hysteria that surrounded the first
generation of internet entrepreneurs."
"Wasn't all that
business just crazy?"
"Absurd."
Scarlett has got us a nice quiet, corner table at Dekonstruktion,
this week's scorchingly hip restaurant. After we have ordered tuna Carpaccio followed
by Steak and Kidney pudding for her and smoked wild boar on a bed of Pak Choi and
then Alaskan cod tagine for me, she says the one thing that I really don't want
to hear above all else:
"So, you used to
be a male model."
"Model," I correct
her. "I used to be a model. Unless, that is, you're a lady journalist."
She is unembarrassed:
"Oh, I'm no lady".
I decide not to wait for
the standard 'Do you shave your chest?' line (to which the answer is no, never)
and change tack: "Is that an American accent, you've got there?"
"Does it still show?
When I go back to the States all my friends say I talk like the Queen."
"I thought I heard
it," I smile, trying to smooth over the male model faux pas and also, I have
to admit, to avoid discussing 2cool in case she guesses that I haven't really got
a clue about what I'm talking about.
"My father's American
and I grew up mostly in New York but then I came to London to work after I left
journalism school about ten years ago."
"Do you like it at
the Post?"
"Uh huh, it's pretty
cool. I mostly get to do things like 'Which of these women is most likely to suffer
from cellulite in five years time?' and 'Men who spend more on beauty products than
their wives do.' You know, the big issues". She gesticulates with the fork
she has picked up and inadvertently stabs a passing waiter in the arm. He tuts prissily
but Nora continues regardless, clearly unaware of what she has done. "Plus
a few celebrity interviews."
"Really? Like who?"
"Oh, Debbie Harry
the other week."
"What was she like?"
"Big head."
"Oh, I bet a lot
of these people are really conceited."
Nora looks at me.
"No, she has a big
head." She spreads her hands around her face to make the point.
"Oh, right."
That communication thing again.
"They mainly employ
me to take the piss." Nora is saying. "But this is quite a fun story by
comparison. I think it'll be pretty big."
"If it all works
out," I say, consciously lowering expectations a bit.
"Sure, but even if
you all fall on your asses, it'll still be interesting."
I smile.
"You'll still get
a story."
"Sure. A better one
in a way."
I try to work out whether
she is being deliberately provocative or whether she simply doesn't appreciate how
annoying that sounds, but her innocent smile gives nothing away.
"You know Piers already?"
"Piers? Er, yeah,
we've known each other for a long time. He's quite a guy - never stops."
"A real ideas man."
"Always."
Our food arrives and I'm
quite relieved to have something to concentrate on.
"So why'd you give
up the male, I mean, the modelling?"
"This seemed like
an interesting project. They asked me. I'd been modelling for eight years or so
- it seemed like the right time to change careers".
"What experience
do you have in internet entrepreneurship?"
"None," I tell
her confidently, deciding that I'd better make a virtue of it. "That's the
point in a way, I've come to it fresh, no preconceptions, no baggage. Like I said,
we're a second generation dotcom, we've drawn a line in the sand after the first
wave and learned from their mistakes." Way to go Charlie! I almost believe
me.
"What experience
have you got in marketing?" she asks, shovelling food into her mouth as if
she hadn't eaten for a week.
"I've got a degree
in it."
"That all?"
Her bluntness takes me
by surprise but I get back into my stride: "Well, to be a successful model,
you have to market yourself effectively. After all, you're selling yourself as a
distinctive product at every casting and when you do a job you have to be in tune
mentally with whatever you're selling, be it
generation of internet entrepreneurs."
"Wasn't all that
business just crazy?"
"Absurd."
Scarlett has got us a nice quiet, corner table at Dekonstruktion,
this week's scorchingly hip restaurant. After we have ordered tuna Carpaccio followed
by Steak and Kidney pudding for her and smoked wild boar on a bed of Pak Choi and
then Alaskan cod tagine for me, she says the one thing that I really don't want
to hear above all else:
"So, you used to
be a male model."
"Model," I correct
her. "I used to be a model. Unless, that is, you're a lady journalist."
She is unembarrassed:
"Oh, I'm no lady".
I decide not to wait for
the standard 'Do you shave your chest?' line (to which the answer is no, never)
and change tack: "Is that an American accent, you've got there?"
"Does it still show?
When I go back to the States all my friends say I talk like the Queen."
"I thought I heard
it," I smile, trying to smooth over the male model faux pas and also, I have
to admit, to avoid discussing 2cool in case she guesses that I haven't really got
a clue about what I'm talking about.
"My father's American
and I grew up mostly in New York but then I came to London to work after I left
journalism school about ten years ago."
"Do you like it at
the Post?"
"Uh huh, it's pretty
cool. I mostly get to do things like 'Which of these women is most likely to suffer
from cellulite in five years time?' and 'Men who spend more on beauty products than
their wives do.' You know, the big issues". She gesticulates with the fork
she has picked up and inadvertently stabs a passing waiter in the arm. He tuts prissily
but Nora continues regardless, clearly unaware of what she has done. "Plus
a few celebrity interviews."
"Really? Like who?"
"Oh, Debbie Harry
the other week."
"What was she like?"
"Big head."
"Oh, I bet a lot
of these people are really conceited."
Nora looks at me.
"No, she has a big
head." She spreads her hands around her face to make the point.
"Oh, right."
That communication thing again.
"They mainly employ
me to take the piss." Nora is saying. "But this is quite a fun story by
comparison. I think it'll be pretty big."
"If it all works
out," I say, consciously lowering expectations a bit.
"Sure, but even if
you all fall on your asses, it'll still be interesting."
I smile.
"You'll still get
a story."
"Sure. A better one
in a way."
I try to work out whether
she is being deliberately provocative or whether she simply doesn't appreciate how
annoying that sounds, but her innocent smile gives nothing away.
"You know Piers already?"
"Piers? Er, yeah,
we've known each other for a long time. He's quite a guy - never stops."
"A real ideas man."
"Always."
Our food arrives and I'm
quite relieved to have something to concentrate on.
"So why'd you give
up the male, I mean, the modelling?"
"This seemed like
an interesting project. They asked me. I'd been modelling for eight years or so
- it seemed like the right time to change careers".
"What experience
do you have in internet entrepreneurship?"
"None," I tell
her confidently, deciding that I'd better make a virtue of it. "That's the
point in a way, I've come to it fresh, no preconceptions, no baggage. Like I said,
we're a second generation dotcom, we've drawn a line in the sand after the first
wave and learned from their mistakes." Way to go Charlie! I almost believe
me.
"What experience
have you got in marketing?" she asks, shovelling food into her mouth as if
she hadn't eaten for a week.
"I've got a degree
in it."
"That all?"
Her bluntness takes me
by surprise but I get back into my stride: "Well, to be a successful model,
you have to market yourself effectively. After all, you're selling yourself as a
distinctive product at every casting and when you do a job you have to be in tune
mentally with whatever you're selling, be it
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