fashion or... I don't know, office
furniture, or holidays," I waffle fluently, cobbling together some of the things
Piers, Guy and Lauren have said to me recently. Sounds good, anyway - we're on a
roll here.
"Suppose so. What
kind of things did you model?"
I really want to get away
from the modelling thing so I say quickly: "Clothes, holidays, laptop computers,
but this is a more exciting challenge."
"I think I've seen
your face. Did you do that one for a bank or something where you're walking across
a station concourse while everyone else is in slow motion."
"Yes. So what else
are you writing at the moment?" I ask pointedly, as the waiter, thankfully
not the one she's just stabbed, takes our plates.
"I've got to interview
a woman this afternoon who's just discovered that her husband is married to three
other women." She looks up at me over the top of her heavy glasses then she
pushes aside a stray hair that has fallen out of place as she has been shovelling
her food.
"Three other women?"
"I know, I suppose
if you're going to do these things you might as well do it big, really go for it."
"Why not? Do it in
style."
"Even if you fall
on your ass," she says taking a sip of wine.
We leave the restaurant at gone three o'clock. I can't believe
where the time has gone but I'm just relieved it has. As we make for the door, Nora
manages to take out another waiter, this time by walking into him as he is carrying
a stack of dirty plates. She is telling me about a piece she did some time ago about
people who have married their old school teachers, walking fast through the crowded
restaurant turning her head round completely to talk to me. I try and warn her about
where she is headed but perhaps she doesn't notice or she cottons on just too late
and so, either way, seconds later there are plates everywhere, one of which slides
elegantly down the back of a woman I recognise as a TV weather presenter.
"Oh, no," says
Nora, only mildly concerned. "Did I do that? I'm so sorry."
The weather presenter's
face has what could be described as a black cloud on it. She looks slightly absurd,
glowering at Nora, her familiar smiley face now contorted with fury while she tries
to see what kind of damage the dirty plate has done to the back of her bright pink
jacket.
"Oh, shit. What a
mess," says Nora. Is she enjoying this? "Don't worry", she says,
"that kind of fabric dry-cleans really well. I had a jacket like that - last
year."
The recipient of her helpful
observation opens her mouth to say something but is speechless.
"Just send the bill
to the restaurant - I would," says Nora, touching her shoulder kindly.
I say good-bye to Nora at the top of the street and suggest she
gives me a ring if she has any questions. She says she will do that and that the
piece should be in the paper on Monday.
As soon as I get back to the office I brief Guy and Piers on
the lunch. They seem pleased with how it went although I missed out the final disastrous
episode.
"She should be a
useful ally in the PR campaign," says Piers. "I met her recently at a
dinner party and I thought she could be helpful to us.
"Right, next thing
on the agenda for you mate is the launch party," says Guy. "We've booked
Frederica's - do you know it?"
"That big place in
Berkeley Square?"
"Yep, we've got the
whole place. Piers' dad knows the owner. Saved us a bomb. It's all booked for next
Friday."
"A week tomorrow?"
"Yep, hope you can
make it," says Guy, only half joking.
"Oh, yes, of course.
That's brilliant." I say, genuinely impressed.
"Our PR company have
developed a guest list for us. Can you look over it and let us know about any thoughts
you have - anyone else you think we should ask. Ta."
Scarlett hands me a file
with lists of names and their organisations. There are newspapers and magazines
- Vogue, Harper's, Tatler, GQ, Esquire, Wallpaper*, some TV presenters and a batch
of celebs,
furniture, or holidays," I waffle fluently, cobbling together some of the things
Piers, Guy and Lauren have said to me recently. Sounds good, anyway - we're on a
roll here.
"Suppose so. What
kind of things did you model?"
I really want to get away
from the modelling thing so I say quickly: "Clothes, holidays, laptop computers,
but this is a more exciting challenge."
"I think I've seen
your face. Did you do that one for a bank or something where you're walking across
a station concourse while everyone else is in slow motion."
"Yes. So what else
are you writing at the moment?" I ask pointedly, as the waiter, thankfully
not the one she's just stabbed, takes our plates.
"I've got to interview
a woman this afternoon who's just discovered that her husband is married to three
other women." She looks up at me over the top of her heavy glasses then she
pushes aside a stray hair that has fallen out of place as she has been shovelling
her food.
"Three other women?"
"I know, I suppose
if you're going to do these things you might as well do it big, really go for it."
"Why not? Do it in
style."
"Even if you fall
on your ass," she says taking a sip of wine.
We leave the restaurant at gone three o'clock. I can't believe
where the time has gone but I'm just relieved it has. As we make for the door, Nora
manages to take out another waiter, this time by walking into him as he is carrying
a stack of dirty plates. She is telling me about a piece she did some time ago about
people who have married their old school teachers, walking fast through the crowded
restaurant turning her head round completely to talk to me. I try and warn her about
where she is headed but perhaps she doesn't notice or she cottons on just too late
and so, either way, seconds later there are plates everywhere, one of which slides
elegantly down the back of a woman I recognise as a TV weather presenter.
"Oh, no," says
Nora, only mildly concerned. "Did I do that? I'm so sorry."
The weather presenter's
face has what could be described as a black cloud on it. She looks slightly absurd,
glowering at Nora, her familiar smiley face now contorted with fury while she tries
to see what kind of damage the dirty plate has done to the back of her bright pink
jacket.
"Oh, shit. What a
mess," says Nora. Is she enjoying this? "Don't worry", she says,
"that kind of fabric dry-cleans really well. I had a jacket like that - last
year."
The recipient of her helpful
observation opens her mouth to say something but is speechless.
"Just send the bill
to the restaurant - I would," says Nora, touching her shoulder kindly.
I say good-bye to Nora at the top of the street and suggest she
gives me a ring if she has any questions. She says she will do that and that the
piece should be in the paper on Monday.
As soon as I get back to the office I brief Guy and Piers on
the lunch. They seem pleased with how it went although I missed out the final disastrous
episode.
"She should be a
useful ally in the PR campaign," says Piers. "I met her recently at a
dinner party and I thought she could be helpful to us.
"Right, next thing
on the agenda for you mate is the launch party," says Guy. "We've booked
Frederica's - do you know it?"
"That big place in
Berkeley Square?"
"Yep, we've got the
whole place. Piers' dad knows the owner. Saved us a bomb. It's all booked for next
Friday."
"A week tomorrow?"
"Yep, hope you can
make it," says Guy, only half joking.
"Oh, yes, of course.
That's brilliant." I say, genuinely impressed.
"Our PR company have
developed a guest list for us. Can you look over it and let us know about any thoughts
you have - anyone else you think we should ask. Ta."
Scarlett hands me a file
with lists of names and their organisations. There are newspapers and magazines
- Vogue, Harper's, Tatler, GQ, Esquire, Wallpaper*, some TV presenters and a batch
of celebs,
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