The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (20 page)

God!
I think.
When he said he was ‘ in rubber’ I thought he meant professionally.

For a moment, I feel a little better. If Charles’ issue is the lack of balloons then at least his lack of performance isn’t any failing on my part. At least I haven’t somehow become less sexy than yesterday.

And then I realise that if it was all about balloons, then maybe it was nothing to do with me
at all.
Perhaps any woman in a room full of balloons would have done the trick. Perhaps just a room full of balloons would have done the trick. Perhaps without the balloons he wouldn’t have found me sexy yesterday either.

I have a feeling that tonight the baby blue sky is going to be no solace. It’s going to be a long one.

Early Exit

I hardly sleep at all that night. I stare at the ceiling until about four a.m. and then doze until seven, whereupon, in a fit of activity, I leap from the bed and start packing.

My flight isn’t until five this afternoon, but it’s simple and instinctive: I just don’t want to be here any more.

Down in reception, though, a problem arises. ‘I need Monsieur Van Heerden here for checkout,’ the desk clerk tells me. ‘The room is on his bill.’

‘I’ll pay,’ I say. ‘Really, it’s fine. I would rather pay for myself anyway.’

‘But I am obliged to phone Monsieur Van Heerden. If that’s OK . . . He did reserve the room.’

‘Well, I would rather you didn’t.’

‘Madame, I understand . . .’

I am just about to launch myself into a manufactured explosion which will be so loud and so embarrassing that the clerk will have no choice but to let me have my way, when a hand touches me on the shoulder.

‘It’s fine,’ Charles says. ‘I’m here.’

I shrug the hand off and turn to face him. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to get away now . . . I’m perfectly happy to pay for my own room.’

He laughs. ‘I doubt that,’ he says. ‘Do you have any idea how exp—’

‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’ I say. ‘I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.’

‘I’m sure,’ he says, raising his hands in submission. ‘But really. Please. Let me. To make up for last night.’

I shake my head, but, as often is the case, the two men in the room have decided, with a wink and a nod, to sort this out between themselves.

‘So I’ll just add it to your bill, monsieur?’

‘Yes,’ Charles answers.

The clerk smiles at him, raises the magic eyebrow at me, and slips the manila sleeve back into the drawer.

‘Could you look after my friend’s bag whilst we have a coffee?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘I haven’t agreed to coffee or anything else,’ I point out.

‘I know,’ Charles says. ‘But you can’t just leave like this. The weekend hasn’t been
that
bad, has it? At least have a coffee with me.’

I sigh. I am, I realise, being a bit rude. And maybe a bit hysterical. ‘Coffee,’ I say, flatly.

‘Coffee. Where’s the harm?’

I stare at him. I stare through him. I try to make up my mind. ‘OK,’ I say after a calculated pause.

‘Can we have two coffees in the red room?’ he asks the clerk.

‘The red room,’ the man repeats.

‘The salon Vuitton or whatever,’ Charles says.

‘Versailles,’ I correct.

‘Yes, of course,’ the clerk says. ‘I’ll send a waiter. Please . . .’

I hand over my suitcase and follow Charles to the Salon Versailles. It’s as stunning as ever, and we take our seats in front of the big bay window, this morning, closed.

I look out over the sea at what is clearly going to be another beautiful day and wonder what it must be like to live somewhere where it’s always sunny. It certainly must make planning picnics easier.

‘I
am
sorry,’ Charles says earnestly. ‘About last night.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well . . .’ It’s the best I can manage for the moment.

‘Still, we had some fun though, didn’t we?’

I nod vaguely. It’s undeniable that, overall, the weekend has been lovely. Last night was a blip. A profound blip, but a blip nonetheless.

I’m struggling to maintain my hardened features. The resulting expression is the one that, when my mother does it, I call ‘
sucking lemons
’. And I wonder why we still do this as adults. For there’s clearly something very childish about pretending to be miserable when you aren’t, just to make a point. ‘
Cutting off your nose to spite your face
,’ my father called it.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, my voice softer than I had intended.

A waiter arrives and takes our order, and we sit silently watching the sun rising in the empty sky until he returns with the drinks.

‘So back to London for you,’ Charles says finally.

‘Yes. Back to my long-suffering cat.’

‘Will he be OK?’

I nod. ‘Yeah. Apparently he’s moved into my neighbour’s place. They have no loyalty, cats.’

‘It’s good to have good neighbours,’ Charles says. ‘Useful.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Mark’s an old friend. And a work colleague too. In America they say that people like that – people you know so well they’re like family – they call them framily.’

‘Framily?’

‘Yes. I really liked that.’

‘So Mark is your framily?’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘Were you and he ever . . . you know . . . together?’

In spite of my desire to remain stony-faced, I smile. ‘No! Mark is gay.’

Charles nods. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘And you . . . I mean . . . that isn’t a problem for you?’

‘No,’ I say, frowning now. ‘Why would it be?’

Charles shrugs and sips his coffee. ‘I’m not sure what I think about that sort of thing, I suppose. But then I’m older than you.’

‘You just have to let other people be the way they are,’ I say. ‘There’s really no other choice.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Charles says.

‘I know so,’ I say.

‘I always think that there need to be
some
limits though . . . to what’s acceptable . . . I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your friend is very nice . . . but . . . well, I’m sure you know what I mean.’

So, homophobic!
I sigh and shake my head gently. I wonder, if we sat here all day, how many other things would fall out of Charles’ closet? How many other ‘brown sock’ moments would we have? Plenty, I’m guessing. ‘When’s your flight to Dusseldorf?’ I ask.

‘Half-three,’ Charles says. ‘And then tomorrow night, to Berlin. And then on to St Petersburg.’

‘In Russia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you get tired of all that moving around?’

Charles shakes his head. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I used to. When I had stuff to get home for. Nowadays I don’t mind so much.’

‘Sure,’ I say, finishing my coffee and putting the cup down decisively. If he carries on like this I shall start feeling sorry for him, and that isn’t what I want at all. ‘Well, thanks, Charles. It’s . . . it’s been fun. And you’ve been very generous.’

He smiles and nods vaguely. ‘My pleasure. And you’ve been wonderful company. And I am truly sorry about last night. These things happen at my age, sadly . . . it’s . . . unpredictable. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.’

I run a finger across my brow. I had been about to leave, but this is suddenly sounding like he thinks I’m upset because he couldn’t
get it up
. And that’s not the problem. That’s not the problem at all.

‘It wasn’t that,’ I say, settling back into my seat for a moment longer. ‘It was the balloon thing.’

‘The balloon thing?’ Charles repeats.

I wrinkle my nose and lean in. ‘Yes. You have a bit of a balloon thing, don’t you?’

Charles swallows and straightens his back and turns to look out of the window.

‘It’s fine, Charles,’ I say, suddenly wondering if I have got this wrong. ‘But it’s not for me.’

‘Right,’ he says, still looking away. ‘Not for you . . . Why?’

I shrug. ‘I suppose, erm, when I sleep with someone, I like to think that it’s about them finding
me
attractive, really . . . rather than about the, um,
accessories.’

‘Oh, but I do find you attractive,’ Charles says.

‘Yes,’ I say.
But only in a room full of balloons
, I think.

‘Anyway, it’s like you said,’ I continue. ‘There have to be limits. And everyone’s limits are different. You’re not comfortable with gays . . . I’m not that comfortable with off-the-wall fetishes.’

Charles nods, thoughtfully taking this in. ‘It’s not really the same thing though, is it,’ he says.

‘No,’ I agree. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Just so you know,’ Charles says, ‘it’s actually quite common.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘I’m not . . . you know . . . some kind of freak.’

I take a deep breath and place my feet beneath me ready to stand again. ‘No,’ I say. ‘OK.’

‘I’m in a club. On the internet. And there are over ten thousand other members who like . . . well . . . the same things.’

‘Right,’ I say, nodding, pulling my handbag towards me and standing. ‘Well, this is where we say goodbye.’

Charles, too, stands and rounds the table to my side. I try not to cringe as I accept his hug, but when he pecks me on the cheek, it’s too much, and I pull away.

‘Bye then,’ he says sadly.

‘Bye,’ I answer.

And then I walk out of that room as fast as I can without running.

Back in the lobby, as he hands me my bag, the desk clerk says, ‘Goodbye, and we hope to see you at the Negresco again soon.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply, already whizzing my noisy case towards the door. ‘But I doubt it. I really do.’

It takes only minutes, of course, seconds perhaps, for me to realise that not leaving my case at the hotel was a mistake. But I am feeling lucky. For Charles hasn’t asked me – by design or accident, I’m not sure – for a phone number, or an email address for the photos he took, or any other contact information.

I dare not go back now. And so I trundle my case, suddenly as un-steerable as a shopping trolley, down the street, beneath my old window, and then turn right down the first side street that will take me out of sight.

I soon come to a pedestrian precinct I haven’t seen before, and here I find a secluded café where I park my case and order croissants and tea. Any more coffee and I shall blow a fuse.

And it’s here that I spend the most part of the day. I’m really just too tired to bother moving my case again. Plus, sitting and watching the pretty people wandering by, and wondering if
they
ever failed to give their partners hard-ons, is, I think, all my brain can cope with today.

A little before three, calculating that it’s late enough to be certain of missing Charles, and that they might have some kind of seat I can doze in at the airport, I walk back to the seafront and jump in a cab.

At the airport, I send Mark a text to tell him that I’m on my way home. This initiates a rapid-fire exchange of messages.

‘good! love?’

‘not!’

‘why?’

‘reasons’

‘reasons?’

‘plural of reason’

‘ha! what reasons?’

‘not now’

‘OK see U tonight. love U lots.’

And suddenly, I feel so lucky to have framily to return to, I could cry.

Man Poisoning

By the time I get back to Primrose Hill, it’s seven p.m.

I’m in a state of complete exhaustion, and feeling a little depressed. I’m not that sure I feel up to a kiss-and-tell gossip evening with Mark after all.

When I go upstairs to fetch my furry bed-warmer, Mark, however, is having none of it. ‘I looked after Moggins here for a whole week,’ he protests, ‘the least I deserve is a bit of gossip.’

And so, lured by home-made prawn curry, I agree to stay. Mark is an excellent cook, and my own fridge is in a state of post- absence emptiness.

We proceed to down two bottles of nicely chilled Pinot Gris. As we slurp the evening away, I tell him first about the meetings in New York, and then about Tom and Ron. ‘Poor you!’ he laughs. ‘Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink.’

‘Well exactly,’ I say.

‘You should have sent me –
I
might have got a shag.’

‘Except that you’re married,’ I point out.

‘Well so are they,’ he argues, as if this makes some logical point. ‘Anyway, of course, you did get a shag, didn’t you?’

So I tell him about being bumped into business class, about sharing a bottle (yes, in the new version, the glass becomes a bottle) of Champagne with Charles.

I exaggerate how good the service was, and how good-looking Charles was, and as the story advances, I start to feel better about the whole thing.

And this, I realise, is how we human beings deal with pain.

This is how we heal. We turn our hurts and failures into stories. Into
funny
stories for the most part. And with each telling, with each exaggeration, the line between fact and fiction becomes a little more blurred. And at some point along the way, the memory of the event itself is lost – only the memory of the story of the event remains. And when we’re no longer quite sure which part of it was truth, and which part fiction – at that point, the power of the original event to hurt us is gone. For it has become just a story. A story which we tell friends and family. And framily. A story in which we have become the hero.

By the time I stumblingly carry my complaining Guinness back downstairs, I am feeling not only a little sloshed, but a whole lot better.