Authors: Simon Brooke

Model Guy (19 page)

"Venice," says
Nora, shaking her empty glass at Jim. "Ah, La Serenissima."

"Yes" I say,
irritated that she can make even my wonderful, inspired romantic gesture sound vaguely
ridiculous. Perhaps she's just jealous. Yeah, that's it.

"It's stunning actually.
God, I'm picking that English habit of saying 'actually' every five seconds. No,
it is beautiful. Don't go in the summer, though, go in the Winter when it's deserted
and grey and foggy. It's sort of sinister."

"I'm not sure we
want a sinister holiday."

"No, no, you're missing
the point - that's the real Venice. Mysterious, decaying, inscrutable, corrupt.
Hey, you should meet my friend Peta, she studied art history there. Says the place
is impossible to know unless you've been there for at least a year - all the best
restaurants are hidden behind closed doors, tourists never notice them."

"I'm sure we'll find
them," I tell her through thin lips.

"Sorry, didn't want
to put a downer on it. You'll have a great time, I bet," says touching my knee.
"Hey, I'll get Peta to email you some places to go, some of those hidden restaurants.
Harry's bar. You must go there. Just have a drink -"

"A bellini."

"That's the one.
Don't eat there, though - it's a rip off but for a drink it's great with the waiters
in their white jackets and the dark panelled walls. It was one of Hemmingway's favourites,
wasn't it? Oh, you'll have a great time, I wish I was going."

Why not? I can imagine
what effect that would have on Lauren.

"So why did you leave
the States and come here," I ask her.

"I thought it might
be fun. Change of scene. Get away from a country where the 16 inch chilli dog is
considered haute cuisine and where only five per cent of the population hold a passport
which is, coincidentally, the same number that believe they've been abducted by
aliens at some point in their lives." It sounds like a frequently repeated
rant. I wonder how often she makes this kind of comment. I smile. "But mainly
because my then boyfriend came over here. And promptly dumped me."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be!"
she says a little too emphatically. "I'm so much better off without him. He
was a tosser, as you'd say, started working for a glossy men's magazine here and
decided he need a glossy men's girlfriend to go with it."

"You're pretty glossy,
though" I laugh. I'm not sure what I mean by that.

"Thanks," she
smiles.

By the time we leave it
is much later than I had realised and it is pouring with rain.

"How are you getting
home?" I ask her.

"Taxi I suppose,"
she says looking in vain around the deserted rainy streets for one.

"Sure, let's find
you a cab then. Where do you live?"

"Notting Hill."

"Very nice."

"Oh, I only moved
there because of the film. Looked like a nice place - all those gorgeous movie stars
and bumbling, charming, floppy haired Englishmen wandering around spilling things
on them every five minutes. Where do you live?"

"Chiswick."

"Oh, I know it, a
friend of mine who works at the BBC lives there. It's just a bit further out West
than me isn't it? We may as well share a cab."

Yes, we may as well. How
convenient.

We eventually find a cabby. In fact Nora finds him by throwing
herself in the road in front of him. She lives in a flat in Oxford Gardens off Ladbroke
Grove.

"I'll just see the
lady in," I shout to the cab driver.

"Oh, how charming,
how Hugh Grant. It must be the effect of Notting Hill," says Nora, opening
the door. "You don't have to."

"Better to be on
the safe side," I tell her manfully.

We walk up the garden
path past the overflowing bins, lager cans and Sainsbury’s bags. Nora opens her
bag while telling me about a diet she's doing a piece on which consists of only
eating fruit in the morning and corn on the cob in the evening. She is still ferreting
around in her shiny pink retro kitch vinyl handbag after some time and I look around
just to reassure the cab driver and check that he doesn't give up the ghost and
leave without me.

"We've got three
women who have been on it for a month and we're checking their progress, one fell
off the wagon last week and had a Mars bar but that makes it more interesting in
a way. She felt terrible about it though -"

"Um, Nora, have you
got your key?"

"Somewhere. Men are
so lucky not being afflicted with these things, handbags I mean - I can never find
anything in here."

I was quite enjoying watching
Nora feel shy, self-conscious about me being on her doorstep. For once this bright,
aggressive girl is out of her depth, not in control. Now, though, her nervous gabbling
is making me nervous too. What's she worried about? I'm not coming in for coffee,
this isn't a date, after all.

"Here it is,"
she says, holding up a couple of keys on a ring. "Phew! That's a relief. Well,
night then."

"Night Nora. See
you soon," I tell the back of her head as she opens the front door and disappears
inside.

In the taxi back I try and decide which is worse - smart, sneering
Nora or shy, nervous Nora. Both are pretty hard to deal with.

The next day we have a meeting with our new PR company.

"What happened to
Simon and the Communications Game?" I ask Guy.

"They were appropriate
for the launch, for the financing and corporate positioning things but now we need
a luxury goods specialist," he says. "Someone who really knows how luxury
goods work.

Two blonde girls called
Lucinda and Annabella from a company called Glambusters arrive dead on eleven carrying
Louis Vuitton brief cases and we gather around Guy's desk.

"Before we start,
can I just say how thrilled we are to be working on this project," says one
of them while the other agrees. "It's a dream account for us."

"Well, we're very
glad you've agreed to help us," says Guy.

"And we're very glad
to be helping you." says the other blonde girl, nodding vigorously.

"And I'm very glad
that you're very glad about us being glad that you've agreed to work with us,"
I add. It's supposed to be a joke (obviously) but the others just smile and nod
in agreement at me. I realise that Guy just doesn't do jokes; life is too serious
for him.

We plan some more parties
anddevelop a press release distribution list. I have an idea for a competition which
the others really like.

"We thought you might
do some surveys too," says Annabella (or is it Lucinda?)

"Yes", says
her colleague. "They're always good for easy publicity we thought of one showing
that 30 per cent of men these days spend more on clothes than their wives or girlfriends."

"That's a great idea,"
says Guy.

"It could also show
that 50 per cent of those wives and girlfriends actually resent it - you know get
a bit of a battle of the sexes going."

"Great," says
Guy.

"Sorry, did you say,
you've done this survey," I ask.

"No," says Annabella.
"We'd do it and then publish the results."

"But how do you know
the results before you've done the survey?" I ask.

Annabella looks at Guy
for a moment.

"Well obviously you
don't do these kinds of surveys unless you know roughly what the results are going
to be."

"Don't you?"

"Yes, you want to
find something fun and controversial and newsworthy, there's no point in doing an
investigation that finds that most women like shopping and most men don't, for instance
- everyone knows that."

"We'll still ask
our site visitors to take part in the survey - we'll put it in the Whatscool page,
I think, but we'll make sure that when we've finished it, in, say in a week's time,
that we've got the right result."

"Oh, sure, of course,"
I agree.

"We'll do a Sunday
for Monday release on it," says Annabella. She turns to the slowest ship in
the convoy. "I mean we'll send it out on Sunday for the publication Monday
papers because Monday is a very quiet news day and they're always desperate for
something," she explains to me.

"Great," I tell
her.

Chapter Fourteen

I'm cooking dinner because apparently it's my turn. Lauren is
talking to guess who? on the phone. She is laughing and saying something about "No,
I don't believe you. Get away! No!" As a result I'm chopping the peppers a
little more aggressively than is strictly necessary and after a few minutes the
inevitable happens. It's not a serious cut but it does start to bleed profusely
and it makes me feel a little bit sick - especially when I hear Lauren again. "Peter!
You're outrageous! What did she say? Mmm? She's got a point." Lauren giggles
seductively. "Well, she has."

I wander out into the
hallway and present my bleeding finger to Lauren.

"Plasters?"
I mouth.

She winces at the sight
of my injury.

"Listen, can you
hang on a minute Peter, Charlie's cut himself. No, not seriously. It's nothing.
I'll be right back. What did you do?" she says putting down the phone.

"I was just cutting
these peppers. It'll be ready in a minute," I add by way of hint that she had
better finish her cosy little chat with Peter.

"You know where the
plasters are, Charlie." She opens a cupboard and takes out a First Aid box
which I probably have seen before at some point. "What are we having?"

"My ratatouille thing
with pasta." It's my special. Peter might have his chicken thing but I've got
my sautéed peppers, tomatoes, onions and garlic thing.

"Great," she
says putting a plaster on my finger. "I'll come and give you a hand when I've
finished with PBC."

"Who?"

"Peter - Peter Beaumont-Crowther.
PBC. That's what people call him."

Yeah, amongst other things.

"Okay," I mutter
and go back to my chopping.

True to her word Lauren comes in a few minutes later and takes
over the cooking as I know she will. At the same time as she prepares the dinner
she manages to make a plate of little bruschetta - some with chopped tomatoes and
basil and some with creamed artichoke. I pour us both a glass of Orvietto. Has anyone,
anywhere in the world been cooked for by someone as wonderful as Lauren? I ask myself
as I sip my wine. And had a plaster put on by them?

"How did your drink
go with that journalist?" she asks, stirring and chopping.

"Oh, fine. We didn't
talk much about the site in the end....but...erm..." Oh, oh, wrong answer.
I can't decide whether I'm relieved or disappointed that Lauren makes no reaction
to my confession. "We might be able to give her some more stories we think.
We're going to do a survey about shopping and they've already decided on the result
- can you believe it? They're going to find that 30 per cent of men spend more money
on clothes than their wives or girlfriends."

"That can't be right,"
says Lauren without looking up. "Never mind, I suppose if you're going to do
these surveys you've got to find something interesting to say, something newsworthy,
haven't you?"

"I'm sure Nora will
be able get a piece out of it."

"Nora? Was she that
slightly weird one at the launch party? The one in that bizarre Mortitia Addams
dress that you were having such a laugh with?"

"Nora, yes,"
I say defensively.

"Was it her you were
having a drink with last night then?"

"Yes. I told you."

"No, you said a journalist."

"Well, I didn't mention
her name but so what?"

"This is almost ready."

The adrenaline is flowing
now - I've finally made Lauren jealous.

"What's the matter?
You can hardly complain after your conversation just now with Peter."

Oh, what the fuck! Let's
go the whole hog.

"Charlie, what are
you on about?" Lauren looks up from her cooking.