Model Guy (50 page)

 
She smiled gently and
nodded.

 
"Good, I'm glad."

 
"How was France?"

 
"It was, it was...good.
Yeah, lovely."

 
I sensed we were skating
around this huge hole in the ice: desperately sticking to the periphery in case
we went too near the middle and fell into that icy water that could have drowned
us both.

 
"Lauren," I
paused for a moment, trying to think when I'd last used her name rather than 'babe'
or 'honey' or something. The formality and unfamiliarity of it threw me for a moment.
"I'm sorry." All my arguments, defences, explanations and carefully honed
phrases went completely out of my mind. "I'm just so sorry that I thought you
and Peter were sleeping together, I'm sorry I slept with Nora -"

 
Her face hardened at the
name.

 
"What's happened
to her?" she asked briskly.

 
"Oh, I don't know."

 
"She put something
in your drink?"

 
"Yeah, I don't know
what it was...something she was given at the party, except she used a double dose."

 
Lauren shook her head
in disbelief.

 
"She should be prosecuted,
the police -"

 
"I know, but I couldn't
necessarily prove it was her in a court and frankly, I just want to forget all about
her, about the whole thing."

 
She seemed to be thinking
over my implied question: would she forget about it as well? She sighed heavily
and put her glass down as I watched her closely, trying to read her thoughts.

 
"I still can't believe
you did that - slept with her." She could hardly bear to say it. I was silent.
What could I say? "How many...?"

 
This, I really couldn't
bear to go over.

 
"Twice. Look, there's
no excuse, Lauren, I was angry with you. I was feeling lonely, you weren't around.
Everything seemed different; I didn't know what I was doing." She nodded again.
"Oh, God, Lauren, I'm so sorry. Really, it was also because I was going...I
don't know...a bit bonkers, I think, with the whole 2cool thing and, like I said,
I was just feeling so angry with you for spending so much time with Peter."

 
She laughed gently. Sensing
my surprise at her reaction she said: "He told me about you finding him -"

 
It took a moment to realise
what she was referring to.

 
"Oh, fuck, that was
embarrassing. I can't believe I didn't realise he was gay. I think Sarah was about
to tell me when I spoke to her on the phone at her office but she got called away.
Oh, God, poor bugger - I really kicked the shit out of him."

 
She laughed again.

 
"Oh, don't worry;
he doesn't hold it against you. Poor Peter, Scott's left him for some girl on the
same course at college. He's heartbroken."

 
"Oh, no," I
said. "They seemed like a nice couple." The phrase stopped us both for
moment. "Are we still...?" I asked. She looked me directly in the eyes.

 
"I'd like us to be
Charlie, if you do."

 
I couldn't believe that
she thought I might not. I stared back at her. That familiar face, that way of sitting,
one long leg elegantly crossed over the other, her glass cradled in her lap. So
composed, self-assured. Suddenly I was brought back to the thrill I got on our first
dates together.

 
"I've changed since
this whole 2cool thing; you know that, don't you?" I told her.

 
She smiled sadly.

 
"Yes, Charlie, don't
forget, I've seen most of it at first hand."

 
"Of course. But can
you live with it? I mean, could you love this new Charlie?" I wondered if I
was talking her out of it. "But I haven't changed completely, though, you know."

 
I could see her blinking
back tears and smiling.

 
"I'll still leave
my underpants lying on the bedroom floor, I promise. I'll never remember when you've
invited people round for dinner and you'll always have to do the dusting again after
I'm supposed to have done it. There's still a lot of the old Charlie around, believe
me."

 
She opened her mouth to
say something but nothing came out, then the tears began to flow. In a moment I
was kneeling in front her. Unsteadily, she put her wine down, slopping it slightly
on the carpet, and rested her forehead against mine, sobbing gently. I held her
head in my hands and smelt her hair. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, tasting the
saltiness of her tears and then my mouth found hers. To think I'd nearly lost her,
this wonderful, gorgeous person who'd been my life for nearly the last seven years.

 
After we'd held each other
for what seemed like hours we began to talk. It was like we'd just started going
out together. She told me things about her I didn't know and I just told her about
the whole 2cool thing and Nora and my Dad and everything. At some points I'd stop
and say 'But you know this, don't you? Do you really want to hear it again?' and
she'd say 'Yes, yes, tell me.' She said at one point it was like 'going behind the
scenes,' finding out what was really happening.

 
Although most of it just
came out effortlessly, like a stream of consciousness, telling her about Nora was
harder. I had to explain that I wanted to do something dangerous, mad, unpredictable
as well as getting revenge for the Peter thing and her 'adultery'. The look in Lauren's
eyes showed how painful it was for her to have to hear about our relationship and
kept wondering if I should censor bits of it but I knew I had to be completely honest
and in fact from her own point of view she obviously found Nora intriguing too.
"Why did she do that?" she asked again and again. Finally she said: "I
feel sorry for her." Whether her judgement was damning or understanding I don't
know.

 
When I listened in that
the quiet, calm place we'd both finally reached, to her talking about Peter and
what they had been doing together I found myself understanding more about their
friendship. Peter had offered her something I couldn't - both professionally and
personally but I began to realise that that was nothing to feel to jealous of or
resentful of. Peter had, has, I should say, a part in her life and so do I. Thank
God.

 
Then we talked about the
future, what we both wanted from now on. Sarah had done the ground work, explained
to her why I wanted to do something so tough and challenging. I think coming from
Sarah, rather than from me, over a glass of wine on a sunlight terrace in France
rather than the familiar surroundings of our flat during one of our many rows it
had been easier to take in. She also explained to Lauren, she told me later, and
this must have tested all her PR skills and experience, that Lauren could be just
a bit overpowering, a bit controlling at times and perhaps that's why after nearly
seven years I had felt the need to rebel a bit, break out on my own and do something
that she didn't understand and didn't approve of. My own seven year itch.

 
Suddenly the quiet intensity
of that living room conversation is shattered by the noise of the market. Guy smiles
at me, realising perhaps why I have drifted off suddenly like this.

 
Our next course arrives.
Two plates are casually banged down in front of us. The fish is grilled to a crisp
brown and is glistening with olive oil and lemon juice. There's a little pile of
finely chopped garlic and parsley on top of each piece.

 
"Has Lauren got a
job in television, then?" asks Guy, having ordered two more glasses of Cava.

 
"Oh, yeah. Well,
funnily enough, Peter managed to sell a one off to the BBC about 2cool. The rise
and fall of it. They were so keen to get an exclusive that they accepted Lauren
as the presenter despite her lack of experience. She's good, though, everyone who
knows about these things says. I've seen her practice tapes, her show reel. She
really comes across well. Peter's producing it. Anyway, she's going to interview
me and Piers and we persuaded lots of other big name investors to take part."

 
"Persuaded?"
says Guy, smiling wickedly.

 
"Oh, some were a
bit unwilling but just we just mentioned badgers and funnily they became much more
approachable. It'd be great if you'd do an interview for them. She asked me to ask
you about that. You could really explain the thinking behind it."

 
Guy smiles again and looks
away.

 
"No, thanks. 'Fraid
not."

 
"Fair enough."
I take a mouthful of fish and let the flavour wash through me. Oh, God, who needs
drugs? "What was the thinking behind it?" I ask. "I mean did you
want to get rich or was it all just a joke - an economist's prank? Ha, ha."

 
"We economists are
known for our sense of humour," Guy informs me gravely.

 
"Of course. Seriously
though..."

 
"Oh, I don't know.
Perhaps I've also got the kind of intelligence that needs a sheep dog to keep it
on the straight and narrow. If we had made some money it would have been great,
really nice - certainly that was Piers' idea. But I think really I was just carrying
out an experiment. Everyone wants to be involved in something cool, glamorous, stylish,
something that everyone else is involved in." Suddenly his eyes are wide with
excitement. "Have you heard of Charles Mackay? No, well he was a nineteenth
century economist who developed the theory of the 'madness of crowds'. Basically
a person wouldn't necessarily invest in something if they're the only asked to do
it but if they see others investing in something, especially if it is people that
they admire or equate themselves with, they'll put their money in to it as well.
Even if - small detail, this - it doesn't actually exist."

 
"And I was just a
useful tool in your experiment."

 
He puts down his knife
and fork and raises his hands defensively.

 
"Mea culpa. It was
just that you were used to selling something virtual, something that wasn't real
- a lifestyle, an image in a magazine - so it was perfect."

 
"And what about the
badgers, the blackmail thing?" He carries on eating. "That was Piers wasn't
it?"

 
"Of course. I had
to admire him. We were getting stick from various people about their money, about
returns and the way they could see us spending it. Then he suddenly stumbled on
these, erm, parties, sort of things, and realised that most of the people that were
hounding us were at these little do's and so he had something on them. He even managed
to persuade a few of our more troublesome investors who hadn't been to them to go
along to one - and then, of course, they were caught."

 
"How did that fit
into your little experiment?"

 
"It didn't, that's
one reason why I had to get out of there."

 
I'm wondering how to ask
how desperate this desire to get out was. Was it a break down? But then he asks
me: "So what are you going to do now?"

 
"Well, I'm going
to start a model agency. Karyn, my booker at my old agency, is going to be my business
partner. My dad's investing in it. Scarlett is doing some scouting for us, you know,
going to clubs and bars and finding girls and boys who might have the right look
- as well as managing this band of hers. Zac's doing all the IT stuff because we're
going to be more web enabled than any other agency before - "

 
"And Piers is?"
Guy asks, smiling enquiringly.

 
"And Piers is not
coming within a million miles of it."

 
He laughs.

 
"Oh, dear old Piers,"
he says. "Thing is he had the contacts, he's got the charm, the chat."
Guy shakes his head thoughtfully, chasing some stray fish around his mouth with
his tongue. "All he needs now is a jail sentence."

 
"He certainly has
the chat. I spoke to him briefly on the phone just before we came here."

 
"How is he?"
asks Guy, with what looks like genuine interest.

 
"Apparently he's
setting up a company to sell these talking lavatorials."

 
Guy looks mystified.

 
"You know lavatorials?
Those adverts above urinals that you end up reading for a couple of minutes? Well,
he's met some kid who invented a little electronic device that fits into the bowl
and when it's peed on, it broadcasts a message. There's another one for the cubicles
so that when people sit on the seat, the device senses the pressure and begins the
spiel there too."

 
Guy looks at me, still
more mystified.

 
"Well, I'm sure there's
a demand for it," he says.

 
"Piers seems to think
so."

 
We eat. Then I ask:

 
"And what are you
going to do? What are you doing?"

 
Guy finishes his last
piece of fish and then shrugs his shoulders.

 
"I don't know."

 
"You don't know?"

 
"No, I don't know.
Is that a crime?"

 
"No, not at all,
it's just I always thought of you as being quite, you know, driven, organised."