Model Guy (10 page)

 
"I think it's supposed
to be ironic, Dad." I said uneasily, trying to make out the woman's expression.
He walked round to get a better view of her face too.

 
"Yeah, whatever,"
he said.

When I finally penetrate the security and arrive at my Dad's
flat he has obviously just got up and is still in a sort of Kimono thing. My initial
reaction is to say 'I think you're a bit old for that, aren't you?' but then, of
course, that observation applies to his entire life so really what's the point?
Dad thinks he is Hugh Heffner made over by Stussy. My sister says that he is more
Austin Powers meets Burton's.

 
"Hey Charlie,"
he says, hugging me and slapping me on the back. Unlike my mother, Dad does call
me Charlie and he seems to really like the name. Whose idea was Keith anyway? But
I still call him Dad, not Jared, as he sometimes asks me to. I suppose Jared is
similar to John, but then it was John who was married to my mother and fathered
me so I'm a bit sensitive about that.

 
"Hi Dad," I
say, wondering in and looking around with a mixture of intrigue and trepidation
for his latest purchase. "Pool table's gone."

 
"Mmm? Oh yeah, took
up too much space," he tells me, his voice echoing around the barn-like emptiness.
"Want some coffee?"

 
"That'd be great,"
I say, drifting around and looking out at the view. In the distance a tractor is
pushing something into a hole and crane moves almost imperceptibly against the shimmering
skeins of cloud.

 
"How do you have
it?" he asks looking, slightly apprehensively, at a black and chrome espresso
machine the size of a nuclear power station.

 
"White with a couple
of sugars, please." I wouldn't expect him to remember that.

 
"Espresso? Cappuccino?
Latte? Ristretto?"

 
"Rigoletto? Ravioli?
Ravenelli? Oh, I don't know - just white coffee would be great, thank you."

 
"O...K," says
the non-streak bronzed barrista. "Erm..." he yanks the handle off and
looks for somewhere to bang out the dregs. He looks along the line of identical
minimalist brushed stainless steel cupboard doors and chooses one. His smile indicates
that this is the one with the bin.

 
"I can have instant,
Dad, honestly, whatever's easiest."

 
"Nope, nope, this
is no problem...honestly," he says, mesmerised by the line of dials and buttons.
He presses one and suddenly boiling water begins to trickle down into the grate
below. He leaps back and curses again.

 
Just then an angel appears
and saves us. I say that because a beautiful girl, straw blonde hair cascading over
her shoulders, wearing only a baggy white T shirt and a pair of tiny panties wanders
into the vast living area, the shadows of the window frames slipping over her shoulders
and clearly visible breasts as she glides along, hips swaying. She comes up behind
Dad, puts her arms around him, reaches up to kiss his neck and then gently, silently
and confidently takes charge of the coffee machine.

 
Two minutes later we're
all three drinking wonderful lattes.

 
"Very good."
I tell the girl to break the ice.

 
"This is Kari,"
says my Dad over his chunky American Retro mug. No, I don't think I've met this
one before which is very possible since I haven't seen my Dad for nearly three weeks.

 
"Charlie," I
smile. I'm never sure whether to admit I'm the son or just let them assume that
I'm a cool young dude my Dad happens to know - his dealer, perhaps.

 
The girl smiles back from
the black leather settee, her legs luxuriously folded up under her. Like father
like son: me and my Dad both have the same taste in women. Except that his are usually
ten years younger than mine.

 
"Good coffee,"
I say again to the Sphinx-like Kari.

 
"Should be,"
says my Dad proudly. "Kari works in Café Nero, don't you, Carina?" Presumably
after school. "So what's this new job?" he asks, dragging his lips off
hers and turning to me.

 
"I've jacked the
modelling in. I did a shoot for an internet company last week and they offered me
a job as marketing manager, I mean, marketing director."

 
"Director? You've
got equity in this thing?"

 
"Er, no. How do you
mean? Have I invested something? No. I'm just on a salary."

 
"Oh, that's good."

 
"I thought I'd wait."
I say, enjoying this paternal approval.

 
"What's it called?"

 
"2cool2btrue.com."

 
"Oh, right, heard
of them."

 
"Really? Have you?"

 
"Oh yeah, there's
quite a bit of talk in the creative and media industry about them at the moment,"
says my Dad levelly. "Sort of a lifestyle site or something isn't it?"

 
"That's right. It's
a second generation website. It's going to be the first of the truly aspirational
internet brands. You know, the web equivalent of Gucci or Louis Vuitton."

 
"Interesting,"
says my Dad.

 
"I think it will
be."

 
"All life consists
of a label of one kind or another," says my Dad, running his fingers through
Kari's hair as she stares at a silent MTV on the massive TV screen.

As I leave a couple of hours later, it occurs to me that it would
sometimes be nice to have a Dad who mowed the lawn on Saturday before falling asleep
in front of the cricket and who spent Sunday mornings in the loo with the papers
like normal fathers, but then you can't choose your parents.

 
I do some shopping in
town on the way home and then, because it's quite near to Chiswick anyway, drop
in at the pub in Barnes where we used to meet at, post Saturday afternoon footy.
I wander in, avoiding the gaze of the girl at the bar and look around for the old
gang. But they're not there. I do another quick tour just in case I've missed them
or don't recognise them and then I walk back over the bridge to Hammersmith and
the get the bus to Chiswick.

 
It's nearly seven when
I let myself in. I smell cooking and hear Lauren laughing. I leave my bags in the
hall and wander into the kitchen. She is sitting on the work top, swinging her legs
and laughing at some middle-aged bloke who is stirring something on our hob and
telling her a story: "So this girl's reading the bloody autocue as fast as
she can and the director's shouting: For God's sake...." He trails off as he
sees me. "Hello. You must be Charlie. I'm Peter, Peter Beaumont-Crowther,"
he says extending a hand.

 
"Hi, Peter,"
I say. I've just realised that I really can't be bothered with this. I just want
to lie in front of the telly with Lauren, a good bottle of wine and a crap film.

 
I look down at what he's
cooking. Lauren fills the silence: "Peter came to Sainsbury’s with me after
we'd finished and it turns out he makes this chicken casserole thing. I thought
it sounded delicious so I bullied him into making it." They both laugh. I know
Lauren on charm mode so well. It's just a bit unnerving to see it happening in our
kitchen. I'm not sure who is the target of it, me or Peter.

 
"It's a kind of chicken
cacciatore but with a few secret ingredients." Peter tells me, raising his
eyebrows. The first thing that struck me about him was: 'Why don't you get a haircut?'
His hair flops forward and he is constantly sweeping it back with his hands. He
has a pudgy fleshy face, big lips and a sharp nose and he's just a bit too smooth
for my liking.

 
"Smells great,"
I say and leave the room. I'm kicking my trainers off in the bedroom when Lauren
comes in. She watches me for a moment as I take my T-shirt off.

 
"What's the matter?"
she asks from the door.

 
It's decision time: I
can either go for a fully-fledged sulk which is what I feel like but would make
tonight a hell of an effort for both of us and probably result in at least 48 hours
of awkward silences and bickering or I can just give in and be a good boy. I choose
the latter.

 
"Sorry, babe, I'm
just knackered."

 
Lauren sensibly meets
me half way.

 
"That's OK."
She turns me around and puts her arms round me, whispering in my ear. "Sorry
about this. Peter insisted we try his chicken thing and you know I've got to be
nice to him."

 
"I know. I'm just
going to have a shower and then I'll be fine."

 
"'Kay," she
says. She kisses me. "Hurry up, though, the others will be here in a minute."

I'm about to walk out of the bedroom naked as any man would naturally
do in his own flat but then I remember about Peter. Oh, sod it, I do it anyway.

Chapter Seven

I'm such a devoted boyfriend/crawler/good actor/spineless wonder
or mixture of all four that I even ask to taste Peter's stupid bloody chicken creation.

 
"Mmm," I say,
licking my lips as he holds the spoon inches away from my mouth, his hand poised
underneath it to catch the drips. "That's delicious." In fact it's just
about okay. It tastes like chicken casserole with tinned tomatoes in it to me. "Babe,
have you tasted this?" I say, deciding to put my back into this crawling.

 
"Yep, good isn't
it?" says Lauren, who is slicing courgettes at the other end of the kitchen.
I know I'll get my reward for this tonight.

 
Peter is smiling knowingly.
Oh, leave it alone, you smarmy pillock. It's just bloody chicken.

 
"Can't wait,"
I say, moving away, having done my duty. Getting drinks and laying the table is
my limit of culinary ability, besides it's not a good idea to get in the way of
Lauren while she is cooking unless she tells you to.

Sarah is relating her favourite dinner party anecdote.

 
"So I came back early
one day because I had to pick up a file I'd accidentally left on the dining table,"
she tells Peter in her heavy, throaty, 30 Marlborough Light-a-day voice. She is
the only smoker that Lauren allows in the house and she revels in this accolade.
"And I know the cleaner is there obviously because it's a Tuesday. So I put
my head round the door to say hello and let her know I'm not a burglar or a mad
rapist and there she is doing the washing up at the kitchen sink." She pauses.
"Topless." She punctuates her punch line with a slurp of wine.

 
"No!" Peter
is leering across the table in disbelief.

 
"Seriously. And she's
not exactly Kate Moss either, yeah?"

 
Peter roars with laughter.

 
"What was she doing?"
asks Peter.

 
"It's just for cleaning
the glasses," I explain, twisting two imaginary glasses over my own chest.

 
Peter roars again.

 
"What did you do?"

 
"What could I do?
I just said 'Oh, hi, Janet, could you do the oven please if you get a moment?"

 
"But preferably not
with your tits," adds Sarah's husband, Mark.

 
More guffawing from Peter.

 
"Oh, not that awful
cleaner story," says Lauren, entering the room with two more bottles of wine
and a basket of warm, rosemary infused focaccia which we immediately fall on.

 
"Cleaners are such
a problem aren't they?" says Sally. Everyone nods and mumbles agreement. Then
Sally says: "The woman next to us has a Brazilian."

 
I can't help it: "Have
you looked?"

 
Sarah is howling with
laughter.

 
"I think Sally's
talking about her cleaner, Charlie," she says. "Not her bikini line."

 
"Oh, right, sorry,"
I groan, overdoing it. There is a pause while Sarah and Peter try to control themselves.

 
"Ooh, can I help
you Lauren?" says Sally suddenly, always glad to lend a hand. Whenever she
and her husband Tim come over, Sally seems to spend more time in our kitchen than
most of the appliances.

 
"No, Sally, honestly
sit down, thank you. Charlie can do it."

 
"Charlie's doing
the wine," says Sally. "Here you are." She gets up. I let her - after
all, I've done my bit with the brown-nosing casserole appreciation.

 
"So Peter, you're
in television," says Mark, who does something with futures in the City that
we've all given up trying to understand a long time ago.

 
'Yes," says Peter.
"I run a company called Freak Productions.

 
"What kind of things
do you make?" asks Sarah, obviously feeling she should repay him after his
tremendous reception for her cleaner story. At least I'll find out a little bit
more about Lauren's New Best Friend without actually having to talk to him.

 
"Mainly lifestyle
programmes, like Ready Steady Cook."

 
"You make Ready Steady
Cook?" says Sarah. "I love that programme."

 
"Er, no, but programmes
like it," says Peter. "I do one for a cable channel where a celebrity
chef comes round to your house and makes over all your boring, ordinary food - takes
it up a peg or two. So if you're giving your kids beans on toast, for example, he'll
make it really special by adding some extra ingredients or showing you how to make
your own beans on toast with real Cannellini beans and fresh tomato sauce and newly
baked sour dough bread.