Model Guy (24 page)

 
"We don't publish
it."

 
"Well, that depends."

 
"All right, I'm not
going then."

 
"Don't be silly,
Charlie, you can't stop me writing about any conversations I might happen to have
with anyone."

 
"OK, but don't include
me."

 
The party is at an address
off Kensington High Street. We agree to meet in a pub nearby at 8pm. I'm past feeling
nervous about it.

By about seven Scarlett, Zac and I have got most of the receipts
in some sort of order. They are now spread across Guy's and Piers' desks as well
as mine and Scarlett's with the most up to date being lined up against one wall
of the office. The monotonous process of sorting them by date order and category
- the biggest of which is miscellaneous - has almost put us into a kind of trance
but that now we can see the full extent of 2cool's financial predicament spread
around the office walls and across various desks we're numbed by it.

 
I tell the others go to
home.

 
"Don't stay too late,
hey?" says Scarlett, stroking my cheek.

 
"No, don't worry,
I just want to have another look at those spreadsheets and check a few names and
things. See you tomorrow."

I make myself a cup of coffee to keep me awake and begin to read
through the spread sheets that Zac has printed out for me from the other computers.
I realise that part of the reason I want to sort this out is because I want to show
my Dad that my first proper job hasn't been a total fiasco. I want to show that
him that I've saved it or least done all I can to stop it going under and walked
away with a clean conscience and the knowledge that I did my best, that I learnt
something from it. No criminal record would also be nice.

 
He got used to my doing
the modelling thing after a while, but I know he was never particularly proud of
the career path his only son had chosen.

I'm still there at ten when the buzzer for the outside door goes.
I walk across the office which is now in darkness apart from the light over my desk.
I pick up the entry phone.

 
"Hello?"

 
"Pizza."

 
"Pizza? I didn't
order a pizza."

 
"Er, you sure?"

 
"Yeah, honestly.
Sorry, bye."

 
I put the phone back.
It buzzes again before I've got back to my desk.

 
"You definitely didn't
order a pizza?" says a voice above the street noise.

 
"Yeah, really, I'd
remember."

 
"Oh, well, it must
be a mistake. Look, someone ordered a pizza and I'm only going to have to take it
back. You might as well have it."

 
I realise that I won't
eat anything any other way tonight.

 
"Well, if you're
sure. Thanks. Come up. Second floor."

 
I buzz him in and stand
by the door of the office, waiting for him to come up the stairs. After a few moments
a guy in leathers with a black crash helmet appears. He doesn't look like a pizza
delivery man, not least because he doesn't seem to have a pizza with him. I'm just
pondering this when his hand comes up and pushes me hard in the chest, sending me
back staggering back into the office.

 
"Oi," he says.

 
My heart is pounding with
shock as well as the impact.

 
"Oh, fuck! Who are
you? What do you want?" I gasp, trying to get my breath back.

 
"Oi," he says
again.

 
"What do you mean?"
I'm suddenly offended as well as frightened. Who the hell does he think he is?

 
"I mean some of your
creditors want their money and they're not going to wait for it."

 
"All right, all right.
We'll pay everyone as soon as we can. Just bear with us."

 
"Yeah, well, listen,
some of them aren't going to just hang around, see?" He moves towards me, menacingly.
"Ow!"

 
He's managed to walk into
the desk in the semi darkness of the office, made more obscure by his helmet. "Aw,
fuck that hurt!" he says, holding his thigh.

 
"Are you all right?"
I ask.

 
"Shut up!" he
bellows, still nursing his upper leg and limping around a bit on it. "Anyway,
yeah, er, right. Like I said, some of your creditors aren't going to wait for their
money, okay?" he snaps, pointing a gloved finger at me.

 
"Well, tell me who
they are and we'll make sure they're on the list."

 
"What? I'm not telling
you who they are, am I? Just make sure you pay up - and fast. Got it?"

 
He goes to thump me again
but I step back quickly and he half misses so his intended assault ends up as a
sort of tap on the shoulder as if we were playing tig. Looks like I'm it now.

 
"Remember what I
said."

 
On his way out he glances
around for something to smash up to make his point but, with nothing to hand, he
ends up just tossing some invoices onto the floor. Then he turns back to leave but
walks into the half open door. "Ow, fuck!" He stumbles back, stunned.
Then he leaves and slams it behind him. I close my eyes and take a deep breath,
telling myself I'm okay. I'm not hurt, just a bit shocked.

 
But then suddenly there
is terrible thumping, followed by a crashing sound and a voice roaring in anger.
For a moment I think he must have smashed up something in the stairwell as a final
act of intimidation. Then I realise that there really isn't anything much you could
damage out there. I open the office door a bit and peep out. Nothing. I look further
out and realise that he's fallen downstairs.

Chapter Seventeen

I leave the office shortly afterwards and take a taxi home where
I have a large drink. Whiskey for a change. As far as gangland muscle goes, my assailant
was pretty incompetent. Poor bugger, he's going to have a horrible bruise on his
leg tomorrow. Perhaps I should tell the police now? I laugh sadly at the idea that
they'd easily be able to identify the man. Just round up the usual suspects and
check their left legs for nasty contusions.

 
I don't hear Lauren come
in.

 
"Hi," she says.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

 
Am I? I must have forgotten
to put the lights on. Perhaps I don't want anyone to know that I'm at home.

 
"Sorry, I didn't
notice."

 
She switches them on and
closes the curtains.

 
"Are you all right?"
She sits down on the settee next to me and gives me peck on the cheek.

 
"I was working late
tonight, like I said, and this bloke came in and tried to beat me up."

 
"What?" She
sits up and looks at me. "Are you hurt?"

 
"No, no. I'm fine."
Casually my hand wonders up to my chest where he shoved me. I can hardly feel anything
there at all. "He's in a worse state than I am, I think."

 
"What? You're kidding.
You attacked him back?"

 
I laugh.

 
"I didn't have to.
He walked into a desk and then into the door - and then he fell downstairs."
Relief and delayed shock makes me laugh even more.

 
Lauren is deadly serious.

 
"Charlie, this is
awful. You've got to get out of this. Let's call the police and tell them. I don't
want you going to that office tomorrow. It's not safe." She stops for a moment.
"This puts a whole new perspective on the Guy and Piers thing, doesn't it?
Perhaps they've been..."

 
"Murdered?"
I say. And then I burst out laughing.

 
"What's the matter
with you? It's not funny."

 
"No, sorry, it's
not. Perhaps I'm still in shock or something."

 
She stands up and looks
thoughtful.

 
"Look, I think you
should keep away from this whole thing. It's doing you no good."

 
"I just want to try
and sort it out."

 
"Charlie, it's beyond
that. Can't you see?"

 
"Look what it's doing
to your image. Who's going to employ you as a model - or anything else? - after
this publicity."

 
She's right in a way.
As always. But there is one very strong argument against her: "Babe, I'm a
director. I've signed cheques. My dad says...my dad says that if someone could prove
that I was negligent or dishonest I could be prosecuted. I could be in big shit."

 
She looks horrified.

 
"But you haven't
done anything wrong, have you? Have you?"

 
"No, of course not.
Well, I've been spending money but we all have. Piers and Guy told us to."
I wonder how that would stand up in court. I'm sick of thinking about it so I ask:
"How did it go with Peter tonight?"

 
Lauren is still staring
intently at me.

 
"Peter?" she
says. "Okay. Yeah, fine. There's a new proposal he's got in with the At Home
channel for a DIY makeover thing."

 
"Sounds interesting,"
I say, staring at the fire place.

 
"Should be."
"Tell me about it." "The idea is that a decorator does over someone's
house while a celebrity chef cooks them dinner."

 
I smile.

 
"Great. And what
did you do tonight?"

 
"We went to the studio
again. Peter wanted me to work on my technique."

 
I smirk.

 
"And is he pleased
with your technique?"

 
"Yes". She pauses.
"What's so funny?"

 
"Oh, nothing."
I feel her watching me. "Why don't you show me your technique?"

 
There is another pause
and she says: "I just don't understand you anymore, Charlie".

A few moments later the spare duvet and a couple of pillows are
delivered in silence.

I sleep fitfully on the settee. The Couch of Correction, as Sarah
calls it when she makes Mark sleep there. I don't feel particularly redeemed the
next morning, though. I finally get up about seven, have a quick wash and shave
and get the tube back to the office, taking in a cappuccino and an almond croissant
from the cafe next door.

 
I let myself in and stare
at the spreadsheets again. Lauren's right. It's hopeless. Names, amounts and dates
are all neatly laid out. I recognise quite a few of them. Sir Josh Langdon, of course,
and some other pop stars plus some big names from the City, some designers and theatre
people but so what? It doesn't explain where the money actually is, does it? When
the post arrives, as well as the usual Final Demands and Invitations to luxury goods
launches there are two banks statements - one from a bank in Monaco (over drawn
to the tune of a few hundred thou), the other from a bank in the Cayman Islands
(In credit. Whoopee. £13.47).

 
I'm just putting these
in a pile when the phone rings.

 
"Could I speak to
Mr Barrett, please," says a gruff male voice. I curse myself for picking it
up.

 
"Speaking."

 
"Oh, good morning,
Mr Barrett, this is Detective Inspector Slapton from the Metropolitan Police. I
wondered if I could talk to you about the disappearance of your colleagues."

 
"Yes, of course.
Well, I'm around at the office all of today."

 
"Okay, shall we make
it, let me see, 11?"

 
"That's fine with
me." I give them the address. "Have you got any news about them, then?"

 
"About their whereabouts?
No."

 
"Oh, I've also ready
spoken to someone in your office."

 
"Have you? Which
office?"

 
"Missing Persons?"

 
"Eh? Oh, sorry, no,
I'm not Missing Persons," he says. "I'm from the Fraud Squad."

I've warned Scarlett and Zac that the police will be coming over
and might want to talk to them. Zac shrugs and nods. Scarlett says 'Oh, OK"
and then takes something out of her desk, leaves the room with it and a few moments
later we hear the lavatory flushing.

 
Somehow that would have
been the least of our worries.

I also tell them about being attacked.

 
"I think none of
us should be in the office on our own, well, neither of you," I say, hoping
I sound braver than I feel.

 
Scarlett is looking at
my face.

 
"What did he do then?"

 
"He didn't hit me
in the face but he punched me in the chest."

 
"Break any ribs?"

 
"No, well, I don't
think so."

 
"Oh, not serious
then."

 
"Scarlett, I wasn't
actually beaten to a pulp," I say. My masculine pride seems to be getting roughed
over worse now than I was last night. "But they might come back for more. That
was obviously just a warning."

 
"OK," she says,
clearly unimpressed. "Gonna tell the filth?"

Detective Inspector Slapton and two younger colleagues arrive
dead on 11am. We shake hands and I suggest that we sit at the settee and armchairs
in one corner of the office. Scarlett offers to make us some coffee. The older policeman
can't hide his disdain for her red dreadlocks, purple shades and leopard skin miniskirt,
while the colleague looks up at her in awe.