Model Guy (7 page)

 
And to think I'm getting
paid for this.

At lunch time I go with Scarlett to get a sandwich.

 
"I'm a vegan,"
she says heading for an organic, vegetarian cafe and takeaway called Wild World
which apparently offers "Sustenance for the body, mind and soul."

 
"I'm an omnivore,"
I tell her.

 
"Is that like being
Jewish? Does that mean you can't eat certain things?" she asks.

 
"Er, no," I
say, feeling slightly embarrassed at toying with her obviously heartfelt views.
"You know, omnivore - like certain animals".

 
"Oh, right, so you
can only, like, eat animals. Which ones, for instance?"

 
"No, I mean, I'm
not an herbivore - I eat anything."

 
"Oh, I see,"
she says, with a toss of her dreadlocked head. I remember at this point that I'm
supposed to be a spokesman for the company. Perhaps communication isn't my thing
after all.

 
In the end we both get
sandwiches - cheese and tomato for me and humus and alfalfa sprouts for her and
she buys me a tiny shot of wheatgrass which, she explains, contains the equivalent
nutrients of six tons of green vegetables or something.

 
It's the most disgusting
thing I've ever tasted.

"We're still at the early stages," I tell Lauren that
evening as we sit on our white settee, sipping Frascati. I'm saying this as much
as to reassure myself as to explain it to her. I still don't know exactly what 2cool2btrue.com
actually does but Piers and Guy keep telling me that 'it will become clear very
soon' or 'all will be revealed'.

 
"I think it's all
very exciting, I'm so proud of you," says Lauren. Then she adds: "Like
you say, even if it doesn't work out, you've given it your best shot and anyway,
nothing ventured, nothing gained." Did I say that?

 
"So how did your
meeting with thingy go?"

 
"With Peter?"

 
"What's his name
again?"

 
"Peter Beaumont-Crowther."

 
"Bit of a mouthful".
She ignores my less than complimentary remark and carries on. I squeeze her arm
by way of apology for belittling her fledgling TV career.

 
"They want me to
do some more screen tests and go on a TV presentation course."

 
"Really? That's great.
They're really going to invest some money in you then."

 
"Yeah, but I'm worth
it."

 
"Isn't that a line
from an ad campaign?"

 
"Yeah, I was in it,
remember?"

Chapter Five

"Hello? Keith?" says my Mum.

 
"Hi mum", I
say, holding the receiver under my chin as I turn down the stereo which I'm playing
at full blast because Lauren is out at a meeting with Peter and the people upstairs
are on holiday and the people downstairs don't count because they have a 'Nuclear
Power? No Thanks!' poster on their living room windows and leave their rubbish lying
around the bins.

 
"Keith?" says
my mum again. My mum isn't actually bonkers. I was christened Keith by my parents
but Penny changed it to Charlie because she thought it sounded smarter, classier,
and that it completed the whole package. (Lauren is actually Lorraine but she made
the decision to change her name herself as part of her 'personal marketing proposition',
as she put it at our first lunch.)

 
"Hi, that's better.
How are you mum?"

 
The important thing to
know about my mum is that she is one of those women who keeps a tissue up her sleeve.

 
"Oh, okay, I just
thought I'd ring and check you're all right." This is mother-speak for a) it's
been three geological eras since you've rung me and b) I worry about you, you know
that don't you?

 
"I'm fine. I've got
a new job," I add, triumphantly, hoping that this will lift the conversation
a bit.

 
"Oh? What, a modelling
job? The lady across the road saw you in that advert for, what was it, chocolates?"

 
"No, it's nothing
to do with modelling. I'm the marketing director for a new internet company."
I tell her as suddenly it hits me. God, I am and all! I'd better ask about getting
some cards printed.

 
"Oh." There
is a pause. Please, please, don't drag it down mum. Please sound happy about it.
Please don't irritate me and make me say something unkind and then feel guilty.
Finally she mutters with a glimmer of enthusiasm: "How exciting." I'm
grateful for the effort, at least.

 
"Yeah, I just started
this week. I'll see how it goes. If it folds I can still go back to modelling or
find something else," I explain as a concession to her disapproval of my usual
work.

 
"They haven't asked
you to put up any money then?"

 
"Oh no. You're joking,
I wouldn't do that," I tell her confidently.

 
"Good. Very sensible.
What does it do then? Haven't all the internet companies gone bankrupt?" she
asks.

 
"It's a second generation
dotcom," I inform her, getting up and looking out of the window as I talk.
"These guys have learned from the mistakes of the first lot. We're building
stable business models with identifiable revenue streams." I know it's going
over her head, but it doesn't really matter, besides isn't it every child's innate
need to impress their parents? And to confuse them - to make it clear that the world
has moved on from them and their experiences of it?

 
"Oh, I don't know
about these things. Just make sure you don’t give them any money."

 
I laugh. " ‘Course
I won't. Even I'm not that daft."

 
"Mmm." Thanks,
mum. "Lauren okay?"

 
"She's fine. I'll
send her your love. She's out tonight. She's at a meeting. She's going to become
a TV presenter."

 
"Gosh, really? Will
we see her on the telly?" "Hope so."

 
"Tell me when and
I'll set the video."

 
I laugh again. "You'll
be invited to the party."

 
There is a pause. I know
what's coming next but we've got to go through it.

 
"Have you heard from...?"

 
"Not recently,"
I say briskly. "But I'll give him a call and tell him about my new job."

 
"Oh, right. I'm sure
he'd like to hear."

 
"I'm sure....bye
then."

 
"Bye." We both
hang on the line for a moment.

 
"I love you mum...oh,
don't cry...I'll come and see you very soon, I promise. Bye."

I do feel guilty about my mum, stuck on her own in that little
house now that they've sold the family home. My sister tells me not to worry about
her, that she is getting better and after all it's been nearly seven years. I remember
the doctor, though, when Mum and I went to see him. "It's not clinical depression,"
he said as if to cheer us up. "Just ordinary depression?" I said, my angry
sarcasm hitting him with the impact of a paper plane against a brick wall. He was
already writing out a prescription for her.

 
"Er, yes," he
muttered, scribbling away. Just ordinary, crushing, grinding, paralysing depression
that made her burst into tears in Sainsbury’s or lie awake every night for two months
till her head ached and her eyes stung all day.

I arrive at the office at ten the next day. Piers and Guy are
already in and on the phone. They nod 'Good morning'. I sit down at my desk and
realise that I haven't really got anything much to do. I've flicked through all
the magazines Piers gave me and put yellow post-it notes against all the advertisements
and articles relating to posh or smart things that I think might be right for 2cool.
In fact, of course, that is just about everything so all the magazines now have
tatty, yellow fringes.

 
Most of the stuff I've
ordered won't be here for a couple of days although I could ring that travel agent
Piers told me about - Madonna's favourite apparently (they're so smart that they're
ex-directory) and chase up our Mauritian spa trips.

 
"Morning, champ,"
says Piers when he gets off the phone. "Sorry about that - been on the phone
to Hong Kong since five this morning. They're very excited. You know how they love
their luxury and their labels in Honkers."

 
"Was that the money
men or the retailers?" I ask, trying to sound a bit more switched on today,
a little less easily impressed.

 
"Both really,"
says Piers taking aim at the bin with his Starbucks cup. He runs his hand through
his thick dark hair and shuts his eyes for a moment, screwing up his face with its
strong features and permanently flushed cheeks. "Investors and marketing people
seem to love the whole concept." The cup hits the bin, dances around the rim
a bit and finally falls in, splattering coffee dregs up the wall. Piers punches
the air in a movement that turns into a stretch and a yawn. "Yep, see, that's
the thing about 2cool. It has no national borders - like all labels these days but
even more so because it's internet based. Anyone, anywhere in the world can be 2cool2btrue
at any time of the day or night." He performs a sort of pirouette and stretches
again. "At any one time around the world a broker in Manhattan, a designer
in Cannes, an entrepreneur in Hong Kong, even someone in Sub Saharan Africa can
be 2cool."

 
"Sub Saharan Africa?"

 
"Yeah, why not?"

 
"Well," I say.
"That's not really our market is it? I mean, wouldn't they more interested
in food or something?"

 
"Perhaps. However,
people need more than food to live."

 
"Yeah, but it's usually
a good starting point - "

 
"The point about
the third world, Charlie, is that they are becoming the planet's workshop. We don't
actually make things in the first world anymore. Your Nike trainers, your Levis,
your Apple Mac - they're manufactured in the Philippines or India or somewhere."

 
"By children,"
I suggest but Piers is off again.

 
"Do you know what
we do manufacture in the first world? Brands! We make the brands and they take care
of those little details like the products they go on."

 
"Hi, Charlie, how
are you?" says Guy as he puts the phone down. "Piers, we need to get something
over to Li Ka Shing's people by midday."

 
"Right you are,"
says Piers, diving onto his computer.

 
"Got some coffee,
Charlie?" asks Piers.

 
"No, fine thanks,"
I tell him.

 
"Listen," says
Guy, coming round to the front of his desk and sitting on it. "We've scored
a bit of a PR coup. Piers knows a journalist on the Post and she's agreed to do
a piece about the site. She's coming in today to meet us and I want you to take
her out to lunch and tell her about the whole concept."

 
"Yeah, sure."
I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. I can probably manage the overall
concept, the big picture - it's the details that I'm not so hot on. At this rate
we'll have run out of things to talk about before we've even ordered. I hope she's
been somewhere nice on holiday recently otherwise we'll have absolutely nothing
to say to each other.

 
"You know what we're
all about here."

 
"I think so Guy.
I just wondered, you're, er, you're not coming along as well then?"

 
"No, matey, this
is your territory. She's arriving here at quarter to one. Just take her out and
talk to her. Scarlett's already booked a table for you both at one o'clock at Dekonstruktion.
Oh, nearly forgot, here's your 2cool credit card." He grabs an envelope off
his desk and slides out some pieces of paper along with a Mastercard. It has 'Charlie
Barrett, 2cool2btrue.com' embossed on it.

 
I run my finger over the
lettering appreciatively but then a thought strikes me:

 
"Charlie's not my
real name, it's actually Keith, Keith Barrett."

 
"Is it?" Guy
seems unconcerned.

 
"Charlie is – was
- just my modelling name."

 
"Oh, don't worry
about that, it's the 2cool bit that counts. We'll have our own cards soon - none
of this tacky Mastercard shit. What kind of a logo is that? About as smart as Doritos."

The journalist arrives ten minutes late. I'm on the phone organising
some plants for the office from a company that rents them out. Piers has given me
certain varieties that are very '2cool' and the woman is making a note of them and
pointing out that they are very expensive as well as being difficult to maintain.
She asks for a large deposit which I decide to allow Scarlett to sort out.

 
When I put the phone down
Guy introduces us. I notice that Piers has double kissed her and so I assume they
know each other.

 
"Nora, this is Charlie
our marketing director," says Guy. We shake hands.

 
"Nora Benthall,"
says the girl, smiling.