Model Guy Read Online Free Page B

gave my order.
      "How do you mean?"
      "Chicken kiev, all
the butter."
      "Oh right, no, not
really."
      "That's the thing
about boys, you never have to watch your diet, do you?" she said.
      "No, I suppose not.
I just tend to eat any old thing," I said, laughing oafishly.
      "You're lucky, you've
got a naturally slim build," she said. Was there just a flicker of a smile
across her face as she realised the effect that this innocent observation was having
on me? I mean, it was a compliment, wasn’t it? "I bet you never put on weight,
do you?"
      "Yeah," I said.
"I mean no, not really."
      She definitely smiled
this time.
      "Do you do much sport
or go to the gym?"
      "Swimming - and I
play football on Saturdays." I watched her snap off a piece of bread stick.
"Why are you laughing?" She laughed more. "Because you sound like
a little boy talking about your hobbies to a friend of your mum's or something."
She laughs again. "I didn't mean to make it sound like that."
      "I collect stamps
too."
      She stopped smiling and
looked unsure for a moment as if she felt she ought to something polite to say about
philately. I let the confusion continue for a moment. Then I said:
      "I'm joking."
She laughed - amused by my joke or her own gullibility? Who cares? Lauren 1. Charlie
1.

 
    I loved the way she loved being annoyed by my teasing. It was
like playing along with my silly jokes annoyed her but she couldn't help it.
    Even if nothing had ever come of this romantically, I'd have
learnt something about how to market myself as a model, how to buy an ISA, how to
negotiate with hotels to get the best room rate and how to fillet a fish.
      That makes the rest of
our conversation sound so tedious but it wasn't. Lauren was just so on the ball.
About everything. Opinionated, perceptive - and funny too. Everything interested
her and she had strong views on every subject.

 
    Later having, asked about my background and my career she told
me about hers: she had done A-levels, two As and a B, but had decided to put off
going to college because she wanted to see something of the world. She had known
she had the potential to be a model, so she decided this would be good way of earning
money while she thought about what she really wanted to do with her life.
      "I just couldn't
work for anyone, could you? I've always needed to be my own boss," she said.
      "I don't know, never
done it really," I told her. "Work generally doesn't, you know, do it
for me."
      She stopped the expert
filleting of her sea bass and looked at me again. Was I being serious? I wasn't
sure. I was just giving her a provocative, enigmatic look which always works well
in shots for women's magazines, when my chicken kiev, which I'd just stuck my knife
into, spurted melted butter across the table at her. It exploded. All over this
beautiful elegant woman. In the middle of the restaurant. On our first date. Hot,
liquid butter, flecked with chopped parsley, dripping down her elegant cream-coloured
linen dress. A huge yellow smear. The restaurant seemed to go silent or was that
just the strange hissing noise in my ears, the kind you get before you faint?
      Eventually I managed to
drag my eyes away from the stain and look up at her face. She seemed expressionless.
Then she rolled her eyes (oh God, not a good sign, surely. Why? Why me? Why now?)
and suddenly smiled.
      "Charlie Barrett,"
she said. "You are a fuckwit."

 
    Waiters fluttered around. The owner's wife was consulted. Napkins
were produced. Advice was given. We finally ate although on my part every mouthful
was torture. As we ordered coffee and I emptied her sachet of sugar into my cappuccino
as well as my own, it occurred to me that not only could she carry off almost any
situation, anything that life, figuratively speaking, or me, literally speaking,
could ever throw at her, I'd never be lost or bored with this woman. I was right.
Lauren has an in-built compass so she always knows exactly where