The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (47 page)

‘I’m sorry, Mark,’ I say. ‘I understand. Because I do too. Want a kid. I know what that feels like.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘God. And so you deduced that I have HIV. It’s logical enough, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I don’t know why I thought that.’

‘Oh it’s an easy enough conclusion to jump to. Darren had it, Ian has it . . . everyone seems to have HIV these days. It does my head in.’

‘Darren had it?’

‘Sure,’ Mark says. ‘Why do you think the idiot was so depressed? Well, one of the reasons. His meds stopped working, and so they were trying different things . . . anyway, it was all very wearing.’

‘God,’ I say. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

‘No, well . . . maybe . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Never mind.’

‘No, what?’

‘Really. Please. Nothing. You know that Dan, his brother has it too, right?’

‘Dan?!’

‘Darren’s brother. Dan. It’s the reason they didn’t get on. And one of the reasons the mother’s so uptight as well.’

‘Is he gay as well then? I had no idea.’

‘No. He got it from a blood transfusion I think,’ Mark says. ‘He’s had it for years. It’s why he doesn’t get on with Darren. Because he always goes on about being one of the innocent victims, so by implication . . .’

‘Innocent?’

‘Exactly,’ Mark says. ‘If Darren got it, then according to Dan, it’s his own fault.’

‘And Ian too?’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetie. I had no idea.’

‘Ian’s had it forever. It’s why his face is so marked. Did you never notice that? It’s the treatment that does that. But he got it at the beginning, in eighty-three. So at least he has the excuse of not having known, I guess.’

‘And how are you with that?’

‘It’s OK. We’re careful. I mean, I wouldn’t say it’s a plus or anything, but you get used to it.’

‘I can’t believe that I didn’t know any of this. Maybe I haven’t been such a good friend. Maybe I’ve been too wrapped up in my own stuff.’

Mark shrugs, which I take as confirmation that he doesn’t entirely disagree.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

He shrugs again. ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘We’re all dealing with our own shit.’

‘You won’t say anything to Victor, will you? I really think that he meant well.’

Mark shrugs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I’ll probably never see Victor again.’

‘Oh please don’t be like that.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that he’s not really a friend. He was Darren’s mate and then when Jenna wanted a baby, she asked me, and we went to him for the tests. But mainly he just put up with the rest of us for Darren’s sake.’

‘He went to the wake,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised they let him in.’

‘Well, he’s an old family friend. He went to school with him.’

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

Mark laughs. ‘No!’ he says. ‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Why is that daft?’

‘Well . . .’ Mark laughs. ‘Though of course, who knows what those boarding school boys get up to. But no. I doubt it! And what about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah, did you ever?’

‘With Darren?’

‘With Victor! Honestly!’

‘Now
you’re
being silly,’ I say.

‘Because he’s your gynaecologist?’

‘Just because we had a drugged-up kiss at a party,’ I say.

‘I thought that might go somewhere,’ Mark says. ‘I was rather disappointed in you not seizing the moment on that one.’

‘Well . . .’ I say. ‘He’s not . . . you know, is he?’

‘Not what?’

‘He’s not bisexual, is he?’

Mark laughs. ‘Not that I know of . . .’ His face slips into a deep frown. ‘Why? Do you . . . You don’t think that Victor is . . .?’

And as he says this, I say, ‘You’re not saying that Victor is . . .?’

‘Gay?’ Mark says.

‘Straight?’

‘Huh!’ Mark laughs.

‘Is he? No, he’s gay. Tell me he’s gay.’

‘Is he?’ Mark says.

‘Surely he is. Oh stop winding me up. You! You’re terrible.’

Mark starts to snigger uncontrollably now. ‘Honestly, CC, you’re unbelievable.’

‘Victor is straight? That’s what you want me to believe now, is it?’

‘He’s a gynaecologist, sweetie.’

‘This much I know.’

‘So he spends his life putting his . . .’

‘Enough. I know what a gynaecologist does, Mark.’

‘So how many gay men do you think grow up dreaming of doing
that
all day long?’

‘Stop,’ I say.

‘Sorry, I forgot, you’ve been there. Or rather Victor has.’

‘Stop, I said.’

‘Well!’ Mark laughs. ‘You really have some dodgy equipment, don’t you?’

‘Dodgy equipment?’

‘Yes! You so need to get your gaydar retuned, honey.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I say, even though I’m starting to believe him.

‘He’s been cruising you since he first met you, you silly bitch.’

‘He has
not.’

‘Smiles, drinks, salsa . . . what did you think that was all about?’

‘I thought he was just another gay man in search of a fag hag,’ I say.

‘Right,’ Mark says, his mirth fading for a moment.

‘Joke, Mark,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Mark says. He isn’t laughing.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ I say, grimacing as I belatedly realise how demeaning those words might sound.

‘Thanks for that one.’

‘That’s not . . . You know what I meant.’

‘Sadly, I do.’

‘I’m sorry. Really I am.’

‘It’s fine. Anyway . . .’

I sigh and stroke his arm and then continue, ‘Anyway, we all danced salsa.’

‘With each other! Victor was the one rubbing groins with
you
.’

‘God. No! Really?’

Mark nods.

‘How amazing. I missed that one entirely.’

‘Looks that way,’ Mark says.

‘So why is he always with you guys? I mean, you can see how I thought . . . Are you
sure
you’re not winding me up?’

Mark raises a hand to his heart. ‘Honest to God,’ he says. ‘He’s as straight as Ian’s willy, and that’s pretty straight, believe me. And he’s been bleating on about you since you first met in March or whenever it was.’

‘And why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I thought I had. And, well, I just assumed you had dipped your toe in the water, and not liked the temperature or something.’

‘I do not
dip my toe in.
I’m not that kind of girl.’

‘Well clearly not.’

‘Anyway, he’s a gynaecologist,’ I point out. ‘That’s a real turn- off for a girl.’

‘It’s pretty icky if you’re a boy,’ Mark says. ‘More so, probably. Anyway, he won’t be for much longer.’

‘Won’t be what?’

‘Well he’s retiring, isn’t he.’

‘Retiring? How can he be?’

‘Well, not retiring exactly. But he’s off to France, isn’t he? To set up a farm or something.’

‘Is he really doing that?’

‘Yeah. I think so. His parents left him a place and he’s been buying up extra land around it.’

‘Shame. He’s cute. I finally find out he’s straight just when he’s leaving.’

‘I bet you’re wishing he was staying in gynaecology now, aren’t you?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, be serious.’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘Well, otherwise you could go for it. I mean, I can’t imagine you tripping around in the mud in your Manolo Blahniks.’

‘You’re getting me confused with Carrie Bradshaw, dear. I can’t afford Manolo anything.’

‘Or your Jimmy shoes or whatever.’

‘Jimmy
Choos.
God, you really don’t know me at all, do you?’

‘Huh!’ Mark laughs.

‘Huh?’

‘Well if I don’t, whose fault would that be?’

Mark and I down the two bottles of wine between us and then I slurringly, gigglingly order pizzas and then open a third bottle whilst waiting for the delivery.

Mark phones Ian and informs him that he won’t be home, and we sit and drink and eat and drink some more until the first signs of daylight appear in the east.

Mark tells me about Ian and his illness and how he, Mark, is struggling to come to terms with the open relationship that Ian has imposed. He tells me that it’s not his thing, but that he’s determined to make things work, because despite everything, he’s simply never been happier.

For my part I tell him for the first time about my dad, and Brian, and Waiine, and wanting a baby, and thinking of leaving Spot On for a new life somewhere far away from London.

As the evening progresses, I feel like a weight is being lifted from my shoulders, and realise that I have made considerable efforts these last years to keep those around me at a distance. In the end though, all of this stuff is better out than in, and it strikes me that if I hadn’t spent so much energy keeping things to myself, perhaps I wouldn’t have needed a shrink in the first place. Certainly, if I had expressed how I felt about Victor to Mark, my life could, it seems, have been very different. I just wish I had found the time to talk to Darren like this. Perhaps that’s all it would have taken.

Short-Sighted Date

I look around the restaurant and check my watch. I wish I had had the nerve to organise this myself, because I’m now realising that letting Mark set it all up has just added an extra layer of embarrassment to the whole thing.

I straighten my top and check my watch. A quarter past twelve. I sigh, and think that letting Mark organise things has also increased the possibility of a complete cock-up.

I pull my BlackBerry from my pocket and phone him to check that I am waiting in the right restaurant, but there’s no answer, so I pull Victor’s card from my purse, and sigh and start to type the number in.

But then he’s there in the doorway, the low November sun streaming around him.

He crosses the restaurant and pulls a face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.

‘I was just about to phone to check that Mark hadn’t given us two different addresses,’ I say. ‘Just for a laugh. That would be
so
his style.’

Victor removes his suit jacket and slides into the seat.

‘Nice jumper,’ I say. ‘Not sure about the stubble though.’

He laughs. ‘Oh this is just two days. When I grow a proper beard I look like one of ZZ Top. I
am
sorry I’m late though. I had an appointment at the surgery and it went on far longer than expected. I would have called but I don’t have your number, so . . .’

‘It’s fine really. I only got here five minutes ago myself,’ I lie.

‘God, it’s posh here isn’t it?’ Victor says looking around. ‘When he said Indian I imagined some little side-street place.’

‘Yes. I’ve never been here either.’

‘So, what’s this about?’

I feel a rash of heat rise instantly from my collar. ‘Mark didn’t say?’

Victor frowns. ‘No. He just said you needed to talk to me.’

‘Jesus!’ I say.

‘Is that a blush?’ Victor asks, apparently amused.

‘It might be,’ I say. ‘I just . . . I just thought he would have said something.’

Victor pouts and shakes his head. ‘Nada,’ he says.

I rub my brow and fiddle with the menu. ‘Oh God,’ I say.

‘So hazarding a guess, it’s something embarrassing?’ Victor says.

‘A little, yes.’

‘Is it professional? To do with your project to—’

‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘No it really isn’t to do with that.’

‘How are you getting on with that? Have you . . .? Oh. You’re not going to ask me to . . .’

‘No!’ I say. ‘No, I
said
, it’s nothing to do with that.’

‘Right,’ Victor says, frowning now. ‘Is it something to do with Darren?’

I shake my head. ‘No, it’s . . . God this is awful!’

Victor shrugs. ‘Just . . .’ he says with a shrug. ‘I don’t know, say it. How bad can it be?’

‘It’s Mark. He thought . . . he
thinks
that we might get on.’

‘We might get on . . .’ Victor repeats.

‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Can we just forget it? Can we just have lunch?’

Victor nods, and then, clearly trying to restrain a smirk, he says, ‘Sorry, but, when you say,
get on,
is this, like, a blind date or something?’

I cough.

Victor’s face is distorted with mirth. ‘Oh my God, it is!’

‘Well, it’s not exactly blind, is it? Perhaps a bit short-sighted . . .’ I laugh weakly.

Victor nods and says, ‘God!’

‘Look, if you want to forget this, we can just . . .’ I say, reaching vaguely for my coat.

Victor extends an arm across the table and touches my shoulder gently. ‘No, please,’ he says. ‘Let’s have lunch as planned.’

I relax back into my seat and fan myself with the menu. ‘I told you it was embarrassing,’ I say. ‘It’s Mark’s fault. He was convinced that you’re keen or something. Stupid boy.’

‘Keen,’ Victor repeats, laughing.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘If you’re just going to . . .’

Victor shakes his head. He thinks this is all so funny his eyes are glistening with tears. ‘CC,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I . . . I really . . . keen doesn’t really begin to describe how I felt about you.’That past tense feels like a razor-blade slicing right across my jugular.

‘But . . . God, your timing is bad,’ he continues.

‘My timing,’ I repeat, quietly, wondering if it would be really hysterical of me to just stand and sprint from this restaurant right now. Because all I want to do is lock myself in my flat and close the curtains. ‘Look, this is turning out to be excruciating for me,’ I say. ‘Maybe we
should
just go separate ways and pretend that this never happened.’

‘It’s not that . . . Look,’ Victor says. ‘Look, I really
do
like you, CC, don’t get me wrong. I am keen. But I’m just not . . . well, I’m not available for that sort of thing now. And why now anyway? Why suddenly me, now? Were you seeing someone before?’

‘No.’

‘Then . . .’ he shakes his head and shrugs.

‘I thought you were gay,’ I say in a whisper.

‘You thought I was
gay
?’ Victor repeats incredulously.

‘Yes. Well you were always with Darren and Mark, and . . .’

Victor’s face cracks into a grin again.

‘Oh, don’t laugh at me,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. But yes. I thought you were gay.’

‘Hey, no need to be sorry,’ he says. ‘Darren is . . . was . . . my best friend. But I can see how . . . and you’re not the first and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. And I don’t mind in the slightest. In fact I’m rather flattered. My girlfriends were always saying how much better looking gay men are.’