Free Model Guy by Simon Brooke Page B

perpetually windswept DLR station and then ring
for a taxi which takes you along the dual carriageways, through the post-industrial
wasteland to a shimmering white residential Fort Knox, which has a surly security
guard and a 'Marketing Suite' which is permanently open.
      Dad has had a number of
girlfriends since he left my Mum but to be honest I tend to get them confused: they're
all thirty years younger than him, all blonde, all leggy and have names that end
in 'i' like Linzi, Leoni, Nikki and Toni. I'm sure most of them put a smiley face
in the dot of the 'i' when they sign their names although none of them have ever
written to me.
      Amongst other things my
Dad bought was a coffee table supported with the kneeling fibre glass figure of
a naked woman in a leather Basque which he proudly showed to me when I went over
there once. Holding our shots of frozen flavoured vodka, we circled it, studying
it intensely.
      "Sexy, eh?"
said my old man, eyeing up the cellulite free, rock hard curves of her behind in
a way that still makes me shudder slightly.
      "I think it's supposed
to be ironic, Dad." I said uneasily, trying to make out the woman's expression.
He walked round to get a better view of her face too.
      "Yeah, whatever,"
he said.

 
    When I finally penetrate the security and arrive at my Dad's
flat he has obviously just got up and is still in a sort of Kimono thing. My initial
reaction is to say 'I think you're a bit old for that, aren't you?' but then, of
course, that observation applies to his entire life so really what's the point?
Dad thinks he is Hugh Heffner made over by Stussy. My sister says that he is more
Austin Powers meets Burton's.
      "Hey Charlie,"
he says, hugging me and slapping me on the back. Unlike my mother, Dad does call
me Charlie and he seems to really like the name. Whose idea was Keith anyway? But
I still call him Dad, not Jared, as he sometimes asks me to. I suppose Jared is
similar to John, but then it was John who was married to my mother and fathered
me so I'm a bit sensitive about that.
      "Hi Dad," I
say, wondering in and looking around with a mixture of intrigue and trepidation
for his latest purchase. "Pool table's gone."
      "Mmm? Oh yeah, took
up too much space," he tells me, his voice echoing around the barn-like emptiness.
"Want some coffee?"
      "That'd be great,"
I say, drifting around and looking out at the view. In the distance a tractor is
pushing something into a hole and crane moves almost imperceptibly against the shimmering
skeins of cloud.
      "How do you have
it?" he asks looking, slightly apprehensively, at a black and chrome espresso
machine the size of a nuclear power station.
      "White with a couple
of sugars, please." I wouldn't expect him to remember that.
      "Espresso? Cappuccino?
Latte? Ristretto?"
      "Rigoletto? Ravioli?
Ravenelli? Oh, I don't know - just white coffee would be great, thank you."
      "O...K," says
the non-streak bronzed barrista. "Erm..." he yanks the handle off and
looks for somewhere to bang out the dregs. He looks along the line of identical
minimalist brushed stainless steel cupboard doors and chooses one. His smile indicates
that this is the one with the bin.
      "I can have instant,
Dad, honestly, whatever's easiest."
      "Nope, nope, this
is no problem...honestly," he says, mesmerised by the line of dials and buttons.
He presses one and suddenly boiling water begins to trickle down into the grate
below. He leaps back and curses again.
      Just then an angel appears
and saves us. I say that because a beautiful girl, straw blonde hair cascading over
her shoulders, wearing only a baggy white T shirt and a pair of tiny panties wanders
into the vast living area, the shadows of the window frames slipping over her shoulders
and clearly visible breasts as she glides along, hips swaying. She comes up behind
Dad, puts her arms around him, reaches up to kiss his neck and then gently, silently
and confidently takes charge of the coffee