2cool2btrue (23 page)

There is a shot of a computer terminal with our home page on it. The camera pulls back to reveal a female reporter in a bright green suit and shoulder-length blonde hair sitting on the desk next to the terminal.

“Whether Sir Josh Langdon sees any of his money again depends very much on the eventual outcome of the police investigations,” she says, giving us a frowning, head-tilting look of genuine concern, “but one thing seems certain: what promised to be the coolest site on the web has suddenly become too hot to handle. Juliet Hargreaves, BBC News, Central London.”

I sit down heavily on the bed. “Oh, fuck.”

As soon as I come up out of the tube station at Piccadilly Circus my mobile rings.

“Hi, it’s me,” says Nora.

“Hiya,” I say gently, wishing I was somewhere that I could talk more easily.

“How are you?”

“All right, you?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay last night.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“I’m so glad you came back, though, and we made love.” She sounds like she has rehearsed the comment.

“So am I,” I say. But I’m not, absolutely not. If you start to deceive your partner, you soon have to start deceiving the other woman too, I suppose. And yourself for that matter.

“Perhaps I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow then.”

“Sure, I’ll give you a ring later.”

“Bye.” I’m just thinking that at least I didn’t mention love, when the phone rings again. “Hello?”

“Charlie, it’s me.” For a moment I hardly recognise the voice.

“Lauren?”

“The police are here.” Her voice is cracking; she is almost in tears.

“What?”

She swallows hard. “The police are here. They’ve got a warrant and they’re searching the flat, our flat.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Could you please come home and deal with this?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Let me find a cab. I’ll be right there.”

I find one coming down Regent Street and leap in, ringing Scarlett to tell her what has happened. She’s had more calls from journalists already but promises to handle things till I get back. Almost as an afterthought she gives me some other news that is either terminally bad or quite a relief—I can’t decide which.

The traffic is mercifully light at the end of the rush hour and I’m home in twenty-five agonising minutes.

Lauren is waiting in the hallway, arms folded, eyes red, motionless. She is wearing a cream V-necked pullover and jeans. Her hair is up. She looks gorgeous even in distress and I feel worse than ever—for putting her through this, for Nora, for everything. I put my arms round her and say, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, okay. They’re in the bedroom.” She doesn’t move, unresponsive to my embrace. I go into the bedroom and a young policeman who has been searching under the bed looks up at me, enquiringly. I’m enraged. This is
my
bedroom.

“Oh, hello,
sir,”
says Slapton, who is wandering about, ostensibly supervising but also just poking around our personal things, I can tell. “We won’t be long.”

“Why the fuck couldn’t you do it while I was here?”

He looks at me impassively. “You’d left for work.”

“You could have called me.”

“Not our practise to call every time, sir. For obvious reasons. But we’ve got the necessary paperwork and we showed it to your girlfriend.”

“What are you taking?”

“A few papers and things. We’re going to have to take your computer away with us, I’m afraid,” he says, nodding towards it.

“What else?”

“We’ll know when we see it,” he says, his rubber-gloved hand poking at some of Lauren’s neatly folded clothes which are sitting on the bed. “You’ll get a receipt.”

“You bastard,” I tell him. “You’re enjoying this.”

He half-laughs then steps up to me and his smile tells me that I’ve guessed right.

“Oh, don’t try and get tough with me, pretty boy. It’s pathetic to watch. You just stick to selling your Prada handbags and your trendy champagne glasses. Leave the tough-guy stuff alone, it doesn’t suit you.”

I sense some of the policemen sniggering.

After about half an hour, during which time they’ve even been in the bathroom, they leave and I go into the kitchen to find Lauren.

“Have they gone?” she asks without looking at me.

“Yes.”

She bites her lip.

“Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

I wait for her to say something.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I’ve never felt so dirty in my life. The
police
searching
my
flat.”

“I know.”

“How is this happening to us? I don’t understand.” Her lip trembles. “I was in the shower when they knocked on the door. I was terrified.”

“I’m so sorry, babe.” I put my arms around her but she is still unresponsive.

“When are you finally going to let it go?”

“The truth is, I have let it go. There’s nothing left to hang on to. We had to give up our computers so we can’t put in any more content. Worse still…when I rang Scarlett from the cab on the way over here she told me that the company that runs the site on the net has cut us off. There is no such site any more. That’s it. Finito.”

“Really?”

“Yup. RIP 2cool.” I repeat the phrase over to myself to see what effect it has on me. I suppose it hasn’t quite sunk in. Or else I just don’t care any more.

“Good,” says Lauren. She takes a deep breath. Her face and shoulders seem to relax. “Good. That’s that then.” I can see her pulling herself together. There’s not much that fazes Lauren, so she finds not being in control of any situation even more frightening than most people would. “You’ve got a receipt for what they’ve taken, haven’t you? If I’ve lost any work or anything because I can’t get on to the computer I shall expect them to pay.”

I laugh. “So they bloody well should.”

“It’s not funny. Anyway, I think you’re right going back to modelling. At least it’s safe and you know how it works,” she says, picking up a cloth and wiping down the already immaculate work surface.

“Yes. The only problem is that when I spoke to Karyn at Jet yesterday she said Penny won’t take me on again because of the adverse publicity.”

“That’s her loss then. You’d have no problem with any other agency, not with your reputation and your book.”

“I was sort of hoping to move on from modelling though, and do something else.” I walk across the room towards her to try and catch her eye as she finishes wiping and puts some glasses in the dishwasher.

“Oh, I wouldn’t rule it out. I suppose the point is that this has been a pretty horrible experience for us both, but at least you’ve learned something which could be useful for any other projects. Now, I think I
will
have some coffee. Do you want some?”

“Er, no thanks, I’d better get back to the office.”

She turns to look at me. “Which office?”

“Well, 2cool—as was.”

“You’re not going back there?”

“I’ve got to. I told Scarlett I would.”

She puts the jug of the coffee maker down again. “What have we just been saying?”

“That I’ll go back to modelling. But I can’t just leave Scarlett and Zac on their own there, can I?”

“Why the hell not? You don’t owe them anything.”

“I can’t just desert them. I’m going to go in, we’ll get our stuff, hand the key back to the landlord and wait till the police contact us about Guy and Piers and that’s that. Look, the point is I’m a director, babe, I’ve signed cheques, I’ve sat on board meetings, well, I should have.” I don’t feel protected any more by lack of control, lack of connection. I just feel like an idiot.

“Well, get yourself a good lawyer and let him take care of it all.” She picks up the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Mark. He’ll know someone who can help you.”

I can imagine the conversation with Mark, who does complicated, important things in the City and has his own secretary: “Charlie’s got himself into a mess by trying to do something other than modelling, can you help dig him out of it, please?” So gently but firmly I take the portable phone out of her hand.

“No,
I’ll
get a lawyer if I need one. Don’t ask Mark.”

Lauren takes a deep breath and turns her back on me. “I don’t believe this. Charlie, don’t go back there. Hasn’t it occurred to you that all of them—Scarlett and Zac as well as Guy and Piers—have been stringing you along? They’ve
all
been conning you. Why should you help them? Get out now and save yourself.”

“I will save myself and I’ll do it on my own.” I remember Scarlett’s kind words about being there in case I needed protection, and the kiss on the cheek she gave me. “I won’t be late,” I say, turning to leave.

There is another piece about us in the
Mirror,
I notice at the newsstand by the tube station. More puns about 2cool getting too hot to handle and people having their fingers burnt. There’s a picture of me walking down the street—it must have been that photographer yesterday—and some older photos of Piers looking a dork in a dinner suit alongside some other men who have bottles of champagne in their hands.

A girl opposite me in the carriage who is reading the story looks up as she turns the page, sees me and does such an unsubtle double take that I can’t help laughing.

We spend the day finishing up our list of creditors with contact details, amounts owed and invoice dates. Although none of us says it, we all know it is probably pretty pointless. We tidy up the office and file whatever bits of paper the police didn’t take away with them. We’re doing something just to keep busy and also so that, in my case anyway, we can at least tell people like the small print shop round the corner which is owed £420 for photocopying and brochures, that we, the ones who are left that is, did our best to get them their money.

Zac unplugs some of his remaining equipment, including a laptop he has brought in so that he can at least play computer games and email his mates, and begins to pack it up. How much is his and how much he’s just helping himself to I don’t know, but he’s welcome to it. He’s worked hard. At one point when I’m looking for some stamps in her desk I notice that Scarlett is writing out a list of names.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s just some record pluggers for this new band I’m managing.”

“Good,” I tell her. “Good idea.”

I don’t even mind Zac watching telly in the corner later in the day. It’s some quiz show. I can tell this because every few seconds we hear: “Elizabeth the first, you dickhead,” or “Newfoundland, you shit-for-brains,” or “Sodium chloride, fuckwit,” or “164, asswipe.”

I
get home just after five. The first thing I hear as I open the front door is Peter Beaumont-Crowther’s voice. When I look into the living room he and Lauren are sitting very close to each other on the settee.

He gets up quickly and says, “Oh, hi, Charlie.”

I don’t say anything. Lauren still has her back to me. I go into the bedroom and kick off my shoes. I wait for her to come in but she doesn’t, so I go out and make a cup of tea and take it back to the bedroom. I switch on the TV and watch some woman saying, “But when they got to the hotel, Jane and Michelle were in for a nasty shock…”

When I look up, Lauren is standing in the doorway.

“What’s
he
doing here?” I ask.

“Shh!” she says, looking across to the living room. “He’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care.” I laugh angrily. “It’s my flat.”

She pulls the door closed slowly. “Peter came over because I asked him to.”

“How kind of him.”

“Charlie, I’m so worried about you. Peter saw that piece on the news today and lots of other people have called about it, including your mother. She’s worried sick.” There is a pause. “I can’t bear to see you hurt like this.”

Oh, God, my mum, I must ring her. I turn back to the TV and switch over to watch a plump teenage girl in a boob tube singing “Angels” by Robbie Williams in a strained, flat voice. Then I say, “Perhaps I’ll be okay.”

“What?”

“Perhaps I’ll be okay, perhaps I’ll get through this, handle it myself. I might get bruised in the process.” I feel my chest where my biker assailant hit me but it doesn’t seem to hurt at all any more. “But I’ll get through it.”

“What do you mean?”

I switch off the TV, throw the remote down on the bed and walk over to the window. A man is taking a young boy for a ride on a bike. The kid wears a helmet and protective gloves as well as ankle, knee and elbow pads. When I was young we just got on and fell off.

“I’ve had the kind of career, the kind of lifestyle that most people can only dream of.”

“Yes, and think yourself lucky,” she says as if talking to a spoilt child—which she probably is.

“I fell into modelling after college, unlike my mate Paul who wanted it so much, poor bugger. I get paid for doing what most people would consider a pleasure, things most people would probably
pay
to do. I’ve always had work. I’m not short of money. I’ve got a lovely flat, a beautiful girlfriend,” I say, looking at her. “The only slight hiccup has been my parents’ divorce, and really my sister dealt with most of that.”

“Exactly, so why throw it all up in the air?”

“Because it’s all been
too
easy. Don’t you see? I want to do something that will challenge me a bit, something different, a bit dangerous—”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” says Lauren, staring at the ceiling and shaking her head. “You want to do something dangerous.”

“I want a challenge,” I bark back at her. “I’ve
got
a challenge and I’m enjoying…what’s the word? Meeting it. I can’t remember when I last felt an adrenaline rush.” Lauren looks on, horrified. “I, I want to be tested. I want people to say ‘God, Charlie really went through the ringer. Had all that shit thrown at him and he came through it. I never knew he had it in him.’”

“Your career in modelling is nothing to be embarrassed about.” She’s standing right next to me at the window. “You certainly shouldn’t feel ashamed of yourself.”

I have to look away from her. Ashamed? But I have got something to be ashamed of. I’ve cheated on her, had sex with someone else. I go back to what I’m more comfortable with.

“Don’t you understand? I’m just fed up with being considered a lucky bastard, someone who’s lived a charmed existence.”

“Oh, Charlie,” says Lauren, shaking her head and getting up. I can tell it’s not a question of her not understanding me, it’s just that she doesn’t want to hear it. “Look, we both think you should get out of this. Peter says he might be able to get you something in marketing or PR with a friend of his who runs a TV company. They make that cookery programme with Tania Bryer—”

I’m lost for words so I put my shoes on again and leave.

Walking back along the street I wonder where I’m going. My mum’s? I will ring her, yeah, of course, but I can’t bear to land on her doorstep and bring all this trouble with me. I’ll go and see her properly when it’s all sorted and she won’t be nagging and worrying. I can’t face trying to explain the situation to a friend, and now Sarah seems more Lauren’s friend than mine so I decide to ring Nora. She’s working on a big piece for tomorrow so she won’t be around until about eight but we arrange to meet at hers then.

I buzz on her door at quarter past eight and she lets me in. The flat smells of scented candles or joss sticks and it’s noticeably tidier than it was last night. She looks like she’s just got back and tidied up. She gives me the kind of wicked, quizzical grin that annoyed me so much when we first met.

I’m doing this to hurt Lauren. Punishment for her unquestioning assumption that she—she and Peter, even worse—knows what’s best for me. Proof as well that I can do dangerous things like have sex with wicked, untrustworthy women and get away with it.

We go straight through to the living room and onto the settee. She giggles. Then she stares at me with her wide eyes, any trace of that mocking, knowing smile disappeared. We tear at each other’s clothes and make love. Then we lie back and cool off.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, thanks.”

We both laugh at her polite hospitality following on so soon from our animal lust. She goes into the kitchen, her hand passing aimlessly over her buttock, slightly self-conscious about her naked body. A moment later she comes back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Wow,” I say, taking it from her and unwrapping the foil. “What’s this in aid of?”

“Nothing, just felt like it.”

The cork pops and she puts the glasses underneath it to catch the froth but there is nothing, just a plume of condensation.

“Twist the bottle, not the cork and do it very slowly,” I inform her, one eyebrow raised knowingly.

“Gosh, how clever,” she says sarcastically.

“Learnt that from a wine waiter on a modelling job for a hotel,” I explain, pouring the champagne. “I suppose I have learnt something in eight years.”

She raises her glass. “Here’s to 2cool.”

“May it rest in peace.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s no longer on the net. If you go to that address you get a notice explaining that the site has closed, but thanks for visiting.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. 2cool is defunct, deceased and…I don’t know…something else beginning with ‘de.’”

“Shit,” says Nora. She looks really upset.

“Oh, never mind, it was fun while it lasted and at least it’s helping to bring the whole thing to an end. A conclusion.”

“Why don’t we have a bath?” she says suddenly. “I’ve got some lovely new bath oil. Hot bath, cold champagne. Very Jackie Collins.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” I’m not sure it does, though: Lauren and I used to have baths together a lot during the early years. Those condescending “Peter and I” comments have been ringing in my ears all evening. Who the hell do they think they are? My fucking parents? Perhaps that’s why the sex with Nora is so much better, so much wilder this time around. Revenge sex—there’s nothing like it.

“You run it. I’m just going to make a phone call,” she says, checking her watch and dashing out into the kitchen.

We order in some takeaway Chinese to go with our champagne and eat it in front of a video of
Some Like It Hot
because, as Nora reminds me, she can’t stand watching TV.

When it gets to the moment where Marilyn Monroe, as Sugar, knocks on the door to borrow the bourbon from Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis because she’s been dumped by her “millionaire” and she says, “Hi, it’s me, Sugar,” Nora grabs the remote and pauses it.

“That took eighty-three takes.”

“What? That one line.”

“Yep, she was so off her head, so worked up, in such a state that she needed eighty-three takes before she got it right. Kept saying “Sugar, it’s me” and things. Can you imagine being like that?”

I try and think about it. “Almost,” I tell her.

“Oh, poor baby,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder and then turning to kiss me.

Towards eleven I’m beginning to have this feeling of dread. Nora will ask again if I’ll stay the night and I’ll have to decide. It’s late and I’m so tired but it would really escalate tensions between me and Lauren. Not coming home is more than just provocative, it’s insulting. I can’t do that to her.

Just as I’m thinking this, the film ends. An exasperated Jack Lemmon is trying to explain to his millionaire why it might be difficult for them to get married. Finally, despondently pulling off his wig, he admits, “I’m a man.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” says his rich suitor.

“That was one of Billy Wilder’s favourite lines. It’s not actually a gag as such, is it? But he knew that it would work, because it’s so bland,” says Nora looking at the credits. “When they first showed the film to a test audience somewhere in the midwest it just bombed. They sat and stared at it in total silence, apparently, and there was panic at the studio, but Wilder was still confident—he knew he’d made a great movie. So then they brought in a bunch of college students to see it and apparently you couldn’t hear half the lines for the sound of their laughter.”

I watch the light of the telly flickering over her face with its wide forehead and large, expressive eyes. How many times has she seen this film before? How did she get this doctorate in it? I wonder if she’s rather lonely in London. Not that being American singles you out but being very bright and rather eccentric does. I know she’s had boyfriends but she seems almost new to this kind of simple, domestic intimacy, almost excited by the novelty of it. There is something about her that makes me wonder how difficult it might be to get really close to her.

I can’t stay, though, Nora. I’d love to curl up with you and watch you fall asleep next to me but I can’t. What I’ve done to Lauren this evening is bad enough but to stay the night would be too much, too cruel. To both of you. I’ll have to go home and either try and make up or continue the sulk, neither of which I’m looking forward to.

“Listen, it’s late, I’ve got to go.”

“Stay.”

I bend down and kiss her shoulder sadly. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to…”

“Of course,” she says, getting up. “I’ll ring you a cab.”

“No, don’t worry. I’ll get one outside.” But instead of sounding considerate it sounds like I’m keen to get away as soon as possible—and that’s probably it.

Lauren is out when I get back at eleven-thirty. Where the hell is she? Out committing adultery like me? I suppose she and Peter couldn’t risk doing it here. They can’t be doing it. How could she? What could she see in him? A TV presenter’s contract, probably.

I brush my teeth and get into bed. Right at the edge again. As I wait I suddenly realise that I smell of Nora’s bath oil. Girlie bath oil. Oh, shit. I swing myself out of bed and get into the shower and soap myself all over, standing under the running water for a while. Then I get out and dry myself. I sniff around my arms and bend down to sniff my stomach. I even sniff my knees and feet just in case, nearly falling over in the process. This is ridiculous. I can’t decide if I can actually still smell it or whether I just remember the smell. I have another shower and use some of Lauren’s expensive exfoliating lotion.

I go back to the bedroom and sniff the sheets. They definitely smell of it. Oh, fuck. Where does Lauren keep the clean linen? I find some in the drawer under the bed and change the bottom sheet which is the worst offender, but baulk at replacing the duvet cover which would be too obvious. And too difficult at this time of night. I want to get these little details of deceit over with as quickly as possible.

I don’t hear Lauren come into the flat. When she gets into bed I instinctively make to put my arm round her but stop myself at the last minute. In the pale light of the street lamps outside I can see her face looking straight up at the ceiling, eyes wide open.