Authors: Simon Brooke
Model Guy (42 page)
I snatch them from her
and run away to the other side of the room with them. She shouts something and comes
running up to me, giggling, trying to grab them off me. I hold them above her head
and she jumps up. Then she pokes me in the stomach and I crumple up, startled, winded,
laughing. She makes for the biscuits but I'm too quick for her, yanking them away
from her again.
Then I dash off back down
the living room towards the kitchen but on the way I open the window and throw them
out. The wind catches them and we both look down to see a confetti of tiny bickies
blowing across the urban landscape. Harvey Nix bics - chucked away just like that.
Lauren would be furious at such silliness; my Mum would be shocked at the waste.
How much? Just for biscuits? But over the last few weeks I've been drinking vintage
champagne at five o'clock in the office for no reason, wearing Comme des Garçons
shirts once and stuffing them in the drawer, never to look at them again and chucking
expensive freebie toiletries in the bin because there's no more room in the bathroom
cabinet. So what the heck?
I look down again. The
biscuits are still falling, blowing around, some disappearing from view.
I've set them free. The
poor little Harvey Nix bix.
What's her name looks
horrified and begins to punch me playfully. It's our longest exchange since I got
here.
A bit later on I ring directory enquiries and get the number
of the PR company that Sarah works for and, after some debate, during which I watch
more MTV and The Box than any sane person should in their entire lifetime, I ring
her and ask whether she's spoken to Lauren.
"Yes, I saw her last
night."
"How is she?"
"Hang on; let me
close the door to my office." She comes back a moment later. "Charlie,
she's really upset."
I feel my throat tighten
slightly.
"Really?"
"She can't believe
how you've changed."
"She's the one that's
changed, Sarah, all that TV crap."
"I know, Charlie,
but it's what she wants to do though, you know how determined she is. She'll get
it in the end. But the thing is she doesn't want to lose you."
"It's driving me
mad, though. That ghastly bloke." I can't even bear to say his name.
"But look at it from
her point of view - all this 2cool stuff, she says you just won't leave it alone."
"Sarah, I'm implicated
in it. I'm a director. I might go to jail." I don't really believe that but
I want to make the point.
"But Mark can get
you a good lawyer -"
"Don't worry I've
got one thanks. Look, I've left really anyway, it's all finished now, anyway."
"But also, you know..."
"What?"
"You slept with that
journalist."
"I...well...so? She's
sleeping with him."
"She's not, believe
me. Look, actually I think Peter's - What? What? Now? OK. Sorry, Charlie. Got to
go, crisis. Erm, call me later will you?"
"Sure," I tell
her, sitting in my empty, white room with my few clothes strewn around me.
Then I stand out on the
balcony and let the wind buffet me for a while. I look out at the Canary Wharf tower
and the 'Gherkin' with their backdrop of fast moving clouds. Sometimes if you position
your eyes right, it looks as if the sky is still and the towers are falling over.
Trains snake their way between buildings and I can even see people in the streets
like little dots. Real human beings, dwarfed by what they've created around them.
When I step back in again,
slightly punch drunk with the wind, my hair all over the place, a phone is ringing.
It's a mobile lying on the industrial stainless steel kitchen work surface. It's
not mine. I don't think it's Thingy's. It must be my dad’s; he must have left it
this morning in his mad rush to get out the door.
There is no number showing
on the screen - just the word 'Unavailable'. I pick it up and answer it.
"Hello?" says
a voice. "Jared? Sorry, have you got a sec? I need to ask you something. Hello?
Is that Jared?"
"No, it's not, it's
his son. Can I take a message for him?"
There is a no response
from the other end just a pause and then the caller clicks off.
It's not much to go on
and there was a lot of background noise, street sounds, people talking, cars, buses,
but it was just enough for me to recognise the voice.
What the fuck is Guy ringing
my dad for?
I put the phone down. It was Guy's voice. I know it. I recognise
those clipped vowels, that strangled urgency. I wonder around the flat. Thingy comes
in and smiles sweetly and then goes to the cupboard and gets out a bag of Kettle
Chips and sits down in front of the telly, flicking between the 20 or so music channels
that my dad's got. A girl in a bikini top and mini skirt dances manically around
a computer generated backdrop and sings to a thumping Europop beat:
"I'm your pretty
little dolly, dolly
Pick me up and put me
in your trolly, trolly.
Bend my arm, bend my leg
Do it till I scream and
beg."
I watch her for a moment then I look over at Thingy. I wish I
had someone to talk to.
"What?" says Nora. "You're kidding, that can't
be right."
It's so much easier to
discuss this with her than us, our relationship, if that's what it is and, worst
of all, why I just can't sleep with her again.
"I'm sure it was
him," I tell her. "I know that voice too well."
"And it was your
Dad's mobile?"
"Yeah, he left it
behind this morning."
"What does he say?"
"My Dad? I haven't
asked him about it."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because..."
I don't want it to be true? Because I don't want him to lie me? Because I don't
want him to be involved? I'm not sure whether I'm shocked or angry. "Because
he's been in a meeting all day," I lie.
"Have you left a
message for him?"
"Yes."
"Good, well as soon
as he gets out of the meeting and you speak to him, call me. I'm going to ring Piers
to see what he thinks. You couldn't hear anything in the background that would indicate
where Guy was?"
"No, just traffic
and people."
How many times have I
heard this kind of exchange in stupid cop shows? This time it's real.
"I wonder if the
mobile phone company could tell us what incoming calls your dad has had recently."
"It's possible, I
suppose." More cop show stuff.
"Find out from your
Dad, can you? Look, I'm on deadline for another piece. Speak soon."
Nora, the hard nose journalist
is a lot easier to handle than Nora the lover, I decide, slumping down and staring
at MTV Dance.
I don't ring my Dad about it but just after seven he comes home.
Thingy looks up from the settee and aims her face at him. He bends down to kiss
her and there is rather a lot of tongue action so I wander into the kitchen area.
"Hi, son," he
shouts through to me.
"Hi, Dad," I
shout back. "Want a drink?"
"Um, yeah, get me
a glass of champagne will you?"
"Champagne?"
"Yeah, why not, we've
just closed a deal and acquired another US agency. Cronkite, Lipchitz, Winckel,
Schwimmer. Heard of them?"
"They're the talk
of Chiswick," I mutter, popping open a bottle.
After my Dad has settled down and bored us with the details of
his brilliant acquisition strategy (I say 'us', Thingy, doesn't move her eyes from
an episode of eighties vintage East Enders), I say to him: "You left your mobile
at home this morning."
"Did I? Oh, thank
God for that, I thought I'd have to get another one. I just can't seem to hang on
to them. Did anyone me ring on it?"
"A couple of people.
Your reflexologist to confirm Thursday at six."
"Oh, fuck! Can't
make it, I must ring and tell her."
"Cathy?"
"Oh, right I'll ring
her."
"Anyone else?"
"Yeah, Guy."
"Guy?" He takes
a sip of champagne and changes the channel to the annoyance of Thingy who looks
round at him from her position in his lap and frowns. "Guy who?"
"Guy from 2cool."
He switches channel again.
"Your former business
colleague ringing me? What are you talking about?"
"It sounded like
him," I say, staring at my Dad.
"But I don't know
him. I've only met him once - at your launch thing. Why would he be ringing me?"
This time when he tries
to change channel Thingy snatches the remote away from him.
"Oh, right. Must
have made a mistake."
"Well, what shall
we eat tonight? French? Italian? Chinese? Fusion?" He kisses Thingy during
which time she manages not to move her eyes away from the telly.
"Actually I'm not
very hungry," I say getting up and going to my room. "I think I'll just
have a bath and go to bed."
I haven't felt so homeless
since I first walked out of our flat in Chiswick.
As soon as I lie down
on my bed I leap up again. I feel physically sick. How could he tell me crap like
that? Why is he lying to me? Why would a father lie to his son - and so unconvincingly?
To protect him? From what? I've been exposed to so much shit over the last few weeks
I can't believe there could be anything else. Could there be? Something worse? Something
that he knows about, that he's involved with?
I decide to have a Jacuzzi, at least it will kill some time.
Above the noise of the bubbles and the pump I hear a knock on the door.
"I'm in the Jacuzzi,"
I yell.
"Oh, right,"
says my Dad. "I, er, wanted to check that you don't want anything. To eat,
I mean. We're going to order some food."
I'm suddenly reminded
of the time when he was leaving my Mum. His clumsy attempts to win me over, to try
and make me understand why he was doing this terrible thing. He kept arranging these
trips and outings for me and my sister. Big, planned things. His anxiety as he took
us to the Planetarium or a special kid's screening of that year's Bond movie or
to a pop concert (we always had a box or special seats - shame it was never an act
we liked) was contagious. By the end of the day I felt sick with nerves as well.
Eventually he gave up
on my sister who, being a bit more forthright than I am, made her feelings very
plain. Then it was just me and him. If he'd simply sat down and said to me: "Please
forgive me, please can we go on being father and son," it would have been so
much easier but, instead, he kept manifesting it, clumsily acting it out, with his
expensive, meticulously planned treats. Even more desperate, more intense now with
just the two of us. His jolly commentary and self-conscious enthusiasm. Perhaps
I should have said something. Like 'Stop it,' for instance. But I couldn't bear
to in case it hurt him.
"No, I'm fine thanks,
been eating all day," I shout back. Even above the noise of the Jacuzzi I can
sense him hesitate outside the door before he goes back to Thingy.
I watch 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' on my own massive stereo surround-sound
plasma screen before launching my now nightly assault on the Hi-Tec lighting control
panel and slipping under the sheets.
The next day I'm awake at just after seven but I lie in bed until
I hear my Dad leave at eight. Then I get up and go and get some orange juice. It's
raining softly outside. The huge wall of windows makes me feel slightly exposed
and I want to pull a curtain or get away from them but, of course, it's impossible.
I shiver slightly as I finish the juice. I haven't got a pullover, just a couple
of T-shirts, a couple of short sleeved shirts, some jeans, some undies and five
socks, none of which match. I wish I'd been better organised but then again I'm
not used to walking out like this.
The mist and fine rain
means that you can hardly see beyond Canary Wharf. The Thames is slate grey, flecked
with white. A barge moves almost imperceptibly in the choppy water. I think of Lauren
and wonder what she's doing now.
My mobile rings.
"Charlie Barrett?"
"Speaking."
"It's Detective Inspector
Slapton here. We just wanted to return your papers and computer terminals."
"Oh, right, yeah."
I'd almost forgotten about them.
