Model Guy (14 page)

 
"Obviously not."
Thanks Piers, I make a mental note to ask him about that when I see him. "So
you were just avoiding someone else you'd slandered?"

 
"No, no," she
says, holding her glass in both hands and looking away while she begins her story.
"It's really embarrassing, actually. I'd just done something really stupid.”

 
"Something else?"

 
"Something else?"

 
"I mean in addition
to that article."

 
"Oh, not that again."

 
"So what was it you
did that was really stupid?"

 
"I was sending this
email to my friend Gemma saying: 'I'm going to the ladies, meet you there.' You
know, it was for a girlie chat. Thing is we both quite fancy this guy in the office.
I'm sure he's gay but never mind. Anyway, unfortunately, her last name is Allworthy,
well that's the not unfortunate bit, after all it's quite a nice name, isn't it?
Don't you think? Allworthy."

 
"Lovely," I
say, wondering where the hell this story is going.

 
"No, the unfortunate
bit is that instead of clicking on 'Allworthy, Gemma' in the 'Send To' box, I clicked
on 'All Staff'."

 
She pauses.

 
"So all the staff
at the newspaper got an email from you inviting them to meet you in the loo?"

 
"Basically, yes."

 
I consider it for a moment.
Then I realise that actually it's probably the funniest thing I've heard all night,
all week, and I find myself almost crying with laughter. When I look back her, wiping
my eyes, she has a 'What can you do?' sort of look on her face.

 
"So did anyone turn
up?" I ask her, not too seriously.

 
"Well, I'm told that
quite a few people did. Even the boys from the mail room were sticking their noses
round the door out of interest. I think they thought drugs were involved. Apparently
the Fashion Editor went, but she doesn't have a lot do at the moment because there
aren't any shows on - as you know. Who else? A couple of people from the news desk
popped in. Actually it was quite sweet - the editor's secretary emailed me back
to say that he couldn't come because he had a lunch booked with the Home Secretary."

 
"Has he no sense
of priorities?" I demand.

 
"He'll never get
anywhere in journalism with that attitude," says Nora.

 
Just then the music pauses
and there is a kind of fanfare from the rather spookily placed mini speakers around
us. "Ladies and gentleman," says a voice. "This is 2cool2btrue.com."
Suddenly the video wall is alive. To the sound of some chilled out instrumental
beat which rises and turns into a dance anthem we see some of the images I saw in
the office but which are now enhanced. They seem to appear out of nowhere and disappear
by blending into each other, drawing us in and spinning us round. I almost feel
like I'm losing my balance at one point.

 
You can tell how impressed
people are with the graphics and the breathtaking special effects by the fact that
there is a slight pause after the show before the applause begins.

 
Guy then appears and says,
as if he means it: "Wow."

 
There is a ripple of laughter
from the audience and then he begins to speak without notes about the importance
of labels and branding in the third millennium, singling out, sometimes admiringly
and sometimes teasingly, but always charmingly, representatives amongst the audience
from Vogue, Dunhill, Tanner Krolle, Rolls Royce, Salvatore Ferragamo and Cartier
amongst others. Then he moves onto his theory that what they have done for clothes,
accessories, cars, electronics, and watches, 2cool will now do for the internet.
He is self-deprecating about his knowledge of internet technology and even more
so when he talks about dotcom start ups - and closedowns - to the further amusement
of the audience but then he talks about why 2cool will be different.

 
I look around me as he
speaks. There are certainly some very clever people here and many of them look intrigued,
heads to one side, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed shrewdly. Not necessarily wowed
- they're obviously too cool, too blasé for that - but they certainly seem interested,
intrigued by this rather serious, intense young man with pale skin and piercing
eyes, his dark hair receding into a widow's peak and his slight stoop. He looks
more like a political speech writer or a City economist than an entrepreneur, let
alone a style guru. Perhaps that is why his audience is so gripped - he is not one
of them but he certainly has a certain nervy, edgy charisma.

 
Beside me is Nora. Eyes
fixed in an intense, shrewd gaze that I have not seen before. She seems to be weighing
up every word and analysing it, somehow thinking beyond it. I ought to ask her if
she's going to write this up as an article. Is that what she's thinking? She looks
away from Guy for a moment and sees me watching her. We smile at each uncertainly.

 
Embarrassing. Never mind,
I could just be checking her reaction along with everyone else's like any good marketing
man.

 
But I'm wondering why
she is called Nora. She sure is a strange girl. Inviting the entire office to meet
her in the loo! Is she really that daft? I can't tell. Anyway, why should I care
that she fancies some bloke in the office?

 
Apparently slightly taken
aback and overwhelmed by the enthusiastic reception he generates, Guy mutters some
thanks and hands over to Piers before walking off the stage. He's the least smart,
cool thing about the whole evening and yet somehow by far the most intriguing. Piers,
by contrast, is confident and relaxed. He introduces himself, makes a few obvious
but funny jokes about dotcoms and designer labels, and then explains that food is
about to be served but first he would like to express the company's gratitude to
a few people for making tonight such as success.

 
"I'd especially like
to thank Simon and Charlotte from the Communications Game who have put in so much
hard work this evening," says Piers. "Simon, take a bow matey, well done."
There is a round of polite applause as people begin to look round to where the food
is coming from.

 
"Fuckin' arse wipe,"
hisses a voice next to me. It's Heaven.

 
"And also to Charlotte.
Charlotte...where is she?" A spotlight swivels round and falls on a small,
timid-looking girl wearing a pink ball dress obviously designed for someone bigger
and more outgoing. "Here she is. Well done, Charlotte. You've done a splendid
job here tonight." Charlotte beams, some people begin to applaud. "And
I know you haven't been well the last couple of days." Her smile weakens. "Poor
Charlotte." The smile evaporates altogether. "Chronic diarrhoea,"
booms Piers, sympathetically. "Sounds like it must have been awful." Charlotte's
face is frozen in a mixture of horror and a desperate supplication to Piers to just
fucking shut up. "Can't have been much fun but glad you've made it tonight."
A couple of people move discreetly but noticeably away from her. "And...er...let's
just hope there's plenty of Immodium or something in that beautiful handbag she's
carrying," adds Piers for good measure.

 
I can't bring myself to
look back at Charlotte but I am sure she is now on her way to the ladies either
to cry her eyes out or to...well, I find myself hoping like Piers that the Immodium
is working.

I turn to ask Nora what she thinks - as much as anything to sort
of explain my staring at her in that very obvious way during the presentation but
she has turned to talk to someone else.

 
"Hey, you look great
this evening," she says to someone just out of view behind a pillar. I look
round to see who it is and recognise her instantly. Instead of appearing flattered,
the weather woman looks alarmed by Nora's compliment and moves away quickly.

After the speeches I congratulate Zac, who has made no effort
in his dress at all tonight - baggy combats and tie-dyed sleeveless green T-shirt
with the words 'Eat the Poor' on it. He mutters something and crams some food into
his mouth as if he hasn't eaten for a week. Then I try and find Lauren. She and
Peter are also getting some food so I grab a plate and join them.

 
"What do you think?"
I ask casually.

 
"Pretty bloody amazing,"
says Lauren. "That film is incredible - I didn't know it was possible to do
that."

 
I smile modestly. I wait
for her to kiss me but she just shakes her head in wonderment.

 
"Very impressive,"
says Peter. "Is that PictureMark they're using?"

 
"Is is what?"

 
"For those lap dissolves
in between the stills and the principle sequences - is it PictureMark they've used
there? I'd heard it can do things like that, even in an off-line edit."

 
"It's PictureMark
Super," I lie blithely, chasing a giant tiger prawn around my plate and catching
it elegantly before I stab it, feeling the fork push its way in and the flesh giving
way to the sharp metal. "Do you want to dance, babe?" I suggest. "They've
imported this guy ‘specially from New York. He's only here for a few hours then
he's off to Ibiza. We're paying him fifty grand for it. Can you believe it?"

 
"Not yet," she
says. "Peter wants me to meet this woman from...where was she from?"

 
"Channel Five. They're
looking for new programme talent."

 
"I'll introduce you
if you want," I say. "I've just been talking to her. She wants to do a
promotion with us."

 
"Don't worry,"
says Peter. "We were at Cambridge together; she's an old, old mate."

 
"Sure," I say
and walk off. There must be a way to separate Lauren from him - perhaps with a crow
bar - I think as I wonder around the room. I suddenly realise that the girls on
the soundtrack arranged by the ultra cool DJ are groaning:

"Hey, babe.

Do you wanna ride me?

Do you wanna come inside me?"

 
Perhaps I'm just getting
old but that is bloody rude isn't it? Suddenly someone slaps me on the back.

 
"How's it going?"

 
It's Piers.

 
"Great," I reply
miserably.

 
"Splendid,"
he bawls.

 
I find myself talking
to a woman from an expensive shoe company.

 
"Think Jimmy Choo
on acid," she says.

 
"OK," I don't
think I could do that even if I was on acid.

 
"Think classic with
a surrealist twist."

 
"Right."

 
"We're talking deconstructionism
taken to its logical, terrifying conclusion – in terms of sling backs anyway."

 
"I see." I wish
I did have some acid now. Suddenly she takes a step closer towards me and says:
"After all, you know what they say: 'Shoes are the windows of the soul'."

"It is all pretty impressive isn't it?" I say to Lauren
as she nestles under my shoulder in the car on our way home. It's gone four and
we were almost the last to leave. Guy and Piers are still chatting up the remaining
potential investors and partners. Peter is talking to some 'old mates' from the
beeb and Nora must have gone without saying goodbye to me.

 
"Oh yes, it's amazing.
Your friend Guy certainly knows his stuff."

 
"He's brilliant -
so, what's the word? Cerebral. I think that's why they like him. They sense that
here is someone with something new, something different to offer. Did you have a
good time?"

 
"Oh, we did, yeah."

 
We? What's with this we?

 
"Peter enjoyed himself
too did he?"

 
"Oh, yes. It turned
out he knew quite a few people there. Mind you he knows so many people." Now
that his name has been introduced again it feels as if he is in the car with us,
crammed on the back seat. The atmosphere is suddenly soured. My arm's going to sleep
a bit anyway so I pull it out from under Lauren's head - perhaps a bit more roughly
than I had intended. We sit in silence as the car speeds along Knightsbridge.

 
Finally Lauren says: "Who
was that strange looking girl you were talking to?"

 
"Which strange looking
girl?" I ask unnecessarily.

 
"The one in the maroon
dress. You seemed to be having a great laugh at one point."

 
"Oh, her. That's
that journalist who wrote the piece in the Post."

 
"Oh right."
There is a pause as shop windows fly past, their reflections dancing over us - late
night stragglers, a few walking backwards looking for cabs and night buses, or joking
with their mates while others stagger around drunk. "Well you seemed to be
giving her a good talking to like you said you would".

 
Lauren's sarcasm hangs
in the air like a challenge. I try to neutralise it: "We discussed the piece
and she explained why she'd written it."

 
Silence.

 
"And that's that?"

 
Silence.

 
"What do you want
me to say? We discussed it. I told her what I thought of it, she told me why she'd
written it the way she had and that was that. Piers asked her to do it like that
apparently."