The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (31 page)

I shrug sweetly.

‘Did you ever go back? To speed dating, I mean.’

‘No. Never,’ I say.

‘I did, a couple of times, but . . . well, you know.’

‘Sure,’ I say, thinking that I have no idea what I’m supposed to know.

‘So do you still fancy having that drink? Or maybe you met someone?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I think I’ve given up on ever meeting anyone,’ I say. ‘I’m going to become a nun instead.’

Norman nods. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Well, I know how you feel. Not that I’m thinking of becoming a nun of course.’

‘No,’ I say.

A young creative type with dreadlocks pokes his head somewhat comically between Norman’s shoulder and the cab. ‘Are you taking this?’ he asks, ‘or just having a chat?’

I nod. ‘Sorry, yes, I am. I have to get home.’

‘And I have to get off anyway,’ Norman says, nodding towards the station and glancing at his watch. ‘I have a train to catch.’

‘To Newcastle?’ I laugh.

‘No, just to Milton Keynes this time. I’m back tomorrow, though.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, call me if you want. When you get back. Do you still have my number?’

‘Yeah, I think so,’ he says.

The guy behind Norman is starting to irritate me by staring at me accusingly and hopping from one foot to the other as if he needs the toilet, so I throw Norman a smile and slide into the cab.

‘Shall we?’ the taxi driver asks, sarcastically.

‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘Primrose Hill.’

Norman slams the door and mimes holding a telephone, and I nod and smile and think,
Yeah, right.
Because of course Norman will never call. And if he does he will call twice. Once to make a date, and once to cancel it again.

As the cab accelerates out into the traffic the young Asian driver glances back at me, grinning and flashing beautiful white teeth. ‘You should have given him your number,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You should have given him your number again. Because now, if he doesn’t call you’ll never know, will you?’

I snort, a little outraged at his eavesdropping. ‘I don’t think that it’s really . . .’ But then intrigue gets the better of me. ‘Never know what?’

‘Well, if he couldn’t find the number, or if he decided not to call,’ he says, nodding and grinning at me.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Dating’s a game,’ he says. ‘It’s a real game. But you have to play by the rules if you want to win. One day I’ll write a book . . . how to play the dating game or something.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Like you make them wait,’ he says.

‘You make them wait?’

‘Sure. If a lady gives you her number, you don’t call for one week.’

‘Right. Because otherwise?’

‘Because otherwise she won’t put out,’ he says. ‘Women are more slow than men. You have to give them time to think, time to imagine how good it’s gonna be.’

I pull a face. ‘Right, well, thanks for that.’

‘And the ladies should never phone twice.’

I sigh and then despite myself ask him why.

‘Because if a guy wants you he’ll phone you back. One call is enough. You call twice, you scare him off.’

‘Sure.’

‘And never make the bed.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I ask, wondering how many of these he has.

‘A guy should never make the bed. You go on a date, you leave the bed messy. Clean, but messy.’

‘Right, and that’s because?’

‘Otherwise when he takes the lady home it’s like he planned it all along. And the ladies like to think they make everything happen, not the guy. Rules of the game.’

‘Well, in my experience it’s not much fun. As games go.’

He glances back at me again. ‘Well, you know what they say,’ he laughs. ‘You know the dating proverb.’

Again, caught between irritation at the conversation I’m reluctantly having with my twenty-something taxi driver and intrigue, I say drily, ‘No, what’s the dating proverb?’

‘If you’re not having enough fun, lower your standards.’

‘If you’re not having enough fun then lower your standards?’ I repeat.

‘Exactly,’ he says, winking at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Because a good-looking lady like yourself – well, there’s no reason for you to not be having fun, is there?’

I clear my throat and slither into the corner of my seat so that he can no longer see me.

‘Well, thanks for that,’ I say. ‘Now if you could just . . .
drive
.’ God, I nearly said,
take me home . . .
How would
that
have sounded?

When I get in I have two messages on my BT voicemail. The first is from my mother, simply asking me to call her. And the second, incredibly, is from Brown Eyes. He apologises for not being available this evening and leaves me his number, ‘just in case’.

‘So there was at least
some
point going all the way out to Acton,’ I mutter.

But tonight I don’t want to talk to my mother, or Brown Eyes, or anyone else for that matter. I don’t want to think about dating, or Saddam, or Dad, or Waiine . . . In fact what I really want, over and above all else, is to think about
nothing at all.
So I make a cheese sandwich, pour myself a large glass of Gewurztraminer, and switch on
Big Brother.

Of course none of the idiots in the house are ever doing anything vaguely interesting, and tonight is no exception. But at least thinking about them (if you can call this thinking) means that I’m not thinking about me.

Disposable One-liners

The rest of the week limps by in a state of continued minimalism. I have two meetings with Stanton about the Cornish Cow contract. It seems that Cornish Cow are dilly-dallying about signing a contract with us, and Stanton wants me to organise a trip to Plymouth (yes, Cornish Cow’s offices are in Devon, not Cornwall) to, ‘
work a little of my New York magic on them
.’

‘If we get this lined up we might just survive the downturn,’ he tells me, gravely.

The only notable thing that happens all week comes as I head back from the second of these meetings on Friday afternoon. I call in to wish the Gay Team a good weekend.

The ambience in their usually effervescent office is decidedly low key. Mark is missing and Jude and Darren are both smoking with their feet on their desks.

‘So you’re not even
pretending
to smoke outside these days?’ I say, pushing the door closed behind me and crossing to open the window.

Jude shrugs.

‘Let them sack me,’ Darren says. ‘This week or next month . . . what’s the difference?’

‘Lord!’ I say. ‘Have you two forgotten to take your Prozac or something?’

Jude smiles weakly at me. ‘Darren’s right though. It
is
depressing,’ he says. ‘There’s just nothing coming our way.’

‘Stanton wants me to go and convince Cornish Cow,’ I say. ‘If we get that then you guys will have to put your thinking caps back on.’

‘As I understand it, it’s a few yogurt pots and a poster,’ Darren says. ‘It’s hardly a game changer anyway.’

‘Well we don’t know that yet, do we?’ I say, crossing the room to look out at the street below – it’s only three-thirty but the light is fading fast. ‘It all depends on what I manage to flog them,’ I murmur, unconvincingly, and, in truth, unconvinced.

‘Will you be going on your own?’ Jude asks. ‘Because I’d love a trip to Cornwall.’

‘Devon,’ I say. ‘They’re in Devon. In Plymouth to be precise. And I don’t know. I expect it’ll be just me.’

‘We could all go,’ Darren says. ‘We could rent a bus.
Priscilla
style.’

‘I doubt Stanton will want it to become a company outing,’ I say.

‘Yeah but if I came I could photograph the cows and stuff,’ Darren says.

Jude nods. ‘He’s not wrong.’

‘Well, I’m quite handy with a camera myself,’ I point out. ‘But I’ll see. If he lets me, I’ll take you all. And Darren can come in drag and we can strap him to the top of the car with long flowing scarves.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Or perhaps a doggy mask.’

He frowns at me.

‘Seriously though, have you actually got any work on at the moment?’ Jude asks. ‘Because we really are just sitting here twiddling our thumbs. It’s a waste. Mark’s gone home already.’

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. ‘Not a lot, to be honest. I think I’m going to go home early myself. Better to make up the hours when things pick up.’

‘
If
things pick up,’ Darren says.

‘Yeah, well, I’m sure they will.’

‘You doing anything nice this weekend?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘Nothing planned really.’

‘The forecast is awful,’ Jude says. ‘I’m supposed to be cycling from London to Birmingham, and . . .’

‘You’re cycling to
Birmingham
?’

‘Yeah. It’s only, like, a hundred miles or so.’

‘God.’

‘I need the endorphins. We’re going along the Grand Union canal. But I’m really not sure I’m up to twelve hours of rain.’

‘Well no. Personally I’m planning on watching every movie on Sky Box Office, and I find the idea of that quite tiring.’

‘Lord. How brave of you,’ Darren says.

‘Yeah. Such exciting lives we live. Actually I bumped into that bloke from speed dating. I don’t know if you remember, it was ages ago.’

‘What, balloon boy?’

I laugh. ‘No. The one who stood me up . . . well, cancelled. Twice. I may just attempt arranging a date with him again.’

Darren grimaces at me. ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he says. ‘The hopeless ones always remain hopeless.’

‘Well thanks, Mr Doom and Gloom,’ I say. ‘So what about you? Do you have any nice banisters lined up?’

‘Banisters?’ he repeats.

‘Yeah. That’s your new pastime isn’t it? Being tied to people’s banisters.’

He frowns slightly and shakes his head gently in apparent despair or disgust, I’m not sure which.

‘Oh come on, I’m only having a laugh.’

Jude, beside him, gives me a wide-eyed look and subtly shakes his head.

Darren, for his part, stands, smoothly folds his MacBook into its carry-case and pulls his denim jacket from the coat-hook.

‘Darren?’ I say. ‘You’re not upset with . . .’

‘Forget it,’ he says, turning and heading for the door. ‘I’m out of here.’

As the door closes behind him I look back at Jude. ‘Jude?’ I prompt.

‘Leave him,’ he says. ‘He’s been miserable as sin all week.’

‘Right,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘Look, I’ll, erm, catch you later. Have a good weekend.’

By clip-clopping down the stairs as fast as my heels will allow, I manage to catch up with Darren in the lobby. I grab his shoulder just as he reaches the front door. ‘Darren!’ I say. ‘Talk to me! What’s wrong?’

He pauses, steps away from the door and turns to face me. ‘You,’ he says. ‘You and everything and everyone.’

‘Oh come on. We’ve been friends forever.’

He nods. ‘Have we?’ he says.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you,’ I say. ‘But of course we’re friends.’

‘Well you need to stop seeing your
friends
as disposable one- liners,’ he says.

‘Oh come on! That’s not fair. You joke about this stuff all the time. You know you do.’

Darren nods slowly and stares at me. His eyes don’t really look like they’re focused on me at all. He looks like he’s staring through me.

‘Well,’ he finally says, with almost robotic lack of intonation. ‘Just because I joke about how pathetic my life is doesn’t mean that
you
can.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘And just because I joke about it, it doesn’t mean it’s funny either.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you come round? This weekend . . .’

‘He shakes his head. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I have banisters waiting.’ And with that, he spins and walks from the building.

I linger in the lobby for a moment watching people stream by, and then I sigh, blow through my lips, and mutter, ‘Brilliant! Excellent! Nice one, CC!’ and then, finally, ‘Enough!’ I head back upstairs for my coat and bag.

As predicted, it starts to rain just as I get home.

I sit in my kitchen and watch water fall from the sky and wonder if Jude is really going to cycle to Birmingham.

Personally, I can’t summon the courage to step outside the front door. I’m feeling wintery and tired and vaguely depressed, and other than promising myself that I will phone both Mum and Brown Eyes before Monday morning, I plan nothing more than an overdose of carb, TV and wine.

Guinness – as dismayed by the weather as myself – seems most happy with my game plan, and pads from one end of the flat to the other as he follows me around. The second I sit anywhere he leaps onto my lap, turns around twice, and instantly falls asleep, and I’m stunningly grateful for the company.

I know it’s considered the height of naffness to express one’s feelings about a cat, but secretly I would have to admit that I love Guinness. Of course, other than the fact that my lap is warm, and that I know how to open tins of cat food, I have no idea whether Guinness has any equally deep appreciation of our relationship. But while the men in my life have come and gone, alternately promising ultimate happiness and then inducing months of misery, Guinness is still there, and he’s still one- hundred-per-cent reliable: he comes home every night, if I want to watch TV, he’s always willing to join me; he never complains about my choice of film, never criticises me about anything else either. And sometimes, like today, I wonder if I could cope with my life were Guinness
not
there waiting for me when I get home. For, crazy as it sounds, as long as he’s there, I’m not quite alone. God, how sad is that? I’m turning into a cat-spinster.

On Saturday morning, Guinness and I watch a trashy romantic comedy involving Jennifer Aniston and a large dog. I say watch, but other than pointing his cross-eyes at the screen twice (when the dog barks), Guinness sleeps through most of the film. He is far more excited by my cooked brunch though, and ends up dragging the lion’s share of two sausages across the carpet.

In the afternoon I watch a chick-lit number. The book wasn’t fabulous so I have only the vaguest hopes for the film. This time we
both
doze through most of it.

And then, as per my weekend resolution, I steel myself, pick up the phone and dial the number. It rings twice, and then, surprisingly,
he
answers.