The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (10 page)

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.’

‘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.