The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (36 page)

He grins at me lopsidedly. ‘If anyone ever invites you to cycle to Birmingham . . .’ he says.

I laugh. ‘That’s an easy one. Just say “no”.’

‘It’s not ten hours,’ he says.

‘No?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Jesus. In one go?’

‘Well of course not,’ he laughs. ‘We stopped halfway.’ He shakes his head as if ten hours cycling per day is somehow going to strike me as more feasible than twenty-two. ‘So are you taking me to Devon with you?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Stanton asked me to keep costs down for this first visit,’ I say, which is a bit of a lie. Stanton did say that, but he was talking about hotels, not staff. But I have a couple of farmhouses I would like to look at on the way, and that’s something I’d rather keep to myself. ‘Is Darren all right?’ I ask, suddenly. ‘Because he was blanking me all last week.’

‘Because of the banister business?’ Jude asks.

‘Well, presumably.’

‘Banister business?’ Mark repeats.

‘Yeah, CC was ragging him about his modelling session,’ Jude explains.

‘I know it was a bit . . .’ I say. ‘But I did apologise.’

Jude shrugs. ‘He’s being an arse at the moment. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Sure. But I hate it when there’s an atmosphere. And especially because it’s Darren.’

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll get over it.’

‘Just buy him something nice for his birthday,’ Mark says. ‘He’s a sucker for a pressie.’

‘God! His birthday! I nearly forgot,’ I say.

‘Erm, hello! Party? Next Saturday?’ Mark laughs.

‘Of course,’ I say.

‘We have a DJ and everything,’ he says. ‘It’s the eighties, so big hair and shoulder pads please.’

I nod. ‘Eighties it is . . .’ I say, wishing I had known before. I have boxes of eighties clothes in Mum’s attic. ‘OK, well, I suppose I had better get back and pretend to work.’

‘You free for lunch?’ Mark asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, happily. ‘Twelve-thirty OK?’

‘In the lobby?’

‘In the lobby.’

The second we step out of the building, Mark links his arm through mine.

It’s a crisp, sunny October day. ‘I need to dig my winter coats out,’ Mark says. ‘They’re lost in a pile of boxes somewhere.’

‘Not finished unpacking yet then?’ I ask as we cross the road.

‘No. There are just not enough cupboards. So until we go cupboard shopping . . . and the way things are at work, I don’t really want to go on a spending spree right now, so . . .’

‘Right.’

‘So how have you been?’

‘Missing you, mainly,’ I say.

‘Yeah, right,’ he laughs.

‘No I do. It’s horrible. Every time I remember that you’re not upstairs, I feel sad.’

‘Mister Patel hasn’t replaced me yet then?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s too expensive. I phoned up, just in case. SJ and George are looking for a bigger place . . . they’re trying for kids you see . . . but he wants three-ninety a week now.’

‘Jesus!’ Mark exclaims. ‘I was paying two-ninety and I thought that was a lot. He’ll never get that.’

‘Especially not at the moment.’

‘Where are we eating, by the way?’ he asks, hesitating mid- pace. ‘Ballantine’s?’

‘Suits me,’ I say, following his change of direction. ‘I just want a salad.
Waay
too many calories lately.’

‘It’s this winter weather. Me too.’

‘So how’s life in Tower Hamlets?’

‘Lovely actually. I mean, it’s an adjustment, isn’t it? Because you end up changing all your routines. You end up eating half of your favourite food and half of his, and watching half of your TV and half of his . . . Which isn’t always that easy when you’ve been single as long as I have.’

‘But overall, it’s a success story,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, it is. Because at the end of the day, I get into bed and there’s this gorgeous cuddle-monster in the bed.’

‘Right,’ I say, as we step into the restaurant. ‘Well, I’m very jealous.’

‘So what about you?’ Mark asks as we take our seats. ‘Any love-news to share?’

I shake my head and shuck my coat. ‘None,’ I say. ‘It’s hopeless.’

Mark starts to remove his own lightweight jacket and then changes his mind and keeps it.

‘You won’t feel the benefit of it when you go back outside,’ I say.

‘My mother always says that,’ he laughs. ‘But I never believe it.’

‘Nor me,’ I agree. ‘Oh, I did go and meet Brown Eyes. Do you remember Brown Eyes?’

Mark nods. ‘A long time back. Norman or something?’

‘That’s it, Norman. What a memory!’

‘And?’

‘Erm: wanker; married; living with wife; just after a quicky, I think.’

‘Oh.’

‘Exactly. He says he’s test-driving and that when he finds the right model he’ll trade up.’

Mark pulls a face. ‘Really? Did he actually say that?’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘No, not quite. But that was the gist.’

‘Eek!’ Mark says. ‘After all that waiting to meet him.’

‘I know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But I got my vengeance. I walked out and left
him
waiting. He thought I was in the loo.’

‘Nice one.’

‘He’s probably still there. But other than that, no . . . And nothing else even on the horizon,’ I say.

‘One day he’ll come along. And he’ll be big and strong. The man I love
,’ Mark croons.

‘One day . . .’ I laugh. ‘
When?!
’

Mark shrugs. ‘Who knows,’ he says. ‘But it happens. You never know when. It’s like that Abba song: ‘The Day Before You Came’. One day you open the front door and everything changes.’

‘Well I wish it would,’ I say. ‘I open my door and the only thing that happens is the postman hands me a final notice.’

‘It’ll come, sweetie. There’s someone for everyone.’

‘I told you about my mother marrying this twenty-year-old Moroccan lad, right?’

‘She wants to
marry
him?’

‘Yeah. That’s what she says now . . .’

Our orders arrive – a salad for me and a roasted vegetable focaccia for Mark, but just as I raise my fork my BlackBerry rings.

‘That’ll be him now,’ Mark laughs.

‘Who?’ I ask, answering the phone at the same time.

Mark sings,
‘One day he’ll come along
,’ again, and having decoded the joke I roll my eyes at him. ‘Yes?’ I say, into the handset.

In fact it’s the secretary at the gynaecology practice. She says she (finally) has my results, and wants to schedule a new appointment for me to discuss them with the doctor.

‘So I have to have a consultation?’ I say.

‘Yes, Doctor Ynchausty said he would prefer to see you.’

‘I’d rather see his colleague,’ I say. ‘I did tell him that.’

‘OK, sure. That’s not a problem. Though, I don’t have anything until Thursday week.’

‘The twenty-third? I’m away.’

‘Then the Friday morning?’ she says.

‘Away again,’ I say.

‘Thursday the thirtieth?’

‘God, are you sure there’s nothing sooner?’

‘No,’ she says.

‘And if I see Doctor . . .’ As I don’t want Mark to realise that I’m consulting Victor, I say, ‘the other doctor. The one I saw before . . .’

‘Doctor Ynchausty?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid it’s worse. It would have to be Friday the thirty-first.’

‘Can’t I just pop in and get them?’ I ask.

‘Well normally, yes, but he said he wants to see you.’

I take a deep breath and think about this. ‘Is something wrong then? Because if there is then maybe I should see someone sooner rather than later.’

‘Hold the line please,’ she says.

I smile sweetly at Mark and mouth the word
sorry
. ‘Eat!’ I murmur.

He shrugs sweetly and sinks his teeth into his lunch.

I nibble at my own as I wait for the secretary to return.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, still here.’

‘Look, we don’t usually give this sort of information out over the phone . . .’

‘No.’

‘But everything’s fine. I just got Doctor James to have a peek, and all your numbers are totally normal.’

‘Oh, good. Thank God. So why do I have to come in?’

‘I’m sorry, we don’t know. And Doctor Ynchausty isn’t here today, so . . . But I wouldn’t worry. Doctor James doesn’t seem to think it can be urgent.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, maybe you can book me in for the Thursday the thirtieth appointment then. With Doctor James. That’s a woman, right?’

‘Doctor James? Yes.’

‘Right.’

‘OK, so, I’ll book you in for the thirtieth, eleven-thirty in the morning, and then I’ll check it with Doctor Ynchausty tomorrow. And if I’ve missed something, I’ll call you, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Great.’

‘Thanks for being so helpful.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’

I put the BlackBerry down on the table and sigh as I fork a lump of tuna.

‘Bad news?’ Mark asks.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘No, not at all. I had some blood tests, and in fact everything’s fine.’

‘But you don’t feel fine?’

‘Well, I do now,’ I say, breaking into a smile.

‘Can I ask . . . or is it personal?’

I take a mouthful of salad to give myself some thinking time. For now would be the perfect moment to start edging around the subject. I could tell Mark that I’m feeling broody and wanted to check that everything is OK. That would inevitably lead to a discussion about how best to father a child . . . And then . . .

But then I think that things are different now. Apparently everything is OK, and this means that I have time on my side . . . I swallow, and bat a hand at the air. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing important. Just girlie stuff.’

He nods and smiles.

‘So have you and Mister Perfect finished decorating yet?’

The High

The second the taxi turns the corner, I can both see and hear the party.

In the middle of a darkened mews, the third house looks like an image from the fire of London, orange light spilling from every window. The windows of the taxi are rattling to the subsonic bass from the sound system.

‘I take it this is the one,’ the taxi driver, who looks surprisingly like Paul Newman, chuckles.

‘Yes. Well, I hope so,’ I say, handing him a twenty. ‘I’ll be gutted if my friends are all sitting in the dark next door.’

I step from the cab into the cold night, and as the cab speeds away, I appraise the house. My first thought is somewhat materialistic: how much did
that
cost? For the house, white stucco and glass brick and vast modern windows, and the location, a sweet mews tucked back from the street – well, you can just smell the money.

I adjust my orange leg-warmers, give my Kim Wilde hair a final poke, take a deep breath and step towards the front door. Seeing that it’s ajar, and spotting Jude inside, I push the door open and walk straight in.

Mark spots me immediately and trots across the tiled floor to meet me. ‘She’s here!’ he says with heart-warming enthusiasm, as if this were
my
party.

Jude also turns and smiles at me. ‘Hello you!’ he says.

‘Shit, Mark!’ I exclaim. ‘You didn’t tell me about this place!’ He flashes the whites of his eyes at me and grins. ‘Nice, huh?’

As he helps me off with my coat, I say, ‘But how? I thought you said he worked as a translator?’

‘A big mortgage,’ Mark says. ‘Well, and a lot of help from his granny. She’s loaded apparently.’

‘You’re telling me!’ I say.

Jude steps forwards and kisses my cheek. ‘Hello you,’ he says.

‘Hiya. How are the legs?’

‘All better now,’ he says.

‘There’s a bottle of vodka in there, and Darren’s gift,’ I tell Mark, pointing at my bag with one pink, trainer-clad foot.

‘Great,’ he says, pushing it beneath the hall table. ‘Thanks. Let me show you around first.’

The house looks like something from
Grand Designs.
Everything is white sleek plaster or shiny, bluish glass. Mark shows me the two bedrooms on either side of the entrance, both of which have half a wall of glass brick separating them from the street. ‘And this one’s sort of the office and storage and, well, everything else . . .’ he explains.

I look at a pile of boxes obscuring an entire wall. ‘I can see why you couldn’t find your coat,’ I say.

‘I know,’ he laughs. ‘I forgot to label them, so . . . I just borrowed one of Ian’s in the end.’

‘This must be lovely and bright during the day,’ I say. ‘With all this glass.’

‘It is,’ Mark says. ‘A bit too bright really –
no
chance of a lie-in. I’ll convince him to add curtains or blinds or something in the end.’

‘Beautiful though,’ I say.

‘Yes.’

We move through to the vast central lounge. The rear wall of the room is a sliding glass partition opening onto a small enclosed garden. Just in front of it someone has set up a sound-system with proper mixing decks, huge speakers (they are taller than I am) and even some flashing lights and a glitter-ball. Outside four people are standing smoking and around them the garden twinkles like some rare precious stone with the light from a dozen huge garden candles that the boys have lit.

‘Oh how beautiful!’ I exclaim. ‘God, Mark, you have really fallen on your feet here, haven’t you?’

‘I know!’ he says, sheepishly. ‘It’s almost too much, isn’t it?’

We turn back into the lounge and Mark launches into a round of rapid-fire introductions. ‘CC, this is other-Mark, Peter, Joe, Jenny . . .’

‘And Darren?’

‘Not here yet.’

‘And Ian?’

‘Come,’ Mark says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back towards the entrance.

As we pass the front door, the doorbell chimes, and Mark pauses to open the catch. ‘Better just to leave it open,’ he says, scooping my bag back up and handing it to me.

‘CC, this is Dave, and Lucifer, and Jeremy . . .’

As he says this another group of five people appear behind them also grinning and holding bottles. ‘Oh . . . time to give up on introductions,’ Mark laughs. ‘Come in!’ he shouts. ‘People, meet other people,’ and with this he pulls me on towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t know who most of them are,’ he says. ‘Hopefully they’re friends of Ian’s.’

‘Is that red-head guy’s name really Lucifer?’ I ask quietly.

‘Nah, John. It’s a nickname. And he’s gay, so forget it.’