “Have you slept at all?”

“No, to be honest I haven’t much,” says Piers with a slightly false, hearty laugh. “I’ll go to that place you’re always off to along the road, what’s it called?”

“Wild World,” I tell him.

“That’s right, I’ll get a juice or something.”

“No,” says Scarlett, “get a yourself a maruca—it’ll do you a world of good.”

“Hey, guess what? We’ve beaten our target at work,” I tell Lauren that evening as we snuggle up on the settee after supper. “We were supposed to take two months to get half a million hits but we’ve done it in just three weeks.”

“Nice going, babe,” she says, turning her face round in my lap to kiss me.

“It is pretty good, isn’t it. All down to the marketing of course.”

“Of course. You should make sure you keep all the press cuttings and file them.”

“That’s a good idea. I think Scarlett or the PRs do it.”

“No, I mean for your own file so you’ve got something to show future employers.”

“That’s a
very
good idea. You’re so sensible. Hey, let’s go out and celebrate tomorrow night. I’ll book a table somewhere.” Lauren doesn’t say anything. “What about that new place down by the river?”

“I’m actually seeing Peter tomorrow night.”

“Oh, okay,” I say in a small voice.

“Charlie, I’m sorry. He’s been in New York for the last few days and we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Sure.”

“You know this thing means a lot to me, don’t you?” She sits up and looks at me. “I’m bored with modelling. You’ve made a successful career move. It’s not really fair, is it, to try and stop me?”

“No, ’course not babe.”

“Friday night, I promise. We’ll do something really cool.”