2cool2btrue (15 page)

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I have to stop and take a deep breath before I can read it.

By the time I get back to the flat, Lauren is pottering around the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” she says in a sleep-croaky voice.

“Yeah, there was something in the paper today about Piers and Guy.”

“You’re kidding.”

I open it again and present it to her. Seeing my stupid face grinning at us makes me feel sick again. I turn away to carry on making the coffee. By the time it is dripping through the filter Lauren has finished reading the piece.

“Well?” I ask.

“Doesn’t look good, does it? Why haven’t you contacted the police?”

“Well, why should I? Haven’t they got friends or family or something?”

“How would I know?” She opens the fridge and takes out the orange juice.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll ring the police on Monday. Can’t do any harm. I’ll bet they’ll come back if I do.”

“Why did you say all this to the paper?”

“I didn’t. I, oh, for God’s sake, I rang Nora because she knows Piers anyway and I just wondered—”

“Did
she
write it?” asks Lauren, snatching back the paper. “Oh, well, what did you expect? You ring a journalist, tell her all this and expect her not to write about it?”

“All right, I know, I’m completely stupid. I thought she might be able to separate her professional life from her private life.”

“You thought you could trust a journalist?”

“I was ringing her as a friend.”

Oh shit, that doesn’t sound right.

Lauren laughs irritably and rolls her eyes. “I’m going to have a shower.”

I decide to ring my dad and get some advice from him. A girl answers the phone with a sleepy voice.

“Hallo, is John there?”

“Qui? Who?”

I’ve definitely got the right number—it’s on speed dial—so I persist.

“Sorry, is Jared there?”

“No, er, no, he run.”

“What? He’s gone for a run? Okay, ask him to call his son when he gets back, will you?”

“Er, call?”

“Oh, fuck.” I’m actually quite used to this now so I run through the usual list of possibilities. “Parlez-vous francais?”

“Er, sorry?”

“Habla usted español?”

“Er?”

“Parla italiano?”

“Er, sorry?”

My Serbo-Croat—usually a good bet these days—has deserted me, but fortunately at that moment my dad takes the phone from her.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me, Charlie. Are you around this morning?”

“Yeah, sure, we were going shopping but we can do that later. Everything all right?”

“Not really.” My throat suddenly feels a bit tight.

“You and Lauren?”

“Erm, partly. There’s a piece in the paper today about the site; Guy and Piers, the guys who started it, the guys I work for—they’ve disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Look, can we meet for coffee or something?”

We arrange to meet for breakfast at a new restaurant in Knightsbridge which specialises in a mixture of French and Thai food. I manage to extract a normal cappuccino out of them and wait for my pop who is fashionably late.

“Hiya,” he says, slapping my arm. “This is Marika, Mari for short.”

“Hello.” I smile. She is tall with long blonde hair—you know the deal. “Where are you from?”

She looks confused for a moment and then my dad rescues her.

“Hungary,” he says proudly. “Or somewhere like that.”

I make a mental note to get a Hungarian phrase book.

Dad has fresh fruit and yogurt, I have a couple of muffin things which apparently have some Far Eastern connection although you could hardly tell, and Mari eats for a week: omelette with Thai spiced prawns, muffins, croissants, toast and some sort of porridgelike thing with passion fruit in it. I show Dad the cutting from the
Post.

“Why did you say all this?” he asks.

“Oh, fuck. I know, I’m so naive. She knows Piers, so I thought she might be able to help as a friend. How can she stab me in the back like that? I asked her not to.”

“Charlie, she’s a journalist.”

I look down at my plate.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay; so you learnt a lesson in business.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“First thing you’ve got to do is try and find these guys. I’ll put out some feelers too. I’ll find out more about them.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“What are the books looking like?”

“What?”

My dad smiles sadly. “What kind of financial shape is the company in?”

“We’ve achieved our two-monthly target of hits in just three weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah, great, but are those visitors spending money?”

“It’s not just about people spending money—”

“Charlie, listen, son, it’s
always
about people spending money.”

“Erm, I don’t know. I’ve never looked at the financial side of it.”

There is a flicker of concern across my dad’s immaculate, tanned, moisturised face. Is he wearing eyeliner again today? Never mind, I’ve got slightly more important things to worry about.

“You’d better have a look first thing on Monday.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not a director are you?”

“Er, yeah.”

“You are.” Suddenly he looks more serious. And I wanted him to be proud of me. “So you’re a signatory on the chequebooks?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you ever signed a cheque?”

“A few, of course, for some of the suppliers.”

My dad looks thoughtfully at me. “I’m sure you’re fine if you’ve still got the invoices and things then, but you’ve got to be careful you don’t implicate yourself in anything.”

“No, of course.”

“You realise that as a director, you’re legally responsible. If it can be proved that you’ve acted negligently or fraudulently you can be prosecuted or sued.”

I suddenly feel slightly sick. Like when I was a kid and I got stopped by the police for throwing stones and breaking the windows of an empty factory down the road. It was the naughtiest thing I had ever done—until now.

“Really?”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t come to that, but watch out, hey, son,” he says kindly, reaching across and patting me on the shoulder. “And if you’ve got any questions, just give me a call.”

“Will do, sure.”

“Can they carry on paying you?”

“Yes, for the time being. Scarlett, who also works there, checked with the bank, and the account that our salaries come out of looks pretty healthy at the moment.” I don’t like to think about what state the other accounts 2cool has around the world might be in.

“Well, that’s one good thing.” Dad smiles broadly and then reaches across and squeezes my shoulder again. “Mari and I are going shopping. Wanna come?”

T
he conversation with my dad gives me a sleepless night. Lauren tuts and moans as I turn over yet again. I can see myself being portrayed suddenly on some TV documentary as a crook. I’ve defrauded people. Interviews with angry creditors and innocent investors who were taken in by me. I think of the money we’ve been spending.

I suppose the most I can hope for is that I look naive, not criminal.

On Sunday, Lauren and I go to a lunchtime barbecue in Clapham with some other models from the agency and some friends of hers. Sarah and Mark are there, and as we stand by the French windows, glasses of Merlot in hand, we have a quiet, conspiratorial laugh together about how much—Sh!!—we actually
hate
barbecues.

“Botulism in a bun,” says Sarah, taking a drag of a ciggie and watching our host manfully trying to flip a crumbling homemade hamburger with an unwieldy kitchen utensil while being advised by his spouse.

Then she asks, “So, how’s the new job going?”

“Bit difficult at the moment,” I say, looking out at the garden.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.” There is a pause. “Don’t want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Sure. Look, Mark and I were thinking, why don’t you and Lauren come and spend a weekend with us at my parents’ place in France. Go on! It would be a laugh. Lots of lovely food and wine. Sunshine and swimming. Watching my parents bickering. Great spectator sport.”

I laugh. “I’d love to. I mean, we’d love to. I’ll go and ask her in a minute. Thanks.”

To avoid talking to anyone else about the site and answering the inevitable questions, I end up playing with the kids. Jack, who is two, and Lily, who is five, invent a game with some pebbles, toy cars and dollies and it keeps them occupied for hours. Me too.

“You’re so good with the children. Everyone’s very grateful to you for keeping them quiet,” says a woman I don’t know as she carries some dirty plates over my head into the kitchen.

When we get back there are two messages on the answer machine. My heart leaps. Perhaps, finally a call from Guy and Piers. The first is from Lauren’s mum, just ringing for a chat and sending me her love, and the second is from my old mate Becky whom I haven’t seen for years.

“Hi, Charlie. It’s Becky. Long time no speak. Hope you’re well. Just ringing to say that I’ve had a baby. Louise Emily. Just over seven pounds. The father is a guy called Daniel, don’t think you’ve met him. We’ve been going out for two years. Not yet got around to the marriage thing—on my list of things to do, though. Sure we will. Always wanted to see Vegas!” She laughs. “Anyway, come and meet her! It would be really nice to see you.” She sends her love and leaves a number.

Becky and I had a minifling just before I met Lauren. It could have been my child, in another life. I could have been a father. I remember the woman at the party: “You’re so good with children.” So is Lauren actually, but then she is good at most things so perhaps it doesn’t really count.

On Monday I wait until lunchtime to make absolutely sure that Guy and Piers really aren’t coming into the office again, and then I tell Scarlett I’m going to ring the police.

“Good idea,” she says. Serious Scarlett is really frightening me now.

I decide not to ring 999. After all, it’s not really an emergency is it? Well, not yet. I didn’t sleep much on Saturday night after my conversation with Dad. Somehow reporting Guy and Piers missing will make it official: we really are in trouble, but, on the other hand, it also feels like I’m doing the right thing.

I speak to someone at the Missing Persons Unit. A woman with a kind voice takes all the details. She seems slightly surprised when I explain that I’m calling about
two
people.

“Two? Oh, right. Are they in a relationship?”

“With each other? No. Well, just a business relationship.”

“I see. What relation are you to either of them?”

“I work with them.
For
them.” Suddenly, following the conversation with my father, the distinction seems very important.

“Let me just check the database to make sure we haven’t had anyone else reporting them missing already.” She taps away for a moment and then says, “No. Funny. Usually it’s family and friends that report it first. Have you spoken to these men’s relations or people they know outside work?”

“We don’t know of anyone,” I say, deciding not to mention Nora.

“Oh, okay.”

“Does this sound a bit odd?” I ask.

“Odd? Erm, not really. Men in their late twenties, early thirties, are one of the most likely groups of people to disappear, actually. Them and teenage girls.”

“Right.”

“On the other hand, we don’t know that they have really disappeared. Sometimes people just go off without telling anyone—they forget or suddenly decide they need to get away from it all.”

“I know how they feel.”

“Don’t we all? We’ll carry out our own investigations and as soon as we hear something we’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” She gives me the number of the Missing Persons Helpline and I hang up.

“Well?” says Scarlett.

“You heard what I told her, what more can we do?”

“Why don’t you ring Nora Benthall about that piece?”

“I don’t trust myself not to yell abuse at her.”

“So? Yell abuse at her.”

I look at Scarlett for a moment while I think it over and then I ring Nora’s number.

“Hey, Charlie,” she says, bright as ever.

“Thanks for the piece on Saturday.”

“No worries.”

“Nora, I’m being sarcastic.”

“Why? What’s wrong? It’ll help find them.”

“I asked you
not
to write it.”

“Charlie, you can’t tell me what I can and can’t write. It’s a good story. We’ve already had a couple of calls about it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, hang on, let me find them. Jenny, where’s that note about those calls? Thanks. Right…oh, perhaps we need to wait a little bit longer.”

“Why? What do they say?”

“A Mr. Hampson from Birmingham called in to say that it serves you right for worshipping mammon and you’ll all go to hell—”

“Great, very helpful.”

“And someone called Jeremy from Southampton rang. He wants to know where you got the shirt you’re wearing in that picture because he’d like to get one too.”

“Oh, case solved then.”

“Okay, I admit those probably aren’t going to produce very good leads but someone else might crop up.”

“Well, call me when they do. You owe me, all right?” I tell her and put the phone down.

“So?” asks Scarlett. I can hardly bear to repeat the conversation but I do for her and Zac’s benefit. She thinks about it for a moment and then says, “Well, if you don’t mind me saying…that shirt was horrible. Why would anyone want one like it?”

“What are you on about?”

Zac is smirking.

“Glad you think it’s funny you, you sniggering nerd.”

He bursts out laughing.

“Am I the only one who gets what’s happening?” I ask. “A lot of money has disappeared here. Am I the only one who actually realises that this whole thing is collapsing around our ears?”

Zac stops laughing, sits up and leans across his desk. “No, bud,” he says. “You’re the only one who ever thought it wouldn’t.”

I go out and walk up and down the street for a while to regain my composure. What does Zac know? Cynical, sneering net nerd. Nobby no mates. But I
am
the most visible aspect of this site, aren’t I? Spokesman, front man. The embodiment of 2cool. Muse? Fall guy? Director more to the fucking point. I did sign some cheques, six, in fact. I counted them as soon as I got back to the office on Monday after talking to my dad. Over £40,000 worth. Oh, for fuck’s sake. If 2cool’s crashed in flames then so have I. And very, very publicly. I could go to prison for it.

Images of a celebrity trial begin to flood into my mind. Stories of our spending. Me arriving in a van at the Old Bailey. Is that right? Would that happen? Or would it be a smaller court? Who cares? My old mates at the agency reading about me and gossiping at castings as my case goes on. Penny smiling grimly in that little office of hers. My poor mum. It would kill her.

I ring Lauren’s number but get her voice mail. I leave a short message asking her to call me when she can. We’ve hardly spoken over the last few days. After the party on Sunday she went into town to do some shopping and I came back to the flat and watched telly. I really need to talk although I know what she’ll say.

I go into a newsagent. On the front of a women’s magazine are a guy and a girl from my old agency. Smiling, hugging, gazing adoringly at each other, so in love. Well, in love for £100 an hour on a Thursday morning in a studio in Clerkenwell, hair and makeup provided, but no wardrobe at that price so bring your own selection of smart-casual tops. Not a lot of money but a nice cover shot for your book.

I ring Karyn at the agency.

“Hey, how are you?” Not saying my name out loud, I notice.

“All right. How’s it going? Busy?”

“Yeah, it is quite.” I didn’t want to hear that. “You?”

“Did you see the piece in the
Post
on Saturday?”

“Yes, Penny pointed it out.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Difficult times?”

“You could say.”

“So where
are
these guys? Derr! Sorry, obviously you don’t know but it does seem very odd, doesn’t it? They’ve really just disappeared into thin air, then?”

“Yep. It’s too weird.”

“You sound down.”

“Just a bit. It’s all a bit worrying, you know. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I feel I have to add the last comment so that she doesn’t think I’m a complete crook. Or a naive fool. “Anyway, you’re busy, then.”

“Yeah, pretty. Little jobs.” The kind I used to moan about and turn my nose up at. Suddenly they sound safe and familiar. Boring but manageable.

“Better than nothing,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like I’m angling for something.

“You never used to say that,” says Karyn, teasingly.

“Yeah, I know.” There is a pause. I nearly ask about going back. It does sound tempting—so much easier after the stress of 2cool.

“A couple of people have been asking about you.”

“Really? That’s nice.”

“Penny’s a bit funny about it, though. Keeps suggesting other models.”

“No, of course. Well, she’ll be even funnier about it now.”

“Probably. She’s out to lunch with a client today so she’ll be totally smashed when she gets back.”

“Good old Penny.”

“Give me a ring if you want to have a drink sometime, Charlie.”

“Will do. Take care, babe.”

I go back to the office after half an hour or so. Fortunately Zac has gone to lunch. Scarlett is on the phone.

“No, you’ll get your cheque, I promise. It’s just that we’re up to our eyes at the moment and our, er, accounts department has got a bit behind. No, they’re not here at the moment but I’ll pass your message on. Well, I can’t comment on press stories. You believe whatever you like, but as soon as they come back I’ll get them to sign the cheque and we’ll bike it straight over. Okay, will do. Bye.” She puts the phone down. “Honestly, some people. Money, money, money. Don’t they know there’s more to life?”

“Have we had a lot of calls like that?”

“Quite a few. Well, quite a lot actually. But what can we do? I don’t know where the chequebooks are.”

“Even if we find them I certainly don’t want to go signing any more until I’ve spoken to Guy and Piers and seen the bank statements. Let’s look in their desks, see if we can find these statements and the chequebooks.”

“I feel a bit funny about rummaging around while they’re not here.”

I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, but where the hell are they? Anyway, I’m also a director. I just want to see the figures.” Saying that, I realise that I don’t. “Come on, Scarlett, someone’s got to do it. This is getting silly.” Not to mention frightening.

“Okay.” She goes over to the end of the room where Guy’s and Piers’s desks are. I’ve checked the surface of the desks a hundred times over the last few days for clues as to their whereabouts but I’ve never looked inside the neo-industrial filing cabinets that surround them.

“I’ll need to get into their computers too,” I tell her as she gets the keys.

“They’re password protected and I don’t know—”

“Where’s Zac?”

“At lunch. Playing pinball across the road.”

“Ring him and get him over here, can you? Ta.”

I open the first drawer of one of the filing cabinets and almost gasp in shock. Hundreds of bits of paper are stuffed into it. Most of the suspension files are hanging off their rails, documents squashed down between them. I pick out a piece of paper at random. It’s a bill for red roses. £350 worth from a smart florist in Notting Hill. I flatten it out and put it carefully onto Piers’s desk. Slowly I pull out another piece of paper, dislodging a few others and sending them cascading onto the floor. This one is a receipt for a couple of suits and trousers from the press office of an Italian design house. “Sample loan. Please return in good condition to London Press Office by 20 June.” Three weeks ago. I look around hopelessly as if the suits might be hanging up somewhere.