Model Guy (13 page)

 
"Fine, no problem.
Should be ready in plenty of time, shouldn't we Simon?"

 
It's supposed to be supportive
but Simon obviously doesn't see it that way. His jaw locks and he shudders slightly
before spitting out: "No problem."

 
"Great," says
Piers.

 
"Huh! Give him a
clipboard and suddenly he thinks he's bloody Stalin," yells Heaven from across
the room. Simon begins to talk to Piers. "Poncey public school twat!"
adds Heaven for good measure.

 
"You will never work
for The Communications Game again," says Simon with dignity.

 
"Good!" yells
back Heaven. "I wouldn't want to!" He turns around to concentrate on something
else. "Oh, for God's sake, sprinkle love, sprinkle," he shouts at one
of his terrified staff. "If I'd wanted that much glitter on it I'd have given
you a bloody shovel."

 
"Splendid,"
says Piers.

At two minutes to eight it looks like we're finally there. Waiters
and waitresses are milling around with full drinks trays, moving into position around
the main reception room - one is showing another the underside of his shoe for some
reason. An older waitress with rather exaggerated eye make-up sidles up to me and
says: "What time does overtime start?"

 
"Midnight,"
I tell her.

 
"Oh, good, thanks"
she says. I've actually no idea but I suppose I ought to know. The candlesticks,
I discover, have arrived because the owner of the shop was persuaded (and bribed)
to come back and open it especially so that they could be biked over to us. Now
the huge, gilt gothic pieces with their towering black candles are placed on each
table along with white lilies and black tulips.

Hundreds, well not hundreds but it seems like it, of girls with
flicky blonde hair and names like Arabella and Louisa who work for the Communications
Game arrive suddenly and introduce themselves to me and say how exciting it all
is and how much they're enjoying working on the account.

 
Lauren arrives with Peter
just after half past eight as we agreed. She looks stunning: a cream coloured dress
and simple gold chain. Peter is wearing a maroon velvet smoking jacket and spotted
bow tie and looks like he's just walked off the stage of an amateur dramatic society
production of The Mouse Trap.

 
"Hi babe," says
Lauren.

 
"You look great,"
I say, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the lips.

 
"Thought I be'er
make an effor'" she says.

 
"You're not going
to do that all night?" I half beg, half command her.

 
"Oh, don't worry,"
she laughs. "It's been driving Charlie bonkers," she tells Peter. "No,
I didn't get it babe. Peter thinks they wanted someone a bit more in your face,
a bit more off the wall."

 
"A bit more Sara
Cox or Davina McCall," says Peter knowingly.

 
"Oh, right,"
I say, thanking God I'm not going out with someone 'in your face.' "What was
the programme exactly?"

 
"It's a proposal
I put to E4," says Peter, glad to be able to take the lead here. "The
idea is that it's a bit like This is Your Life, only it's This is Your Sex Life,
at least that's the working title. We find a celeb and reintroduce them to everyone
they've ever had sex with from the person they first lost their virginity to, to
long term lovers and one night stands. The guests rate them and tell some funny
stories."

 
"But E4 didn't like
it," I say, unsurprised.

 
"Oh no," says
Peter. "They love the concept, it's just -" Just Lauren they don't like?
"They just haven't found the right presenter yet."

 
"That's not you is
it really?" I tell Lauren rather than ask her.

 
"No probably not.
But Peter's got some other projects in the pipeline for me," says Lauren, who
I notice is standing next to him, not me. Anyone who didn't know us might think
that they were the couple rather than her and me. I'm about to try and angle myself
nearer to her and get my around round her again when Guy approaches us.

 
"Hi Charlie, looking
pretty sharp tonight," he says, beaming.

 
"Thanks. From someone
who knows so much about labels and style that's quite a compliment. Looking pretty
good yourself. Er, Guy this is my girlfriend, Lauren Tate, and this is..."
I know I should say a friend of ours, not a friend of hers but it sticks in my gullet,
so I just say "Peter Beaumont-Crowther".

 
"Pleased to meet
you," says Guy, shaking them both warmly and taking in Lauren I note proudly.
"Charlie mate, I need to introduce you to some people, can I, er, steal you
away for a sec?"

 
"Of course,"
I say.

 
"Sorry, duty calls,"
grins Guy at Lauren and Peter. "Very nice to meet you, look forward to seeing
you later, perhaps we can have a proper chat then. Have a great evening."

 
Lauren and Peter smile
generously as Guy leads me away. I turn briefly to tell Lauren I'll catch up with
her later but Peter has already moved around to talk to her, standing between us,
so that she can't see me anymore.

I meet a couple of very dry money men from New York who Guy talks
to for most of the time as if I might put my foot in it. By this time the place
is really filling up. The girls from the Communications Game grab me every few seconds
and say: "Charlie, I'd really like you to meet..." or "Charlie, do
you know....?" or "Charlie, you must meet..." Marketing people from
the smart brands, editors of glossy magazines, style journalists, design celebs
appear, tell me how much they're enjoying themselves and how excited they are about
the site, tell me they loved the piece in the Post, give me a card and suggest we
have lunch, dinner, breakfast or drinks before disappearing back into the crowd
to be replaced by another well-moisturised, expertly-made-up, non-streak bronzed
face.

 
"How's it going?"
says Guy to me anxiously at one point.

 
"Very well,"
I say.

 
"Good, good,"
he says, looking around us. "Everyone happy, everyone enjoying themselves?"

 
"Yep. I've met so
many new people, all really excited about it all."

 
"Mmm? Good,"
says Guy, looking around in the other direction, rather distractedly.

 
"These people, er,
where are they?" I say, fiddling around with the mass of cards I've assembled.
"They want to do a promotion with us. Develop some synergies," I explain,
repeating the woman's phrase.

 
Guy looks down at the
card for a moment and then sniffs: "Huh! It's a possibility. I'm not quite
sure that they're 2cool material, though."

 
"Oh, OK."

 
"Good stuff, champ,"
he says, diving back into the crowd.

 
I go to get another drink
and notice Lauren and Peter talking to two gay guys and it dawns on me who Peter
reminds me of - Barry Humphries. Not as Dame Edna or Sir Les but just in civvies,
just himself. It also dawns on me that they look like a couple. My girlfriend with
Barry Humphries. I begin to move over to them but Arabella or Sophie or whatever
the hell her name is grabs me and introduces me to someone from some in-flight magazine.
When I finally escape Lauren and Peter have disappeared. I look around to see if
there is anyone else I should speak to when I notice Nora talking to a tall guy
with floppy hair.

 
She immediately sees me
and I decide to go over and say hello. I still haven't managed to speak to her since
the article so it might be useful to share a few candid thoughts.

 
"Hi Charlie,"
she says extending a hand.

 
"Hello," I say
coolly.

 
"This is Rupert.
Rupert works for Cartier."

 
"No I don't."
says Rupert. "I work for Sotheby's.”

 
"Do you? How interesting,"
says Nora as if she has just met him.

 
"Don't worry."
I tell him. "Accuracy's not her thing."

 
"Isn't it?"
she says sweetly. "Here, Charlie, you haven't got a drink." She sticks
her hand out to a passing waitress but moves rather too quickly and immediately
glasses begin to fall like dominoes on the tray. The waitress squeals in horror
and tries to steady herself but she is soon covered with red and white wine, champagne
and orange juice. As is Rupert who has tried to help her.

 
"Oh, you're soaked,"
says Nora, who like me seems to have escaped the deluge of booze.

 
"I think I'd better
go and dry off in the gents," Rupert says as calmly as he can.

 
"Don't worry, just
go to reception. We've had some spare jackets put aside just in case," I tell
him - one useful thing I did discover from Simon Smith. I check that the waitress
is all right. She says 'Fine, thanks', looking malevolently at Nora and then disappears
into the kitchen where they are presumably used to this sort of casualty.

 
"Well done,"
I tell Nora.

 
"I can't believe
that woman's a waitress," says Nora, watching her go.

 
"Why not?"

 
"She's so clumsy."

 
"She's so clumsy."

 
"Yes, didn't you
see her? You would have thought a waitress could at least keep a bunch of glasses
on a tray. Poor woman, it must be her first night or something."

 
I open my mouth but nothing
comes out.

 
"So, nice party,"
she says.

 
"Thanks." She
is wearing a maroon velvet dress, long sleeved but backless and her hair is up.
There is a chunky, hippy chain around her neck. She does look pretty good actually.
I remember Lauren once telling me that in many ways it doesn't matter what you wear,
as long as you wear it with confidence and feel comfortable in it and Nora seems
to feel pretty pleased about her outfit.

 
Despite this I decide
to plunge straight in.

 
"I saw the article."

 
"Oh yeah, Monday's
piece. Did you like it?"

 
"Well no, frankly,
I didn't."

 
She looks surprised.

 
"Really? Why not?
Did I get something wrong?"

 
"Yeah, most of it."

 
"Oh my God, no. I
hate getting things wrong. Which bits?"

 
"The whole thing.
It was so naff. It made me look like a complete smarmy, arrogant tit. How did you
find those pictures?"

 
"Oh, the picture
desk do all that kind of thing. I liked the one of you in the white shirt though.
What was that for?"

 
"Oh, just a fashion
shoot I did ages ago."

 
"'Oh, just a fashion
shoot', he says. So cool," she laughs.

 
"Well, it was just
a job. But it was the article as well: 'the blonde, six foot hunk is self-effacing.'

 
"Well you are."

 
"And what about 'They
employed me because I've got the right look - classy, cool." It's not difficult
to show her how painful those words are for me.

 
"Well you did say
that - in a manner of speaking - over lunch."

 
"What?"

 
"Anyway, I'm really
sorry if you didn't like the piece. My editor loved it and I thought it was very
positive really. Just what Piers wanted."

 
"What? Piers told
you to write that."

 
"Well, he didn't
tell me exactly what to write, obviously, but he did give me the spin beforehand,
told me all about the site and then I pitched the story to my editor and she said
to write it like that. I couldn't not do it."

 
"It was all Piers'
idea, all that stuff?"

 
"Yup. Well, most
of it."

 
"And you just wrote
what you were told."

 
"Charlie," she
says, suddenly serious. "I've got to keep my boss happy. That's the way it
goes. You want to please Guy and Piers, I want to please my editor. If I don't she'll
fire me - it's as simple as that."

 
I think about it for a
moment. I've sort of only had to please Penny and Karyn in the past by going to
castings and turning up at jobs on time properly shaven and with my hair washed,
but, talking to my friends who have worked for companies I think I know what she
means about pleasing the tosser in the glass surrounded office.

 
I look at her for a moment,
trying to decide what it must be like to be Nora Bentall. To be very bright but
to have to please your boss by writing clichéd guff that is only marginally connected
to reality, to be so amazingly clumsy (is that why I'm standing some distance away
from her?) and to have a dress sense which somehow doesn't correspond with what
you see in the shops, with what your friends wear or what appears in any magazine,
but which you are perfectly confident about and comfortable with.

 
"So where were you
when I rang?" I ask. "Why were you 'sort of' out?"

 
She grimaces.

 
"I was keeping a
low profile."

 
"From me?"

 
"Oh, no, like I said,
I tried to ring you but 2cool isn't in the phone book yet and I only had Piers'
mobile and he said he'd get you to call me but obviously he didn't pass on the message."