The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (5 page)

Also, although the form of the call, her inimitable, uninterruptible monologue, is entirely normal, the fact that she sounded so upbeat, didn’t mention her sciatica or her migraines or even her recurrent sinusitis, is literally a first, for her calls are generally more monologue-of-pain than anything else.

And yet the obvious conclusion – that my sixty-seven-year-old mother is having a holiday romance – is unthinkable. Isn’t it?

Or is that just me, doing a classic, my mother-can’t-possibly- have-a-sex-life, thing? My mother-can’t possibly-have-a-sex-life-
if-I-don’t
, thing . . .

I put the handset back on the base-station and stare blankly at the frozen image on the TV screen: Teri Hatcher is holding a gun and looking nervous. Her arms look uncomfortably thin to me.

The Right Words

When I get out of the taxi in Shoreditch, Darren is already standing outside Old Street station – our arranged meeting place. The rain has stopped and the street is glistening with reflected light from neon signs and passing cars. People are streaming in and out of the station, but it’s not hard to spot Darren: he’s the only person wearing carpenter pants.

As I reach him, I laugh and shake my head. ‘You rat!’ I say. ‘I mean, what’s the point of asking me if you then just ignore what I say?’

Darren grins sheepishly and pecks me on the cheek. ‘I knew you wouldn’t really mind,’ he says. ‘And they’re so perfect for tonight’s event, I couldn’t resist it.’ He grabs my arm and we head off towards Hoxton Square.

‘Only I did mean it,’ I tell him. ‘We’re under contract not to reveal the product before the launch in March. If anyone sees you . . .’ I shake my head.

‘Oops,’ he laughs.

‘Oops indeed. If anyone asks you where you got them . . .’ I lean back and check his bum.

‘No, there’s no brand on this pair,’ he confirms.

‘If anyone asks, say you bought them in a street market in Spain. That’s where they get all their stuff made and there are always strays and rejects popping up.’

‘Sorry,’ Darren says. ‘If it’s really important I can go back and change.’

I sigh. ‘No. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘But don’t make a habit of it.’

‘Hey, I’m so glad you came,’ he says, steering me across the road. ‘I hate going to these things on my own.’

‘Yeah, what happened to Pete?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were in love.’

‘Oh, you know me,’ Darren says. ‘There’s always something wrong. It just takes a few days to find out what.’

‘Like?’

He shrugs. ‘We don’t like the same things, or we don’t have the same view of relationships, or we both want to bottom.’

‘Bottom?’

‘Yeah, we both want to be, you know . . .’ He whispers the final word. ‘
Fucked.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Of course. And with Pete?’

‘Oh, Pete? I found out he wore brown socks,’ Darren says nodding sadly. ‘I couldn’t possibly date a guy who wears brown socks, could you? And they were nylon. Yes, there’s always a brown-sock moment, sadly.’

I steal a glance to see if he is winding me up but he looks deadly serious. ‘I could probably put up with that,’ I say. ‘If everything else was OK.’

A rough-looking girl with a cigarette, coming the other way, barges into my arm and knocks me into Darren’s side. ‘Hey!’ I say, turning to look at her as she heads on down the street. ‘Just, you know . . . look where . . .’

She stops in her tracks and turns back to face me. ‘You got a fuckin’ problem?’ she asks. She looks drunk.

Darren seizes my arm tightly and forces me on along the road. ‘Don’t engage,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

I glance behind to check that the chavvy serial killer isn’t following us, and say, ‘Is it me or is London getting more and more aggressive?’

‘No, it’s terrible,’ Darren agrees. ‘One word out of place and you could get stabbed.’

‘So you’re not joking? About the socks?’

Darren shakes his head. ‘They were horrible,’ he says. ‘The ultimate turn-off.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’

We turn down a side street and then into Boot Street. ‘I’m loving these jeans though,’ he says. ‘They’re ever so comfortable.’

‘They look great on you too,’ I say. ‘They really make your arse look good.’ I pause and pull a face. ‘I mean, of course, that they really
show off
your arse. Your already fabulous arse!’

Darren gives me a circumspect look and raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been doing squats at the gym all week,’ he says. ‘My arse better be looking good. You’re looking pretty smooth too, by the way. That outfit makes you look almost attractive.’ He grins at me cheekily.

I’m wearing my favourite D&G little black dress, a black cashmere coat and my Christian Louboutin Robot Boots. ‘Yes, I thought black was safest,’ I say.

‘The boots are perfect,’ Darren says with a nod. ‘I’d quite like a pair of those myself. So what did you get up to last night?’

‘Oh I went to speed dating,’ I say. ‘I hate it, but . . .’

‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ Darren says. ‘I do all my shopping online these days.’

‘Do they do
gay
speed dating?’ I ask.

Darren wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Then again, I suppose that’s all our bars and pubs ever are. Speed dating, speed shagging, speed splitting up. So not good then?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Same as you really. There’s always something wrong. There’s always a brown-sock moment when you realise that they have some terrible structural flaw. A terrifying number of them are really badly overweight these days. It’s scary.’

‘Not so much a problem with our lot,’ Darren says. ‘But I do know what you mean. I notice it when I go out to straight pubs. We’re turning into American burger-eaters. But I suppose if you’re in it for the long haul, you could always choose one and then put him on a diet.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘If you get that far . . . I suppose. But then, couldn’t you just have bought Pete some new socks?’

Darren laughs. ‘It wasn’t that
really
!’ he says. ‘God, I love that you’re so gullible.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, you’re jolly convincing.’

‘No, it turned out Pete had a boyfriend up in Leeds.’

‘I thought he went there for work,’ I say.

‘Yeah, me too,’ Darren says sadly. ‘But no. They’ve been together for fourteen years.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I logged into my email and his came up instead. He had been using my laptop and forgot to log out. And more fool me, I took a peep. And there were, like, three messages a day from this Lee guy.’

‘God, how awful.’

‘Pete made out that it didn’t matter because
of course
they have an open relationship, blah, blah . . . But I asked him, “Do I look like a side-dish for bored couples?”’

I giggle. ‘Great line,’ I say. ‘I never think of things like that until after the event. And?’

‘He said that, yes, I did. Look like one, that is.’

‘Oh!’

‘Well, it wasn’t so bad really. He said, yes, I did, and a very appetising one at that.’

‘Smarmy bugger.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you weren’t having any of it? Good for you.’

Darren wrinkles his nose. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m thirty-five in October. I always promised myself that if I wasn’t married by thirty-five I would kill myself, so I don’t have time for any pissing around.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I say.

He pulls me to a halt, and looks up at the blanked-out windows of the gallery. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ he says. He pulls an invitation card from his pocket and flashes it at me. It says, ‘White Box Gallery – Hoxton Square. Ricardo Escobar – Perverted Justice. Private Viewing.’

‘Shall we?’ Darren asks, gesturing towards the door.

I squeeze his arm. ‘Sure, but first . . .’ I say. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

‘What?’ he asks.

‘You wouldn’t think about . . . you know . . .’

Darren laughs. ‘Oh, hon,’ he says. ‘Of course not. These days I don’t even get watery-eyed over them. I’ve had six-inch steel plating fitted all around my heart.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Because I really like having you around.’

‘Come on then,’ he says. ‘This is gonna be good.’

As the windows and doors have been blanked out, the interior of the gallery is a complete surprise. The single, vast, white- walled room already contains about thirty people, mainly rather attractive thirty-something men. They are milling around appraising the huge black and white photos on the walls, or circling the giant installation in the centre. A few are chatting around the drinks table at the far end. Everyone of course is dressed in black.

I feel suddenly nervous. Art exhibitions do this to me. I’m always terrified that someone will ask me for an opinion. For though I generally have the gift of the gab in most social situations, I have never been able to master that weird brand of art-speak people use at exhibitions. My opinions on visual art rarely extend much further than liking or not liking whatever is in front of me.

‘Jees! Will you look at that!’ Darren mutters, moving into the room towards the centrepiece.

‘I know . . .’ I say. ‘Amazing.’

In the middle of the room are four life-sized figures. The first, a bare-chested, steroid-pumped, black-leather version of a gladiator, is standing on a sledge. He is holding the reins of three . . . how to describe them . . . virtual
husky dogs
I suppose you could say. These three ‘dogs’ are actually men though: men on all fours, in harnesses. They are wearing nothing but big labourers’ boots and leather shorts. They have little pretend puppy-tails and rather unnerving doggy masks hiding their faces.

‘That’s incredible,’ Darren says.

‘And so realisti—’ I say. But as I say it one of the reins twitches ever so slightly. ‘Oh my God!’ I laugh, stepping forwards until I am a yard away from the main centurion figure. ‘They’re real!’ I gasp, peering into the centurion’s face, which twitches with a restrained smile.

‘Awesome,’ Darren says.

I walk around the figures, shaking my head. At least ten other people are doing the same. It crosses my mind that we look like a tribal circle surrounding these man-dogs. And as we are all dressed in black, we almost look like we are part of the exhibit – it’s quite unnerving. ‘Ouch,’ I murmur. ‘Are those pretend tails . . .’

But then I realise that Darren is no longer beside me. He has crossed the room to the drinks table, where a heavy-set yet attractively swarthy guy in a black suit is talking to him. I clomp my way across the marble floor to rejoin him.

‘So you like my installation?’ Swarthy asks, his Latin accent thick. He picks up a glass of champagne and hands it to me.

‘Oh, incredible,’ I say. ‘You’re the artist?’

He nods.

‘Well, I’m speechless.’ It strikes me as I say it, that being speechless provides excellent cover for having nothing intelligent to say. I must remember it for future exhibitions.

‘And my photos?’ he asks.

‘I haven’t had a chance to look yet,’ I reply.

‘OK, well do come tell me what you are thinking when you have finish,’ he says. ‘And you . . .’ He directs this at Darren. ‘Don’t go before you have give me your phone number.’

As he moves away, I say to Darren, ‘Wow, that was quick!’

Darren shrugs and leans in towards my ear. ‘He seems really nice, but he’s not really my type, to be honest,’ he murmurs.

Darren and I follow the general direction and move clockwise around the room, pausing in front of the first photograph: a vast black and white macro-shot. The photos are taken at such close proximity and cropped so heavily, that it’s hard at first to work out what many of the images are of. This makes the whole viewing process a bit like one of those game shows on TV where you have to identify the object. Only the answers here are ruder, of course.

‘Wristband?’ I venture, studying the crisp image of shiny leather, flesh and chrome before us.

‘Yeah,’ Darren agrees, tipping his head to one side. ‘Wrist restraint, and a padlock.’

‘They’re amazingly crisp for such big photos,’ I say, wondering if that is technical enough to be repeated to the artist. I figure that it probably isn’t.

‘They’re rather beautiful,’ Darren says.

‘Oh, is that . . .?’ I murmur, moving onto the next picture.

‘I think so, yes,’ Darren says. ‘Isn’t it?’

I move close enough to read the little card to the right:
Chrome ring and balls – Ricardo Escobar.

As we move around the room playing our I-spy game, I also get time to check out the wondrous selection of men present. I’m sure that they are all gay, but who cares: it is a visual feast. And I’m shocked, yet again (for this happens every time), just how fit and good looking most gay men seem to be compared to the porkers I meet at speed dating. Of course they aren’t all model material: there are a couple of men in their late fifties, perhaps even early sixties. And there are far too many beards for my liking: sadly the gay community seems to be having a bit of a beard fetish at the moment. But I understand entirely when Darren whispers in my ear, ‘Cute guys! Honestly, I’d
do
any of them!’

‘Well that’s why Mark calls you
Super Tramp
,’ I say.

‘It is indeed,’ he laughs. ‘And see the little guy with the red hair over there . . . He keeps smiling at me. Could be my lucky night.’

I glance across the room. ‘He’s a bit small for you, isn’t he?’

Darren shakes his head. ‘Uh-huh!’ he says. ‘I love the pocket- monsters.’

I shrug. ‘Well, I suppose someone has to.’

‘As long as they aren’t too up themselves,’ he says. ‘I find the little ones often seem to over-compensate for their lack of stature by being complete twats.’

‘Hitler syndrome?’ I say.

‘Exactly.’

We are now level with the first of the three dog-men, and I make the most of the opportunity to have a good stare. ‘That floor must be very hard on their knees,’ I say, thinking as I say it that it’s a terribly old-lady kind of a comment to make, the sort of thing my mother might say. ‘And are those tail things actually . . .’

‘Yeah,’ Darren says. ‘They are.’

‘Ouch,’ I say.

‘They sell those all over the place now. The masks too. Dog- training is very big at the moment.’