Model Guy (5 page)

This shoot is relatively painless. They only need three different
pictures apparently. It still manages to take all day, of course. I talk to Piers
and Guy quite a bit in between shots. They're actually nice guys. They're interested
in what it's like to be a model and I ask a bit about their new venture.

 
"I thought dotcoms
were all finished," I say, smiling to show I'm being deliberately provocative.

 
"The first generation
certainly are," says Piers. "It's all about timing. Those guys thundered
in without thinking and everybody - banks, investment houses, venture capitalists
- just poured money at them in a sort of blind panic, but if you looked at the business
plans very often there were no obvious revenue streams".

 
Guy says: "We're
about building stable business models - "

 
"With carefully targeted
audiences and correct market positioning," jumps in Piers.

 
"We're looking to
create market synergies with appropriate trading partners," says Guy, looking
at me intensely as if he's willing me to challenge him or ask him to elaborate.

 
Instead I say: "That
seems very sensible".

Lunch is a vast selection of sandwiches, cold chicken and salads.
It's one of the best lunches I've ever had on a job. There are fruit juices and
a kind of mineral water which I haven't seen before. According to the label it comes
from newly melted snows and glaciers at the tip of the Andes. The rain from which
this snow was made fell before the industrial revolution and so it is exceptionally
pure, it says. Glacial Purity. What does that mean? I hold it up to the light. Glacial
Purity. I like the sound of that. Mind you, when I see the menu and the receipts
for the food and notice that it's six pounds a bottle, I'd have to really like it.

We finish by just before five.

 
"OK, we're wrapped
guys, well done," says the photographer, a small, dapper man in black with
a cap of salt and pepper grey hair.

 
"We're wrapped everyone,"
echoes Piers.

 
"Thank you, Piers,"
says Hilary, folding venomously.

 
I take off my suit and
put it back on the rack and then start to put on my own clothes.

 
"Can I have a word,
Charlie?" says Guy.

 
"Sure," I say,
assuming that he and Piers are going to ask me to do some more work for them without
the agency - freelance, you might say. It's not that I'm particularly averse to
it, Penny has done very well out of me. Besides, it happens. Everyone does it.

 
Sure enough, he guides
me to one corner of the huge open-plan living room and says quietly: "We wondered
if you'd be interested in working for us."

 
"Mmm, could be."
Play it cool, see what they want and what kind of rates they'll pay. What would
Lauren ask?

 
"We think you're
the kind of guy we're looking for, for our venture, you know, just from talking
to you today," says Piers. "You've got the right look, the right manner."

 
"So, you want to
do something without the agency?" I ask, as if suddenly I'm not so sure about
this and will need to be convinced - and remunerated adequately.

 
They exchange glances.

 
"Yeah," says
Guy, laughing gently. "We'd like you to help with our marketing."

 
I let it sink in for a
moment. "Really? You mean, not modelling." I'm not handing out flyers,
that's for sure. God, how bloody insulting.

 
They laugh a bit more
this time.

 
"No, full-time marketing,"
says Piers, his dark brown eyes fixing on me. "I get the feeling you're pretty
bored with this game aren't you?"

 
"New challenge?"
suggests Guy, raising his eyebrows.

 
"You've got a degree
you haven't used yet," says Piers.

 
I think about it for a
moment. This is a proper job they're talking about. I'm about to ask whether I'll
have to wear a suit then I realise that I should probably find out about something
a little more serious, such as private health insurance or non-contributory pension
schemes or something. Instead I just say:

 
"Ummm".

 
"Well, think it over,"
says Guy, handing me a card.

 
"It does sound very
interesting," I say, trying not to sound like a complete dingbat. "It's
just that I haven't done any marketing for, well, since I was at university."

 
"Oh, you've got the
basics," says Piers. "This thing can really market itself."

 
"Anyway, the important
thing," says Guy, "is that you've got the personality and the look. We've
done the hard work, what we need is someone to charm the investors and customers,
schmooze the media a bit. We'll brief you on the company and what we're doing. We'd
like you to be the face of 2cool2btrue.com."

 
"2cool2btrue?"

 
"dotcom," adds
Guy, helpfully.

 
"It's a second generation
internet venture, learning from the mistakes of the first," says Piers.

 
"Yeah, you said.
But what does it do exactly?"

 
"Have you got a moment
now to talk about it? Shall we go for a drink somewhere?" says Guy.

We find a quiet pub across the road and Piers buys three Cokes
while Guy begins their presentation. By this time I'm over the initial shock and
a bit more switched on. I decide to play devil's advocate a bit.

 
"So what's different
about 2cool2btrue? I mean what's your unique selling point?" I ask.

 
"I thought you'd
forgotten all your marketing stuff," says Piers, setting down the drinks. "USP's
already, I'm impressed."

 
Guy ignores him and pauses
for thought for a moment. "Image is everything these days, isn't it?"
he begins, putting his hands together in a prayer position. "Labels, market
positioning, brands are what counts. No one, well hardly anyone, buys things today
because they need them or because they're the cheapest or whatever. They buy products
because of what is says about them. Look at advertising in the fifties and sixties
and even the seventies - it was all about things working better than their competitors
-"

 
"Or being cheaper,"
interjects Piers.

 
"Exactly, or being
cheaper, but no one really cares about that nowadays."

 
"Mmm," I say:
it all makes sense to me but I decide to keep looking sceptical.

 
"Now it's the label.
You buy Armani, Mercedes, Nike or Apple Mac or Smeg cookers or whatever, not because
they're better put together or they fit you, and certainly not because they're cheaper,
but because you want to be seen with them.

 
"Take your trainers,"
says Piers.

 
I look down quickly at
them.

 
"What make are they?"

 
"Nike," I say,
pretending to have to look.

 
"But lots of other
people make them - why not George at Asda, for instance?"

 
"What make of jeans
are those?" asks Guy.

 
"Levis. Engineered."

 
"Why not M&S?
Their jeans are just the same, only slightly cheaper."

 
"Because you'd feel
like a middle-aged man."

 
"What kind of car
do you drive?"

 
"I don't - don't
need one."

 
"Okay, your Dad.
Volvo? Audi?"

 
"Not a good example,"
I say.

 
"Oh, sorry, is he....?”
Guy asks, awkwardly.

 
"Dead?" suggests
Piers, helpfully.

 
"No, he's not, he's
alive, very alive. Too alive, if anything. Anyway, he drives a Porsche."

 
"Ah ha," says
Guy. "Middlescent?"

 
"Mm?"

 
"Middle-aged man
trying to be an adolescent," he explains.

 
"Sort of." I
groan at the thought of him.

 
"Underwear?"
says Piers.

 
I don't want really want
to think about my Dad in his underwear, actually, but Piers is off.

 
"Armani pants are
really just like anyone else's - M&S or John Lewis - except that they say 'Armani'
on them. Or 2(x)ist if you're really cool. And, of course, only you know that when
you're wearing them, don't you?"

 
"Yes," I say.
Because I do. Like now. Like Lauren says, always wear good underwear to a job -
don't want everyone to see your old grey Y fronts when you change your trousers.

 
"So it's all about
the label, the image. Brand image is so important. Armani will not let just anyone
sell their underwear, for example. If you want them to supply you, they'll come
and inspect your shop to make sure that you're not some pile-it-high, sell-it-cheap
merchant in Leyton High Road."

 
"Okay," says
Guy. "So you get the idea. At the beginning of the third millennium, the label
is what counts. Look," he points out the window at two black kids walking past.
"See that? 'Dolce & Gabbana' all over their T shirts. People don't even
want designs these days, the label is the design. The label has to be visible -
the bigger the better."

 
"That's why these
companies are diversifying - you can now buy Armani for the home, Ralph Lauren paint.
You'll soon be able to buy their food." I think of the Harvey Nichols’ coffee
and chocolates I bought the other day for Lauren's mum when we went over for lunch.

 
"Everything must
have a label, otherwise we're just not interested," says Piers.

 
"So 2cool2btrue.com
is a label."

 
"Exactly," says
Piers. "Think of an ultra chic, upmarket website."

 
"Like Armani.com?"

 
"Armani.com is just
the web presence of the company."

 
"Well Mercedes must
have a pretty cool site."

 
"But again, it's
the just the website of a smart car company, not a smart website in its own right,"
says Piers.

 
"2cool2btrue.com
will be the web equivalent of Armani, Prada, Rolls Royce, Wallpaper*," explains
Guy.

 
"You'll be proud
to have it on your Favourites list."

 
"Your boss will be
impressed when he sees you visiting it at work."

 
"What will you sell
then? Clothes?" I ask, playing with a beer mat.

 
"A whole lifestyle
experience," says Guy.

 
"People will be able
to live 2cool2btrue."

 
"They'll want to
live it."

 
"People like you."

 
"People who want
to be like you."

 
"Very flattering."
I offer, mainly just to halt the tide for a second.

 
"Nothing of the sort,"
says Guy, "It's just effective marketing. 2cool will be the smartest, coolest,
hippest thing in cyberspace and you will be the human face of it."

 
I gaze up at a sign saying
'Bar Snacks'. 'Cod Almighty: tasty bite size cod pieces battered served with our
own tartar sauce' £3.95. Vegetable lasagne served with chips and salad. Dressing
of your choice. £4.95'

 
A large screen TV is playing
American football at the back, slightly out of focus. An old man with a pint of
mild is trying to watch it, brow creased with confusion and irritation at the mystifying,
blurred images. He reaches over almost painfully to tap ash into a huge grubby plastic
ashtray emblazoned with the name of a type of lager. Pubs, when he was a lad, had
pianos, ham rolls under a glass dome and busty, blowsy landladies - not big screen
all sports cable television and Australian backpackers wearing the T shirts with
the pub's corporate owners' logo and a name badge.

 
Glacial Purity. Six pounds
a bottle.

Chapter Four

 
"I think it sounds
like an excellent opportunity. Pass me the balsamic vinegar," says Lauren.

 
"It does sound quite
exciting, doesn't it?" I do as she says. "But I'm just a bit wary - it
all seems a bit too clever, somehow."

 
"That's probably
what somebody said about television - or the internet," says Lauren.

 
"And half a dozen
other crack pot schemes we've never heard anything more about."

 
"Oh, Charlie, this
isn't balsamic vinegar, it’s washing-up liquid."

 
"Is it? Sorry. Here
you go. I am interested - just a little bit sceptical."

 
"Well, nothing ventured,
nothing gained. I think this is an opportunity staring you in the face," says
Lauren, picking some basil leaves off the plant in the window sill, which is now
bathed in the low, evening sunlight. "Check it out - if the worst comes to
the worst you just go back to modelling."

 
"True."

 
"Anyway, I had some
interesting news today," she says, in a bashful, little girl kind of way.