The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Read online

  ‘Put everyone else out of his misery, more like.’

  ‘God you must be devastated,’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘I guess . . .’ I say, then, ‘no, not really. Just sort of in shock.’

  ‘Did you weep all over their dinner party? I bet Cyn loved that.’

  I pout and shake my head.

  ‘No, of course,’ she says. ‘You never do really, do you? Though I still think a good blubber every now and then would do you good.’

  ‘If the tears aren’t there . . .’ I say.

  ‘I s’pose not,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘You should listen to Ben Harper more. Always does it for me.’

  ‘I tried,’ I say, ‘the last time you gave me that advice. I watched The English Patient, too, on your recommendation. Nothing.’

  ‘Ice queen,’ she says.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘God, what a prick! Do we know who she is? Poor girl.’

  ‘Nope,’ I reply. ‘And we don’t want to.’

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘Anyway, enough of shit-face. What’s up with you?’

  SJ blows through pursed lips. ‘Oh, just stuff,’ she says, vaguely.

  ‘Let’s go through to the lounge,’ I say. ‘You can tell me all about it.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, standing. ‘Though I’m not sure I want to.’

  But of course, I know she will.

  Once seated in the lounge, Sarah-Jane sips her tea and waits for me to prompt her.

  ‘So?’ I say, after a respectful pause.

  She shrugs. ‘I went to see a gynaecologist,’ she replies.

  ‘A gynaecologist,’ I repeat.

  ‘Yeah. A doctor who . . .’

  I shake my head. ‘I know what a gynaecologist is . . .’ Sometimes SJ scares me. ‘Why though?’

  ‘My period was late,’ she says. ‘Last couple of months.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And we’re trying for a baby now. We finally both think it’s time.’

  I stare at her. In fact, in truth, I am staring through her. Shamefully, I’m having trouble concentrating on anything she’s saying. For the Brian business is still occupying my mind, stealing the oxygen from every other possible thought.

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ I say, vaguely aware that I sound like I do when I talk to my mother and read my email at the same time.

  Sarah-Jane nods. ‘But it’s maybe more than time,’ she says, incomprehensibly.

  I frown and shake my head. ‘I don’t . . .’ I say. But something in her voice – the tiniest of tremors perhaps – snaps my brain out of its self-absorbed lethargy. My eyes refocus on her mouth and I notice that her top lip is trembling, Sue-Ellen style.

  ‘SJ?’ I say, putting down my mug and joining her on the sofa. I rub her back. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Well my period was late,’ she explains, quivery-voiced, for some reason starting back at the beginning. ‘So I went to see the doctor, and he sent me to the gynaecologist . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s ever so pretty,’ she says, somewhat obtusely.

  ‘Right. But what did this pretty gynaecologist say?’

  ‘They did some tests. So we’re not sure yet.’

  ‘Tests . . .’ I repeat, solemnly.

  ‘Oestrogen levels and stuff.’

  I nod.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ she says. ‘He thinks it might be too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘For babies,’ she says. ‘They think I might be . . .’ She raises a clenched fist and presses it against her mouth. A tear slides out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘Menopausal,’ she says. The word comes out in a gasp.

  ‘Menopausal?’ I repeat.

  ‘They think I may have premature menopause.’

  ‘But you’re only . . .’

  ‘Thirty-seven,’ she says. ‘Yeah. Sometimes it happens early, he says.’

  And then, with a shudder, she collapses into me and I sit and shake my head and hold her as she silently sobs into my shoulder.

  ‘George is going to be so upset,’ she murmurs at one point.

  ‘You haven’t told him then?’

  ‘He’s in Germany,’ she sobs.

  After maybe ten minutes like this, her tears abate, and she pulls away from me looking puffy-eyed but somehow rather beautifully, profoundly . . . human.

  Not for the first time, I feel jealous at her ability to simply cry and let it all out.

  ‘I need to go wash my face . . .’ she says, standing and leaving the room.

  When she returns, visibly recomposed, she says, with determined brightness, ‘Even if the tests do show I’m pre- menopausal, there’s still a chance. There might still be a window of opportunity of a couple of years.’

  I nod. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘There you go. You’ll be fine. I’m sure you will. And this doctor . . . you trust him?’

  She nods. ‘He seems to know his stuff. And if the diag . . .’

  ‘Diagnosis.’

  ‘Yeah. Diagnosis and Diagnostics . . . I always get them mixed up. If the diagnosis is confirmed then he’ll send me to a fertility specialist.’

  ‘God!’ I say. ‘So that is quite serious then.’

  And here, Sarah-Jane’s famed resilience shines through. She smiles weakly at me, slyly even.

  ‘What?’ I ask her, bemused by the sudden change.

  ‘He is bloody gorgeous though,’ she says. ‘Honestly, you should see him.’

  I pull a face. ‘I think I’d rather see a woman myself. For that, anyway.’

  ‘Oh me too,’ she says. ‘But he is bloody lovely. It weirded me out a bit. Having him fiddling about down below. He’s single too. Well, no wedding ring anyway.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘Well I was thinking about you, actually,’ she says. ‘He’d be right up your street.’

  I pull a face. ‘Except that he’s a gynaecologist,’ I say.

  ‘Well yeah. There is that.’

  ‘I couldn’t . . . I mean . . . could you date a guy who spends all day . . .?’

  ‘No,’ says Sarah-Jane. ‘I don’t think I could.’

  I pull a face again and shake my head. ‘Imagine,’ I say. ‘You’d be wondering all the time who he’d had his hands up.’

  ‘Nice day at the office, dear?’ Sarah-Jane laughs.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘So what happens next?’

  She shrugs. ‘We wait. We wait for the test results. Hopefully I’ll have them by the time George gets back.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, if you need me to go with you or anything . . .’

  SJ grins dirtily at me and winks.

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘Not for that. I told you. I don’t do gynaecologists.’

  ‘As far as I can see you don’t do anyone any more.’

  ‘Well quite,’ I say.

  ‘Though just being serious for a minute . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, if you want kids – because, like, I know you do want kids . . .’

  ‘Then I should get a move on? Is that it?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . Don’t wait too long. Not like me.’

  I snort. ‘I would have to find the right bloke first.’

  ‘Well, for that you may have to stop being so picky,’ she says.

  ‘Picky?’

  ‘Yeah, like ruling out entire professions.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘And you need to stop hanging out with the fudge monkeys. You’ll never find a boyfriend with them. Well, not a straight one.’

  I pull a horrified face. ‘Fudge monkeys? That’s horrible.’

  She shrugs. ‘Sorry. I picked it up from Jenna. And she’s a lezza. That makes it OK, doesn’t it? Anyway, you see my point. Plus, what if the right guy turns up too late? You need to work out what your priorities are . . . I mean, if it’s important to you .
. .’

  The implications of this comment – that even my best friend isn’t convinced that I will find the right guy in time to have kids – stings me to the core. But I blank the thought for now. My mind just can’t deal with any more on that subject.

  ‘So what’s the plan? For today?’ I ask. ‘Fudge monkeys indeed!’

  ‘Oh, I dunno . . . I brought some films,’ she says, fishing two DVDs from her bag. ‘Slumdog Millionaire . . .’

  ‘Ooh, I missed that when it was at the cinema,’ I say. ‘It’s supposed to be great.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought it would cheer me . . . us . . . up,’ she says, putting the DVD on the coffee table and studying the second one. ‘And The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas.’

  ‘Which definitely won’t cheer us up.’

  ‘No?’ she says.

  ‘No! That’s the one about a boy in a concentration camp . . . Dying.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says.

  ‘Plus, I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Slumdog then?’

  ‘Slumdog.’

  The Apprentice

  On Monday morning, I share the lift to the third floor with Victoria Barclay. She says, apparently with genuine (and uncharacteristic) enthusiasm, ‘So we’re going to New York together. What fun!’

  I actually start to feel hopeful that the trip might be bearable after all.

  Perhaps, I figure, the fact that it is my own success, my own stunning pitch, which has made this trip possible, means that she will even be nice to me for once.

  Down in Creative I explain my theory to The Gay Team. With VB being a partner, no one is going to say anything outrageous against her, but Jude pulls a strange, tight-lipped face and turns back to his Mac whilst Mark and Darren both wiggle their eyebrows expressively at me, unanimously communicating that they suspect me of engaging in wishful thinking.

  ‘You don’t think that’s going to happen then?’ I prompt.

  Darren shrugs. ‘I’ve read a lot of fairy tales, but evil witches rarely turn into fairy godmothers,’ he says. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  We briefly discuss their proposals for the US version of the campaign and then I leave them to (hopefully) get on with it.

  Back at my desk I think about New York, and, of course, about Brian. Perfect husbands can, as we all know, turn into devils.

  I’m still unable to formulate any specific feelings about Brian’s new life as a daddy, except maybe that it never ceases to amaze me just how mean human beings can be to each other. To me.

  Of course, I tell myself, knowing a little about human history, knowing for instance what the Spanish (men) did during the inquisition, or, say, what the Germans (men) did during the Second World War, or hey, closer to home, what Tony Blair and George Bush have been up to recently . . . well, one could hardly claim not to have been forewarned about the nature of the male of the species. Trying to force a note of optimism into my thoughts, I forcibly remind myself that not all men are this way. Just apparently the ones who run countries. And the ones I date.

  Midweek, I am summoned to VB’s office.

  Gone is the girlish enthusiasm for our ‘fun’ trip together: she has clearly decided to prove that men do not have a monopoly on bad behaviour.

  ‘So,’ she says, lounging and swivelling in her chair as if she is the new Alan Sugar. ‘I’ve been thinking, and I want to see your pitch.’

  I haven’t even sat down yet. ‘May I?’ I ask, gesturing, with hypocritical meekness, towards the chair.

  ‘Sure,’ she says, then, ‘No, actually don’t. I want to see the full pitch, so can you go and get the props?’

  I smile at her and then, as I head from the room, I somewhat childishly pull a face.

  On my return, what ensues is a comedy version of The Apprentice.

  She makes me stand and pretend to pitch to a room full of people. A room full of people represented by herself: the slouching, swivelling, VB.

  I attempt to remind her that the pitch has already been successful. Successful enough, in fact, to generate an invitation to repeat it in New York. But, of course, VB is having none of it. Having lived in the States for nearly a whole year, she is the unchallengeable expert on all things American.

  ‘Stop stop stop!’ she whines, banging the flat of her hand on the desk like a toddler in a high chair. ‘This lead-in is far too long! Everyone will be asleep by the time you get wherever it is you’re going.’

  ‘No one fell asleep at BRP,’ I point out.

  ‘But these are Americans, dear. They’re far zippier. Lucky you have me here to help you tighten things up.’

  I nod and smile and scrunch my eyes up. ‘It is!’ I reply. ‘So are they really that different? I don’t think I’ve ever met any in the flesh.’

  ‘Just listen and learn,’ VB tells me. ‘Delete all that pap about market enablers and then take it from the top again.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ I say, wondering if it is humanly possible to get through this without dragging her to the ground by her hair.

  ‘And don’t let me forget to discuss wardrobe with you,’ VB says. ‘We don’t want to turn up looking like a couple of country bumpkins, now, do we?’

  I mentally compare VB’s outfit: green roll-neck and plaid skirt, with my own Agnes B trouser-suit. If anyone is flirting with country bumpkin here, it isn’t me.

  I truly can’t think of a polite reply, so I ignore the comment and strike a red line through half a page of my script and start the presentation over again. ‘Hello, everyone! We’re here today, as you know, to present our campaign for the new Grunge! Street-Wear range of unisex carpenter pants.’

  ‘Stop,’ VB says. ‘You’re right. They do already know that. Delete it.’

  The only good thing about all of this is that by the end of the week, my hatred for Victoria Barclay and my stress about the trip have reached such a fever pitch that I am spending entire half-days without thinking about Brian – entire half- days without even picturing him pushing a double pram down the street.

  It rains all weekend, so I sit and stare at the remains of my ravaged pitch and try to invent strategies for making it presentable without obviously ignoring everything Victoria Barclay has said. At one point, in despair, I dial Peter Stanton’s number, but then hang up. I know that he can’t do anything to help me here.

  By Sunday evening when the landline rings, I can honestly say that not only have I stopped thinking about Brian, but I have stopped thinking about anything else, or anyone else, whatsoever.

  ‘Hello?’ a deep voice says. ‘Can I speak to the sexy lady who goes to speed dating?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I reply, still staring at a page from my pitch.

  ‘Oh shit. This isn’t . . . I thought I was speaking to . . . Sorry. Can I speak to CC, please?’

  Brown Eyes!

  ‘Is that Norman?’ I ask in astonishment.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry, I thought it was someone else for a moment.’

  ‘No . . . It’s me . . . Long time no hear,’ I say.

  ‘No, yeah . . . sorry about that. I was up in Newcastle. On a course. So I couldn’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Wow, now there’s an unexplored market niche,’ I say, unable to resist.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Selling telephones to the north of England. I think they’d really love them, don’t you?’ I grimace at my abrasive sarcasm, then add, ‘Sorry. I’m being a bitch today. Bad week.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Norman says, quietly. ‘You did have my mobile number too.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Again. Sorry. I’m kind of stressed about work. How are you?’

  ‘Good. Yeah. Really good actually.’

  Despite my attempts at convincing him that I am a praying mantis, Norman still invites me to dinner.

  I roll my eyes at destiny’s fabulous sense of timing. ‘I’m touched,’ I say. ‘But I can’t. I’m off to New York tomorrow. I won’t be back until Thursday.’

  ‘OK, well, maybe at the weekend th
en,’ Norman replies. ‘I’ll give you a call on Friday.’

  ‘That’d be great. I’m sorry, but . . . well . . . that’s the way it goes.’

  ‘No problem. Talk to you Friday then,’ he says. Then with laughter in his voice, he adds, ‘Unless you call me before. Oh . . . Do they have phones in New York?’

  Hotline

  It is the first time I have been to Heathrow Terminal Five. At first glance (from outside) the place looks modern and impressive. Indeed, even inside, the white discs of light which cover the ceiling give the place a certain Star-Trekky air. It would be easy to imagine that they are teleport machines and that simply standing beneath them will whisk you off to another place. If only.

  Sadly, the décor is where modernity ends, for experientially Terminal Five is like any other airport terminal: a confusing mess.

  At eleven a.m., when I arrive, the hall is literally a sea of people. It looks like the rabble outside IKEA on the opening day of the January sales, and, pushing through the crowd, it is virtually impossible to gain any idea of where you are heading, let alone which direction you should be heading.

  Still, forewarned, as they say, is forearmed. Everyone at work warned me about Terminal Five (most memorably Mark, who said, ‘Terminal being the operative word,’) so I have three full hours before my flight.

  Victoria, who told me specifically to wait for her before check- in, but also refused to authorise business-class tickets (they have their own special tiny queue) clearly didn’t realise that we would be meeting in the equivalent of a Madonna concert at the O2 Arena.

  As I shuffle my way left, and right, and then left again along the absurd snake, which, I hope, leads to the correct check-in desk, I shamefully pray that VB won’t turn up at all. ‘Please let her cab have crashed,’ I chant, silently.

  Of course I’m only joking. I’m sure if there is a great power somewhere clever enough to tune in specifically to my thoughts, He/She/It will also be clever enough to realise this.

  It takes a full forty minutes of this absurd conga line for me to near the front of the queue. I finally weaken and try VB’s mobile, but there is no answer – just her sharp, ‘Victoria’s mobile. Leave a message.’

  ‘It’s CC,’ I say. ‘I’m wondering where you are. I’m going to have to check in. Meet you at the departure gate.’