How To Lose Weight And Alienate People. Ollie Quain

Or possibly self-righteousness. Definitely self-indulgence.

      ‘Give them something else, then,’ I tell him. ‘Lose the spiritual stuff and find another party piece.’

      He peers at me.

      ‘You know, a prop, a talking point, a gimmick …’ I explain. ‘What about a pig? George Clooney used to bang on about his pot-bellied one the whole time and everyone always says what a regular dude he is. Make sure you opt for traditional swine like him, though, those tiny micro ones are way too 2010 and dubiously bred. You wouldn’t want animal rights groups on your back.’

      Now, he yawns. We stand in silence, and I really mean silence. It feels weird, being in London and hearing no sound whatsoever. Actually … what’s that? I hear a very faint humming noise. Possibly the buzz of anxiety from a neighbour running low on Prosecco or Jo Malone candles. Then I realise it is coming from Maximilian’s gigantic steel fridge.

      ‘Well,’ I say. ‘This is, er, … fun.’

      He drains his bottle of water, then crunches the plastic container into a ball. ‘It wasn’t my idea, it was Barb’s,’ he replies, flatly. Irritability now edging past the guardedness and arrogance.

      ‘Charming.’

      ‘But obviously, I am glad you’re here.’

      ‘Oh, clearly you are. Although, I have to say you were a lot more convincing as a wild dog human hybrid in The Orc’s Progress than you are now as the welcoming host in your own home.’

      He gives me the faintest hint of a smile. ‘I would say touché but then the “pretentious wanker” badge would be a done deal, wouldn’t it?’ He pauses and throws the crumpled bottle of water in the direction of a steel column by the door that leads out onto the terrace. Annoyingly it sails over my head and lands perfectly in the slot at the top. ‘Look, I’m not great at entertaining, never have been. Not a very attractive trait, I know …’

      It is impossible to put into words how attractive he looks as he says this. His sudden body movement has caused beads of sweat to slide down between his pectorals and then one, two, three, four … they trickle over his eight-pack as if they were driving over speed bumps, and consequently disappear under the low-slung waistband of his tracksuit. But just as a new batch of droplets are about to begin their journey, he ruins the show by yanking out the T-shirt from his pocket and putting it on. I force myself to speak.

      ‘Don’t worry, you’re doing okay. I wasn’t expecting to arrive and find you setting up for a game of Twister. But I suppose if I was being really picky, you could have said “hello”.’

      He rubs his head with his towel and I notice a small ‘Z’ tattoo on the inside of his wrist. I’m surprised he didn’t have it lasered as soon as he found out Zoe had cheated on him.

      ‘Didn’t I even do that? Fuck … sorry. Let me get you some tea or something.’

      ‘What’s the “something”?’

      He goes over to the fridge – I can almost taste the trail of Issey Miyake he leaves in his wake – and opens the door. Every shelf is packed with row after row of Fiji water, each bottle placed perfectly in line with the label turned out.

      ‘Is that the only choice for “something”? I ask.

      ‘Yes, this would be the “something”.’

      ‘Well, you’ve redeemed yourself a little bit in the pretentious wanker stakes. I was fearing coconut water.’

      He starts opening cupboards randomly, briefly reminding me of Luke in Adele’s kitchen.

      ‘Bet I lose points for not knowing where the glasses are kept, though … the housekeeper usually leaves some out.’

      ‘I’m fine with the bottle,’ I tell him, although I am intrigued to see what he keeps in those cupboards; whey powder, protein bars, supplements … no real food. Interesting.

      ‘Who the fuck drinks coconut water, anyway?’ asks Maximilian.

      ‘Celebrities. It’s the showbiz refreshment of choice … especially post work-out. You must know that? Everyday there’s a picture on the TMZ website of some ambitious personality vacuum leaving a West Hollywood studio gripping on to a yoga mat and a carton of the stuff.’

      He shrugs. ‘I’ve never used the internet.’

      ‘You what?’ I try to imagine the self-control and the complete indifference to modern culture that must require. It is mind blowing. ‘Aren’t you remotely curious?’

      ‘No. Barb does my official site, but I’ve never looked at it. Occasionally, I look at a computer screen when my financial advisor is here … but I don’t even have an email address.’

      ‘And you’ve never Googled yourself?’

      ‘Why would I need to do that?’ His eyes focus directly on mine for the first time. ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea of who I am.’

      I’m still considering how to reply to this when Barb clip-clops in. She winks at me, then nudges her client in the stomach and pretends she has hurt her knuckle on his rock-hard abdominals.

      ‘That’s what you call marketable goods, right, kiddo?’ she gushes. ‘Bet you’ve never seen anything like it.’

      ‘Him,’ mutters Maximilian. ‘Him.’

      ‘Yeah, you, er … must have a really good team of trainers,’ I say casually, in a bid not to sound as if I am agreeing too wholeheartedly. ‘Or do you just have one really mean one?’

      ‘I don’t have any,’ he says, his voice flattening again.

      Barb’s BlackBerry vibrates. She checks the caller ID and immediately answers it.

      ‘Yeah, it’s me. Shoot … uh huh. I’m listening.’ She covers the phone with her hand and glances over at Maximilian. ‘It’s JP. I’m going to take this in the study and put him on speaker with Nicholas. FYI, Maxy, Vivian was telling me she also acts.’

      As she leaves the room, I shake my head at him. ‘When she says I “act”, she doesn’t mean I act in the way that you act.’

      ‘What way would that be?’ he asks, indicating to me to sit down at the large glass table in the centre of the room. ‘Acting is acting. Either you are or you’re not.’

      ‘I mean, I haven’t hit that level … doing movies and stuff,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve appeared in lots of commercials. Have you ever been in an ad?’

      ‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘I don’t do advertising.’ He adds this in the same tone as Martha Stewart might insist she has never bought pancake mix. ‘We’re talking about you, though. What about television drama … done any of that?’

      ‘Yeah, a fair bit.’ I sit down in a Perspex dining chair. ‘The best role I’ve had was the first one I landed after college: a prostitute in Prime Suspect. I featured prominently in the first two-hour episode but then I was garroted and dumped in a lock-up.’

      ‘You got to work with Dame Helen Mirren?’ comments Maximilian. ‘Many actresses would kill to work alongside her …’

      ‘… and more often than not pretend to have been killed too,’ I laugh, but he only reciprocates with another tiny flicker of a smile. ‘Have you ever died on screen? I mean, acted as if you were passing away, not been crap in the role.’

      ‘I nearly died in A Son and a Lover of pneumonia.’

      ‘Oh yeah, I remember. You were skeletal …’

      All the papers reported on Maximilian’s dramatic weight loss for the role, especially as he was still only a teenager. It seemed extreme then, but