The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Read online

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Of course. And with Pete?’

  ‘Oh, Pete? I found out he wore brown socks,’ Darren says nodding sadly. ‘I couldn’t possibly date a guy who wears brown socks, could you? And they were nylon. Yes, there’s always a brown-sock moment, sadly.’

  I steal a glance to see if he is winding me up but he looks deadly serious. ‘I could probably put up with that,’ I say. ‘If everything else was OK.’

  A rough-looking girl with a cigarette, coming the other way, barges into my arm and knocks me into Darren’s side. ‘Hey!’ I say, turning to look at her as she heads on down the street. ‘Just, you know . . . look where . . .’

  She stops in her tracks and turns back to face me. ‘You got a fuckin’ problem?’ she asks. She looks drunk.

  Darren seizes my arm tightly and forces me on along the road. ‘Don’t engage,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  I glance behind to check that the chavvy serial killer isn’t following us, and say, ‘Is it me or is London getting more and more aggressive?’

  ‘No, it’s terrible,’ Darren agrees. ‘One word out of place and you could get stabbed.’

  ‘So you’re not joking? About the socks?’

  Darren shakes his head. ‘They were horrible,’ he says. ‘The ultimate turn-off.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’

  We turn down a side street and then into Boot Street. ‘I’m loving these jeans though,’ he says. ‘They’re ever so comfortable.’

  ‘They look great on you too,’ I say. ‘They really make your arse look good.’ I pause and pull a face. ‘I mean, of course, that they really show off your arse. Your already fabulous arse!’

  Darren gives me a circumspect look and raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been doing squats at the gym all week,’ he says. ‘My arse better be looking good. You’re looking pretty smooth too, by the way. That outfit makes you look almost attractive.’ He grins at me cheekily.

  I’m wearing my favourite D&G little black dress, a black cashmere coat and my Christian Louboutin Robot Boots. ‘Yes, I thought black was safest,’ I say.

  ‘The boots are perfect,’ Darren says with a nod. ‘I’d quite like a pair of those myself. So what did you get up to last night?’

  ‘Oh I went to speed dating,’ I say. ‘I hate it, but . . .’

  ‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ Darren says. ‘I do all my shopping online these days.’

  ‘Do they do gay speed dating?’ I ask.

  Darren wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Then again, I suppose that’s all our bars and pubs ever are. Speed dating, speed shagging, speed splitting up. So not good then?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Same as you really. There’s always something wrong. There’s always a brown-sock moment when you realise that they have some terrible structural flaw. A terrifying number of them are really badly overweight these days. It’s scary.’

  ‘Not so much a problem with our lot,’ Darren says. ‘But I do know what you mean. I notice it when I go out to straight pubs. We’re turning into American burger-eaters. But I suppose if you’re in it for the long haul, you could always choose one and then put him on a diet.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘If you get that far . . . I suppose. But then, couldn’t you just have bought Pete some new socks?’

  Darren laughs. ‘It wasn’t that really!’ he says. ‘God, I love that you’re so gullible.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, you’re jolly convincing.’

  ‘No, it turned out Pete had a boyfriend up in Leeds.’

  ‘I thought he went there for work,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Darren says sadly. ‘But no. They’ve been together for fourteen years.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I logged into my email and his came up instead. He had been using my laptop and forgot to log out. And more fool me, I took a peep. And there were, like, three messages a day from this Lee guy.’

  ‘God, how awful.’

  ‘Pete made out that it didn’t matter because of course they have an open relationship, blah, blah . . . But I asked him, “Do I look like a side-dish for bored couples?”’

  I giggle. ‘Great line,’ I say. ‘I never think of things like that until after the event. And?’

  ‘He said that, yes, I did. Look like one, that is.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t so bad really. He said, yes, I did, and a very appetising one at that.’

  ‘Smarmy bugger.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you weren’t having any of it? Good for you.’

  Darren wrinkles his nose. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m thirty-five in October. I always promised myself that if I wasn’t married by thirty-five I would kill myself, so I don’t have time for any pissing around.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I say.

  He pulls me to a halt, and looks up at the blanked-out windows of the gallery. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ he says. He pulls an invitation card from his pocket and flashes it at me. It says, ‘White Box Gallery – Hoxton Square. Ricardo Escobar – Perverted Justice. Private Viewing.’

  ‘Shall we?’ Darren asks, gesturing towards the door.

  I squeeze his arm. ‘Sure, but first . . .’ I say. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘You wouldn’t think about . . . you know . . .’

  Darren laughs. ‘Oh, hon,’ he says. ‘Of course not. These days I don’t even get watery-eyed over them. I’ve had six-inch steel plating fitted all around my heart.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Because I really like having you around.’

  ‘Come on then,’ he says. ‘This is gonna be good.’

  As the windows and doors have been blanked out, the interior of the gallery is a complete surprise. The single, vast, white- walled room already contains about thirty people, mainly rather attractive thirty-something men. They are milling around appraising the huge black and white photos on the walls, or circling the giant installation in the centre. A few are chatting around the drinks table at the far end. Everyone of course is dressed in black.

  I feel suddenly nervous. Art exhibitions do this to me. I’m always terrified that someone will ask me for an opinion. For though I generally have the gift of the gab in most social situations, I have never been able to master that weird brand of art-speak people use at exhibitions. My opinions on visual art rarely extend much further than liking or not liking whatever is in front of me.

  ‘Jees! Will you look at that!’ Darren mutters, moving into the room towards the centrepiece.

  ‘I know . . .’ I say. ‘Amazing.’

  In the middle of the room are four life-sized figures. The first, a bare-chested, steroid-pumped, black-leather version of a gladiator, is standing on a sledge. He is holding the reins of three . . . how to describe them . . . virtual husky dogs I suppose you could say. These three ‘dogs’ are actually men though: men on all fours, in harnesses. They are wearing nothing but big labourers’ boots and leather shorts. They have little pretend puppy-tails and rather unnerving doggy masks hiding their faces.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ Darren says.

  ‘And so realisti—’ I say. But as I say it one of the reins twitches ever so slightly. ‘Oh my God!’ I laugh, stepping forwards until I am a yard away from the main centurion figure. ‘They’re real!’ I gasp, peering into the centurion’s face, which twitches with a restrained smile.

  ‘Awesome,’ Darren says.

  I walk around the figures, shaking my head. At least ten other people are doing the same. It crosses my mind that we look like a tribal circle surrounding these man-dogs. And as we are all dressed in black, we almost look like we are part of the exhibit – it’s quite unnerving. ‘Ouch,’ I murmur. ‘Are those pretend tails . . .’

  But then I realise that Darren is no longer beside me. He has crossed the room to the drinks table, where a heavy-set yet attractively swarthy guy in a black suit is talk
ing to him. I clomp my way across the marble floor to rejoin him.

  ‘So you like my installation?’ Swarthy asks, his Latin accent thick. He picks up a glass of champagne and hands it to me.

  ‘Oh, incredible,’ I say. ‘You’re the artist?’

  He nods.

  ‘Well, I’m speechless.’ It strikes me as I say it, that being speechless provides excellent cover for having nothing intelligent to say. I must remember it for future exhibitions.

  ‘And my photos?’ he asks.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to look yet,’ I reply.

  ‘OK, well do come tell me what you are thinking when you have finish,’ he says. ‘And you . . .’ He directs this at Darren. ‘Don’t go before you have give me your phone number.’

  As he moves away, I say to Darren, ‘Wow, that was quick!’

  Darren shrugs and leans in towards my ear. ‘He seems really nice, but he’s not really my type, to be honest,’ he murmurs.

  Darren and I follow the general direction and move clockwise around the room, pausing in front of the first photograph: a vast black and white macro-shot. The photos are taken at such close proximity and cropped so heavily, that it’s hard at first to work out what many of the images are of. This makes the whole viewing process a bit like one of those game shows on TV where you have to identify the object. Only the answers here are ruder, of course.

  ‘Wristband?’ I venture, studying the crisp image of shiny leather, flesh and chrome before us.

  ‘Yeah,’ Darren agrees, tipping his head to one side. ‘Wrist restraint, and a padlock.’

  ‘They’re amazingly crisp for such big photos,’ I say, wondering if that is technical enough to be repeated to the artist. I figure that it probably isn’t.

  ‘They’re rather beautiful,’ Darren says.

  ‘Oh, is that . . .?’ I murmur, moving onto the next picture.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Darren says. ‘Isn’t it?’

  I move close enough to read the little card to the right: Chrome ring and balls – Ricardo Escobar.

  As we move around the room playing our I-spy game, I also get time to check out the wondrous selection of men present. I’m sure that they are all gay, but who cares: it is a visual feast. And I’m shocked, yet again (for this happens every time), just how fit and good looking most gay men seem to be compared to the porkers I meet at speed dating. Of course they aren’t all model material: there are a couple of men in their late fifties, perhaps even early sixties. And there are far too many beards for my liking: sadly the gay community seems to be having a bit of a beard fetish at the moment. But I understand entirely when Darren whispers in my ear, ‘Cute guys! Honestly, I’d do any of them!’

  ‘Well that’s why Mark calls you Super Tramp,’ I say.

  ‘It is indeed,’ he laughs. ‘And see the little guy with the red hair over there . . . He keeps smiling at me. Could be my lucky night.’

  I glance across the room. ‘He’s a bit small for you, isn’t he?’

  Darren shakes his head. ‘Uh-huh!’ he says. ‘I love the pocket- monsters.’

  I shrug. ‘Well, I suppose someone has to.’

  ‘As long as they aren’t too up themselves,’ he says. ‘I find the little ones often seem to over-compensate for their lack of stature by being complete twats.’

  ‘Hitler syndrome?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly.’

  We are now level with the first of the three dog-men, and I make the most of the opportunity to have a good stare. ‘That floor must be very hard on their knees,’ I say, thinking as I say it that it’s a terribly old-lady kind of a comment to make, the sort of thing my mother might say. ‘And are those tail things actually . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darren says. ‘They are.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I say.

  ‘They sell those all over the place now. The masks too. Dog- training is very big at the moment.’

  I push my lips out and nod knowledgeably. ‘I’m sure,’ I say, thinking that I will have to get Darren to explain about dog- training to me another time.

  ‘Talk to me about something else,’ Darren says as we position ourselves in front of the next photograph. ‘These pictures are giving me a bit of a . . . Huh-um.’

  ‘Let’s hope the carpenter zips are well made,’ I laugh. ‘Wouldn’t want you breaking out.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Darren says.

  I resist glancing at Darren’s zips and turn to face the next picture. ‘I understand though,’ I say. ‘They are incredibly erotic.’

  And it’s true. Though I have never had any kind of leather fetish, and nothing but the most fleeting of S&M fantasies, the exhibition, the semi-naked men in the middle of the room, the pretty guys all around us . . . it is all conspiring to make me feel dreadfully horny.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Darren says. ‘Change the subject.’

  ‘It’s not easy when you’ve got a yard-wide cock in front of you,’ I whisper, laughing. ‘That is what we’re looking at here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darren says, pulling off his leather jacket and flopping it over his arm.

  ‘Oh, poor you!’ I giggle. ‘OK, erm, think about work . . . Did you finish the storyboard for Grunge!?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. It looks great,’ Darren says. ‘Oh, look . . .’ He grabs my arm and pulls me to the centre of the room.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘The shorts,’ he says, nodding. ‘Look at the shorts they’re wearing. Check out the zips.’

  I look left and right to check that no one is watching me and lean down to peer at the crutch of the men’s bondage shorts. I somehow sense that the guy behind the mask is grinning at my close inspection. Sure enough the shorts have double zips.

  I straighten up. ‘You’re right,’ I say.

  ‘You see. Nothing new under the sun,’ Darren laughs. ‘God, I think I need another drink, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say. ‘You stay there and think calming thoughts.’

  Amazingly, in the thirty seconds it takes me to fetch two fresh glasses of champagne, Darren has become ensconced in a conversation with the ginger pocket-monster who would be quite beautiful were it not for his size and shocking red beard. But les goûts et les couleurs . . . as the French say: there’s no accounting for taste.

  I linger beside Darren for a moment waiting for red-beard to notice me and include me in their conversation, which, I can’t help but notice involves him regularly touching Darren’s chest. When he eventually does glance at me, he simply raises his half- full glass and says, ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  It takes me an instant to realise that he thinks I’m serving drinks. ‘Sorry, no,’ I say, wondering as I say it why I’m apologising. ‘I’m with Darren.’

  Darren turns and breaks into a huge grin. He rubs my shoulder with his free hand – a soothing gesture – before taking the glass from my grasp. ‘CC, Dave, Dave, CC.’

  Darren leans towards my ear and says very quietly, so that only I can hear him, ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ Dave says. ‘It’s just that you’re dressed the same as . . . Sorry.’

  I glance around the room. The crowd has swollen to about fifty people. I now notice that of the five other women in the room two of them are indeed wearing little black dresses and big boots. They also happen to be serving drinks. I feel myself blush.

  ‘So, CC,’ Dave says. ‘How do you spell that?’

  ‘Just “C” – the letter “C”,’ I say. ‘Twice. It’s an abbreviation.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, smiling superficially and looking around the room.

  ‘Oh, but it does,’ Dave says.

  ‘Don’t,’ Darren tells him.

  ‘Oh,’ Dave says. ‘OK. Secrets, secrets!’

  Darren goes red and bites his lip. Dave glances at his feet. And then, thankfully, Ricardo joins our momentarily paralysed ensemble.

  ‘So, you have a chance to look?’ he asks, nodding and wiggling his
eyebrows funnily at me.

  Darren nods and raises his glass. ‘It’s stunning,’ he says. ‘If I were richer I’d buy one.’

  Ricardo nods and grins. ‘Maybe we can think of a way for you to earn one,’ he says, saucily. He turns to me. ‘And you? What are your thoughts? Give me the woman perspective.’

  I swallow. Oh God!

  ‘They’re really nice,’ I say. I think, Oh, get a grip girl: Nice? Really Noyce?’

  But my mind remains a desert. ‘I love them,’ I add.

  The only other thing I can think to say is that they have left me feeling horny, but that hardly seems appropriate. Why oh why can I never think of witty things to say at the right time?

  Dave wrinkles his nose and half-laughs, half sneers at me. ‘Personally,’ he says, turning to face Ricardo, ‘I feel that the exaggerated objectification of the human body as sex-toy is terribly exciting, and I am left wondering, is there not a note of intentional humour, or perhaps even, dare I say it, social comment in your work?’ He raises an eyebrow at me.

  Ricardo seems unimpressed though. He frowns at him and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘There isn’t.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dave says, looking suddenly less smug. He turns back to me, clearly having decided that I am far easier prey. ‘So what do you do, my dear? You’re clearly not an art critic.’ He laughs here at his own joke.

  ‘No, I’m in advertising,’ I say.

  ‘Oh advertising,’ he says with a definite sneer.

  ‘I take it you don’t like advertising,’ Darren says quietly.

  ‘Well, what’s to like?’ Dave laughs, clearly unaware that he is blowing his chances with Darren. ‘It’s really just a form of prostitution, isn’t it?’

  ‘Prostitution?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes,’ the gnome says. I have already stopped thinking of him as Dave.

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree that selling products you don’t believe in, to people who don’t need them, living on a planet that can’t afford the sheer environmental cost of them, is a form of prostitution?’ he asks.

  I shrug. Again words fail me. Under different circumstances I would agree with him – it’s actually pretty close to what I think about advertising myself. But the rudeness and brutality of his public attack have shocked me. The first phrase that comes to mind is, Piss off, you opinionated little prick, but I restrain myself.