Authors: Simon Brooke
Model Guy (43 page)
"Also I need to ask
you some more questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"Just a few simple
questions to help us with our enquiry. I'm sure they won't prove too demanding."
"No, sure."
"Right, when can
we deliver these things?"
"Where do you want
to deliver them to?" I ask, thinking out loud.
Not surprisingly Slapton
is a bit confused by this question.
"Well, that's up
to you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I suppose
it is." I watch the rain on the windows for a while and then make a decision.
"Can you deliver
them to my flat in Chiswick?"
"If that's what you
want."
"You know the address,"
I remind him pointedly.
"I've got it. What
time?"
I look around the apartment,
shiver again. I see the big plasma TV which will go on again very soon when Thingy
wakes up and I say: "Soon as poss?"
This takes Slapton by
surprise.
"Hang on a sec, let's
think. How about eleven thirty?"
"Sounds good to me."
"See you then."
He rings off. I go back
into my room, think about having a shave but decide I can't be bothered. I text
my Dad to tell him what's happening and ten minutes later I'm downstairs waiting
for a minicab from the one company that will pick up from this God forsaken place.
The taxi takes me to Tower Hill and I let the end-of-rush-hour
crowds pass either side of me like shoals of fish past a snorkeler. I buy a coffee
and a bacon roll for the tube journey. I feel nervous but sort of elated. I'm going
home, even if I do have to face Lauren. I pick up The Post at the tube station.
There's a story about some footballer getting thrown out of a nightclub and then
something about a little girl who died because she was turned away from a hospital
by a doctor who thought she just had a cold when she had something much more serious.
The parents are threatening to sue. Someone has called for an enquiry.
Nora has a piece about
a woman who left her husband and went off with her step father. I hardly recognise
Nora from the postage stamp sized photo of her by her name. She looks quizzically
over the top of her glasses. I feel I should ring her. If this thing gets sorted
out, or even just fizzles away to nothing, what will happen to us? I wonder.
On the next page there
is an advert for anoraks featuring Steve, one of my old mates from Jet Models. He'll
be taking some stick for that. He looks like a right burk, standing there in a horrible
fawn anorak, all zips and toggles and pockets, smiling inanely into the middle distance.
'A special offer from The Post - just £29.99 including postage and packing."
Not exactly one for your book. Still, at least he's earning.
By the time I reach our
tube station, I'm really feeling nervous. I take out my phone to ring ahead. Hang
on, why the fuck should I? It's my flat. I check for my keys in my pocket. They
suddenly feel very sharp, like an offensive weapon. I'll be stabbing them into the
lock in a few minutes.
As I walk down our road,
I find myself looking out for changes, like a soldier returning after the war or
someone coming back to a childhood haunt. Needless to say it hasn't changed at all
over the last few days. But something stops me in my tracks.
Peter's car. A dark blue
Lexus, parked just down from the flat. I peer in the window as I walk past just
to make sure. Yep, there above the dash board are some sunglasses that I've seen
him wearing. I check my watch - just gone ten. He could have arrived this morning,
certainly, but somehow I don't think so, the car looks like it's been there all
night. There are rain sodden leaves on the windscreen. My heart thumping with shock,
anger and an explosive, paralysing unhappiness, I carry on walking until I reach
what used to be mine and Laurens' home.
It looks innocent enough.
But the curtains are still closed.
Just as I'm putting my
key in the lock, some devious, masochistic part of me tells me to do it quietly.
I slip it in surreptitiously, open the door in silence and step inside. I close
the door very softly behind me and put my bag down. I can smell his aftershave already.
I feel my breathing becoming irregular as my heart starts beating faster.
In our bed! The two of
them.
Putting my head round
into the living room I see a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table.
While I was drinking champagne at my Dad's last night they were doing it here. Then
I hear Peter's voice. Very quiet, slightly muffled. Then a giggle. I have to stop
for a moment. I feel dizzy and physically sick. This is our flat. How could she
do it here? In our bed? How could she swap him for me so easily?
It's too much. I burst
into the bed room. Peter looks round in alarm.
"What the -?"
is all he can say before I grab him by the hair and drag him out of my bed. Out
of the corner of my eye I see Lauren's slim tanned leg slip back under the duvet.
Peter is lying at my feet
contorted as he tries to look up at me and move away from me at the same time.
"Charlie!" he
says, trying to cover his genitals while holding his head where I yanked his hair.
There are still stray hairs in my hand. "What are you doing here?"
"You fucking bastard,"
I yell at him. "You fucking, fucking cunt. How dare you?" My voice is
cracking as anger and unhappy surge through me. A good kick sends him sprawling
across the floor.
"Ow, shit. Please.
Stop it." He crawls away from my foot. "It's not what you think, it's
not -"
"What the fuck is
it then?" I sniff back tears and look across at Lauren.
Except that it's not Lauren.
It's a lithe, tanned body and there's blond hair but it's not
Lauren. The legs are a bit more sinuous and quite a lot hairier than Lauren's. My
mind is reeling and I'm not sure I'd recognise my own mother at the moment. But
I do realise pretty quickly that this is a bloke. I look a bit harder and see his
dick, nestling in its light brown pubic hair by the edge of the duvet. I look up
further up and there's the face of a young guy with a nose stud regarding me with
a mixture of terror and shock.
"Who the fuck are
you?" he asks, sliding out of the far side of the bed and protecting his groin
with the edge of the duvet.
Dumbstruck, I look down
at Peter who has by now edged over to the dressing table and is curled up half underneath
it.
"I told you,"
he says, still terror stricken.
"What's going on?"
I say a little unnecessarily. "Where's Lauren?"
"She's gone away
with Sarah. To France. They're staying with Sarah's parents. She said the flat would
be empty and I could borrow it. I've got friends from the States staying at mine.
Scott has a roommate so we..."
"Scott?" I mutter,
moronically. Peter nods in the young, blond guy's direction again. We stand there
like a tableau for what seems like ages. I feel slightly faint. Perhaps I'm just
dreaming this, hallucinating, even. I slump down on the bed and sense both men shrink
back further. I take a deep breath, put my head in my hands and find my arguments
with Lauren during the past few weeks repeating themselves. My stupid sneering comments.
You pillock. You stupid, stupid bastard. Oh, God, Lauren, I'm so sorry, I just thought...what
a fucking idiot. Peter's sexuality was probably obvious if only I hadn't been so
paranoid and suspicious. Finally I look across at Peter and say to him: "You're
gay?"
Peter appears baffled,
as if to say: look, I know you're blond and a model but...
"Oh, thank God."
I let it sink in for a moment. I suddenly feel wide awake, relaxed, full of energy,
euphoric, as if nothing bad could ever happen again. I stand up and move towards
Peter. He flinches and edges further under the dressing table but I pull him out
and lift him to a standing position. "Oh, thank God," I say again, and
I nearly hug him but then don't quite given that he's naked. Instead I just look
at him for a moment and then wonder around the room trying to take in the full significance
of my discovery.
"You've never slept
with Lauren?"
"With Lauren? Well,
no. Not at all, I don't really..."
"No, sure,"
I say running my hands through my hair, trying to come to terms with this new situation.
"And Lauren doesn't
fancy you? No, course not." It's only afterwards that I remember Peter looking
a little bit hurt at my instant supposition.
We all three stand in
silence for a bit longer. Two naked, terrified gay guys, one clothed, embarrassed,
relieved, oh, hugely relieved, straight guy.
"Oh, God, I'm so
sorry Peter. Are you all right?" I look up at his hair and then down further
at his plump, mottled flesh to where I kicked him. He smoothes his hair slightly,
fingering his scalp. He checks for blood as I discretely rub away any remaining
hairs from my fingers. Then he puts a hand on his back and stretches gently, assessing
the pain.
"Yes, I think so,"
he says. "Shall we, er?"
"Oh, sorry, carry
on," I say, overwhelmed with bonhomie. "I mean if you feel like it."
Neither of them looks
like they're exactly panting with lust at the moment.
"I meant get dressed,"
says Peter.
"I'd better get going,"
says Scott in an American accent. He locates his underpants on the floor and begins
to put them on without taking his eyes off me - probably concerned that I might
flip again and turn on him. "I have school," he explains, smiling nervously.
"Would you like some
coffee?" I ask them. "I'm going to make some."
"Um, well I'd better
be getting going too," says Peter.
"Oh, stay and have
a cup of coffee," I tell them. I want to celebrate.
"Um," says Peter,
looking across at Scott. They obviously decide to humour me - no sudden movements,
now.
"Have a shower and
coffee will be up in a minute," I say, making my way towards the kitchen.
Peter. Gay. It was so
obvious. I just thought that any man who came within feet of my beautiful girlfriend
would want to jump into bed with her. How can I ever apologise to her though? Poor
Lauren, I'm so sorry. I stop in my tracks as I think of her. She's done nothing
wrong, other than spend a bit too much time with Peter. When I think of all my stupid,
sneering comments. And I was wrong all the time. Fucking idiot. She's innocent of
all charges.
And then there's Nora.
Oh, God. I've used Nora to get at Lauren for something Lauren hasn't done. Poor
Nora. I think of that first night after we made love, wandering around naked - demure,
self-conscious.
What? What am I talking
about? She's deceived me time after time. Articles she's written. Her connection
with Piers. There are probably other things that I'll have the pleasure of finding
out about, too. Casual deception seems to be a way of life for her. I strayed, I
admit but I so, so regret it. I have to win Lauren back whatever it takes I decide,
filling the coffee machine with water.
I make some coffee and
a few rounds of toast into the bargain. I'm just putting it out on the breakfast
unit when the others come in, looking slightly anxious, slightly sheepish.
"So, did you have
a good..." I ask, realising that I'm not quite sure what the end of this jolly
bit of small talk will be. Luckily I manage to think of "shower?" just
in time.
"Yes, thanks,"
they mutter in unison. I get the feeling they're doing this just to keep me sweet
- and stable - as if they're taking part in a siege and that if they decline my
hospitality or offend me in any way I'll go for them again but I'm in such a good
mood I don't really care what they think.
Scott who is dressed in
a sleeveless, red Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt and very baggy, ripped jeans
is a film student it turns out. He takes his coffee black and looks at Peter a lot
for guidance - and protection, presumably.
"Why didn't she tell
me? That you were gay, I mean?" I ask, spreading a piece of toast liberally
with Lauren's mother's homemade marmalade.
"Well, I didn't tell
her until recently and by that time you and her weren't talking to each other really,
anyway. I only mentioned it at all because we bumped into an old lover of mine in
a bar," he says, cutting a piece of toast corner to corner. "I did suggest
she told you because I sort of got the impression you thought that there was something
going on between us but she said, why should she? It was your problem and...well,
she was really angry with you by that stage. You know what Lauren's like."
I smile at the thought
of Lauren standing on principle not wanting to be pushed into saying or doing something
she didn't feel she had to.