Model Guy (34 page)

 
"That took 83 takes?????"

 
"What? That one line."

 
"Yep, she was so
off her head, so worked up, in such a state that she needed 83 takes before she
got it right. Kept saying 'Sugar, it's me' and things. Can you imagine being like
that?"

 
I try and think about
it.

 
"Almost," I
tell her.

 
“Oh, poor baby,"
she says, resting her head on my shoulder and then looking up to kiss me.

Towards eleven I'm beginning to have this feeling of dread. Nora
will ask again if I'll stay the night and I'll have to decide. It's late and I'm
so tired but it would really escalate tensions between me and Lauren. Not coming
home is more than just provocative, it's insulting. I can't do that to her.

 
Just as I'm thinking this,
the film ends. An exasperated Jack Lemon is trying to explain to his millionaire
why it might be difficult for them to get married. Finally, despondently pulling
off his wig, he admits: "I'm a man."

 
"Well, nobody's perfect,"
says his rich suitor.

 
"That was one of
Billy Wilder's favourite lines. It's not actually a gag as such, is it? But he knew
that it would work, because it's so bland," says Nora looking at the credits.
"When they first showed it, the film that is, to a test audience somewhere
in the mid West it just bombed. They sat and stared at it in total silence, apparently,
and there was panic at the studio but Wilder was still confident - he knew he'd
made a great movie. So then they brought in a bunch of college students to see it
and apparently you couldn't hear half the lines for the sound of their laughter."

 
I watch the light of the
telly flickering over her face with its wide forehead and large, expressive eyes.
How many times has she seen this film before? How did she get this doctorate in
it? I wonder if she's rather lonely in London. Not that being American singles you
out but being very bright and rather eccentric does. I know she's had boyfriends
but she seems almost new to this kind of simple, domestic intimacy, almost excited
by the novelty of it. There is something about her that makes me wonder how difficult
it might be to get really close to her.

 
I can't stay, though,
Nora. I'd love to curl up with you and watch you fall asleep next to me but I can't.
What I've done to Lauren this evening is bad enough but to stay the night would
be too much, too cruel. To both of you. I'll have to go home and either try and
make up or continue the sulk, neither of which I'm looking forward to.

 
"Listen, it's late,
I've to go."

 
"Stay."

 
I bend down and kiss her
shoulder sadly.

 
"I'm sorry, I've
really got to..."

 
"Of course,"
she says, getting up. "I'll ring you a cab."

 
"No, don't worry.
I'll get one outside." But instead of sounding considerate it sounds like I'm
keen to get away as soon as possible - and that's probably it.

Lauren is out when I get back at eleven-thirty. Where the hell
is she? Out committing adultery like me? I suppose she and Peter couldn't risk doing
it here. They can't be doing it. How could she? What could she see in him? A TV
presenter's contract, probably.

 
I brush my teeth and get
into bed. Right at the edge again. As I wait I suddenly realise that I smell of
Nora's bath oil. Girlie bath oil. Oh, shit. I swing myself out of bed and get into
the shower and soap myself all over, standing under the running water for a while.
Then I get out and dry myself. I sniff around my arms and bend down to sniff my
stomach. I even sniff my knees and feet just in case, nearly falling over in the
process. This is ridiculous. I can't decide if I can actually still smell of it
or whether I just remember the smell. I have another shower and use some of Lauren's
expensive exfoliating lotion.

 
I go back to the bedroom
and sniff the sheets. They definitely smell of it. Oh, fuck. Where does Lauren keep
the clean linen? I find some in the drawer under the bed and change the bottom sheet
which is the worst offender but baulk at replacing the duvet cover which would be
too obvious. And too difficult at this time of night. I want to get these little
details of deceit over with as quickly as possible.

I don't hear Lauren come in to the flat. When she gets into bed
I instinctively make to put my arm round her but stop myself at the last minute.
In the pale light of the street lamps outside I can see her face looking straight
up at the ceiling, eyes wide open.

There is no other reason for going to the office than to get
away from her. That is why I'm there before nine. Scarlett and Zac won't be in for
hours - if at all. I think they're only coming in to use the phones and free internet
connection and to help themselves to any stray 2cool goodies. I don't blame them.
Everyday there is less and less that needs to be done but more and more I can find
to do just to kill time. The most vital, pressing thing that needs to be done -
finding Piers and Guy - looks less likely than ever. I've rung the solicitor my
dad put me in touch with and he has contacted the police who just explained that
they're continuing their investigations. When they've got something to say (does
that mean charging me with something?) they'll contact him and he'll advise me on
what to do next.

 
This morning's pointless
activity is to collect together the press cuttings ready to make copies of them
so, as Lauren suggests, if I ever get the offer of another job I can show the positive
publicity I've achieved for the site, before it all collapsed. I quite enjoy reading
through some of the stories we've generated. Looking back it, it is obvious that
it really was, well, pretty cool. But perhaps 2 cool. Did Piers and Guy appreciate
the irony? Are they laughing about it together somewhere now?

 
I suddenly feel a wave
of anger, how could they dump me in it? If only I'd smiled and said 'No thanks',
when we started discussing it at that modelling job.

 
I make a list of the model
agencies I could approach. There are three that I think I'd be prepared to go with.
It seems like a very short list on the laptop screen, the cursor blinking underneath
it expectantly. Even adding the phone numbers doesn't seem to bulk it up. My options
appear pretty limited to say the least.

 
I pick up the cuttings
and go out to the copy shop down the road. The woman there smiles and asks me how
I am.

 
"Fine, thanks,"
I say.

 
"I saw the piece
about you today," she says as the copier zips back and forth, flashing light
over her face.

 
"Yesterday? In The
Mirror? That was pretty embarrassing. I don't think we'll be including that one
in the file."

 
"No," she says,
taking a press cutting off the glass and replacing it with another one. "Today.
I'll have to put this one on A3, is that okay?"

 
"Today?"

 
"Yes, in the Post,
I think it was."

 
My first reaction is that
she doesn't know what she's talking about but I've so had so many surprises - most
of them horrible - over the last few weeks that I realise that she's probably right.

 
"Can I pick these
up later? I'll pay you cash."

 
"Of course, it you
want to, but I've nearly finished."

 
I race out of the door
and rush across the road to the newsagent's, missing a taxi by inches.

 
It's the main story in
the features pages.

“The dream finally ended yesterday as the smartest website on
the internet closed. Post reporter Nora Bentall who has followed the 2cool2btrue
story from the start talks exclusively to Charlie Barrett, the man at the centre
of the controversy.”

There is a photo of me from the site looking cool and pleased
with myself.

“Charlie Barrett seems relaxed for a man at the epicentre of
what has been described as the south sea bubble of the noughties. Wealthy celebrities
ranging from financier Sir James Huntsman to pop star Sir Josh Langdon and theatrical
impresario Martin Preston have lost millions after investing in the website 2cool2btrue.com
and many other investors are promising legal action.

 
“With the real financial
whizkids behind the site in hiding, hotly pursued by Fraud Squad officers, former
male model Charlie Barrett is now the focus of attention and has found himself holding
the fort against creditors and reports. The last few days have certainly been tough
on Barrett - his office has been bombarded by photographers and his every move watched
by police and angry investors - but he has managed to stay cool, 2cool, perhaps?

 
“He is sanguine about
the eventual collapse of the site which kept its millions of fans around the world
in touch with the cutting edge of cool. "It was fun while it lasted,"
says Barrett, 30, over a glass of champagne. "But I'm glad it's closed, it's
finally reached a conclusion. May it rest in peace."

“His good looks are more than matched by his easy charm and it's
not difficult to see why: in a career spanning almost ten years he has worked in
London, New York and Milan promoting smart suits to whiskey and Italian designer
labels to fast cars.

 
"It was time for
a career change," he tells me. "I'd had enough of modelling."

Later on I say (apparently):

"We really thought that 2cool could be different, something
that would appeal to young people wherever they are and show them what is on offer
in the way of clothes, music, food, architecture It was like we were reinventing
youth culture, relaunching it ready for the 21st century, the biggest statement
since it had been invented in the sixties."

Did I really say that? It sounds more like Guy or Piers. I certainly
sound eloquent, daft and pretentious, but eloquent.

“His naivety is remarkable at times but has the effect of making
him all the more endearing, even charismatic. You can suddenly understand why normally
shrewd business people would want be involved in 2cool, a project that he so clearly
believes in and sells with such effortless cogency. Barrett freely admits that he
had almost no marketing experience other than a degree in the subject from Leeds
University and his knowledge of internet entrepreneurship is also almost nonexistent.

 
“However, he reveals the
thinking behind this. "It meant that I came to it fresh, with no preconceptions,
no baggage," he says. He argues that being a successful model also requires
a certain skill in marketing. It's a tenuous connection but, again, Barrett's obvious
sincerity and enthusiasm sort of carry you over the treacherous, rocky terrain of
his illogicality.”

It goes on to talk about Lauren and my flat before concluding:

“Given the cool, casual smartness of his own lifestyle, almost
every aspect of which from his blond model girlfriend Lauren to his elegantly understated
Chiswick flat, appears like a shoot from the pages of a glossy magazine, it's quite
understandable that he should want many more of us to share in the wonderful world
of luxury and style that he inhabits. It's just a shame that boring things like
basic economics and balance sheets got in the way.”

 
I walk around the office
feeling slightly almost dizzy with confusion and disbelief as much as anger. I've
been so close to this woman, emotionally and physically and now she's done this
to me. How? Why? Did I think our making love might make a difference? I skim though
the piece again just to make sure that there are no references to my body or performances
in bed.

 
At that moment my mobile
rings. I don't recognise the number shown on it but, in something of a daze, I answer
it anyway.

 
"It's me. I'm outside,"
she says.

 
"Erm, come up."

 
I buzz her in and sit
back down at my desk. I don't want to shout at her, I'm too stunned and perplexed
for that, I just want an explanation. I just want to know how I got it so wrong.
Perhaps this is normal behaviour, perhaps people often do this kind of thing in
life and I'm just not aware of it.

 
"Hi?" she says
putting her head round the door.

 
"Why?" is all
I can say.

 
"Oh, Charlie,"
she sighs matter-of-factly, putting her bag down on the desk and sitting down. "Look,
I was debating whether or not to tell you last night."

 
"Why didn't you?
Hang on, why the hell did you write the thing in the first place?"

 
"Because they told
me to write a piece about it after that Mirror story and the TV report and...ow,
do you mind if I take my shoes off? They're killing me."

 
"Why didn't you tell
me? Why didn't you ask me?"

 
"I don't have to
ask you. I can write whatever I like, it's a free country," she reminds me,
as if I'm being the unreasonable one.

 
I slam my hand down on
the desk.

 
"Nora, you and I
made love night. You can't just do this to me."

 
"Why, do you feel
violated?" she says enunciating the last word with exaggerated passion.

 
"Don't push it,"
I say, raising my finger at her.

 
She takes a deep breath
and looks down at the floor.

 
"Look, I didn't ask
you because if I'd asked you, you'd have said no. Or, if you'd have let me do it,
you'd have been too self-conscious, it wouldn't have worked right. Anyway, the point
is it'll do a lot of good, it's just telling your side of the story."