Model Guy (3 page)

 
Do those women really
believe that I am some British aristo who likes nothing more than to enjoy a relaxing
ciggie with his smart friends? Do those school girls giggle and wonder who am I,
what I'm like in real life and where I live? Or do they think I'm just another tosser
in a stupid ad? (Obviously I hope not - although in strictly moral terms, it is
probably more acceptable than their being so overwhelmed with my handsome face and
the mood of effortless elegance which I embody that they actually start smoking
the disgusting things that I'm advertising).

 
And when those buses go
back to their corrugated iron sheds at night in the outskirts of the city I'm still
smiling, smoking, talking to my friends, my face inches away from my face on another
bus or pressed up against the image of a dark haired woman advertising a Brazilian
soap opera.

 
So, although I've never
been to Uruguay and I don't particularly want to go, I suppose that if I walked
down the street in Montevideo, somebody would stop and stare and nudge someone else
and say: "Hey, that's the guy from the Lord James ads". That's fame, you
see - someone knows you even if you don't know them.

 
People have done it to
me in Britain. I was once standing on a tube station platform when two women with
shopping bags looked across at me and began to giggle. I smiled back, slightly bemused.
Then I checked my fly and rubbed my mouth just to make sure that it didn't still
have toothpaste on it or something. What's their problem? I thought, irritably.
It was only when I turned round that I noticed a huge poster behind me on the tube
station wall: my smiling face looking up at a stewardess in an advertisement for
a business class airline seats.

 
With my swept back blond
hair, linen suit and smooth, tanned skin, I'm also the face of Lord James cigarettes
in Paraguay, Ecuador, New Guinea and various specified southern states of Brazil
and associated territories for poster, print and point of sale advertising with
no specific conditions attached until June 2005 when the license will have to be
renewed. And, if it is (oh, please, oh, please), I'll get another big, fat cheque
- for doing absolutely nothing.

 
I remember being in the
agency when the call came to say that I had got the job. Since it was the end of
the day one of the girls dashed out to the corner shop and bought a bottle of Australian
Chardonnay. We toasted my success with our plastic cups. "Well done, darling,"
said Karyn, kissing me on the lips. "Thanks, babe," I said, putting my
arm around her waist, knowing it looked pretty cool, but hoping all the same that
it was okay by her.

 
Penny also kissed me on
the lips so that I could taste her bright red lipstick, as well as the stale alcohol
on her breath from her lunchtime session.

 
"Congrats, darling,"
she growled at me. "You're an absolute bloody star. Isn't he, everyone?"
There were murmurs of agreement from all around me.

 
I'd never been in the
agency before when one of these big jobs came through - previously I'd just be told
about it on the phone so I wasn't sure of the etiquette, whether to say 'Thanks'
to them for helping me or just look pleased with myself. I suddenly felt rather
embarrassed at being the centre of attention. It's not like I could explain how
I got the role, what special skill or strategy I'd employed. I’d just turned up
at the casting, showed some guy my book, let them take a Polaroid of me, as they
always do for some unfathomable reason even though they've got your card with half
a dozen pictures on it anyway, said 'Thanks very much' and went home. But somehow
I did it. So there I was. The man of the hour.

 
"Hey, bud!"
Brad, one of the girls' bookers, gave me the high-five model handshake, a giant
pec moving under his skin tight 'Army' T-shirt. "Mr Uruguay!" It wasn't
very funny really, but we all laughed, glad to have something to laugh about. Then
we stood in silence and everyone sipped, eyes looking up for someone to speak next.
I took a deep breath. "I could do with a cigarette." I said. "Shame
I don't smoke". Everyone laughed again.

 
"Sophisticated, confident,
European," the brief from the ad people had said. That's me. Well, if they
say so, but then who am I to argue?

I arrive at the casting early because I know it'll get busier
later, old pro that I am. Unfortunately lots of other old pros are there too having
had the same idea. But perhaps the other reason I'm usually early for these things
is simply because I hate hanging around with other models. I nod hello to a few
familiar faces and have a brief chat with a red headed guy called Brian, who is
from Glasgow and who I did a job with a few months ago when we both spent an afternoon
in a brand new office in Docklands, pouring over a laptop computer and then shaking
hands - doing what is known in the trade as the 'grip and grin'.

 
On the way here I've been
doing Lauren's thing and telling myself that I'm the man they're looking for and
this is the perfect job for me, but I always feel a bit of burk doing it - thank
goodness no one can hear me. Unless, of course, I'm actually talking out loud. The
clients are late, natch. At nearly half past ten when the room is beginning to fill
up and I've read most of my paper and am sliding a creased old copy of Men’s Health
out from under a precarious pile of magazines on the coffee table, two thirty-something
guys burst in, one gushing apologies at everyone and telling us that his breakfast
meeting ran over, the other standing back and offering a quiet 'So, sorry' to the
girl running the casting.

 
She offers them both coffee
and the talkative guy reacts as if she's just left him her house in her will. They
are shown into another room, Mr Verbosity still apologising and thanking everyone
in sight. Somehow the collective malevolence radiating from us models - especially
those of us who have been here now for nearly three quarters of an hour - escapes
him and he just smiles wildly at us.

 
"Sorry guys."
He says lightly. We smile back absolution with varying degrees of sincerity, each
thinking 'Just shut up and get on with it, you incompetent tosser.' The other guy
seems to pick up this vibe and looks genuinely embarrassed, smiling nervously.

 
I'm fourth in. There is
a strict order in these matters even if no one is keeping a list. First come, first
served. Anyone who tries to get ahead risks being ripped limb from limb by their
fellow models. Got to get off to another casting? Haven't we all, mate? Got a job
in half an hour? Go and do it then. Car on a meter? Should have taken the bus. Need
urgent dialysis? Bite on a towel, bud. You can steel my money, take my girlfriend,
shoot my dog, but don't ever try and get ahead of me in a casting.

 
I walk in and say:

 
"Hello, Charlie Barrett.
Good to meet you."

 
"Charlie. Excellent.
Piers," says the talkative one, extending a hand. "My associate, Guy."
I shake hands with him too and then hand them my book. It's the standard format
- good, strong headshot at the front then a mixture of fashion, lifestyle, business
- me with suit looking at watch, staring down into laptop, walking fast with another
guy- then a bit of young Dad stuff with a girl and a four year old, plus a couple
of my weddings. They flick through and I give them my well-rehearsed anecdotes.
"That was actually taken at seven in the morning, even though I'm wearing a
DJ", "That kid was such a brat", "The girl I'm with there presents
something on Sky TV now", "That one? Thanks. Actually the photographer
got really drunk at lunchtime, I'm just amazed it's in focus. Ha, ha."

 
Piers laughs uproariously
and Guy smiles and asks more questions. They ask me how long I've been modelling
and I tell them since I left University.

 
"What did you read?"
says Piers, obviously surprised that someone in such a brainless profession could
have gone to university. Don't worry about it Piers, I'm used to it.

 
"Marketing. At Leeds,"
I tell him.

 
"Really? Why are
you...?"

 
"In this daft game?"
I laugh. Does that sound too cynical? Oops, never mind - plenty more jobs out there.
"I thought I'd do it for a while after university and, well, here I am eight
years later."

 
"It's a form of marketing,
I suppose," says Guy.

 
"Yeah, I suppose
it is." I say, hoping to recover the situation.

 
"OK, Charlie, that's
splendid," says Piers. "Absolutely fantastic. Great pictures. Thanks very
much for coming in to see us."

 
"Thanks, Charlie"
says Guy.

I smile, take my book back, and then it's the next bloke's turn.

First come first served is how I first met Lauren. I'd seen her
at castings before a couple of times. Even in a room dotted with stunning women
you couldn't fail to spot Lauren. There was something about her manner and her self-assurance.
She certainly knew how to make an entrance too, she breezed in as if she was doing
a catwalk show, ignoring looks of interest from the boys and depressed resentment
from the girls.

 
It was a casting for a
new type of mobile phone. Europe wide. Lots of money. Even more models up for it.
She gave her name, turned around without looking at anybody else and found a seat.
Then she dipped into her bag and took out a book called 'Know the market: Choosing
the best ISA for you.' 'What?' I thought. Around her other female models are reading
Marie Claire or novels about girls with fat thighs, a Chardonnay habit and no boyfriends.
This girl even seemed to be enjoying her improving tome. She brought a pen out of
her bag and made a note in the margin.

 
I knew I was staring and
I knew she would sense it and look up in a moment but I didn't care. In fact her
eyes didn't move away from her book so I went back to my own reading matter - a
mindless thriller. A few moments later I realised that there was some discussion
going on about whose turn it was next, because one girl had arrived late but had
been allowed to go in early. I could sense the tension rising. The girl at the desk
was checking her list and muttering "Just hang on a sec....what was your name
again?". Another model said something about being before someone else and having
to be away by four because she had to pick her daughter up from her boyfriend. Lauren
was also looking up from her book now. I wasn't that bothered - I had all day with
nothing else to do and the sight of a model cat fight always amuses me. But suddenly
Lauren was speaking and the others were quiet.

 
"It's you next, then
you, because you agreed to let her go ahead" she said talking to another girl.
"And then you, followed by me. OK?"

 
Whether that was the right
order or not, there was something about Lauren's confident tone that prohibited
any further discussion. A challenge to 'Argue with that, if you dare', seemed to
hang in the air as the other models decided slowly that it probably made sense.
Lauren went back to her book and everyone else fell silent, either satisfied or
terrified.

 
Fucking hell, I thought.
Luckily my turn came before hers and I hung around afterwards, clutching my rucksack
and an A to Z, pretending that I was just in the process of leaving and, hey, gosh,
you got another casting, too? I'd also thought of mentioning something about ISAs
but I couldn't think of anything intelligent or funny to say about them. Know any
ISA jokes, anyone?

 
In fact she nearly breezed
past me, so I had rush after her and catch her up.

 
"Hi," I said.

 
"Oh, hello,"
she said, looking slightly surprised.

 
"You were just in
that casting weren't you?" I had hoped to do this a bit more subtly but I was
in for it now and so there was no turning back.

 
"Oh, yes" she
said, not having to add: 'Were you? I didn't notice you.'

 
"Erm, how did it
go?"

 
She stopped walking and
turned to look at me properly.

 
"Not bad. I don't
think I got it, though - I think I'm too English looking for the kind of girl they
were looking for. I asked the casting director which countries it's being sold to
and I think they wanted someone more American, more West Coast, sort of a Kirsten
Dunst or a Cameron Diaz."

 
"Yes," I said
dumbly.

 
"How about you?"
Well in my case the agency told me to go and I'd gone. That was it.

 
"Erm, seemed okay,
but I don't think I got it either."

 
She looked at me for a
moment. Then she said:

 
"Never mind, you
always learn something about your look and the potential market for it at every
casting I think, don't you?"

 
"Yes, I suppose so."
She smiled (patronisingly?) and then carried on walking. I heard myself calling
after her: "I wondered, actually, whether you'd like to go for a drink sometime?"

 
She stopped again and
then slowly walked back towards me.

 
"What's your name?"
she asked.

 
"Erm." Oh shit,
what is my name? I thought, panic gripping me like an anaconda. "Charlie, Charlie
Barrett" I said, at last. It sounded like I'd just made it up. That was right,
wasn't it? Yeah, Charlie Barrett, that's me.