The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Read online

  I smile at her and feel a little guilty that in my dreaming I have failed to notice the departure of Cheryl and Cynthia, and that Betina is now encircled by men – men apparently discussing Top Gear.

  Here, I can only agree with my gay friends: heterosexual men truly do have the strangest conversations. Right now they are arguing about whether Jeremy Clarkson is a tosser or, according to Martin, a very cool dude.

  I mean, hello?

  In the kitchen, I find Cynthia and Cheryl blowing smoke out of the back door. As I enter, Cheryl is saying, ‘Since September last year!? Oh you poor thing!’

  When she catches sight of me she jumps. ‘Oh! Hello.’

  ‘Hiya,’ I say. ‘I have been sent to find out where you have vanished to. Poor Betina is being ambushed by the Jeremy Clarkson fan club.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Cynthia says, glancing furtively along the corridor. ‘You know how it is. We were talking about sex.’

  Cheryl pulls a face. ‘Can you believe Cyn and Carl haven’t had a bonk since . . .’ she says.

  ‘ Cheryl!’ Cynthia protests. ‘Don’t . . . you know . . .’

  From this I deduce that though my sex life is public domain, for the married women amongst us, it’s clearly a private club.

  Cheryl pulls a face and stubs out her cigarette on the side of the doorstep.

  ‘Sorry,’ Cynthia says. ‘Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. If you can carry the plates through, and you the sauce there, and I’ll get the gougère from the oven.’

  ‘So what have you done with the kids?’ I ask as we head through to the other room. Carl’s previous birthday dinner had suffered a constant stream of interruptions as Chloe and Lilly found a never-ending series of reasons to come downstairs.

  ‘Oh, they’re at my sister’s,’ Cynthia laughs. ‘Never again! Not after last time.’

  This leads inevitably to a round of kiddy conversation, another constant in our dinner parties. It’s not that I don’t like kids, it’s not that at all. It’s just that there’s only so much you can say about them before it all goes around again. I mean, I like sunflowers. But I’m not going to talk about them every time I see anyone.

  And so I listen, and smile, and nod as we hear about how well Chloe and Lilly are doing academically at the new school (I mean, they’re five and seven, for Christ’s sake) and how well Thomas, Pete and Betina’s little lad, is doing at toddler group, and finally a round of baby advice for pregnant Cheryl which includes the charming dinner-table advice that Pampers are worth the extra cash because Tesco’s own-brand leak (shit presumably) all over the shop.

  I struggle to remain present in the conversation. I know I want kids myself, but I can’t help but remember fondly the conversations we used to have in the old days about ecology and politics and books.

  After dessert we give Carl our birthday gifts. Most of these are generic items from Habitat – candleholders and paper-weights which I know for a fact Carl bins as soon as no one is looking. He must do, otherwise there would be no visible surfaces left in the place.

  I give him a Deelish wallet, a freebie from work which he of course loves. Carl is the only heterosexual man I have ever been able to buy for. I just look at what my gay friends have and buy him the same thing. Mark met him once, and unforgettably described him as a poor wee gay man trapped in a big strapping hetty body.

  Finally, Carl gets out the port, and Cynthia and Cheryl drift outside for another cigarette and, I presume, a fresh round of analysis of Cynthia’s and Carl’s missing sex life. It’s a shame I’m being excluded from that one, as really I’m quite the expert.

  And then Carl goes to the toilet, and Pete follows him, and I am left, uncomfortably with Betina and Martin.

  Within a group of seven people there are a myriad of combinations possible. Some of these work like clockwork, and others are about as comfortable as a weekend at Guantanamo Bay.

  For reasons unknown to me, though I get on OK with Pete and Betina, and can tolerate Martin when he’s with Cheryl quite efficiently, this particular threesome has always felt like walking on glass. I say for reasons unknown . . . actually, I have my suspicions that Martin and Betina are having an affair. Or at the very least, have had one in the past. I think I’m the only person to whom this has occurred, and guess that they somehow sense that I have picked up on it. I also suspect that Martin was, and probably still is, closer to Brian than he lets on.

  Whatever the reason, today is no exception: silence falls across the table, and I am just thinking up excuses why I might have to leave the table myself when Martin asks, somewhat drunkenly, ‘So, you ever see anything of old Brian?’

  I stare at him for a moment, composing myself.

  Brian has never been a subject of dinner conversation here, and, I’m pretty sure, everyone knows why.

  ‘No,’ I eventually say. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t,’ Betina chips in, bless her.

  Martin shrugs and runs his tongue across his front teeth. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I’m just asking . . .’

  ‘Anyway, I really have to nip to the . . .’

  ‘So how come you two never had kids?’ he continues. He’s definitely sozzled.

  ‘Martin!’ Betina protests.

  I think, Such a shame . . . things were going so well . . . ‘Hey,’ Martin says. ‘Just because it didn’t work out in the end . . . I mean you guys were together for . . . how long was it?’

  ‘Five years,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yeah, five years. So, in five years, I mean, it could have happened.’

  ‘Martin, really!’ Betina says. ‘I don’t think this is appropriate . . .’

  ‘Chazza doesn’t mind, do you?’ Martin asks.

  Before I can formulate a polite way of saying that, ‘Yes, I do mind . . . And don’t ever call me Chazza,’ he continues, ‘I mean, did you always know it wasn’t gonna work out . . . sort of woman’s intuition or something . . . or didn’t you want kids at all?’

  ‘I—’ I say.

  ‘Because, of course, it’s obvious enough that Brian did.’

  ‘I have to . . .’ I say. And then I pause. ‘What does that mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Please!’ Betina exclaims, now looking wide-eyed and shocked.

  ‘What?’ Martin asks. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Why is it obvious that Brian wanted kids?’

  ‘Martin! Shut up,’ Betina whines.

  ‘Don’t tell me to shut up!’ he mutters, slopping more port into his glass.

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ Betina whispers, as if this is somehow going to prevent me from hearing.

  I laugh sourly. ‘OK, whatever this is, that’s enough. What don’t I know?’

  ‘Oh!’ Martin says, nodding exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, sorry.’ He raises a finger to his lips and says, ‘Shhh!’

  ‘Betina,’ I spit. ‘If you don’t tell me what you’re talking about, I swear . . .’

  She licks her lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that, Brian, you see . . .’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Martin says. ‘He’s got kids. I can’t believe you don’t know that. Surely, you know that, right? I mean, it’s been two fucking years . . . it’s hardly news.’

  ‘What do you mean, kids?’ I ask, performing a quick bit of mental arithmetic. ‘How can he have kids? Plural? And what do you mean, two years?’

  Betina nods slowly, then says, terribly, terribly quietly, ‘Twins. They had twins.’

  Martin swigs at his port. ‘Did you really not know that?’ he asks.

  ‘Betina’s right,’ I say, standing. ‘Shut up! Just, shut up!’

  As I leave, Betina scoots around the table sliding chairs underneath as she does so, but I’m too quick for her.

  I run upstairs, and barge into the bathroom.

  Pete and Carl look up at me. They are kneeling in front of the toilet. The seat-cover is down, and Pete is rubbing his nose.

  Carl is holding a
rolled banknote. He smiles at me and raises a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word to the missus,’ he says. ‘Cyn might find this a bit sordid. You want some?’

  I back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me. I hear Carl say, ‘I thought you locked the door.’

  ‘I thought I did, sorry, old chum,’ Pete replies. ‘You don’t think she’ll tell Betina, do you?’

  I am trembling with shock, and though I never really blub these days, my eyes are watery enough to be blurry. I need somewhere to be alone.

  I cross the landing and take the first door I find – a bad choice, because, of course, this is one of the children’s bedrooms.

  And there, seated on a Barbie quilt cover, surrounded by paraphernalia which could have belonged to my own little girl, I sit and gnaw my knuckle and mutter, ‘Fuck Brian! Fuck him,’ and wait for my heart to slow.

  When I finally make it back downstairs, word has clearly spread. Everyone looks up at me wide-eyed.

  I wave a hand at them as if batting a cloud away. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Whatever.’

  But of course it isn’t fine. My shock is subsiding, but now I’m being assailed by waves of mounting anger. I’m just hoping to keep it bottled until I can get away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Martin says, incongruously raising his glass at me, as if in a toast. ‘Bad choice of subject.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well, at least now I know, eh?’

  ‘So stupid!’ Cynthia mutters. I’m not quite sure who she means. Brian? Martin? Me?

  ‘How old are they?’ I ask. ‘Did you say they’re two?’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Cynthia says.

  ‘How old are Brian’s kids?’ I ask, my voice quivering.

  ‘They’re two,’ Carl answers, provoking a glare from Cynthia. ‘I think she needs to know,’ Carl tells her, with a shrug, then to me, softly, ‘They’re just two, a week ago. They were two last Thursday. I’m sorry, CC.’

  ‘I couldn’t know she’d be upset,’ Martin says. ‘I mean . . . it was just a bad choice of subject. But I couldn’t know.’

  I take a deep breath and grasp the edge of the table. ‘Yes,’ I say, with artificial poise. ‘Bad choice. Never mind, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cynthia says. ‘Let me get you a coffee or something.’

  ‘In fact, Martin,’ I continue. ‘You’ll probably want to remember never to bring that subject up again. With anyone.’

  He wrinkles his nose at me and nods. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do,’ I say. ‘Because, when you ask a woman of my age, a woman who is forty this year, why she hasn’t had kids, the answer will usually be either that she hates the fuckers – which will make you feel uncomfortable, or that she loves them, but her boyfriend doesn’t, or didn’t, which will make her feel bad, or that she can’t have kids, which will make everyone feel bad.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin says. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Or in my case, seeing as you’re so keen to fucking know, it’s because the guy she was with, your friend Brian, felt that it wasn’t quite the right time for them to have kids, and convinced her, against every instinct she ever had, to have an abortion. Whereupon, he dumped her.’

  ‘Oh,’ Martin says.

  ‘Yes, Oh!’ I spit. ‘And then, apparently, he fathered another child, sorry . . . make that two children with another woman. And seeing as it takes nine months to make a baby, and seeing as these kids are now just two, that would mean that he did this magical deed, that his sperm entered . . . whoever’s vagina, a mere two months after he dumped me, that is to say, a mere two months and two days after he brought me home from the abortion clinic.’

  ‘Golly,’ Pete says.

  ‘Yes, golly.’

  Cynthia reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.

  ‘You knew,’ I say simply.

  ‘I thought it best, if . . .’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But I really need to go home now. I really, really do.’

  Numb

  I sit and stare at the steam rising from my cup of coffee.

  It’s a beautiful day outside, possibly the first spring day of the year, and I remember how years ago, when I bought this place, the low sun used to stream in through the kitchen window. I even still have a pair of old sunglasses in the kitchen drawer – I used to wear them when sunny mornings coincided with a hangover.

  That whole era had been full of optimism. I had a new flat and a new boyfriend (Brian) and a new life.

  And then there is today: I just feel tired and empty.

  After Martin’s dinner party revelations I had expected an anxious, sleepless night, but in fact I slept like a dead woman. But despite nine hours of uninterrupted, apparently dreamless sleep, I have woken up feeling exhausted.

  I watch tiny white clouds skimming across the triangle of visible blue sky that the Leylandii hasn’t yet seen fit to steal, and think that I should probably go out – that sunshine and fresh air would probably do me good.

  But I know that I won’t.

  I sip my tea and run a finger around the edge of the mug, as if maybe I am expecting it to sing like a wine-glass.

  My brain is entirely paralysed by this new information about Brian. Who would have thought that he still had the power to hurt me?

  It’s not that I’m thinking about it in any way – the thought is somehow too vast for that . . . No, I’m just sitting here, taking in the enormity of it. It’s as if someone has dumped so much rubble around my house that I can’t get through it, and I can’t get over it, and, for the moment, I can’t even begin to imagine a strategy for moving it out of the way.

  And so I sit with a slowly cooling mug of coffee and watch clouds incongruously skipping by and I think . . . well . . . nothing really.

  About eleven, a grain of self-awareness appears, and I see myself sitting in the kitchen, still in my pyjamas, and somehow vaguely realise that no useful conclusion is going to manifest today, and that I might as well just get on with the mechanical motions of a normal day. And so, despite the surprising amount of willpower required, I heave myself to standing position and head for the bathroom.

  After a shower and with my weekend face a little more heavily slapped on than usual, I decide that at least I look human again. Maybe my brain will catch up if I just give it time.

  As I leave the bathroom, wondering what to do with the day, and, in a way, answering that question by wondering which recordings I have waiting on the Sky box, a silhouette appears beyond the frosted window of the front door, and I remember, belatedly, and with some irritation, that I have arranged to spend the day with Sarah-Jane.

  For a moment I consider hiding from her, but knowing from experience that she too can probably see my vague form moving beyond the glass, I sigh heavily and walk the length of the hall, bracing myself for SJ’s fabulous (but occasionally hard to bear) brand of irrepressible optimism.

  The Sarah-Jane I find on the doorstep, however, looks as sullen as myself.

  ‘Hiya,’ she says, managing to make the word sound like a sigh.

  She kisses me perfunctorily on the cheek and heads straight through to the kitchen. I frown, close the front door, and follow her.

  By the time I reach the kitchen she has already slumped into a chair, and I realise that this isn’t me communicating stress, or even projecting my own angst onto her: something is seriously awry.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask her. ‘Because you look the way I feel. And I’m more used to you looking the way you feel.’

  Sarah-Jane rests her head on one hand and looks up at me dolefully. ‘You too, huh? And there was me thinking you were gonna cheer me up.’

  I pull another mug from the cupboard and glance over my shoulder at her. ‘Sorry, babe,’ I say. ‘We’re all out of cheer here. I can probably manage tea and sympathy but that’s about as far as it goes.’

  ‘So what’s up with you?’ she asks, as I make the tea. ‘Whatever it is, I bet mine’s better.’

  �
��You first then,’ I say with a little, sour laugh. ‘If you’re going to get all competitive.’

  ‘Nah, go on – I’m bored with mine.’

  ‘Me too,’ I reply.

  ‘Work? Men? Life? That bloody tree?’

  ‘Brian,’ I say.

  SJ rolls her eyes at me. ‘You are joking?’ she says. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you got over bloody Brian?’

  ‘I went to dinner at Cynthia and Carl’s,’ I say. ‘You know, the usual birthday thing.’

  Sarah-Jane nods. ‘No wonder then. You always come back miserable as sin from those.’

  I laugh sourly. ‘That’s actually pretty good,’ I say. ‘Miserable as sin . . . miserable as Cyn . . . get it?’

  Sarah-Jane frowns at me in a way that leaves me unsure if she ‘gets it’ or not. ‘So what is it this time? That wanker . . . Martin is it? Did he say something?’

  I shake my head in amazement. ‘You should get one of those little huts on Brighton Pier,’ I say. ‘Sarah-Jane Dennis, fortune- teller extraordinaire.’

  She nods, her expression still blank. ‘So?’ she prompts.

  ‘It seems that Brian has kids,’ I say. ‘Two of them.’

  SJ rubs an eye and pulls a confused expression. ‘Your Brian? I mean . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘Yeah. My Brian.’

  ‘And kid-z with a z, as in more than one?’

  I shrug. ‘Apparently so. Twins. So lovely Martin says.’

  ‘Wow,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘That was quick going.’

  ‘And the best bit,’ I add, ‘is that they have just had their second birthdays.’

  Sarah-Jane scrunches her brow and rolls her eyes to the ceiling, clearly performing mental arithmetic, then says, ‘Oh, do the maths for me, will you? I’m too tired to work it out.’

  ‘Estimated insemination: about two months after he picked me up from the clinic.’

  SJ’s mouth drops. ‘God!’ she says. ‘What a fucking cheek. That guy is such a worm.’

  ‘He is,’ I agree, adding milk and handing her a mug of tea.

  ‘Someone needs to just stop him, you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  ‘Someone should just shoot him and put him out of his misery.’