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oh,
what was it? 'Warm but authoritative'."
      "That's you."
I say, turning her round from the chopping board and putting my arms around her.
      "Don't take the piss,
Charlie, this is serious," she says crossly, slapping my shoulder.
      "I am being serious
- that is you. You are friendly but authoritative."
      "Warm but authoritative."
      "Yeah, whatever.
Exactly," I say, kissing her neck.
      "Well, don't you
think that's good?"
      "Yeah, I do. So what's
next?"
      "Well he wants me
to go in and discuss some programme ideas with him and some of his colleagues later
this week."
      "That's great. So
what kind of programme ideas? Who for?"
      "We don't know yet
but they'll probably be lifestyle or property related. Perhaps something like Changing
Rooms or Ready Steady Cook, but with a new twist."
      "Brilliant. You mean
for the BBC or Channel Four or something?"
      "Well, it would probably
start off on cable but then it could transfer to terrestrial at a later date."
she says, letting the jargon roll off her tongue.
      "Hey, you could do
something for 2cool."
      "A tie in? It might
work, mightn't it? I'll suggest it." We both chop and stir in silence for a
moment then she says: "So you're going to do this thing then?"
      "Yeah." I say,
realising that I've already made up my mind. "Yeah, I am. What have I got to
lose? They're going to pay £35,000 a year and if the whole thing crashes I'll just
go back to modelling, like you say. Or I might even set up my own website."
      "Mmm," she says.
Dinner is actually ready now - grilled organic chicken, penne with homemade tomato
sauce and salad of rocket, cherry tomatoes, shaved parmesan and balsamic vinegar
dressing. But somehow we're not ready to eat yet, too lost in thought and excited
by the prospects of our future career plans stretching out before us.
      "I think we should
do it, both of us," says Lauren looking across at me. "I think it's time
we made a career change."
      "OK. Here's to new
careers," I say, holding up my glass.

 
    I only got into modelling because a friend of mine from university
wanted to do it. Paul was very good looking with his wavy, dark hair and Tom Cruise
eyes and he knew it. He was planning to take a year off after we graduated and he
had decided to try and earn some money as a model. He suggested I have a go too.
I wasn't that bothered, in fact I didn't really fancy the idea very much, but I
told him I'd come with him. So we both got some pictures taken by a photographer
he'd had recommended to him and we took them to a few agencies. Obviously we didn't
tell anyone.
      We started at the top
and not surprisingly were told that we both had a great look but it wasn't quite
right for them at the moment.
      "Never mind,"
I said, assuming we'd knock it on the head and go and work in a bar or photocopying
in an office like most of our friends. But Paul wanted to try some other agencies,
so one hot afternoon in July, AtoZ and Travelcard in hand, feeling like a complete
burk, I followed him from one address to another. On one occasion just as we were
leaving a girl called to us: "Sorry, excuse me a minute".
      Paul froze. This was it,
at last, a break - someone had seen what the others had missed, someone ready to
take a punt, trust an instinct. The girl looked closely at him and said: "Can
you leave this at reception on your way out", as she handed him a large envelope.
Whether it was simply economy of effort on a hot day or just casual sadism, I don't
know, but, either way, I was already pretty sick of this.
      Then, after I had been
so keen to leave yet another large, sun flooded room full of beautiful people talking
on the phone and surrounded by photographs of even more beautiful people, and had
walked into the stationary cupboard instead of out onto the landing, still saying
'OK, thanks anyway, g'bye. No problem, thanks," I secretly decided I'd do just
one more of these and then leave Paul to it.
      So, finally, we visited
a woman