Model Guy
Authors: Simon Brooke
© Simon Brooke
2013
Simon Brooke has
asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be
identified as the author of this work.
First published
as 2cool2btrue in 2004 by Orion Books.
This edition
published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Extract
from Sugar Mummy by Simon Brooke
"My problem", says the girl sitting opposite me, "is
that my celebrity status is overtaking my acting credentials."
She is talking to a red
haired girl sitting next to her who is nodding gently and absentmindedly running
her hand up and down her leg.
"Mmmm," says
the red haired girl, obviously partly concerned about this dilemma and partly preoccupied
with the fact that it will be her turn in a moment. The girl with the problem has
recently appeared in a commercial miniseries for shampoo. You know the one - she's
just moved into a new flat and finds that she hasn't brought her shampoo or it's
got lost amongst all the boxes or something and so, with just a towel wrapped round
her, she knocks on the door of the flat opposite and the bloke who opens the door
grins smugly, looks her up and down and let's her borrow his.
I reflect on the girl's
CV-versus-fame problem for a moment then realise that I'm staring. Still, perhaps
when you're the Thick 'n' Glossy girl you're used to people doing double takes.
"Isn't that the girl from that shampoo advert?" So it is. Thick 'n' Glossy
- you're right.
I know this room so well:
the groovy pink leather settees, slightly worn now and marked in a couple of places
with biro, MTV playing silently on a monitor in the corner, the bored, hip girls
on reception, the empty water machine which causes everyone who doesn't have the
obligatory bottle of Evian to go up to it, realise that in fact it's empty and then
walk away, trying to look cool about it. Looking cool at all times is the most important
thing about being in this room.
Another model walks in,
turns to the girl at the desk and gives his name.
"Jake Cooper, Models
UK, here for the Sunseekers ad?" he tells her.
She consults a list, ticks
off his name and says:
"Okay Jake, darling,
just take a seat and fill out the release form, will you?"
"Ta" he says,
practising his 1000 watt smile ready for the casting director. He turns to find
a place to sit, the smile dimming to about 250 watts as he sees the number of other
models waiting ahead of him. Then the power is turned up a bit more as he sees someone
he knows.
"Hey, sweetie,"
he says to a girl who is combing her hair in a boredom induced trance.
"Hi, honey,"
she says looking up at him as he kisses her on both cheeks. "How's it going?"
"Great," he
says, as if it wouldn’t be anything else. "Yeah. You?"
"Great".
"Busy?"
"Yeah, pretty"
she says. Diplomatic answer: no one is going to say, 'No, dead, actually,' are they?
But you can't say 'I'm working every day - it's just mad' because no one would believe
you. "You?" she asks.
"Yeah, not bad"
he says, nodding thoughtfully. Then he launches his Exocet: "Yeah, got the
Ford Cirrus campaign so I'm off to Sicily next month to shoot it." He knows
very well the effect this will have. Two or three other guys look up casually to
see who picked up that job after all. It was a biggie - three days of casting, hundreds
of guys and thousands of pounds. Why didn't I get it? Perhaps they were looking
for someone dark, I reason. That's probably why they called in so many blond models.
Other guys around me, dark and blond, are checking him out discreetly. He basks
in their, well, all right, our envious loathing for a moment and then carries on:
"Did you ever see the pictures in the end from that job we did together?"
"Oh, don't,"
says the girl. "The agency sent me the brochure. Why do they always choose
the worst shots? That one where you're picking me up? And carrying me across the
grass? I look like I've got this huge nose."
"Yeah," he says.
They both laugh. But now he is starring at her nose. Her laughter dries up after
a few seconds and she says: "And I haven't, have I?"
As if it were absurd,
obviously.
But he is still staring
at her nose. Actually it is quite large. Yeah, that's a big conk for a model. Another
girl looks up from the blockbuster novel she is reading and surreptitiously checks
out the first girl's nose. As she looks down at her book again, she gratuitously
wipes around her own nostrils with a long slim finger. Just checking.
"It just looks like
it, doesn't it?" says the girl, her voice betraying a degree of panic now.
"In the picture. It's daft."
Jake Cooper is still mesmerised.
"Yeah it does,"
he says at last. "Yeah, I mean, it's just the picture. I mean not really in
the picture, either. It's a lovely nose. That's a great picture. No, honestly. I'd
put it in your book if I were you." he says, patting his own portfolio which
he has already removed from his rucksack ready for when he goes in. 'He goes in?'.
Makes it sound like a military assault on enemy held territory. Ridiculous. What
a daft comparison.
This is far more terrifying
than that.
I turn back to my paper
and sense once again the tense edgy atmosphere as other models read novels or magazines
or consult AtoZs, locating their next casting. Some stare into space or smile at
people they half know while we all secretly wish everyone else would just sod off
and die so that we could get this job.
Another guy comes in,
gives his name and flashes a grin that he’s used a hundred times before to charm
various casting directors and girls on reception.
"Here you go, Ben,
my darling," says the receptionist.
He takes his form and
then makes a joke about the dying flowers on the desk.
"What?" she
says, looking up from the list of names.
"You need someone
to buy you some more flowers," he says again, nodding at the drooping white
tulips in the vase.
"Eh? Oh, yeah. I
think the office manager does it," she says vaguely, looking back to her list.
He gives a little embarrassed sniff of a laugh and then goes to sit down. The schadenfreud
is palpable as the rest of the models, oh, all right, us, again, enjoy his discomfort.
Yeah, practice your charm somewhere else, mate.
Rather conveniently, by
the time I've got to the crossword and discovered that I haven't got a pen, the
girl on the desk says:
"Charlie, babe, your
turn." I practice my own 1000 watt smile on her but she has returned back to
answer the phone.
The guy coming out, a
huge South African I've met before, holds the door open for me and I try it out
on him instead. He looks vaguely alarmed.
I walk in and am immediately blinded by the lights. Just behind
them I can see the shadows of people including presumably the director and the client.
The only person I know is the casting director, Angie.
"Hi Charlie, darling,"
she says, taking her huge glasses off her head and shaking her greying, bobbed hair
free. We double kiss. This familiarity - after all, I'm an old hand at this game,
aren't I? - makes me feel much better. My smile feels slightly more genuine, slightly
less fixed when I use it again. She introduces me to various other disembodied voices
from the darkness behind the lights. I say, "Hi", hoping I'm looking in
the right direction.
"OK, identify yourself
just for the record, sweets. Name and agency," says Angie who I can just see,
looking down at a monitor. I make sure I'm standing on the little masking tape cross
on the carpet and look up.
"Charlie Barrett.
Jet Models," I tell the glassy eye of the camera as if I'd just asked it to
marry me.
"Beautiful,"
says Angie. "Can we see your profile, Charlie, love?"
"Sure," I say
confidently and turn to the left and then the right, taking my time, a slight, jocular
wobble to the head, making it clear that I'm not only perfectly self assured but
I'm actually quite enjoying this whole daft, familiar business.
"Luv-leee,"
says Angie. My smile almost seems real now. "Okay, love, take your clothes
off down to your undies." However genuine, that smile must have evaporated
pretty quickly. With a very tight timetable to keep to, Angie obviously notices
my slight hesitation. "This is for a beach scene. Didn't they tell you?"
Sunseeker Holidays. Makes
sense, I suppose. You might take your clothes off. The only problem is that I'm
wearing an age old pair of white (oh, go on then, slightly grey) M&S undies
because they were the only ones that were clean. It's not even as if I'm going to
get a trip out of this - no need to go to a beach with today's new technology. All
the glamour and expense of a studio in Acton for a half day. My image (if I get
the job and somehow I don't think I'm going to now) will be superimposed onto powdery
yellow sand thanks to a special computer image enhancement programme.
Modern technology, eh?
Damn it to hell.
Suddenly I can make out
at four girls squashed onto the settee who I haven't been introduced to but who
are now staring sullenly at me and I remember the South African hunk whose turn
it was just before mine.
God, I'm too old for this.
I really am though.
I take the stairs three
at a time. I don't care if I break my neck, I've just got to get out of here. I
step out onto the street and make for the tube.
It's been on my mind for
a while. At 30 I reckon I'm ready for a job that not only has better long term prospects
but also provides a greater mental challenge than the ability to remember a name
and address and to respond to a request to move your head to the right a bit. But
I'm also spurred on by the morbid fear of spending my twilight years doing chunky
pullover ads for Reader's Digest. It'll be easy-to-get-out-of baths and Stannah
stair lifts before you know it.
