2cool2btrue (8 page)

Our fantastically cool and expensive stereo arrives later that day and a bloke spends a couple of hours installing it, asking if I have any idea how state-of-the-art this thing is. I say I don’t, but can I get Radio Two on it? He doesn’t see the joke and talks about watts per channel and digital quality sound reproduction or something just as absurdly pretentious.

Bags of clothes are delivered from the 2cool stylist, and Scarlett and I have some fun trying them on while Piers is out lunching someone at Le Caprice and Guy is doing the same at the Savoy Grill. Later, a couple of crates of champagne are dropped off which have apparently been ordered for entertaining in the office. Before I can stop her, Scarlett has decided that we need some entertainment and she opens one.

Other than that there is very little to do for most of the week. I begin to learn something, though, that all my friends who went to work in offices after school and university learnt many years ago: the art of paper shuffling and time killing. Scarlett and I go for organic juices and Shiatsu massages and even spend a couple of hours shopping on Wednesday with our 2cool credit cards: a Hugo Boss shirt for me and an outfit for her from a shop called Sceeech! for a lesbian wedding she is going to on Saturday.

On Thursday Piers take me for what he describes as a fact-finding trip to Bond Street and Harrods.

“This ghastly junk is just the kind of thing we’re
not
about,” he says very loudly in Harrods’s Room of Luxury.

A few shoppers look round in surprise. I pretend to be one of them.

“Harrods is what Gucci and Pierre Cardin were in the seventies when they licensed themselves to anything and everything,” explains Piers. “You’ve got to guard a brand with your life. After all, it
is
your life, well, your livelihood anyway.”

We move into another area of the shop, part of the menswear department, and Piers picks up some ties and drops them.

“Crap display!” he bellows.

Partly to hide my embarrassment I say, “I’m just going to the loo, Piers, shall I see you back here in five minutes?”

“A piss?” he roars. “Yeah, I could do with one too.”

“I think the Gents is down there,” I whisper. At the urinals Piers continues to lecture me on luxury-goods marketing.

“They’re called ‘ostentatious goods.’ Part of the attraction is the high price—people feel they’re treating themselves whenever they buy something like that, or they just feel good because they know other people can’t afford them. It’s that old tag-line, ‘reassuringly expensive.’”

Piers even pees fast—his jet could cut slate. Mine is a pathetic, old man’s trickle by comparison. Piers finishes, looks down to see if I’m still going (yes, I’m going as fast as I can!) and then spins round to wash his hands.

We sprint out of the shop, Piers managing to make a couple of telephone calls between the inner and outer set of doors at the entrance. As we dash further down Knightsbridge we pass a beggar on the street outside, patterned shawl and skirt blowing in the breeze generated by the cars, hand extended, face set in the usual contorted mask of desperation and pleading. A drugged baby lies slumped in her arms. I look away, embarrassed, uncertain whether to give her money or not.

“See,
that
is bad market positioning,” says Piers, dialling another number on his mobile. It takes a moment for me to realise that he is talking about the woman we’ve both seen.

“What?”

“No one is going to give her money there. They’re either hard-hearted bastards who don’t care, or they’ve only got plastic on them. She should try the King’s Road or somewhere like that, where there are lots of kids around who are into that sort of thing, you know, begging and busking.”

Later we pass a young guy begging with a painfully thin mongrel on the end of a piece of rope, who shakes a tatty McDonald’s cup at us. Again I look away but Piers tells him, “Oh, eat your dog.”

“Iya,” says Lauren. “Good day?”

“Pretty quiet. I’ve just been finalising things for the launch party on Friday night. It should be spectacular. Scarlett and I did a final tour of the place this morning. The money they’re spending—three bands, giant video walls to show the site as it goes live, thousands of staff, cars to pick up the VIP guests, and the food budget—I told you, didn’t I? Two hundred fifty pounds a head. Even the guy at Frederica’s said it was one of the most amazing menus he’d ever seen.”

“Grea’,” says Lauren, opening a bottle of Merlot.

“What did you say?”

“I’s like that’s really cool, yeah?”

“Why are you talking like that?” I laugh, slightly spooked.

“Well, the thing is, Pe’er says my accent is a bi’ too cu’ crystal, yeah? A bit too Received Pronunciation, and I should troy fla’ening it ou’ a bi’.”

“You’re joking! You sound like you’re an American doing a terrible lovable cockney routine.”

“Well, thanks for the encouragement,” she says, slamming the corkscrew down on the work surface and turning to get the glasses.

“Sorry, it’s just…why?”

“I’m going for this presen’ers job on Friday, yeah? And it’s a bit more stree’y? A bit more cu’ing edge, and so Pe’er’s worried my accent might coun’ against me.”

“But I thought you were warm and, what was it—authoritative or something?” I ask, taking a welcome mouthful of wine.

“Oh, I am, but for this part I just need something different, a new string to my bow,” she says normally.

“I liked your old strings,” I say sulkily.

“Oh, honestly, Charlie, I’m no going to do i’ f’rever, just for a few days while I ge’ into it, yeah?”

“All right, Eliza Doolittle,” I say, lifting Lauren’s simple cotton dress over her head. “Now, lawks-a-mercy, let’s have a bath and get that soot off you.”

O
n Friday I arrive back at the club just before seven and try to smile confidently in a you-know-
who-I-am kind of way at a bloke in a DJ with an earpiece and a headset. He lets me in impassively. The party is planned to start at eight but I’ve been here all afternoon, watching the giant video walls go up while armies of glasses spread across white tablecloths and plates pile up ready for the buffet. Cables and control boxes appear then disappear as they are neatly tucked away. In fact, I haven’t had to do much because Simon Smith, our PR man, and his assistant Charlotte, have been organising most of the activities.

The morning was spent with Scarlett and a couple of Simon’s colleagues arranging for a fleet of nearly a hundred Mercedes and BMWs from every chauffeur-drive company in London to pick up our VIP guests and take them back home again afterwards. On their return journey they’ll find a 2cool goodie bag, featuring amongst other things an Italian-designed crocodile-skin mobile phone holder, a bottle of Krug especially labelled
poil de chien
(hair of the dog—geddit?) and a pair of Prada sunglasses to protect the really hungover.

A little envelope contains complementary treatments at spas such as the Dorchester, Aveda, Molton Brown and Bliss. There is a little coke container with each VIP’s own monogram on it, created by one of Mayfair’s finest royal warranted silversmiths. Poor old buffers were told the little solid sterling silver tube with its miniature scoop was for snuff. Ah, bless, as Scarlett put it when they agreed.

Now I’m back on duty wearing a black Armani suit and dark grey Costume National shirt with Tim Little shoes I bought on my 2cool credit card.

Simon is still shouting at people and consulting a clipboard when I get back. It seems Heaven, the decorator, is giving him a hard time about some delivery. Over the last two weeks of working in an office I’ve discovered that the thing to do in these situations is to concentrate on doing some small job. It makes you look busy, it keeps you out of the way and at least you can point to something you’ve done if anyone asks. Not that they have so far. In this case my small achievement is telling two guys where to put some potted plants.

“Two, two. Testing. Two, two,” says a voice from behind me, but when I look around I can see no one. A techie guy laughs at my confusion and explains: “It’s a new sound system. There are three hundred miniature speakers around the place, tucked away in flower arrangements and places like here….” He reaches up and pulls out what looks like a black matchbox from behind a picture. “So wherever you are it sounds like someone next to you is talking, rather than all that shitty sound quality you get with Tannoys booming and distorting across the room.”

Suddenly sequences of the new, updated website flash on to the screens. One telly in the wall of monitors isn’t working and remains obstinately blacked out, like a missing tooth in a smile. The techie tuts and yells something to his mate.

“I told you they were your responsibility,” Simon is saying.

“Hal
lo?
Are you not hearing me? My responsibility was to
buy
them.
Your
responsibility to
get
them here,” spits Heaven, lovingly enunciating every venomous syllable.

Simon consults his clipboard but, finding no solace in it says, “Well, I would have thought
buying
them would have included actually, you know,
getting
them here.”

“Not when I had no budget for transportation and the shop doesn’t deliver. I would have thought that was obvious,” says Heaven, hands on hips, edging slowly closer to Simon, who is pretending that he is not remotely interested in this conversation. Finally Heaven is so far into his adversary’s personal space that Simon has to say something.

“Well, at the end of the day it’s your problem. You’re responsible for candles and you haven’t got them.” Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, goes unsaid. The two face each other for a few moments.

“Oh, working with you is just hell,” says Heaven.

At that moment Piers arrives. “Fingertip control?” he says, rubbing his hands together. Heaven and Simon give him a poisonous look but he is impervious to it and rearranges some of the exotic flowers, admiring his irrelevant handiwork. “How’s it going Charlie?”

“Fine, no problem. Should be ready in plenty of time, shouldn’t we, Simon?”

It’s supposed to be supportive but Simon obviously doesn’t see it that way. His jaw locks and he shudders slightly before spitting out, “No problem.”

“Great,” says Piers.

“Huh! Give him a clipboard and suddenly he thinks he’s bloody Stalin,” yells Heaven from across the room. Simon begins to talk to Piers. “Faggy Ivy League twat!” adds Heaven for good measure.

“You will
never
work for The Communications Game again,” says Simon with dignity.

“Good!” yells back Heaven. “I wouldn’t want to!” He turns round to concentrate on something else. “Oh, for God’s sake, sprinkle, love, sprinkle,” he shouts at one of his terrified staff. “If I’d wanted that much glitter on it I’d have given you a bloody shovel.”

“Splendid,” says Piers.

At two minutes to eight it looks like we’re finally there. Waiters and waitresses are milling around with full drinks trays, moving into position around the main reception room. One is showing another the underside of his shoe for some reason. An older waitress with rather exaggerated eye makeup sidles up to me and says, “What time does overtime start?”

“Midnight,” I tell her.

“Oh, good, thanks,” she says. I’ve actually no idea but I suppose I ought to know. The candlesticks, I discover, have arrived because the owner of the shop was persuaded (and bribed) to come back and open it especially so that they could be biked over to us. Now the huge, gilt gothic pieces with their towering black candles are placed on each table along with white lilies and black tulips.

Hundreds, well not hundreds but it seems like it, of girls with flicky blonde hair and names like Arabella and Louisa who work for The Communications Game arrive suddenly and introduce themselves to me, saying how exciting it all is and how much they’re enjoying working on the account.

Lauren arrives with Peter just after half past eight as we agreed. She looks stunning: a cream-coloured dress and simple gold chain. Peter is wearing a maroon velvet smoking jacket and spotted bow tie, and looks like he’s just walked off the stage of an amateur dramatic society production of
The Mouse Trap.

“Hi, babe,” says Lauren.

“You look great,” I say, putting an arm round her and kissing her on the lips.

“Thought I be’er make an effor’,” she says.

“You’re not going to do that all night?’ I half-beg, half-command her.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she laughs. “It’s been driving Charlie bonkers,” she tells Peter. “No, I didn’t get it, babe. Peter thinks they wanted someone a bit more in your face, a bit more off the wall.”

“A bit more Sara Cox or Davina McCall,” says Peter knowingly.

“Right,” I say, thanking God I’m not going out with someone “in your face.” “What was the programme exactly?”

“It’s a proposal I put to MTV,” says Peter, glad to be able to take the lead here. “The idea is that it’s a bit like
This Is Your Life,
only it’s
This Is Your Sex Life,
at least that’s the working title. We find a celeb and reintroduce them to everyone they’ve ever had sex with, from the person they first lost their virginity to, to long-term lovers and one-night stands. The guests rate them and tell some funny stories.”

“But MTV didn’t like it,” I say, unsurprised.

“Oh, no,” says Peter. “They love the
concept,
it’s just—” Just Lauren they don’t like? “They just haven’t found the right presenter yet.”

“That’s not you is it, really?” I tell Lauren rather than ask her.

“No, probably not. But Peter’s got some other projects in the pipeline for me,” says Lauren, who I notice is standing next to him, not me. Anyone who didn’t know us might think that
they
were the couple rather than her and me. I’m about to try and angle myself nearer to her and get my arm round her again when Guy approaches us.

“Hi, Charlie, looking pretty sharp tonight,” he says, beaming.

“Thanks. From someone who knows so much about labels and style that’s quite a compliment. Looking pretty good yourself. Er, Guy, this is my girlfriend, Lauren Tate, and this is…” I know I should say a friend of
ours,
not friend of
hers,
but it just sticks in my gullet so I say, “Peter Beaumont-Crowther.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Guy, shaking hands with them both warmly and taking in Lauren, I note proudly. “Charlie, mate, I need to introduce you to some people. Can I, er, steal you away for a sec?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Sorry, duty calls,” says Guy and grins at Lauren and Peter. “Very nice to meet you, look forward to seeing you later; perhaps we can have a proper chat then. Have a great evening.”

Lauren and Peter smile generously as Guy leads me away. I turn briefly to tell Lauren I’ll catch up with her later but Peter has already moved round to talk to her, standing between us so that she can’t see me any more.

I meet a couple of very dry money men from New York to whom Guy talks for most of the time as if I might put my foot in it. By this time the place is really filling up. The girls from The Communications Game grab me every few seconds and say, “Charlie, I’d really like you to meet…” or “Charlie, do you know…?” or “Charlie, you
must
meet…” Marketing people from the smart brands, editors of glossy magazines, style journalists, design celebs appear, tell me how much they’re enjoying themselves and how excited they are about the site, how they loved the piece in the
Post,
then they give me a card and suggest we have lunch, dinner, breakfast or drinks before disappearing back into the crowd to be replaced by another well-moisturised, expertly made-up, nonstreak-bronzed face.

“How’s it going?” says Guy to me anxiously at one point.

“Very well,” I say.

“Good, good,” he says, looking around us. “Everyone happy, everyone enjoying themselves?”

“Yep. I’ve met so many new people, all really excited about it all.”

“Mmm? Good,” says Guy, looking around in the other direction, rather distractedly.

“These people, er, where are they?” I say, fiddling around with the mass of cards I’ve assembled. “They want to do a promotion with us. Develop some synergies,” I explain, repeating the woman’s phrase.

Guy looks down at the card for a moment and then sniffs. “Huh! It’s a possibility. I’m not quite sure that they’re 2cool material, though.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Good stuff, champ,” he says, diving back into the crowd.

I go to get another drink and notice Lauren and Peter talking to two gay guys. It dawns on me who Peter reminds me of—Barry Humphries. Not as Dame Edna or Sir Les but just in civvies, just himself. It also dawns on me that they look like a couple. My girlfriend with Barry Humphries. I begin to move over to them but Arabella or Sophie, or whatever the hell her name is, grabs me and introduces me to someone from an in-flight magazine. When I finally escape Lauren and Peter have disappeared. I am looking around to see if there is anyone else I should speak to, when I notice Nora talking to a tall guy with floppy hair.

She immediately sees me and I decide to go over and say hello. I still haven’t managed to speak to her since the article so it might be useful to share a few candid thoughts.

“Hi, Charlie,” she says, extending a hand.

“Hello,” I say coolly.

“This is Rupert. Rupert works for Cartier.”

“No, I don’t,” says Rupert. “I work for Sotheby’s.”

“Do you? How interesting,” says Nora as if she has just met him.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Accuracy’s not her thing.”

“Isn’t it?” she says sweetly. “Here, Charlie, you haven’t got a drink.” She sticks her hand out to a passing waitress but moves rather too quickly and immediately glasses begin to fall like dominoes on the tray. The waitress squeals in horror and tries to steady herself but she is soon covered with red and white wine, champagne and orange juice. As is Rupert who has tried to help her.

“Oh, you’re soaked,” says Nora who like me seems to have escaped the deluge of booze.

“I think I’d better go and dry off in the Gents,” Rupert says as calmly as he can.

“Don’t worry, just go to reception. We’ve had some spare jackets put aside just in case,” I tell him—one useful thing I did discover from Simon Smith. I check that the waitress is all right. She says “Fine, thanks,” looking malevolently at Nora, and then disappears into the kitchen where they are presumably used to this sort of casualty.

“Well done,” I tell Nora.

“I can’t believe that woman’s a waitress,” says Nora, watching her go.

“Why not?”

“She’s so clumsy.”