Authors: Simon Brooke
Model Guy (40 page)
"Oh, right, Freak
Productions."
"That's him. Do you
know him?"
"Met him a couple
of times. I think he's produced some infomercials for us."
"What do you think
of him?"
Still watching the telly
my dad shrugs his shoulders dismissively. Either he doesn't know much about PBC
or he doesn't think much of him.
"Where's, erm..."
What's her bloody name?
"English lesson,"
intercepts my Dad. "I told her I could get someone over here to do it but she
insists on going to this school in Soho or something."
A cynical thought about
her desire to get away and mix with her own age groups in the bars of Soho crosses
my mind. But my Dad is asking me about 2cool. I don't tell him about Piers. I just
tell him that the site is no longer up on the net and that we're waiting to hear
back from the Fraud Squad."
"But you've done
nothing wrong, you're sure of that?" he asks looking round at me severely.
"No, I told you -
I signed a few cheques."
"But that was before
the other two disappeared, before there was any suggestion that finances might not
be healthy."
"Yes, I said."
"I did tell you about
those revenue streams," says my dad, flicking over to CNN Financial.
"Yeah, I know,"
I say sadly, wondering suddenly what Nora's doing tonight.
"What do you want
to eat?" he asks.
I'm about to ask what
he's got in the flat but then the absurdity of this notion, strikes me.
"Whatever."
"There's this new
online sushi place," says my Dad. He presses a button on the TV console. A
keyboard appears from the table next to him and the TV screen turns to an internet
home page. He types in an address and suddenly a picture of a sushi bar appears
before us. The chef, looking slightly surprised, bows and says "Harrow, may
I take your ordah?"
"You can see it all
being made in front of you on webcam before it's sent off to your home," my
Dad explains to me. Then he says into the mike: "What do you recommend today?"
"The brue marrin
is very good."
"What? Oh, blue marlin?
Yep, give us a couple of those. Any fugu fish?" The chef looks alarmed.
"No fugu fish today,"
he says decisively.
"Fugu fish is the
poisonous one, if it isn't filleted in exactly the right way, the venom remains
in the flesh and you'll be dead in seconds," explains Dad.
"Shame they haven't
got any, then," I say.
"What else do you
fancy, kiddo?"
"I don't know. Salmon?
Tuna?"
"Good idea."
My dad orders lots of
things I've never heard of and then we watch them being prepared on screen, the
paper thin, surgically sharp knives stroking the fish into tiny strips and cubes
and the rice being patted and cut into shape. The only slightly disconcerting thing
is the one non Japanese member of the team who stands at the back, watching the
other chefs at work and picking his nose disconsolately from time to time. Unfortunately
the camera pans away from him just as he has finished the extraction process so
we don't see where his quarry ends up.
Anyway, twenty minutes
later our sushi, beautifully laid out with intricately carved vegetables and mysterious
fronds of greenery, arrives with a slightly overwhelmed guy on a bike and we set
it out on the coffee table before us.
Dad puts the screen back
to television mode. He's got over 600 channels I've already discovered. On one we
find a rerun of Fawlty Towers. We smile and sit back, mid sushi. We used to watch
it when me and my sister were kids and he and Mum were still together. But he just
wants to check what's on the other 599 channels and by the same we've scanned through
all of them and got back to Fawlty Towers on 178 - the seventies sitcom channel
- it's over and instead there's Are you Being Served? which we don't like.
At about eleven I announce
that I'm going to bed and he says he's going to do some work until what's-her-name
comes back (he doesn't call her that, of course, but I just cannot remember this
girl's name. Read into that what you will).
I brush my teeth in my
own bathroom and get into bed. Was ever any bed too big for one person? I feel as
if I'm in a hospital ward. Lauren will be in our bed. I hope she's on her own, the
idea of Peter with his head on my pillow, looking lovingly across at her, inches
away from her face under our sheets makes me shudder.
I stare at the ceiling
for a while gently torturing myself and then I reach across to the lighting control
panel. I press a button and the ceiling lights dim slightly but some others by the
dressing table come on. I touch another knob and the ceiling lights come back on
and so do the ones by the Jacuzzi. I try a third and the Jacuzzi lights go off along
with the main lights but some others by the bedside tables come on. The fourth puts
the main light on dimly and the Jacuzzi lights on brightly. The fifth and sixth
still leave lights on in various places in the room. By this time I've run out of
buttons - and patience - so I whack the whole panel a couple times and finally I'm
in complete darkness.
I sleep surprisingly well, probably because of the intense silence
and darkness of my new room which, because of the design of the building has a Jacuzzi
but no windows. When I wake up the next morning at just after nine I lie in bed
for a while trying to decide whether my Dad has gone to work yet. He must have.
I get up, put on a T-shirt and boxers in case what's her name is still here and
open the door to the main reception room. The sunshine streaming in through the
wall of glass opposite me hits me like a bucket of cold water, I stagger back and
close my eyes for a moment.
Slightly more accustomed
to the light I open them again. It really is the most beautiful day. Oh, God, why
hasn't someone told the weather about what's happening in my life. I've got no job,
no money, no career prospects, my girlfriend has chucked me out, I'm known by millions
as that tit from the up-its-own-arse website which has bitten the dust, and yet
standing here, I'm bathed in glorious, golden, late summer sunshine.
I find some orange juice
in the fridge and flick on the telly to interrupt the gentle, monotonous roar of
the air conditioning. I open the window but even though it's a relatively calm day,
this far up, this near the river, it's just too windy to stand outside in your underwear.
When I step back inside again, my dad's current girlfriend is just emerging from
their bedroom. She looks at me for a moment, her long blonde hair all over her face,
wearing nothing but a man's shirt which is undone. Her breasts are clearly visible
underneath but she makes no attempt to button up the shirt. They are pert and tanned
and remind me of Lauren's.
"Oh, hi," she
says.
"Hi," I say.
"Erm, I'm just staying for a while, did my Dad mention it?"
It's definitely the one
I met at breakfast in Knightsbridge. She looks blankly at me. Perhaps she doesn't
understand. Or even remember me.
"Oh," she says,
finally, without smiling. Then she walks over to the kitchen unit and gets herself
a bowl of cereal and takes it across to the settee. She switches on MTV. I do the
same and then I go into my bathroom, visualise those breasts and have a wank.
My plan, such as it exists, is to spend the next few days at
my Dad's just chilling. I'll call the model agencies again, keep in touch with Nora,
check in with Piers a few times, wait to hear from the police and see if Lauren
rings me again. I don't think I've got a cat in hell's chance of finding Guy, frankly.
The more I think about it, I realise that he is very sensible just getting out of
it. As soon I can, I think I'll do the same.
I watch more telly with the girlfriend who has established herself
Guardian of the Telly Controller and turns over quite arbitrarily without any consultation
or consideration.
I go for a swim in the vast empty pool in the basement of the
building. Then I have some lunch of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. I offer some
to Her. She smiles acceptance and scoffs it hungrily as soon as I put the plate
down in front of her. In fact eating things - and watching MTV, VH1, The Box and
some bizarre Brazilian soap opera - is what she seems to do all day.
Nora rings in the early
afternoon to ask 'how it's going'.
"How's what going?"
I ask, laughing.
"Things," she
says, sounding slightly hurt.
"You mean how's it
going sitting here in the middle of nowhere with a girl who just watches telly all
day and stuffs her face and can't speak a word of English," I say looking across
at her, wondering if she might understand this bit and react. Instead she slowly
puts another Pringle in her mouth and stares at the screen as two women set about
each other screaming and pulling their hair.
"What do you mean
'in the middle of nowhere'? Which girl?" asks Nora.
I mutter 'Oh, fuck', remembering
that she knows nothing about this. I suppose I can't pretend I'm calling her from
Chiswick but I don't want to get involved in a long explanation so I say: "My
Dad's girlfriend. I'm staying with him for a while."
There is a pause as she
takes it in and considers what to say. She obviously can't think of anything appropriate
so she instead she just says: "Oh, right, I see. So you're not in your flat."
"No, I've...I'm not."
"Oh. Well, I haven't
found out much more about Guy. I rang and left a message for Piers just to see if
-"
"Do you know where
Guy is?" I ask her suddenly.
"What are you talking
about?"
"You really don't
know where he is?"
"Course not; don't
you think I'd have told you if I did?"
"I'm not sure."
"Course I would.
Charlie, what are you saying?" I don't answer. "Look, I've been ringing
round his friends and acquaintances from Cambridge. We've got a stringer, you know,
a local reporter, working in the area too. I've even spoken to his brother in the
Galapagos Islands."
"And?"
"He didn't seem that
bothered. Obviously not a very close family. So the trail's gone a bit cold. You
haven't heard anything more then?"
"No, nothing at all,"
I sigh, getting up and walking round the room.
"Your dad hasn't
said anything?"
"My dad, no. Why
should he?"
"Oh, just wondered.
They're getting a bit tired of the story here at the moment. They're asking me to
do other things. Don't know anyone who had an affair with their cleaner do you?"
Suddenly she starts talking to someone away from the phone. I hear a shout in the
background. "Well, you shouldn't have left it there, should you? It was right
by my elbow," I hear her say. Then she comes back to me. "Sorry, where
was I?"
"Little accident?"
"Honestly, what a
stupid place to leave a cup of coffee." Someone is talking to her again. "Just
turn your keyboard upside down and pour it out. I'm always doing it; it doesn't
do them any harm. Except for the 'b' that sticks a bit - oh, and my 'v’ has been
playing up recently but you don't even take sugar so you shouldn't have any problems."
I'm laughing now. She whispers to me: "She can't even bloody write anyway,
it's probably a blessing. So, where was I? Oh, yes, you don't know anyone who's
had a thing with their cleaner, do you?"
"With their cleaner?
No, 'fraid not."
"Anyone who'd be
willing to say they had. What about some of your model friends? We need some good
looking young men, twenty to thirty year olds. We'd pay them."
"I'll do it."
"Erm, I think you're
a little bit too famous now," she says.
"Oh, don't say that,"
I groan.
"Besides I thought
you didn't like being in the paper."
"Nora, I still haven't
forgiven you for that," I say, seriously.
"I know, I said I'm
sorry. So what's on TV?" she asks obviously hearing the screams and dramatic
music in the background.
"It's a Brazilian
soap opera."
"Hey, what's happening
in it? We used to get them on cable in New York. I love 'em."
I squint over at the telly.
"This woman is running
through a house screaming for some reason. Every time she opens and closes a door
all the scenery moves...Oops, she's just slammed the door straight into the camera...oh,
no, a little hand's come up and opened it, that's lucky...for some reason you can't
see her face, we're just getting a shot of her bum, I don't think the cameraman
can keep up with her or something."
