Model Guy (33 page)
Authors: Simon Brooke
"Really? Well, 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 his 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?"
"Well, 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, just 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 solicitor
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 prat 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're doing something
to keep busy and also, in my case anyway, we tell those people such as the small
print shop round the corner which is owed £420 for photocopying and brochures that
at least we, the ones who are left, did our best to get them their money.
Zac unplugs some of his
remaining software 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 typing 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, ass wipe."
I get home at 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 door way.
"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 too."
"How kind of him."
"Look 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 telly
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 a bruised in
the process." I feel my chest where my biker assailant hit me but it doesn't
seem to hurt at all anymore. "But I'll get through it."
"What do you mean?"
I switch off the telly,
throw the remote control down on the bed and wonder 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 the 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 is 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 at this point. "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 adrenalin 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'."
"Charlie, you're
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
bugger, 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 to. 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 - know 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 of 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 eye brow 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 or something."
"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."
"OK. 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 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 Chinese takeaway 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, 'Sugar', knocks on the door to borrow the bourbon from Jack
Lemon 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.