The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (46 page)

I suppose that, to Victor, I’m one of the remaining ripples from Darren’s life, and saying goodbye to me is saying goodbye to yet another sign that Darren once existed.

Perhaps I should have arranged to have a drink with him. But in truth I’m exhausted with thinking about Darren. And what else could we have talked about?

I reach the taxi rank and join the queue and pray that Norman won’t pop his head out of one of the taxis, which of course he doesn’t.

No, I don’t want to talk to Victor, and I don’t want to think about Darren, and I don’t even particularly want to face Mark at work. I think I must be all gayed out. In fact, right now, secretly, I would have to agree with Darren’s mother. There’s nothing gay about it.

Dodgy Equipment

Against all expectation, I have a busy week at work.

Grunge!, apparently advised that the recession may be shorter than initially thought, request that I budget for re-purchasing a small number of their now cancelled magazine ads, and because I have been so bored recently I hoard the work for myself and only inform the media department on Wednesday when everything is finished.

Victoria Barclay swings by my desk on Thursday morning and urges me to, ‘Think very carefully about the implications of refusing work.’ Her raised eyebrows and menacing leer confirm my impression that she is now entirely back to normal after her breakdown.

On Friday I field calls from two small dairy companies in Cornwall. One of these is organic and both are on the edge of bankruptcy. They have mysteriously heard that we might be doing some work for Cornish Cow and want to know if I honestly think that strategically placed advertising might help them survive the downturn, so I spend the rest of the day hunting for statistics on the internet to support this unlikely hypothesis. Clearly some strategically placed advertising would help
us
survive the downturn.

By keeping busy all week, it’s Friday night by the time the myriad of thoughts lingering in the shadowy recesses of my brain manage to elbow their way to the fore.

I pour myself a large glass of wine and retire to the lounge with Guinness and think about Victoria Barclay’s thinly disguised threat of redundancy, and for once, everything seems clear to me: I don’t want to work for Peter Stanton any more with his ‘mere principles’ and I don’t want to work with VB with her venomous ways . . . I don’t want to repackage the Cornish concentration- camp-cow as a happy-go-lucky milkshake-sipping cartoon beast either, and despite my sterling efforts I don’t even really want to take money from two struggling dairy companies unless, as I doubt, we really
can
help them. Most surprisingly, I have even lost my desire to work with my old allies in Creative as well.

And without that, what, if anything, is keeping me in London?

I log onto some property sites on the internet and recalculate the value of my flat, again reaching the conclusion that it’s worth somewhere around three hundred and eighty thousand.

I then hunt down the sheets I took to Cornwall and look again at the properties I visited, saving till last, relishing even, a fresh peek at my house on the hill. For today, what seems obvious is that I need to let Spot On make me redundant, and I need to sell this place, and then I need to go and build an entirely new life in my house on the hill before it’s too late. From the spectacularly simplified viewpoint my brain has produced today, it seems evident that if it worked for my body-double, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for me.

It takes me some time to hunt down the house on the hill again, and there’s a devastating reason for this. For some reason it no longer appears in the two hundred to four hundred thousand bracket. Today, it is in the six to seven hundred thousand slot.

The shock of realising that, on my own, this house, or any house like it, is way beyond my means, saddens me so much it feels like an actual body-blow.

I close the laptop with an angry thud, and murmur to Guinness that it’s a shame because he would have liked it, and then I slop more Chianti into my glass.

As I place the bottle on the table, I jolt with the shock of seeing a face pressed against my lounge window. Because it’s dark outside I can’t initially see who it is, but then Mark gives his little signature wave, so with a mixture of relief and a vague sensation that no matter how much you try to change your life, the old one always hunts you down, I head to the front door.

‘Are you avoiding me?’ Mark asks the second I open the door.

‘No, sweety,’ I say. ‘Why would I be avoiding you?’

‘I haven’t seen you all week,’ he says, stepping past me into the hallway.

‘I’ve been busy,’ I say.

‘Busy!’ he repeats, mockingly.

I roll my eyes, close the front door and follow him into the hall.

‘Lounge or kitchen?’ he asks.

‘That depends. Tea or wine?’

‘Oh wine,’ he says. ‘Every time.’

‘Lounge then,’ I say. ‘I’ll just get another glass.’

When I return, Mark is perched on the edge of the sofa. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. ‘You look upset,’ I comment. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head vigorously. ‘Nope, not upset.’

‘So why are you slumming it in Primrose Hill?’ I ask.

‘I wanted to check in on you,’ he says. ‘You’ve been hiding all week.’

‘I soo haven’t, Mark,’ I say with a laugh which sounds false, even to me.

As I slop wine into his glass, he looks up at me circumspectly. ‘You so have,’ he says.

I sigh. ‘I know. But look, it’s not
you
, though. It’s just the whole Darren thing. I’ve been trying not to think about it.’

‘Join the club,’ Mark says.

‘I just feel so guilty,’ I tell him. ‘And sad too. But mainly guilty.’

Mark sips his wine, then places it thoughtfully on the coffee table. ‘I told you. Everyone feels that way. We all do.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘He told everyone what he was going to do. So the responsibility is everyone’s. But mainly, in the end, it was just his.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Except that he phoned
me.
’

As I say this I think how amazing it is that I had forgotten this. I had wiped it entirely from my memory until now. But now that it has resurfaced, the fact of it swamps me with guilt. It feels like someone has dumped a donkey-yoke around my shoulders. ‘Please don’t tell anyone else this,’ I say, my throat suddenly constricting. ‘But he phoned me. The night he did it. I could have saved his life. Only I didn’t take the call.’

Mark’s mouth drops. ‘He phoned and you didn’t
answer
?’ he asks incredulously.

‘No, I . . . yes . . . I saw it was him, and I filtered the call. And I should have known. So yes, he told everyone, but he phoned
me.
’ My voice wobbles as I say ‘me.’

Mark puts his glass down and moves to my side. He rests a hand across my back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks.

‘I forgot,’ I tell him. ‘I honestly forgot. I think I wiped it out.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘No, the message.’

‘Oh, he didn’t leave one.’

‘God.’

‘But I was so drunk . . . and I thought he would ask me to go back to the party, and I was completely out of it on that bloody drugged punch.’

‘When was this?’ Mark says frowning.

I frown back at him. ‘What do you mean,
when
was this? It was after the party. When I was on my way home.’

‘Well then it wasn’t him,’ Mark says.

‘What do you mean, it wasn’t him?’

‘The call. It wasn’t Darren. It can’t have been. It was probably the police. They went through all the numbers in his mobile trying to contact his family. He was already gone by then.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. The policeman found him at twelve, and they said he must have died about eleven.’

‘A
policeman
found him? Where?’

‘At home. He sent them an email. To the police station. He thought it would take them a while to respond, and it did . . . not that long, but, well, long enough.’

‘God!’ I say. ‘You’re sure about this? That it was at midnight?’

‘Certain,’ Mark says. ‘They called me as well, but I didn’t hear it. I phoned him back the next morning, and the police answered, and that’s when they told me, and that’s when I called you.’

I stare at the ceiling and struggle to catch my breath. ‘God it wasn’t him.’

‘Nope,’ Mark says, rubbing my shoulder in little circular movements.

‘God, I’ve been feeling so sick about that,’ I say. ‘Especially after what he said about me treating him as a one-line joke.’

‘A one-line joke?’

‘Yeah. We had an argument. And he said I treat my friends as one-line jokes.’

‘I didn’t know about that,’ Mark says. ‘But he was awful that last week. The depression, I suppose. He gave us all a hard time.’

‘But it was true too,’ I say. ‘I didn’t listen enough. I didn’t give him enough time. We’re all so wrapped up in our own shit. It’s like you.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, you’ve got your own problems too, haven’t you? And I should be there more for people. I need to be less selfish. I wonder that no one tells me stuff, but I’m not really listening.’

Mark removes his hand from my back and looks at me strangely.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

‘Well, you’re not selfish . . . anything but. But more to the point, what problems have I got?’

I shrug. ‘Oh nothing, I just mean we all have our problems,’ I say, backtracking as fast as I can.

Mark’s brow wrinkles. He stands. ‘Loo,’ he says. ‘But this is to be continued.’

I slosh the remaining Chianti into my glass and then fetch a fresh bottle from the kitchen, rinsing my face as I pass the kitchen sink.

When I return, Mark is sitting with the same suspicious face as before. I had hoped he would have forgotten and moved onto something else.

‘Has Stanton said something?’ he asks. ‘Am I losing my job?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Have you seen Ian out with someone? Because I know what he’s like.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Mark. Stop.’

‘Then?’

‘Jesus, there isn’t . . .’

‘I know you,’ he says.

‘Jesus, Mark!’

‘Tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘I think there is,’ Mark says, looking at his watch. ‘I have all night. Ian’s at the opera tonight, and lord knows I hate opera.’

‘You’re being silly.’

‘You’re not being straight with me.’

‘
I’m
not being straight.’

‘You see. There you go. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

I sigh. ‘God, Mark!’

‘Tell me what you know. What you
think
you know.’

‘I can’t. I promised,’ I say.

Mark shakes his head unamused. ‘Now I know there’s something,’ he says. ‘And you know me well enough to know that I’m not going to . . .’

‘OK. I know, all right? About your health issues.’

‘My health issues?’

‘Yes.’

‘What, you saw the meds?’

‘Meds?’

‘In the bathroom?’

‘No I didn’t,’ I say. And then I wish I had replied in the affirmative. It would have been a great alibi.

‘So what . . . someone told you something? Just tell me the truth.’

‘Look, you virtually just said it yourself, Mark. Why don’t
you
just tell me?’

‘You think I have HIV, right?’

‘Well yes.’

‘OK. So now I really need to know why. Because I don’t. Have it, that is.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’

‘But the meds. You just said yourself . . .’

‘The meds you saw . . . sorry, didn’t see, were Ian’s.’

‘Right.’

‘So what did you hear?’

I gasp in exasperation. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad you don’t, but I’m sorry. I must have got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘OK. What stick? Whose stick?’

‘Jesus. Victor,’ I say. ‘Happy?’

‘Victor,’ Mark says. ‘Why would Victor tell you that?’

‘He didn’t. He said you couldn’t father children, and it was me . . . I just assumed.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Mark says. ‘So why exactly would you and Victor have been talking about my ability to . . .’

‘He’s my gynaecologist, OK? And I was talking about options for having a child.’

‘A child.’

‘Yes. I really want a baby, and you know . . .’ My voice is wobbling and my eyes are watering. ‘There are time limits for a woman on that stuff.’

‘Oh, sweetie.’

‘And he thought I was going to ask you for a donation . . . and so he warned me off. Happy now?’

Mark massages his brow with his left hand and sips at his wine using the right. ‘Can I smoke?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, reaching to my right for an ashtray and sliding it onto the table. ‘As long as you give me one.’

‘Were you?’ he asks pulling the packet from the pocket of his jacket.

‘What? Was I what?’ I ask, taking a cigarette.

‘Were you going to ask me?’

‘I don’t . . . no.’

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly not sure what the least hurtful answer would be here. ‘Yes. I hadn’t decided if I was going to go that route exactly, but yes, I did think about asking you.’

Mark snorts.

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s ironic,’ he says. ‘Here’s me gagging for a kid, and people
keep
asking me – you’re the third person to want my spunk . . . Crazy shit life throws at you, huh?’

‘But it’s true? That you can’t?’

‘I should be flattered, I suppose,’ Mark says. ‘And no . . . in answer to your question, no, I can’t. I have zero viable sperm, for some reason. They don’t know why.’

‘God, I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

‘And that’s why he didn’t want me to ask you. That’s the only reason Victor told me – because he knew it would upset you. That’s why he warned me off.’

‘Sure,’ Mark says. ‘Fair enough.’

‘And you definitely can’t?’

‘No. We did all the tests. Nothing but blanks. And it really is ironic, because nothing would please me more, but I was never able to . . . not with a woman, and now I can’t even . . .’ His eyes are glistening with tears. He makes a clicking noise and nods his head. ‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Ironic is the word.’