The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (15 page)

Charles tells me that he is ‘in rubber’. He’s a specialised commodities trader. There’s lots of money in rubber, it would appear.

For a slightly older man, he’s pretty attractive. Salt and pepper hair, rounded friendly features, a fit trim body. He has a slightly wicked sense of humour, and keeps me regaled with funny stories about his many business trips.

We chat and drink and chat and eat and chat some more until they dim the cabin lights, and then, as air travel dictates, we snooze side by side. His presence beside me feels somehow reassuring.

As we start our descent to Heathrow, Charles asks me if I’m travelling on anywhere else today.

‘No, just home,’ I say. ‘To London. I had a really successful trip to New York, so my boss has given me tomorrow off to recover. So it’s just back home to a lovely long weekend.’

‘Well I hope you have someone lovely waiting for you,’ he says.

I laugh. ‘Yes. Guinness will be waiting.’

‘Guinness?’ He pulls a face. ‘Funny name.’

‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘He’s my cat. And you?’

‘Oh, I’m single. And no cat.’

I bite my lip. ‘Sorry, that sounded . . . I meant where are you
going
?’

‘Oh. Sorry. I’m flying on to Nice. In France. I have a meeting on Saturday, but other than that I just intend to kick back.’

‘Nice is nice,’ I say, unable to resist the cliché comment.

‘It is,’ he says. ‘I suspect that the Niçois themselves are more friendly if you can speak the language, but the town itself is lovely.’

‘You don’t speak any French then?’

‘Oh, I can say, “
Bonjour
,’’ he laughs. ‘And, “
Je ne parle pas Française
.”’

‘
Français,
’ I say with a grin. ‘
Je ne parle pas Français.
’

Charles frowns. ‘I was told it was feminine. Because languages are all feminine or something.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I laugh. ‘If you say, “
Je ne parle pas la langue française
,” then that would be feminine. But the name of the
langue française
is just
Français
. It’s completely crazy of course.’

Charles grins at me, apparently impressed.

‘A level French,’ I say. ‘It was my best subject. I spent a year on exchange in Aix en Provence too, for my degree.’

‘Clever, pretty . . . where does it all end?’ Charles laughs.

I laugh too and do my hair flicking thing. ‘Oh, not so clever . . .’ I say. ‘I just have a good memory.’

‘I don’t suppose you want to come and translate for me?’ he asks.

I laugh. ‘Thanks, but . . .’

Charles shrugs. ‘Oh well, it was just a thought. And then on Monday night I’m off to Dusseldorf.’

‘Eeek,’ I say. ‘I think I prefer Nice.’

‘Yes,’ Charles laughs. ‘Better food too. I know some lovely restaurants in the old town. And a great one on the port in Villefranche.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I say.

‘You could come,’ Charles says. ‘I mean, seriously, I would love to spend the weekend . . .’

I laugh lightly to cover my embarrassment. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say as lightly as I can manage. ‘Really.’

Charles turns to look out of the window. ‘Raining,’ he says. ‘Can’t see a thing.’

‘It always is,’ I say.

Charles turns back to face me. ‘Look, Charlotte. I know this sounds weird . . .’

I laugh. ‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

‘You’ll get over it,’ Charles says. ‘But I won’t if I don’t say this.’

I shrug and stare at my lap. ‘OK,’ I say.

‘I don’t know if you
could
come to Nice with me, I mean, I don’t know how your life is organised . . .’

‘I really—’ I start.

‘Hear me out,’ he says. ‘Please.’

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘I travel on my own all year round. I see beautiful places and eat in beautiful restaurants
all year round
. And it’s fine. I enjoy it. But there’s always this moment when I feel a bit sad because I don’t have someone with me. Someone to say, “isn’t this lovely”. So I’m not being heavy here at all . . . at least I hope not. I’m just saying that I’ve enjoyed your company today and if you did want to spend your bonus long-weekend in Nice with me, well, I would think that was absolutely lovely. I would obviously get you your own room at the hotel. I’m staying at the Negresco, by the way. And I would promise to be the perfect gentleman at all times. There. It’s said.’

To disguise my embarrassment, I laugh lightly. ‘It’s very sweet,’ I say. ‘Really it is. But I can’t. I . . . I have to get home. I have obligations.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, for starters, I have Guinness to feed. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death of a cat, would you?’

Charles grins and shrugs. ‘Absolutely not,’ he says. ‘Oh well. Life, huh?’

I nod sadly. ‘Life!’ I say.

The weather at Heathrow is truly atrocious. It’s nine-thirty by the time we reach passport control but outside it still looks like midnight.

‘It’s sunny in Nice,’ Charles declares, pointing his iPhone at me. The display shows seven little suns with smiles.

‘Lucky you!’ I say.

‘So I can’t convince you?’ he asks. ‘Because this is where the paths split.’

He points at the queue for immigration and I realise that he now has to go to the tiny ‘Non EU’ side whilst I have to snake my way along the mega ‘UK Citizens’ queue.

I shake my head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, but . . .’

Charles shrugs and holds out a hand. ‘Well, have a lovely weekend,’ he says.

‘You too!’ I say, shaking it vigorously.

As he heads off, I add my body to the end of the snake and watch him as he queues for the desk, then hands over his passport, and then, with the tiniest wave, vanishes from sight.

I feel a pang of regret, but, well, no one could deny that it was an absurd proposition, could they? Surely any sane person would have done the same thing . . .

And anyway, I now remember, I have a date with Brown Eyes this weekend. I’m a little shocked at myself for forgetting.

I switch on my BlackBerry which instantly beeps with a text message. A text message from Brown Eyes, no less.

soz had go new castle again next weekend?

I roll my eyes. ‘Men!’ I mutter.

The second text is from Darren:
call me when you get in. question about grunge!

I delay until I am through immigration and waiting for the baggage carousel then phone the office. The receptionist answers the phone with, ‘Congratulations! I hear you were brilliant. The whole place is abuzz.’

‘Thanks!’ I tell her. ‘Can I speak to Darren?’

Darren also congratulates me. His query is simple enough – whom specifically to address the final versions of the visuals to at BRP. I tell him that he should mark them for the attention of Clarissa Bowles. ‘Even if she just gives them to someone else, she likes to feel that she’s being kept in the loop.’

‘Great,’ Darren says. ‘Well, I’ll get those off today. I hear the pitch went well.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Apparently so.’

‘And New York?’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘Like London. Full of poofs.’

‘Brilliant. Well, you’ll have to tell me about that. I hope the weather was better than here.’

‘It was,’ I say. ‘I just had someone trying to convince me to go to Nice for a dirty weekend. When I saw the weather I was sorely tempted.’

‘Who’s that then?’ Darren asks. ‘That bloke from speed dating?’

I laugh. ‘Nope!
He
just cancelled our date for this weekend, so I’m Johnny-no-dates again. No, it was just the guy next to me on the plane. Wanted a translator. And a shag probably.’

‘Brown Eyes cancelled?’ Darren asks. ‘Amazing. What’s wrong with these guys?’

Even though he can’t see me, I shrug. ‘I have no idea,’ I say.

‘So why aren’t you off to Nice?’

‘What, with a stranger I met on a plane? Oh come on.’

‘Was he
bad
?’

‘No, he was pretty cute. But I can’t just go swanning off with the first person who happens to chat me up.’

‘Lord no,’ Darren laughs.

I’m glad he understands.

‘Heaven forbid,’ he continues. ‘You might actually have had some fun. Anyway, Mark’s here. He wants to talk to you.’

Feeling a little slapped down by his
heaven forbid
, I say, flatly, ‘OK, bye.’

‘Hello, beautiful,’ Mark says.

Behind him I can hear Darren telling the story, presumably to Jude. ‘
She’s only been stood up by that bloke from speed dating, and now some other geezer has invited her to Nice for the weekend, but she’d rather sit at home with her cat. I can’t work out if she’s lazy or crazy . . .
’

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Your cat’s moved out on you,’ Mark says.

‘Moved out?’

‘Yeah. He’s fine though. He’s up in my flat. He tried to follow me on Monday when I went in to feed him, and he’s been up in my place ever since.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Just go and get him. You still have a key, don’t you?’

‘I do. Thanks for that.’

‘So what’s this about a bloke?’

‘Oh I really don’t want to go through it all again.’

‘OK.’

‘Just a guy on the plane. Asked me to go to Nice for the weekend.’

‘Are you going? Because don’t worry about Guinness . . . I can—’

‘No, I’m not,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong with him then?’

I laugh. ‘I don’t know really . . . I only met him a few hours ago. He seems nice enough.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing. I don’t jump on planes with people I just met, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’ Mark sounds genuinely confused.

Darren’s voice comes from behind again. ‘Tell her to go!’

‘Darren says you should go,’ Mark says.

‘I heard.’

Then Jude’s voice: ‘Me too!’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Lucky I have my own brain for deciding these things then, isn’t it.’

‘You Catholic girls,’ Mark says. ‘You just can’t do it, can you?’

‘Do what?’

‘Let go.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with being Catholic. Or letting go. Anyway, I’ve told you a million times, I’m not Catholic.’

‘OK . . .’

‘Don’t OK me like that,’ I say.

‘All I’m saying is that you act like you are. Catholic that is. Jeez. Don’t go home and sit in the gloom. Go to Nice. Have a proper pizza. I would.’

‘Pizza is Italy, sweetie,’ I say. ‘Nice is in France.’

‘I know. I’ve been there. And they make the best pizzas on the planet,’ Mark says. ‘Thin and crispy and mmmm.’

‘I’m not going to Nice, Mark. Anyway, he’s gone now.’

‘OK. Well, I’ll call in and see you on my way home. We can have a cup of tea together in your kitchen. It’s not quite a glass of rosé on the Cours Saleya, is it? But there you go.’

‘Right. See you later.’

‘Laters.’

As I stand and watch the baggage carousel, I reflect on all these different definitions of reasonable behaviour. My gay friends clearly all err on the side of what I would call recklessness. My own value system, if I’m being honest, clearly is rooted in religion. In the end, it all does come down to what a priest would consider a sin, and what he would think to be OK.

And running off to Nice with a stranger, could lead to sin. And going home to Guinness, tea and my kitchen, clearly won’t.

It always amazes me how all of the fun options are denoted as ‘bad’ by all the major religions. And I wonder if I shouldn’t do more to break free. Maybe I should go to some kind of personal development course that teaches how to be reckless.

My bag eventually arrives, and, feeling somewhat despondent, I traipse through customs and out into the main hall. Beyond the vast glass windows, it now looks even darker than before. The rivulets of water streaming down the windows make them look like water-features. I scan the walls for signs to the Tube station, and head, tiredly, off.

I only get a few feet, though, before someone grabs my arm. I turn to find Charles gripping my sleeve.

‘I didn’t get your email address,’ he says. ‘Can I at least have that?’

‘Have you been waiting here all this time?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘The Nice flight isn’t for another three hours, so I was having a coffee. Having a coffee and regretting not getting your email address. I want to spend the weekend sending you photos from Nice so that you can regret not coming.’

I smile and flick my hair. ‘Well, that’s very sweet,’ I say.

‘I’m a very sweet guy,’ Charles says, smiling beautifully and pulling his iPhone from his pocket. ‘So?’

‘OK, it’s, erm . . .’

For a second, I’m not sure that I want to give him my email address. And then I think,
‘Why not?’
And then I think of an even better idea.

‘It’s Charlotte . . .’

I stand and do battle with my entire upbringing as I watch him type the letters.
After all,
I reason,
I am a grown woman.
I can defend myself. I have credit cards and enough French to book my own taxis. I can find alternative accommodation if need be. It’s not like anything would be out of my control.

‘At,’ I dictate.

‘Yes?’

‘T-A-K-E,’ I spell. ‘M-E . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘T-O.’

‘Right.’

‘N-I-C-E. Dot. Com.’

‘So,’ Charles repeats. ‘Charlotte @ take me to mice dot com ?’

‘Not
mice
,’ I laugh. ‘It’s an N.’

‘OK . . .’ he says, positioning his cursor to make the correction. ‘So take me to nice . . . Oh! Nice!’ He looks up at me with a wry grin. ‘Really?’ he says.

I shrug. ‘You’re only young twice, huh?’

‘Gosh!’ he says. ‘Wow. Um. Excellent. OK. Um. Really?’

I nod. ‘But no funny business.’

‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘No funny business at all.’

Baroque Dreams

On the way to the BA desk, Charles insists that he wants to pay for the ticket.

Initially, at least, I’m glad about this.

It’s not that I can’t afford it myself, or the fact that I approve particularly of chivalry . . . No, it’s simply that, as game-breakers go, after my dislike of beards, tightness comes a close second.

In fact, I’m of a very generous nature myself: in our family everyone has always argued about who will pay. To be the one being paid
for
was the shameful role.