The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Read online

  As I press the end-call button, I restrain a smile. For the first time I am seriously considering the possibility that I won’t have to travel with her after all. It’s such a lovely idea, I hardly dare believe it.

  With a final smug glance back at the crowds, I step up to the desk and dump my bag onto the scales.

  A second conga line takes me to passport control, and a third, the longest of all, through security. They steal my nail file, of course. I know they do this, but I always think it’s worth a try. I somehow think that the day I can fly again with my nail-file will be the day the world has returned to sanity. I mean, I’ve certainly never heard of anyone hijacking a plane with a nail file. Have you?

  In the departure lounge the electronic signs are already directing me to gate seven-thousand-nine hundred-and-seventy- six, so I head off down the world’s longest corridor. It looks like the optical illusion you get when you put one mirror in front of another . . . regular, repetitive, endless.

  At the gate, when there is still no sign of VB, my mood shifts from optimism to unease. Oh God! I think. Please don’t let her have really had an accident. I was joking! Then, despite the fact that it could mean she still turns up in time for the pitch tomorrow, I generously add, Let it just be . . . I don’t know . . . a breakdown or something.

  Just before boarding the shuttle train to the plane, I give her number one last try and then call the office.

  Sheena, Victoria’s long-suffering secretary sounds as surprised as I am. ‘God, I hope something hasn’t happened,’ she says, in what I can’t help but interpret as a velvety tone of anticipation.

  She puts me through to Peter Stanton who says that he has no idea where VB is either, and asks, without apparent sarcasm, if I think I can manage on my own.

  It is with a confusing mix of feelings that I board flight BA177.

  It never ceases to amaze me how the different companies continue to have such clichéd identities for their cabin crew. They must have very specific processes to choose their new staff.

  Air France girls all look like failed top models who might spit in your drink if you don’t pronounce Bonjour in exactly the right way. EasyJet hostesses all look like they have a bottle of WKD Blue and a packet of condoms hidden down their orange blouses for break-time. And the BA women all look like Sarah-Jane’s mum: homely and reassuring – like they know how to make a lovely cup of tea.

  As the flight progresses, my guilt builds.

  As the old saying goes, you can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl. At least, you can never take away the Catholic capacity for guilt. Or the desire for a priest to absolve.

  Though my mother is staunchly atheist, my father, who was Irish, dragged me religiously to Sunday mass. Waiine, for his part, always preferred to help Mum with the Sunday roast.

  As a child, of course, I enjoyed it. It was a special thing that only Dad and I did and, lord knows, kids love exclusive clubs. But once I reached adolescence, well, I could think of a million better things to be doing of a Sunday morning.

  Following a certain fuss about inappropriate use of choir boys, Father Rowlings vanished and was replaced by the fiery Father Gleeson. I think from then on we both found his tales of fire and brimstone somewhat less appealing than Rowlings’ cuddly (in more ways than one) vision of God. It took less than a year before we were both regularly missing services.

  These days I struggle to convince myself that I’m no longer Catholic.

  I can’t bear the Pope, and the idea that he somehow has a hotline to God always strikes me as profoundly stupid.

  Then again, despite my best efforts, I have trouble looking at, say, the beauty of a flower, or the miracle of conception, and still imagine that it all comes down to a chance bumping together of molecules in some distant chemical soup.

  Agnostic is my preferred label these days, and in an attempt at convincing myself, at shaking off my Catholic shackles, I always try to force myself to think of the unknown power as He/She/It.

  But of course without anyone to absolve me, the only thing that I can do during my flight is sit and drown in the guilty secret that I actually prayed for VB to have a car accident, and that, just perhaps, as a direct result, the seat beside me is now empty.

  Well, half empty. As it happens it is half-occupied by a rather voluptuous chap in the end seat. Were Victoria here, no doubt I would be squashed into the remaining space.

  As Chunky snores his way across the Atlantic, and as BA hostess Shirley serves me with, you guessed it, a lovely cup of tea, the only thing I can do is to repeat a corrective mantra. Please let her be OK. Please don’t let her have had an accident. Let it just be a breakdown or something.

  It’s not until I’m sitting in a yellow cab whizzing along a surprisingly empty road towards Manhattan that my mobile beeps to tell me that I have a voice-message.

  It’s from Peter Stanton: ‘Hello, CC, Peter here. It’s a bit embarrassing but it appears that VB has had some sort of a breakdown and so she won’t be joining you in New York. It looks like you’ll have to go it alone. Call me if you need anything. Good Luck.’

  I’m confused as to why a simple breakdown might mean that she isn’t coming at all. But I cannot deny that my overriding emotion is one of sheer joy. I run my tongue across my teeth and let myself slip into a broad grin – broad enough, it would seem, for the driver to spot it in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘First time you are visiting New York?’ he asks in a thick Italian accent.

  I shake my head and lean forward. ‘No, third time. But I haven’t been back for years.’

  ‘Well, you are looking happy about it,’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Well, yeah, I love New York. And anyway, it’s not where you are, is it? It’s who you’re with.’ Or not with, I think.

  He nods, seemingly having understood something – presumably that I am meeting the love of my life here.

  Which strikes me, after all, as not such a bad idea.

  Seeing as the hotline to whoever, or whatever, today, for the first time in my life, appears open, I close my eyes and have one more try.

  ‘Thanks for the breakdown,’ I think. ‘But now, if you could just set me up with a really successful pitch, that would be great . . . Oh, and a lovely bloke.’

  I open my eyes and nod in satisfaction. This is going to be a great trip.

  And then I close them for one last wish. ‘Make that a lovely bloke with brown eyes. Oh, no beard please. And a farm.’

  That’s probably pushing things a bit far, but well . . . as my father used to say, if you go around asking for cheese sandwiches, you can’t then start complaining when you don’t get steak.

  Men Only

  The most that I see of New York that first evening is the stretch of pavement between the door of the cab and the Park Lane hotel – such are the disappointing realities of business travel.

  Still, I cheer myself up by reminding myself that I have all day Wednesday to explore.

  The room itself is clean, well-furnished and fairly generous in terms of size. Like most hotels these days it’s also pretty generic. Once inside I could be staying in just about any major city really, which, for tonight, is fine. I need to work on my pitch and the fewer distractions the better.

  I hang up my grey Vivienne Westwood chambray suit which I note with satisfaction has survived the trip remarkably unwrinkled, and order a tuna melt and a single beer from room service, and sit down to work.

  Irritatingly, the original, pre-Victoria version of the pitch is missing from my laptop, so I take a pen and a pad, and start to jot down what I remember.

  As each deletion had been so painful, it’s not so hard to recall what to put back.

  By ten p.m. it looks about right, so I pack everything away and attempt to sleep. It being four a.m. back home, this should be easy, but despite the double glazing, the sound of New York – mainly horns and sirens – still reaches my ears.

  I am incredibly psyche
d up about the pitch and the only alternative subjects I seem able to think about are Brian’s kids, Sarah-Jane’s menopause, Victoria Barclay’s absence, or my weekend date with Brown Eyes. Clearly none of these is going to send me to sleep.

  I zip through a hundred or so TV channels until I hit the hotel’s pay-to-view channel which is offering the latest Star Wars movie. I puff up the pillows, ready for a night’s viewing.

  When I wake up in the morning I will have no memory of even the opening minutes of the film, or for that matter of having turned the TV off. Good old Star Wars. For me, at any rate, it’s the perfect sleeping pill.

  It’s a cold crisp morning, and the walk across town enlivens me. I have travelled lots, mainly with work, and though some of the Asian cities I have visited are literally throbbing with life, nowhere ever strikes me as quite as ‘alive’ as New York. It has a busy sophistication which is quite unique. I think it’s something to do with having seen images of New York in so many films. The second I hit the sidewalk (not the pavement, you see) I feel instantly infused with star quality.

  The Harper & Baker building on Madison Avenue is stunning. The interior looks so much like Ugly Betty’s office that I wonder if they didn’t simply hand the DVD to their designers and say, ‘We want that.’

  Indeed, everyone working at Harper & Baker also fits the Ugly Betty mould. Which of course means that everyone except Ugly Betty is beautiful: clear complexions, high-fashion outfits, shiny suits and white teeth abound. And how come all Americans have those teeth? I have asked my dentist and the best he could offer is a polish and bleach, and the result is sooo not the same thing.

  Tom, from the Harper & Baker creative team, comes down to reception to greet me and leads me through security into the building.

  He, too, is square-jawed with short blond hair, big blue eyes and, of course, long white, almost rabbity teeth. He is exquisitely dressed in a black pin-stripe suit over a white-collared blue shirt and a grey tie.

  Those shirts always make me think of my father. My mother bought him one once in the eighties, and he complained that it looked like he was too poor to afford a collar that matched. He never once wore the thing. I have always rather liked them myself.

  Tom smiles and asks me about my trip in that unique American way that combines banal conversation with a voice which gives the impression that this is the most interesting chat he’s ever had.

  He takes me first to the in-house café which is considerably bigger than your average Starbucks. Over excellent cappuccinos Tom tells me, somewhat nerve-rackingly, that they are all very excited to hear my pitch. ‘It’s not that often we get to work with people from the smaller independents,’ he says. ‘And that’s usually where the best talent is.’

  The guided tour of the offices takes about half an hour. Everyone is wonderfully polite, and I remember again how this is always my overall impression of America. Whatever their politicians get up to, and no matter what people in Utah would like to do to my gay friends, the overriding impression you come away with is always that Americans are among the friendliest, most polite, most welcoming people on the planet.

  The overall layout of their operation is identical to the one back home, with the difference that everything is super-sized. Super-sized and spanking new. The whole thing simply oozes wealth.

  At twelve on the dot, Tom hands me over to Cindy who, as far as I can ascertain, works on the Levi’s account.

  Cindy is a female version of Tom – in fact they could be twins: same hair, same eyes, same teeth. Compared with Tom’s openness, though, Cindy plays a guarded game, apparently trying to get as much information from me about Grunge! and our campaign whilst giving as little away as possible about Harper & Baker or Levi’s.

  This reticence on her side provokes a similar distrust in myself, and so we are reduced to superficial, non specific chit-chat.

  Cindy tells me that working at Harper & Baker is awesome, so I reply in kind, telling her that Spot On is also a really nice company to work for. Really nice, I reckon, is about as close as we ever get to awesome over our side of the pond.

  After a salmon sandwich and another cappuccino, Cindy announces that she will show me the boardroom.

  I’m somewhat shocked, on arrival in said boardroom, to see that all the people I am to pitch to are already sitting there waiting: sixteen people in all.

  ‘So, this is CC from Spot In,’ Cindy says, by way of introduction.

  ‘Spot On,’ I correct her.

  ‘Yes, sorry, isn’t that what I said?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, turning to face the seated men. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Good, so, I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, backing somewhat nervously from the room.

  One could hardly blame her. Sixteen men in a semicircle is hardly the easiest audience to face. Spot On is pretty male dominated, but even I am surprised to find that not a single woman will be present for my pitch. Harper & Baker’s glass ceilings are evidently shiny and intact.

  I swallow hard and scan the faces. Tom, the only person I have met before, smiles at me encouragingly.

  ‘So, hi there,’ I say again, for some reason. ‘I’m CC Kelly from Spot On.’ I realise that there’s a slight Irish lilt to my accent today. This sometimes happens in moments of stress. I decide not to try to contain it. Americans famously love that stuff.

  ‘Oh, my bag,’ I say, suddenly realising that it and the rolled visuals have remained at reception.

  But Tom raises a hand to get my attention, and then points towards the corner of the room where my stuff has magically materialised.

  After a little undignified scrabbling on the floor, I stand back up with my notes and face the men who are all silently watching me with glassy expressions.

  I lick my lips and start again. ‘Sorry, so, as I was saying, I’m CC Kelly from Spot On.’ As I say it, I realise that this is now my third introduction and start to sweat.

  Tom raises the palm of his hand and grins at me. ‘Tom Parker,’ he says. ‘Creative director here at Harper & Baker.’

  Oh God! He’s the creative director. He didn’t tell me that. I trawl through our conversation in case I have said anything I shouldn’t. But his introduction thankfully starts a round-the- table chain reaction.

  ‘Craig Peterson, marketing director at Levi’s.’

  ‘Michael James, Media. Levi’s also.’

  This feels like a different kind of meeting. I keep expecting them to clap, or add, ‘. . . and I am an alcoholic.’

  By the time the introductions are over, I have learnt that I am pitching to some of the top brass from both Harper & Baker, America’s second largest advertising agency, and of course from Levi’s. Thankfully I have also had the time to get a grip on myself. I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and throw myself off the edge of the cliff.

  ‘As you know, we’re here today . . .’

  It’s incredibly hard to know how the presentation is being received as once the initial smiles fade (and even Americans can’t keep it up forever) the expressions facing me become waxy and hermetic. Having been to a few of these meetings myself, I would guess that many of those present are thinking about whatever they were working on before they were forced to stop and come to this meeting. A few will be thinking about sex, and a couple about what to eat tonight.

  Certainly, the (very) occasional nods and, ums and ahhs bear little relation to anything I’m saying.

  When I unroll the first visual, everyone momentarily wakes up, but even then the only comment anyone makes is Tom’s, ‘Looks like a photo of this place.’

  Which, the white-walled, neon lit bar in the photo undeniably does.

  ‘Well spotted,’ I say with a wink. ‘Great minds think alike.’

  But everyone else looks bored, or lobotomised or dead. It’s the most uncomfortable pitch of my entire career.

  By the time it’s over, I have only one desire. To run from the building and lock the door to my hotel room and have a good scream.

/>   ‘So! Any questions?’ I ask.

  Silence.

  ‘Any comments? First impressions?’

  Silence.

  I feel like a schoolteacher trying to chivvy a bunch of adolescents into talking about geography.

  ‘I have one,’ Craig Peterson finally asks, flicking my business card over in his fingers like a card sharp doing a trick.

  I brace myself to defend our decision to tackle the gay market first. Surely, if there is to be only one comment, then that’s what it’s going to be about. But no.

  ‘What does CC stand for?’ he asks.

  I lick my lips and sense the first flush of heat that signals the beginning of a blush. ‘Oh, it’s just an abbreviation,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but for what?’

  ‘It’s, um, an abbreviation . . . of my first name. I don’t like my first name, so I prefer to use CC.’

  ‘OK,’ he says, flatly. ‘So what is your first name?’

  Anywhere else, I would say, As I say, I don’t like to use it. So I’m not going to tell you! But this is the marketing director of Levi’s here. And the stress around the table, is palpable.

  ‘It’s Chelsea,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘Chelsea,’ he repeats. ‘And you don’t like that, because . . .’

  I blink at him. I shrug. ‘I have no idea,’ I say. ‘I don’t like certain things. Who knows why? For instance, I don’t like . . .’ I’m about to say beards, but I realise that three of the men in the room have them. ‘Marmite,’ I finally say. It’s a lie, but it’s the first alternative which came to mind.

  ‘Marmite?’

  ‘It’s a British thing,’ Tom says. ‘A savoury spread.’

  ‘OK,’ Craig says.

  ‘My niece is called Chelsea,’ Tom offers.

  ‘Damn fine name,’ Craig comments.

  I nod and open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  ‘OK,’ I eventually say. ‘So, are there any other comments about the pitch?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, in that case, I think we’re done here,’ I say.

  At this everyone starts to stand, chatter, and file from the room. It’s as much as I can do to resist shouting, ‘Ding ding. Class dismissed.’