The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (11 page)

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 then,’ 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.’

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.