Free 2cool2btrue by Simon Brooke

Beaumont-Crowther—you’ve heard of him?”
    “Oh, yes, of course,” says Simon, scribbling on the list.
    “And the other is my girlfriend, Lauren.”
    Simon and Scarlett exchange glances and I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark. For God’s sake, it’s one person in two thousand.
    “She usually comes to parties free of charge,” I say deadpan, realising what a terrible lost money-making opportunity this is for her.
    “Splendid,” says Simon, shuffling the papers together. “I think you’ve approved the menus, haven’t you?”
    “I haven’t,” I say. It comes out slightly petulantly so I add, “I wouldn’t mind having a look.”
    Silently Scarlett takes out another file and I read through the menu of Japanese-style black cod, poached sea urchins, miniature smoked reindeer soufflés. Champagnes: Pol Roger, Laurent Perrier, Krug. Price per head: £250.
    “Bloody hell! £250? Times two thousand people. That’s…”
    “Half a million quid,” says Scarlett calmly.

Chapter
    6
    W hen did you hear?” I ask Lauren.
    “I got back from a casting this afternoon. I was just putting my key in the door when my mobile went and it was Peter.”
    “So what’s it for again?” We’re lying on the settee. We’ve just made love. Lauren told me about her audition within seconds of my getting through the door and then pounced on me. We did it in the living room—something we haven’t done for ages. Well, not since we, I mean Lauren, had the settee dry-cleaned. The mirror here is an antique, faded Venetian job resting on the white limestone mantelpiece. I sometimes wonder if the people who come for dinner or to our parties (Lauren loves entertaining) realize that we actually live the scrubbed-pine, neutral-coloured, elegantly understated, sunlit lifestyle we spend so much of our time advertising. Sometimes even I’m not quite sure where our work ends and our real lives begin.
    I push my face into her breasts, kissing and biting them gently.
    “Charlieeeee,” she says, pushing me away. “Stop it. Aren’t you interested?”
    “Of course I am. I told you, I’m so pleased for you, babe, honestly. What’s the show again? Sort of a dating thing?”
    “Well, each week we take an ordinary person and the idea is that a group of experts—psychologists, advice columnists and other people—assess who would be the right boy or girl to go out with that person, and then I have to find one with the help of their friends, on the street, at a club, at work.”
    “That’s great. How many are up for it?”
    “There are just three of us. I got through the first two rounds just on the strength of my audition tape alone.”
    “You’re a star. I told you.”
    “How was your day?” she asks, rearranging her hair and sniffing it for some reason. Must be a girlie thing. I sniff my armpit in reply and tell her, “Pretty busy. I had lunch with this journo who’s going to write something about the site.”
    “That’s good. Did you fix that up?”
    “No, Piers did. She was bloody weird. Dressed like a tramp; bizarre clothes that didn’t match, wouldn’t match anything really.” I can see her now, sitting opposite me at the table. Intense and provocative. Totally unself-conscious. I’ve never felt quite so closely observed. Even casting directors don’t look at you that deeply, they just check out your face, but she seemed to be going further. Probing, penetrating. Was she laughing at me throughout the whole meal? Or is that how she is with everyone? She must be clever. When I asked her about her career she told me she went to Vasser and Columbia journalism school. Perhaps if you’re as bright as her it’s tempting to take the piss out of everyone else, the less bright of this world. Especially a former male model who’s trying to persuade you that he works for the planet’s coolest website.
    “And?”
    “Erm,” I’m shaken out of my unexpected reverie. “Erm, oh God, and then, when we were leaving she crashed