Authors: Simon Brooke
Model Guy (16 page)
Piers bursts in at lunchtime. He's just driven up from Gloucestershire,
he explains, where he’s been staying with friends who are all very excited about
the new site. A girl called Suzie who does PR for a newly launched line of luxury
French silks thinks they might be able to work together, he tells me, so will I
ring her? He throws a business card at me but before I can ask exactly what he envisages
us doing together Zac calls him over to show off some new visuals on the computer
and he goes into paroxysms of delight. "Have you seen this, Guy?" he asks.
"Here Charlie, look at this new gizmo our brilliant techno whiz here has cooked
up. It's just...just..."
"2cool2btrue?"
asks Scarlett.
"Yes, yes,"
says Piers. "It is, that's exactly it."
We crowd round the monitor
in Zac's corner of the room to watch a new computer graphic which allows us to sit
inside the new Bentley sports car and imagine we are being driven in it. We then
'drive' into a virtual mall and a chauffeur in the form of Oddjob from Goldfinger
("I wanted a driver who was instantly recognisable, an iconic chauffeur,"
explains Zac morosely) reaches out, picks up items and hands them over to us in
the back seat.
"You can sit in the
front if you prefer," he says. He taps away at the keyboard and suddenly we
are alongside Oddjob. "Or you can swap places with him if you'd prefer to drive."
"Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic,"
says Piers.
But Guy just says: "Great.
Look, I need to talk to you Piers. Erm, let's go step outside for a moment."
The three of us 2coolers
remaining exchange glances.
"That's incredible,
Zac" says Scarlett standing up straight and wondering over to her own desk.
"Even better with an E hangover."
"Most hi res graphics
look better if you're slightly drug fucked," says Zac, racing his mouse around
its pad.
"That's true. I think
I need something to jump start me a bit. I'm just going to get a shot of wheatgrass,"
says Scarlett.
"You've already had
a double this morning," I tell her.
"Have I? Christ I
have, haven't it?" She sits down and taps away at her keyboard a bit. Then
she says: "Spiruleena, that's what I need."
"What?"
"Spiruleena"
she says. "It's a nutrient derived from algae."
"Yum," I say.
"It's the dog's bollocks.
Want some?"
"I'd rather have
a ginger, carrot and apple". I can't believe I've just asked for this, especially
as if I'm offering it as a sane alternative.
"Sure. Zac?"
"Doctor Pepper, please."
"Have you any idea
how much sugar there is in those things? Like a ton in every mouthful."
"That's what keeps
me sweet."
Scarlett looks completely
mystified. As she opens the door to leave Guy and Piers come back in.
"Where are you going?"
asks Guy.
"Bikini wax,"
she tells him. Guy opens his mouth to say something but then just looks away, embarrassed.
Piers throws himself down in his chair and stares at his desk for a moment.
"Everything all right?"
I ask, partly out of genuine concern and partly to point out that hurried meetings
outside in the corridor with no subsequent explanation aren't exactly good for staff
morale.
Piers opens his mouth
but Guy speaks: "Fine. We just needed to talk about the second tranche of financing."
"Sure," I say,
relieved.
Then Piers opens a drawer
of his desk.
"Taste this,"
he says. He holds up a jagged piece of dark chocolate. I take it from him and put
it in my mouth and let the familiar sweet, cloying sensation flood over my tongue.
Piers is watching me:
"Just imagine - something that tastes like chocolate, feels like chocolate
and yet has no calories whatsoever".
"That's incredible,"
I say, running my tongue over my teeth. I swallow hard in near disbelief. "Every
woman in the country - and lots of men too - would go mad for this stuff. What is
it?"
He looks at me for a moment
- slightly confused, slightly disappointed.
"Well, it is chocolate
actually," he says throwing the bar back in the draw. "But just imagine
if you had something that tasted like that but wasn't chocolate".
Now it's my turn to look
confused and disappointed.
"Oh, right, yeah
it would be - great". I try and redeem the situation: "Very marketable".
"It would, absolutely,
very marketable" says Piers getting back into his stride. He gets up from his
desk and moves over to the window. "You see, Charlie..." and he is off
again.
I spend the day making appointments to meet some of the people
whose cards I collected at the party and take the opportunity to leave that evening
when Scarlett does, just after six.
"Do you think everything's
okay?" I ask as we step out of the front door and into street.
"How do you mean?"
she says.
"You know, with the
company, with 2cool?"
"Yeah. Why shouldn't
it be?"
"Well, I didn't like
that hurried meeting Guy and Piers had this morning. They sounded distinctly worried."
"Oh, that, well they
both cheered up later in the day, didn't they?"
"I suppose so."
"Don't worry - media
projects, especially major ones like this require a huge initial cash outlay. It
all comes out in the wash."
"Does it? I suppose
the important thing is that the investors still have confidence."
"Oh, yes. They're
not going to pull the rug from under our feet. They know that this is a second generation
ecommerce operation and has the potential to be like a major money spinner. Most
of them are just busting to get back into the whole net business as soon as possible,
anyway."
"Yeah, I just couldn't
help noticing how much money we're spending - like the party on Friday and things."
I hadn't originally planned to say all this to her but what the hell: "And
all those bills this morning. And those bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. What's
that all about?"
"Look, don't worry.
It's the same in the film business. Most creative industries are like this. It's
what they call the J curve, or the V trajectory or the U bend or something."
"If you say so."
I mutter, even less reassured. We march out of Old Compton Street into Charing Cross
Road, our speed and Scarlett's bright red dreadlocks terrifying some ageing Japanese
tourists.
"People who are really
closely involved in the development of a project often get cold feet at this stage
of its development," explains Scarlett. I think about. She's probably right.
"I mean, my sister, yeah?" she says. "She's a stylist, works with
Dazed and Confused and does a lot of pop videos, yeah? Anyway, she's bought a cat,
yeah? And it just won't go into the kitchen. Any other part of the flat - no problem,
but the kitchen? It's like she's spooked or something. It's the same thing, yeah?"
We walk along in silence
for a moment. It's no good - I've got to ask her.
"How is that the
same thing as 2cool's financial situation?"
"How's what the same
thing?"
"Your sister and
her cat."
Scarlett stops for a moment,
thinks and then carries on walking.
"Oh, shit sorry,
did I say that? That's the E talking again. Don't worry I should be okay by Thursday."
I can't wait.
We get to Leicester Square tube station and as she walks towards
the Northern Line barrier I say to her: "Bye then, see you tomorrow."
She looks around and then
apparently slightly surprised that I'm not coming all the way home with her, calls
to me: "'Kay babe. Stay beautiful, yeah?"
God, I hope no one heard
that.
That evening I go to see my Mum. It says something about my relationship
with Lauren at the moment that I think an evening with my Mum would be more fun
than one spent with her. I take the tube to Barnet but give up on the bus and take
a mini cab into the tightly knit pattern of suburbia in which she now lives. After
they split my Dad more or less gave her the family home since, thanks to the power
of advertising, or its financial clout anyway, he didn't need it anymore. My sister
regarded this piece of thoughtless generosity as the final insult. "Anyway,
how could I live in that place without him?" pointed out my Mum as the tears
dripped into her tea.
So now she lives in a
small thirties style semi in a quiet, non-descript street. It's actually so non-descript
that it always takes me a moment to confirm that it really is the right house and
the right street.
She opens the door on
the chain and then lets me in. She's getting liver spots on her hands, I notice
- they're already beginning to have that 'roast chicken' skin look of an old lady.
"Hi mum," I
say, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.
"Hello dear,"
she almost whispers.
"Brought you some
flowers".
"Oh." She takes
them from me. "I'm not sure if I've got a vase big enough for these."
"Oh well." I
mentally roll my eyeballs.
"Well, it's very
kind. I'll put them in something. Now do you want a cup of tea."
"I've brought some
wine as well," I tell her, holding up a bottle of Australian Chardonnay. We
always go through the 'Tea? I've brought some wine' syndrome.
"Wine? Really? Oh,
well, how nice," she says as usual.
We have shepherd’s pie, peas and diced carrots sitting opposite
each other in her spotless kitchen and I listen to her prattle on about the neighbours
I don't know and about my brother-in-law and how well he's doing at work but how
she wishes he would spend more time at home with my sister and the baby. She asks
how Lauren is and I look down at my plate as I say: "Fine, fine."
"And how's the new
job going?" she finally asks as she stirs a saucepan full of rice pudding and
I wonder why she never uses the microwave I bought her for Christmas two years ago.
I'm sure we ate better than this when we growing up - ratatouille and spaghetti
carbonara even made an appearance when I came home from university - but it's as
if she has withdrawn into a sort of culinary nostalgia, resorting to the familiar
comfort food of her childhood.
"It's going very
well," I tell her, as much to convince myself as anything. "We had an
incredible launch party on Friday at Frederica's, this ritzy nightclub in Belgrave
Square," I say, adding my own footnotes. "And now it's officially up and
running. You can actually visit the site if you want to. Go and use one of the machines
down at the library. Here, I'll write the address down."
"I know where the
library is," she says indignantly.
I laugh gently. "No,
I meant the address of the website, so you know what to type in."
"Oh, don't worry.
I'm not much good with computers. The woman in the post office was saying she still
can't use hers properly and I said 'Don't look at me'". She laughs sadly.
"Oh, go on, mum,
have a look." I'm slightly offended that she won't even check it out. "It's
incredible - amazing graphics."
"Graphics? You mean
the pictures?"
"Yeah, it looks fantastic."
"Oh, okay. I'll have
a go. I've got to take a couple of books back anyway. Actually, there's a new -
what are they called? - cypher cafe on the high street. I could go there and have
a coffee - a latte or whatever is they drink now."
"Yeah, that's a good
idea. You'll love it, mum. It's incredible, what they've done".
"Do you want jam
in it?" she asks carefully spooning rice pudding into two bowls that she has
heated in the oven.
"Please. You can
go virtual shopping on Bond Street or Fifth Avenue and find out what's hip in Hong
Kong or Melbourne at the moment."
"Oh, and that's right
up my street, isn't it?" We both the laugh at the idea and I'm glad to see
that she doesn't dissolve into tears this time.
I get in and watch Lauren sleeping silently. I take my clothes
off, brush my teeth, look at myself in the mirror and decide that with those ads
for comfy cardigans and geriatric baths looming I was right to make the career change.
"Sweetie, can you change the channel, I can't stand any
more of this crap," I mutter at Lauren from my position on the settee.
"Where's the controller?"
she asks, curled up in a chair next to me.