The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (35 page)

I shrug. ‘He seems . . . nice.’

‘Ah. So you’ve decided to chicken out? To just tell me what I want to hear?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Jeez, Mum. I can’t really win with you.’

‘You think he’s too young, of course.’

‘Well yes. Of course I think he’s too young. He’s a lad, Mum. He’s a naïve young lad.’

‘I had a two-year-old baby when I was his age. And a job. And a husband.’

I nod slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose you did.’

‘I was old enough to decide what I wanted. Why shouldn’t Adam be?’

‘Because of where he’s from,’ I say. ‘He probably doesn’t feel he has as many options as you did.’

‘Options?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘What would you know about what options I had?’

‘Yes, sure. But you know what I mean.’

‘You
mean
he wouldn’t be seen dead with a wrinkly old crone like me if he didn’t need a ticket out.’

I frown. ‘Well I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ I say.

Mum nods and pulls off her reading glasses. ‘Well that’s not it,’ she says. ‘He has a very nice life in Agadir. But he loves me.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I haven’t finished,’ she says, sharply.

‘Sorry . . .’ I return to sipping my tea.

‘And even if that were the reason,’ she says. ‘Even if Adam did want to be with me because he wants a better life, what would be so wrong with that?’

‘Well, it would be . . .’ I say. But the word on my lips is ‘
prostitution
’ and I can’t say that. I struggle to find another way to express what I want to say, but the words that come to mind this time are, ‘
economic slavery
’ which clearly aren’t helpful either.

‘Why did Jenny Robinson leave Robert?’ she asks me.

‘Because being married to a man with a speech impediment – a man called Robert Robinson, or rather
Wobert Wobinson –
was just too silly for words?’ I say.

‘No,’ she says, ignoring my rather witty retort. ‘Because he couldn’t hold down a job. Because he was always drunk.’

‘And the
Wobinsons
are welevant because?’

‘You stay with someone for a whole host of reasons. Because you find them attractive. Because they make you laugh. Because they have a good job. Because you think you’ll have a nice life together.’

‘Yes but that shouldn’t be the principal reason,’ I say. ‘Surely.’

She shakes her head and looks out of the side window.

‘What?’ I say.

‘I’m just wondering how you see me,’ she says.

‘How I
see you
?’

‘Well yes. If you can’t imagine anyone wanting to be with me.’

‘Oh, Mum. I can! I love you. Dad loved you. But . . .’

‘But Adam doesn’t . . .’

‘I just think it’s . . .
confused
. Because of the age thing.’

‘He
likes
older women, dear.’

Another not-useful word pops into my brain.
Gerontophile
. I think of a
Little Britain
sketch where the young man keeps
accidentally
touching-up the Gran.

‘He likes older women,’ she says again. ‘He likes me particularly. He wants a better life. He sees he can have that with me . . .’

‘And you? What’s your end of the deal?’

‘It’s not
a deal
, dear.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I love it when he’s here.’

‘OK. Why?’

‘Because having someone in my bed after twenty years of sleeping on my own is wonderful. Because having a bit of youth in the house makes me feel younger. Because I’m enjoying sex again.’

‘Mum,’ I say, pulling a face.

‘Because I’m enjoying sex again,’ she repeats pedantically, ‘and I didn’t think it was possible. Because having him around reminds me of when you and . . .’

‘When Waiine was at home.’

Mum shrugs.

‘But those aren’t the right reasons,’ I say. ‘Surely you can see that those aren’t the right reasons to go out with someone. Because he reminds you of your daughter who has flown the nest and your dead son.’

‘It’s why people have relationships, dear,’ she says. ‘All those reasons are why people get together. Because it’s bloody lonely and bloody boring being on your own.’

‘I just don’t think—’

‘Why do you think you go around with so many homosexuals? We’re all trying to replace what we have lost.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘And who are you to judge anyway?’ she asks, starting to get seriously hot under the collar. ‘Who are you to tell me which are good reasons and which are bad? Since when did
you
become such a relationship expert?’

The comment stings me to the core. I’m lost for words.

‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry,’ she says.

I shrug.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.

‘Right,’ I say.

I stare out of the window at the grey day. I think of an Everything But The Girl song: ‘Two Star’, about not being able to judge the lives of others when your own is a mess.

‘Right,’ I say again.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be . . . There are lots of reasons people marry, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Marry,’ I say.

‘Well, live with, stay with, go out with, you know what I mean.’

‘But you said
marry.
’

‘I was talking hypothetically,’ she says.

‘So you’re
not
going to get married?’

‘No. Well . . . Oh, look . . . of course I am.’

‘Of course you are?!’

‘You’ve already worked that out anyway, haven’t you? Let’s not play games.’

And though that knowledge hadn’t yet been acknowledged – though it was merely lurking at the back of my mind, she’s right. I did know.

‘And you don’t approve.’

I shrug. ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re right. Let’s not play games. I don’t approve. No.’

‘Plus it’s the only way to really sort out all this visa mess,’ she says.

‘So you get married, and he gets nationality?’ I say. ‘That’s the deal?’

‘There’s no deal,’ she says. ‘Honestly, dear. But if we’re going to be together, well, being married makes it all much easier. That’s what Giles says anyway.’

I blink and shake my head in disbelief. ‘This is Giles . . . Dad’s old partner from the law firm?’

‘Yes, Giles Anderton.’

‘You’re consulting Giles Anderton, Dad’s partner . . . to work out the best way to get your twenty-year-old Moroccan lover into the country.’

Mum shakes her head. ‘Darling. Whatever is wrong with you these days?’

‘Do you think that’s appropriate?’ I ask.

Mum sighs deeply and shakes her head. She looks red-faced and angry, but also somehow slightly amused.

‘What?’ I prompt.

‘Enough,’ she says.

‘Enough?’

‘Yes. Time to change the subject.’

‘Just, please don’t rush into this. Just . . . give it time. There are legal implications and . . .’

She shakes her head again.

‘What?’ I say again.

‘You remind me of my grandmother,’ she says. ‘Always very concerned about what was “
appropriate
,” Granny Stevens was. Lucky I didn’t listen to her, or you wouldn’t be sitting there today.’

I nod.

‘I never thought you’d end up so stuffy. I suppose it’s like hair colour.’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Yes. I suppose it can jump a generation. Anyway, I need a drink.’ And at this she stands and struts from the room.

A drink! At ten a.m.!
I sit at the kitchen table and think of
Absolutely Fabulous.

‘I have become Saffy,’ I mutter morosely, ‘and my mother has turned into Edina.’

But no, it’s worse: my mother has turned into Patsy.

The Gift of Time

The first thing I do on Monday morning is to look up Giles Anderton’s number and call him. The fact that he is ‘advising’ my mother has been playing on my mind and I need to talk to him about it.

He picks up the phone on the third ring.

‘Hello, Giles, it’s CC, remember me?’ I say.

‘CC?’

‘Yes, Angela’s daughter.’

‘
Oh, Chelsii . . .
sorry. So how are you? It’s been ages, hasn’t it?’

‘It has. Really ages!’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Well, I expect you can work out why I’m calling.’

‘I could hazard a guess, yes.’

‘I’m really worried about her.’

‘Of course.’

‘She says you’re advising her.’

‘Well, advising is probably overstating it a bit. But I’m giving her a helping hand.’

‘With Saddam’s immigration?’

‘Well . . . Um . . . I’m sorry. It’s a bit delicate. I, er . . . Well, I can’t really discuss a client’s affairs. Not even with you.’

‘Oh, of course. Silly me. Sorry.’

‘No problem, it’s just . . .’

‘Sure. No worries. You retired, didn’t you? When Dad . . .’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘That would be the last time I saw you I think. At his funeral.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember when he used to bring me into the office?’

‘I do.’

‘You used to let me use the typewriter.’

‘That’s right. I remember. You used to hit all the keys at once and jam it.’

‘Yes. But you’re retired now.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s life like without clients?’

‘Oh . . . rather nice really.’

‘Right. So I suppose Mum’s not really a client then, is she?’

‘Well, no . . . I’m more giving her some advice. As a family friend.’

‘Right. She’s my mother.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, I’m part of that family.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘All I want to know is if she’s being careful, Uncle Giles.’

‘Careful?’

‘Yes. Has she, say, mentioned pre-nups to you?’

‘Ahh! So you know then.’

‘Well yes. She says you told her that marrying Saddam would make things easier.’

‘In terms of his immigration, well, yes, it undeniably does.’

‘It also makes it considerably easier for him to walk off with half of her estate. Half of our family estate.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And seeing as I’m the only remaining family, that does rather affect me.’

‘I suppose it does.’

‘If Mum ends up destitute, she’ll end up on my couch.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t think it will—’

‘Or yours perhaps.’

‘Yes, Chelsii. I get your point.’

‘I don’t want to be pushy, Uncle Giles, but . . . well . . . I want to know that we’re singing from the same song sheet here.’

‘I really do think that you need to discuss this with—’

‘Oh, I will. Of course I will. But if she asks you, then you would obviously give her the same advice as me. Which is that a pre-nup is essential.’

‘Yes, I suppose that is what I would say.’

‘Good. I just wanted to check that you agree with me. Before I try to discuss it with her.’

‘Yes, I do. Entirely. Of course. Anyway, do call in and see me next time you’re over this way.’

‘Are you still in . . .’

‘Yes, still in Farnham. Still in the same house.’

‘Great. Well, then I will. It will be a pleasure.’

‘Oh, and Chelsii?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please don’t phone me before ten. I am retired, you know.’

I glance at the clock on the wall (five past nine). ‘God, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’

‘Not as such, but I only just got up so . . .’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No problem. Bye, pumpkin.’

When I hang up, my voicemail informs me that I have a message from Peter Stanton. He’s asking to see me about Cornish Cow.

As they aren’t yet clients of ours, and because they have, to date, ignored my suggestions of a visit, there doesn’t seem to be much to discuss. In the end, Stanton simply wants to remind me how important a potential contract would be for the agency at this time.

‘There’s a rumour that Unibrand is going to buy them out,’ he says. ‘If that happens then their marketing budget could go sky high.’

I return to my desk and make a fresh attempt at calling their MD. I’m thoroughly convinced that his secretary will fob me off again, so I’m pretty surprised when she says, ‘Oh yes. The meeting. Mister Niels suggested Thursday. Not this Thursday, that would be next Thursday. Thursday the twenty-third. First thing.’

I phone Stanton to give him the news and then head straight up to Creative where I skip theatrically through the door.

‘Hello!’ I say to Mark, the only one present. ‘Guess who has a meeting with Cornish Cow?’

Mark looks up at me and grins. ‘Really? Hello!’

‘Yep. Thursday week.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘It is! Where is everyone?’

‘Jude’s getting . . .’

As he says this Jude pushes in through the door carrying two cups of coffee. ‘Oh hiya. Did you want one?’ he asks, handing Mark his cup, and hesitating with his own.

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘And Darren has taken the week off,’ Mark continues.

‘Sick, or . . .?’

‘No, I think he’s job hunting.’

‘Job hunting? Wow! That’s proactive. Stanton, hasn’t said anything has he?’

‘Well, you know he warned him,’ Mark says.

‘Yes, but nothing further?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘No. But you don’t have to be a genius to see what’s happening . . . Or rather
not
happening. I think we should all be job hunting really. Hey, Jude. CC has a meeting with Cornish Cow.’

Jude smirks.

‘What?’ I ask him.

‘Sorry, I just realised . . .’ he says. ‘CC? Cornish Cow?’

‘Yes, very good,’ I say.

‘So when are you going?’ he asks.

‘Next Thursday,’ Mark answers.

‘Next Thursday,’ I confirm.

‘Apparently they’re being bought by . . .’

‘Unibrand,’ I say. ‘Yes, I heard the rumour. I don’t think it’s certain though.’

‘So it might bring us some other work as well.’

‘Well that’s what we said about the Grunge!/Levi’s deal,’ I point out.

‘Any news from the lovely Tom?’ Mark asks.

I shake my head. ‘Nothing much. It’s the same as here. They’re rushing around trying to pull ads to reduce their exposure until the slowdown speeds up or something.’

Jude crosses the room to put paper in the printer, and I notice that he’s hobbling.

‘God, you really went, didn’t you?’ I say.