Lauren tuts and moans as I turn over, yet again. I can see myself being portrayed suddenly on some TV documentary as a crook. I've defrauded people. Interviews with angry creditors and innocent investors who were taken in by me. I think of the money we've been spending. I suppose the most I can hope for is that I look naive not criminal. On Sunday Lauren and I go to a lunchtime barbecue with some other models from the agency and some friends of hers in Clapham. Sarah and Mark are there and as we stand by the French windows, glasses of Merlot in hand we have a quiet, conspiratorial laugh together about how much, Sh!! we actually hate barbecues. "Botulism in a bun," says Sarah taking a drag of ciggie and watching our host manfully trying to flip a crumbling homemade hamburger with an unwieldy kitchen utensil while being advised by his spouse. Then she asks: "So, how's the new job going?" "Bit difficult at the moment," I say, looking out at the garden. "Oh, sorry to hear that." There is a pause.
