Model Guy (22 page)

 
"Er, sorry?"

 
My Serbo-Croat - usually
a good bet these days - has deserted me but fortunately at that moment my Dad obviously
walks in and takes the phone from her.

 
"Hello?"

 
"Hi, it's me, Charlie."

 
"Hi, kiddo."

 
"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 a 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 blond hair - well, 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.

My 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 or porridge like 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 - 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 OK, 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. Look, I'll put out some feelers too. I'll
try and find out something 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 just about people spending money."

 
"Erm, I don't know.
I've never looked at the financial side of it."

 
There is flicker of concern
across my Dad's immaculate, tanned, moisturised, face. Is he wearing eye liner 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 cheque books?"

 
"Well, I don't think
so."

 
"And have you ever
signed a cheque?"

 
"Well, 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 sued."

 
I suddenly feel slightly
sick. Like being told off 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."

 
My Dad smiles broadly
and then reaches across and squeezes my shoulder again.

 
"Mari and I are going
shopping, wanna come?"

Chapter Sixteen

The 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 with some other
models from the agency and some friends of hers in Clapham. 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 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. 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 and some 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.

 
I smile up at her.

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 who I haven't seen for years.

 
"Hi Charlie. It's
Becky. Long time no speak. Erm, hope you're well. Just ringing to say that I've
had a baby. Louise Emily. Just over 7lbs. The father is a guy called Daniel who
I don't think you've met. We've been going out for two years. Not yet got round
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 mini
fling 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
that 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 my 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 Met's Missing Persons Division. 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 that 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 they suddenly decide that they need to get away
from it all."

 
"I know how they
feel."

 
"Don't we all? Look
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 Bentall 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."

 
"Well, Charlie, you
can't tell me what I will and won't write. It's a good story. Look, 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, well
perhaps we need to wait a little bit longer."

 
"Why? What do they
say?" "Well, erm, 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. Now, what's this? Oh, 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."

 
"OK, I admit those
probably aren't going produce very good leads but someone else might crop up."

 
"Well, call me when
it does. 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 hers 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 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?"