The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (25 page)

For each of the
real
problem areas I must now define my unsatisfactory
start point A
, an attractive
palatable outcome B
, and specific
feasible steps
to get from
A
to
B
.

As the phone pad and pen are now beside me, I really have no excuse for not doing this properly, so I write down:

A. Start point: Missing Boyfriend. B. End point : Non-missing Boyfriend.

Steps required: Find Missing Boyfriend.

Even after a bottle of rosé, this doesn’t strike me as particularly constructive, but, as far as my in-depth skimming can tell, the book is a bit lightweight on actual solutions to real problems.

I shrug and try another one.

A. Start point: London. B. End point: farm.

Steps required: Sell flat. Buy farm.

It’s at this point that I wonder, through my rosé haze, if maybe the book isn’t onto something after all. Because I suddenly feel better.

I close the book – with respect and a little awe this time – and fetch the laptop from the kitchen.

I Google,
estate agents, farm cottage, Devon
, and after a few random clicks I am drooling over a grey stone cottage with roses around the door set in ten acres of farmland just outside Bristol. It’s priced at about fifty thousand pounds less than the value of my flat. It would be so easy to set it all in motion that, momentarily, I feel quite buoyant.

But of course, every image I project of myself standing in the rose-bordered doorway requires a bloke standing beside me, or, more to the point, a bloke holding a spade, ready to dig the vegetable patch.

A bloke whose face I can’t picture because
he doesn’t bloody exist.

Which pretty much brings me back to square one.

For:

I’m not asking for the Earth here, am I?

I mean, he doesn’t have to be rich, or famous, or look like, say, Jamie Thexton . . . Hum. Now there’s a thought.

Jamie Thexton does the ecology programme on Five. I wonder if he’s single. He’d be perfect because he’s cute and fit and beardless and knows how to grow perfectly formed veg,
and
shoot, pluck and cook a pheasant. I would probably have to convince him to ditch the dreadlocks, but, well, with time, that’s feasible. If not, maybe I could even get used to them. We all have to make sacrifices.

He’s probably a bit young for me in fact – he must be early thirties. Thinking about the age thing makes me think of my mother.

It’s weird really, because when I was in my twenties my ideal men were thirty-year-olds. And when I was in my thirties, my ideal men were thirty-year-olds. And now I’m nearly in my forties, my ideal man is Jamie Thexton.

I Google him. The photos show that he’s as gorgeous as ever.

Wikipedia reveals that he was born in 1983. Twenty-six. Ouch! I wonder briefly if paedophilia is an inherited tendency.

Jamie Thexton apparently lives in a three-thousand-foot, glass- walled loft in London’s Docklands. And amazingly, he lives there with our very own, anorexic supermodel, Angelica Wayne. So much for The Good Life!

Reading on I learn that he has his own fully equipped gym within the apartment.

And there was I imagining that those muscles came from digging.

A Mug’s Game

On Sunday morning when I wake up, our Indian Summer is clearly over. It is grey and rainy, yet still muggy and hot. Then again, maybe that is exactly what an Indian Summer is like. What would
I
know?

I have a vague headache this morning and feel heavy and bloated and tired. It could just be a hangover, but because I finished drinking nearly twenty hours ago, and because my period is also four days overdue (for the second time), I’m left wondering if there isn’t something else going on. Surely Lady Luck wouldn’t be so evil as to dump premature menopause on me along with everything else. Would she?

This reminds me that I need to phone Sarah-Jane and see how she’s doing on her new hormone therapy.

Because I read in a beauty magazine (when I was nineteen) that it helps un-bloat pre-menstrual women, I drink a cup of disgusting green tea.

It has never once worked for me, but you have to live in hope.

Just before three, Darren appears on my doorstep.

‘Sorry, but do you know where Mark is?’ he asks the second I open the door. ‘Only I’m supposed to be helping him with boxes and he’s not in.’

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m another person in the world.’

Darren frowns at me and then, bless him, blushes brightly. ‘Sorry. Hello, CC,’ he says. ‘Too much coffee and not enough sleep.’

I nod sideways inviting him in and head through to the kitchen. ‘
Coffee . . .’
I say. ‘Are you sure that’s all?’

‘For once, yes,’ he says.

‘So you don’t
want
a coffee, I take it?’ I say, gesturing at the kettle.

‘Tea might be good,’ Darren replies.

‘And no, I have no idea where Mark is. Is he really moving today?’

‘Just the boxes,’ Darren says. ‘The furniture goes next weekend, I think.’

I grimace. ‘The end of an era,’ I say. ‘He’s been upstairs for five years. God knows who will move in next.’

Darren tries Mark’s mobile again and this time gets an answer. As Mark tells him that they are on their way, I make tea and suggest we move to the lounge. ‘I can’t stand how dark it is in here,’ I tell Darren.

‘It’s that tree,’ he comments, nodding out the window. ‘You should poison it.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘If only I could.’

‘Do it!’

‘But she’d be able to tell, wouldn’t she?’

Darren pouts and shakes his head. ‘My mum did it all the time in our old place. All the trees were listed so we weren’t allowed to cut them down, but Mum wanted a vegetable patch. She just sprayed five litres of Roundup on each one – at night – and then claimed ignorance when the poor things withered and died. They sent a guy from the council and even he had no idea. He said it was probably because of Chernobyl.’

‘It’s certainly an idea,’ I say. ‘That is, Roundup, not Chernobyl . . . Because the lack of light is really doing my head in and the old hag won’t even discuss pruning it.’

‘Just say the word and it’s done,’ Darren says.

‘
The word,’
I laugh, handing Darren his cup.

Darren rolls his eyes at me and shakes his head.

Once we are seated in the lounge, it takes a moment for the conversation to restart. For some reason things have always been a little awkward between Darren and me when we’re alone. It’s probably because Darren is more junior at Spot On. I expect he feels he has to watch his words.

‘Crazy weather,’ he says, finally – the great British fallback subject. ‘It was lovely yesterday.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I spent the afternoon getting sozzled on rosé and pretending I was in Cannes.’

‘Nice one,’ Darren says.

‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, what did
you
do with our brief Indian Summer?’

Darren blushes again and stares down at his tea. ‘I don’t think you want to know what I got up to.’

I frown. ‘Well, I
didn’t
,’ I say. ‘But I sure do now.’

Darren snorts. ‘You remember Ricardo?’ he asks. ‘Ricardo Escobar?’

‘How could I ever forget?’ I laugh.

‘Well yesterday he gave me that photo I wanted.’

‘He gave it to you?’

Darren licks his lips and shrugs and blushes again. ‘I had to, erm, model for him.’

‘Model.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘He wanted to paint me.’

‘How flattering,’ I say. ‘In the nude, I suppose.’

Darren smirks. ‘Not exactly,’ he says. ‘He wanted me in one of those doggy outfits.’

I bite my top lip and stifle a grin. ‘No! You’re having me on!’

‘He’s a bit weird, I think. Well, I know he is.’

‘Yes. A bit of an understatement really. So you had to wear one of those scary masks?’

‘Yeah, and a collar. And a leash. He tied the end to the bottom of the stairs and then spent five hours painting me. He did three canvases. They were pretty good actually.’

‘Five hours? Wow. And afterwards?’

Darren shrugs. ‘Nothing. I was almost disappointed. He’s not really my type, but by the time it was over the truth is that I was feeling quite up for it.’

‘He told me that he had to be frustrated to create. Now we know what he means.’

‘Yeah. He’s weird, because he’s not really very sexual in the end.’

‘But I would have thought that once he’d finished painting . . . I mean . . . if you were both willing.’

Darren shrugs again. ‘Well, no . . . Nada. Still, I got my photo. I put it over the fireplace. It looks stunning.’

‘I bet,’ I say. ‘Was it the one you wanted?’

‘Yeah, the one with the shiny padlock.’

‘That was for sale for a couple of thousand, wasn’t it?’

‘Five. Five grand.’

‘A grand per hour. That’s a good rate.’

‘Well exactly. Though, of course with art . . . I mean, it didn’t sell, so . . . I suppose it’s hard to say what it’s worth really. In a way it’s just a framed photo. But I love it.’

‘And you’ll be the star of Ricardo’s next pervy exhibition.’

‘Yeah. Maybe. Only unrecognisable, of course.’

‘Of course. The mask.’

‘I suppose you think I’m a perv,’ Darren says.

I shake my head. ‘Not really. I suppose the art aspect makes it more . . . acceptable, somehow. No, I think you’re quite brave. I wish I could be more like you.’

‘What, you fancy being tethered at—’

‘No,’ I interrupt, laughing. ‘No, I just mean, well, if I could be a bit more easy come, easy go . . . about sex, in particular.’

‘Well, we’d all like to be a bit more easy come, easy go,’ he says.

I frown at this. For the life of me, I can’t see how anyone could be more relaxed about sex than Darren. But, because it would seem rude to say so, I just nod, and cross the room to look out at the street. In the distance I hear rolling thunder.

‘Storm,’ we both say, at exactly the same moment.

‘I thought we had one coming,’ Darren adds.

‘I love a good storm.’

‘Me too,’ he agrees. ‘Makes me horny. Actually most things make me horny. Anyway. What are you reading?’ He picks up
The Blue Bistro,
revealing my copy of
Depression – Be Gone!
beneath. ‘Oh,’ he says.

‘Yes, Oh!’ I laugh.

‘That’s shite. The only ones that are any good are the ones based on CBT.’

‘CBT?’

‘Cognitive Behavioural Therapy,’ Darren says. ‘You know that CBT also stands for . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Never mind. But the CBT ones are quite useful. This one just made me feel worse though.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Though I have to admit, I only really skimmed it.’

‘Don’t bother with it,’ Darren says. ‘I’ll bring you some CBT books on Monday if you want.’

‘You never struck me as the self-help type,’ I comment.

‘Nor you.’

‘I suppose not. I’m just trying to work out how to reorganise my life really.’

‘Reorganise it?’

I shrug. ‘Everything really. That’s the problem. I kind of just feel that I have done this whole scene now. London, and jetting to New York, and . . . I want something different now. I want a farm and a veg patch, and some kids.’

‘The Good Life?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You should go for it. According to the telly the world is about to end anyway. Once all the banks have vanished and all the shops have closed, the only survivors will be people who grow their own veg.’

‘Yeah. A little bleak, but . . .’

‘My problem is that I don’t know
what
I want.’

‘You don’t fancy goats and chickens then?’

‘Oh no. I can’t think of anything worse. But I understand why someone else might.’

‘But I don’t want to do it on my own,’ I tell him. ‘That’s my problem. I mean, a farm on Exmoor, yes. A farm on Exmoor on my own, no way.’

Darren snorts. ‘Honestly, you people. I had exactly this conversation with Victor.’

‘What, Twinkletoes Victor?’

‘Yeah. He wants to move back to France and—’

‘I thought he was Spanish,’ I interrupt.

‘Nah, Basque. Whatever that means. I think it basically means French with a chip on the shoulder. Anyway, he was born near Perpignan, I think. And now he wants to move back, but not on his own. But as I keep pointing out, the chances of meeting someone who wants to live in France would be a little higher if he actually went and lived in France!’

‘Yes, I suppose,’ I say, thinking that if I was a gay man, I’d jump at the chance to move to France with a lovely guy like Victor.

‘Relationships are tough enough anyway, without throwing crazy criteria like
must want to move to France
into the mix. Waiting for other people to let you live your life is a mug’s game.’

‘I suppose,’ I say again. ‘Though of course there
are
things you
need
someone else for. There are things you
can’t
do on your own.’

Darren wrinkles his top lip. ‘Like?’

‘Like having a baby,’ I say.

‘You want kids too?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe, but it takes two to tango.’

Darren laughs.

‘What?’

‘Well . . . two to tango. You should talk to Jenna about that one.’

‘Your lesbian friend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, even she needed someone else . . .’ I point out. ‘Even if it was only for a few seconds.’

‘Sure. And a turkey baster.’

‘Is that going well? The whole motherhood thing?’

‘Sure. Fred is a lovely kid. He’s five, I think. They moved in with Catherine, which caused some hassles.’

‘I bet.’

‘Not about . . . Not because she’s a woman. Kids don’t give a damn about that stuff. But Catherine is pretty anal. A place for everything and everything in its place. I think they both have some adjusting to do. But anyway, Jenna didn’t need a man. So you see, there’s always a way. If you know what you want then just seize the day, CC. Carpe diem and all that. I just wish I knew what
I
wanted.’