The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (6 page)

I push my lips out and nod knowledgeably. ‘I’m sure,’ I say, thinking that I will have to get Darren to explain about
dog- training
to me another time.

‘Talk to me about something else,’ Darren says as we position ourselves in front of the next photograph. ‘These pictures are giving me a bit of a . . . Huh-um.’

‘Let’s hope the carpenter zips are well made,’ I laugh. ‘Wouldn’t want you breaking out.’

‘Don’t!’ Darren says.

I resist glancing at Darren’s zips and turn to face the next picture. ‘I understand though,’ I say. ‘They are incredibly erotic.’

And it’s true. Though I have never had any kind of leather fetish, and nothing but the most fleeting of S&M fantasies, the exhibition, the semi-naked men in the middle of the room, the pretty guys all around us . . . it is all conspiring to make me feel dreadfully horny.

‘I’m serious,’ Darren says. ‘Change the subject.’

‘It’s not easy when you’ve got a yard-wide cock in front of you,’ I whisper, laughing. ‘That
is
what we’re looking at here, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Darren says, pulling off his leather jacket and flopping it over his arm.

‘Oh, poor you!’ I giggle. ‘OK, erm, think about work . . . Did you finish the storyboard for Grunge!?’

‘Yeah, I did. It looks great,’ Darren says. ‘Oh, look . . .’ He grabs my arm and pulls me to the centre of the room.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘The shorts,’ he says, nodding. ‘Look at the shorts they’re wearing. Check out the zips.’

I look left and right to check that no one is watching me and lean down to peer at the crutch of the men’s bondage shorts. I somehow sense that the guy behind the mask is grinning at my close inspection. Sure enough the shorts have double zips.

I straighten up. ‘You’re right,’ I say.

‘You see. Nothing new under the sun,’ Darren laughs. ‘God, I think I need another drink, don’t you?’

‘I’ll go,’ I say. ‘You stay there and think calming thoughts.’

Amazingly, in the thirty seconds it takes me to fetch two fresh glasses of champagne, Darren has become ensconced in a conversation with the ginger pocket-monster who would be quite beautiful were it not for his size and shocking red beard. But
les goûts et les couleurs . . .
as the French say: there’s no accounting for taste.

I linger beside Darren for a moment waiting for red-beard to notice me and include me in their conversation, which, I can’t help but notice involves him regularly touching Darren’s chest. When he eventually does glance at me, he simply raises his half- full glass and says, ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

It takes me an instant to realise that he thinks I’m serving drinks. ‘Sorry, no,’ I say, wondering as I say it why I’m apologising. ‘I’m with Darren.’

Darren turns and breaks into a huge grin. He rubs my shoulder with his free hand – a soothing gesture – before taking the glass from my grasp. ‘CC, Dave, Dave, CC.’

Darren leans towards my ear and says very quietly, so that only I can hear him, ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘Oh sorry,’ Dave says. ‘It’s just that you’re dressed the same as . . . Sorry.’

I glance around the room. The crowd has swollen to about fifty people. I now notice that of the five other women in the room two of them are indeed wearing little black dresses and big boots. They also happen to be serving drinks. I feel myself blush.

‘So, CC,’ Dave says. ‘How do you spell that?’

‘Just “C” – the letter “C”,’ I say. ‘Twice. It’s an abbreviation.’

‘What for?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, smiling superficially and looking around the room.

‘Oh, but it
does
,’ Dave says.

‘Don’t,’ Darren tells him.

‘Oh,’ Dave says. ‘OK. Secrets, secrets!’

Darren goes red and bites his lip. Dave glances at his feet. And then, thankfully, Ricardo joins our momentarily paralysed ensemble.

‘So, you have a chance to look?’ he asks, nodding and wiggling his eyebrows funnily at me.

Darren nods and raises his glass. ‘It’s stunning,’ he says. ‘If I were richer I’d buy one.’

Ricardo nods and grins. ‘Maybe we can think of a way for you to earn one,’ he says, saucily. He turns to me. ‘And you? What are your thoughts? Give me the woman perspective.’

I swallow.
Oh God!

‘They’re really nice,’ I say. I think,
Oh, get a grip girl: Nice? Really Noyce?’

But my mind remains a desert. ‘I love them,’ I add.

The only other thing I can think to say is that they have left me feeling horny, but that hardly seems appropriate. Why oh why can I never think of witty things to say at the right time?

Dave wrinkles his nose and half-laughs, half sneers at me. ‘Personally,’ he says, turning to face Ricardo, ‘I feel that the exaggerated objectification of the human body as sex-toy is terribly exciting, and I am left wondering, is there not a note of intentional humour, or perhaps even, dare I say it, social comment in your work?’ He raises an eyebrow at me.

Ricardo seems unimpressed though. He frowns at him and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘There isn’t.’

‘Oh,’ Dave says, looking suddenly less smug. He turns back to me, clearly having decided that I am far easier prey. ‘So what do
you
do, my dear? You’re clearly not an art critic.’ He laughs here at his own joke.

‘No, I’m in advertising,’ I say.

‘Oh
advertising
,’ he says with a definite sneer.

‘I take it you don’t like advertising,’ Darren says quietly.

‘Well, what’s to like?’ Dave laughs, clearly unaware that he is blowing his chances with Darren. ‘It’s really just a form of prostitution, isn’t it?’

‘Prostitution?’ I repeat.

‘Yes,’ the gnome says. I have already stopped thinking of him as Dave.

‘Wouldn’t you agree that selling products you don’t believe in, to people who don’t
need
them, living on a planet that can’t
afford
the sheer environmental cost of them, is a form of prostitution?’ he asks.

I shrug. Again words fail me. Under different circumstances I would agree with him – it’s actually pretty close to what I think about advertising myself. But the rudeness and brutality of his public attack have shocked me. The first phrase that comes to mind is,
Piss off, you opinionated little prick
, but I restrain myself.

Darren turns towards me. ‘Oh,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘Brown- sock moment.’

‘Yes . . .’ I say. ‘Indeed! Nylon, methinks.’

‘Sorry?’ the evil-one asks.

‘So what do you do, Dave?’ I ask him, my voice over-sugary in an attempt at hiding my gathering anger.

‘Oh, this . . .’ he says, gesticulating to the four guys in the middle of the room. ‘I’m responsible for this.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. I turn from Dave to Ricardo. ‘I thought this was all your work.’

‘It is,’ Ricardo says. ‘Dave is a . . . a sort of fixer for events, aren’t you? He found these beautiful men for me.’

Dave nods proudly.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, that can’t have been easy.’

Dave shrugs. ‘Well, they’re just escorts,’ he says, somewhat dismissively I feel, considering that said escorts are all within earshot.

I try to think of a really good put-down, but of course, nothing comes to mind. And truth be told, if I did think of something really good I wouldn’t have the nerve to say it to him anyway. Being bitchy on demand requires training and dedication and sadly, I just haven’t put in the hours.

Ricardo grabs my arm, links it through his, and literally yanks me away. ‘Come and look at some of the
bigger
works,’ he says loudly.

I bite my lip, unsure if he is having a dig at Dave’s size or not, but I’m grateful to have been saved.

As we walk away, he murmurs into my ear, ‘Such a nasty little queen, don’t you think? In Colombia we say that they smell funny.’

‘Who?’

‘The red ones.’

‘Oh, gingers?’ I restrain a snigger because of the un-PC nature of the remark.

‘But he’s a great organiser,’ Ricardo continues. ‘He has all the good contacts. He had no problem finding four prostitutes to pose naked for selling
my
stuff. What does he think this is if it isn’t advertising, huh? Now come on, tell me what you really think.’

‘Oh, I’m useless when it comes to art,’ I say, suddenly feeling that I could quite like this man.

‘That’s because you’re nervous,’ Ricardo says. ‘You think you have to say things like, what was it?
Exaggerated objectification of human body blah blah . . .’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘But honestly. Other than the fact that I think your photos are beautiful, and very arousing . . .’

‘Ah! So they make you feel hot, huh? This is what I want to know.’

I nod and smile at him. ‘Well, yes, they do,’ I say.

‘And you know how I get that . . . how do you say it?
Erotic
, into my art?’

‘Eroticism,’ I say.

‘Yes. Of course. Eroticism. But you know how I get it to communicate?’

I shake my head.

‘I have to be very horny, and very frustrate.’

I nod.

‘So no sex, just, lots of temptation. And then it work. It’s funny, huh?’

‘So you really do have to suffer for your art,’ I laugh.

He nods. ‘Oh yes,’ he says.

‘There’s something very powerful about them, quite . . . I don’t know . . .’

‘Primeval?’ Ricardo prompts.

‘Maybe, yes,’ I say. ‘I was thinking how tribal the centrepiece looks with all those people walking in a circle around them. Almost like a sacrificial offering or a witch-burning or . . . Oh, honestly, I don’t know what I’m talking about when it comes to art.’

Ricardo freezes and then unlinks himself from my arm, then turns to face me and takes hold of my shoulders. He looks like he’s maybe going to give me a good shaking.

He stares madly into my eyes. His own have tears in them. ‘The tribal circle!’ he says crazily. ‘You see it! It is the reason they are there! And you are the only person who see that! I think I love you!’

I slip into a grin. ‘Well, thank you!’ I say. I nod across the room and see Darren crossing to join us. ‘And thanks for saving me from the red dwarf.’

I say this last part discreetly, but Ricardo roars with laughter, and repeats
very
loudly, ‘The
red dwarf
! I
love
this woman!’

House of Cards

In the nightmare – a scene lifted straight from the French film I watched on Film 4 on Thursday – I am the crazed Betty and my boyfriend is smothering me with a pillow.

I awaken with a jolt to find that I am lying on my front and my mouth is indeed full of pillow. No prizes for interpreting
that
dream then.

I roll over and take a deep breath and wait for my brain to assimilate the fact that
that
was a dream, and this is reality.

Grey light is leaking through a gap in the curtains. My mouth is gloopy and disgusting, and the pain above my left eye is really quite stunning. I groan and rub my eyebrow. ‘Jesus!’ I mutter. ‘What a night!’ Though in truth, for the moment, I can’t remember much of it.

In the bathroom I listen as what I assume to be a litre of pure rum gushes out:
Rum. Mojitos . . .
memories are surfacing.

Whilst I wait for two Alka-Seltzer to dissolve (they seem to take forever) I feed Guinness. The smell of the cat food makes me retch. The noise of the Alka-Seltzer fizzing hurts my head.

I eventually down them but have to remain poised for a few minutes over the kitchen sink as I’m not entirely sure they won’t be coming straight back up.

I look out at the twilight of the garden. It’s just before eleven a.m. but the cloud cover is so thick that it looks like evening already. What light
is
dribbling through is of course being double-filtered by the Leylandii.

As I stare into the middle distance waiting for the Alka-Seltzer to do its stuff, it starts to drizzle.

I switch the kitchen light on and fill the kettle and slump at the table and try to remember how I got home. For some reason it’s always the first thing I try to remember. There’s something particularly unnerving about not knowing how you got to where you are.

But I soon give up on working my way backwards, and start at the beginning: I remember the exhibition, my sudden friendship with the crazy artist, the endless drinks of Champagne as the crowd dwindled . . . I remember Ricardo saying that the Champagne was all paid for and that we had better drink it. And I remember doing precisely that.

I recall six of us in a taxi to Brixton, to a Colombian bar – Amazonica, I think – and drinking mojitos, lots of mojitos, and . . . oh God! . . . dancing sexy salsa with . . . I’m thinking . . . V?
Victor,
perhaps?

I pinch the bridge of my nose and struggle to remember.

I make a giant cup of tea and take it through to the lounge. My body aches and the big purple sofa is beckoning to me.

On the coffee table I find a beer mat from Bar Code, and this prompts another memory: a different taxi, this time just Darren and Ricardo and, yes, Victor, the three of them snorting white lines in the back of the taxi . . . me being terrified in case the taxi driver noticed. I didn’t partake, thank God, or my hangover would be even worse. Which is, of course, precisely why I don’t: the only effect cocaine seems to have on me is to enable me to drink far more than my body can handle, and I could never really see the point in that. Indeed I seem to be able to achieve that perfectly well
without
chemical help.

I glance at the beer mat. Yes, Bar Code: stuffed with men – stuffed of course with
gay
men. Darren and Ricardo went to the bar and were absorbed by the crowd leaving only Victor sweetly chatting to me, the only one of the three to worry that I might be feeling left out. I remember feeling too drunk and having to sit down and looking at everyone’s waists around me – an impenetrable wall of jeans between me and the exit. It reminded me of being a little girl and looking up at all the adults, only this time no one was there to hold my hand, no voice coming over the tannoy to save me.

Darren and Ricardo never did make it back from the bar, and for a while it was fine, Victor and I had the loveliest chat about music and life and the importance of friends and the need to escape to the country and I thought for a moment that he might kiss me, but he introduced me to a
friend
instead whose name I really don’t recall, and I felt stupid because, of course, Victor, like the rest of the world, was gay, and I felt sick and lousy and had no idea what the fuck I was doing there anyway.