most of whom I've heard of, with a note of their agencies, some models
with agencies and figures next to them. "Sophia Kendall - £5,000," says
one.
"Is she doing a shoot
for us?" I ask Scarlett, pointing to her name.
"No, that's her attendance
fee."
"What? She's being
paid for coming to our party?"
"Yep. For..."
she runs her finger further along the line, pushing mine out of the way, until she
finds what she's looking for. "For a minimum of 55 minutes. Any less and she's
in breach of contract."
"Any more?"
I ask, not really interested but thinking vaguely of overtime - every model's first
thought (after travel expenses and buyouts).
"Sophia won't be
here for thirty seconds more than her contract states - our doormen will time her
entry and departure," says Scarlett, rolling her eyes towards her eyebrow ring.
There are other names
on the list: aristo model Henrietta Banbury, £4,000, one hour ten minutes, Blue
Peter presenter, Sarah Jones, two hours subject to other commitments on the evening,
exact timing to be decided with agent by 5pm, £2,000. And, oh fuck, the weather
presenter in the pink jacket, well, the pink, brown, yellow and red jacket. She'll
be pleased to see me. I can't help smiling at her fee: £500.
"Simon Smith, the
PR, is coming in at four to talk us through it and to confirm the other arrangements,"
says Scarlett.
"OK. Simon Smith."
I murmur, really just trying cope with the all names and information being fired
at me.
"Yes" says Scarlett,
picking up her phone. "He's a tosser."
Simon Smith from The Communications Game seems like a nice bloke
although he does engage in what appears to be an amateur arm wrestling match
with Piers. They call each other 'Wanker', 'arse face' and 'donkey bollocks' before
he sits down with me.
"We've invited A-list
celebs and movers and shakers. See people like Richard Branson, Jonathan Ross, Rik
Mayall," he explains, staring me hard in the face.
He fiddles with his silk
cuff links as I whizz down the list and nod approvingly.
"Anyone we should
add?"
"Um, there are a
couple. One is the TV producer Peter 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 over stepped the mark. For God's sake, it's one person
in 2,000.
"We don't really
have much more in the budget for models," says Scarlett.
"Oh, she usually
comes to parties free of charge," I say dead pan, 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 2,000 people. That's...."
"Half a million quid,"
says Scarlett calmly.
Chapter Six
"When 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 in through the door and then she 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 so we can hardly actually
see each other in it. It often occurs to me that it must dawn on people who come
for dinner or to our parties (Lauren loves entertaining) as they see our flat that
we actually
with agencies and figures next to them. "Sophia Kendall - £5,000," says
one.
"Is she doing a shoot
for us?" I ask Scarlett, pointing to her name.
"No, that's her attendance
fee."
"What? She's being
paid for coming to our party?"
"Yep. For..."
she runs her finger further along the line, pushing mine out of the way, until she
finds what she's looking for. "For a minimum of 55 minutes. Any less and she's
in breach of contract."
"Any more?"
I ask, not really interested but thinking vaguely of overtime - every model's first
thought (after travel expenses and buyouts).
"Sophia won't be
here for thirty seconds more than her contract states - our doormen will time her
entry and departure," says Scarlett, rolling her eyes towards her eyebrow ring.
There are other names
on the list: aristo model Henrietta Banbury, £4,000, one hour ten minutes, Blue
Peter presenter, Sarah Jones, two hours subject to other commitments on the evening,
exact timing to be decided with agent by 5pm, £2,000. And, oh fuck, the weather
presenter in the pink jacket, well, the pink, brown, yellow and red jacket. She'll
be pleased to see me. I can't help smiling at her fee: £500.
"Simon Smith, the
PR, is coming in at four to talk us through it and to confirm the other arrangements,"
says Scarlett.
"OK. Simon Smith."
I murmur, really just trying cope with the all names and information being fired
at me.
"Yes" says Scarlett,
picking up her phone. "He's a tosser."
Simon Smith from The Communications Game seems like a nice bloke
although he does engage in what appears to be an amateur arm wrestling match
with Piers. They call each other 'Wanker', 'arse face' and 'donkey bollocks' before
he sits down with me.
"We've invited A-list
celebs and movers and shakers. See people like Richard Branson, Jonathan Ross, Rik
Mayall," he explains, staring me hard in the face.
He fiddles with his silk
cuff links as I whizz down the list and nod approvingly.
"Anyone we should
add?"
"Um, there are a
couple. One is the TV producer Peter 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 over stepped the mark. For God's sake, it's one person
in 2,000.
"We don't really
have much more in the budget for models," says Scarlett.
"Oh, she usually
comes to parties free of charge," I say dead pan, 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 2,000 people. That's...."
"Half a million quid,"
says Scarlett calmly.
Chapter Six
"When 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 in through the door and then she 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 so we can hardly actually
see each other in it. It often occurs to me that it must dawn on people who come
for dinner or to our parties (Lauren loves entertaining) as they see our flat that
we actually
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