Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about!

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘Here, let me take a picture!’

  Before I can stop him, Anders is holding up his smartphone and snapping away. He looks so proud, one hand clasped to his chest in delight.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say, trying my best to force a smile of enthusiasm. It’s done now – there’s no point in hurting his feelings by being truthful. ‘It’s really… unique.’ I pat the top of the horn, but my hand can barely reach the tall point, it’s so high up. ‘It’s so… solid!’

  ‘Darling, I know! It’s perfect.’ Anders nods approvingly at his own work.Thank God his parents put a stop to him becoming a hairdresser! No-one deserves this.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, thanks… I best be going now. Lots to do!’

  Anders sighs lightly, a sad smile on his perfectly symmetrical face. ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you for letting me style your hair.’

  I don’t tell him that I have never felt more ridiculous in my life. That as soon as I get back to my Airbnb I’ll spend an age taking out every kirby grip and shampooing my hair three times to get it back to normal.

  Instead I say. ‘It was my pleasure. You take care now.’

  And then, carefully tucking the photo of Chuck Allen next to Birdie’s letter in my bumbag, I get the bloody hell out of there as quickly as I can.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Text from Colin: Hello there, Olive! The lads and I just arrived in Australia safe and sound. It’s very warm and sunny! How are you? How is ‘The Big Apple’ treating you so far? All good, I hope. X

  Anders waves me away like an old friend, as if our whole interaction wasn’t the most ridiculous thing that has ever occurred, although to be fair, for him, it’s probably not. I shuffle speedily down the street, head bowed, looking back sporadically to see if he’s still waving.

  He is.

  At the end of the very long road, I turn around one final time to see if he’s gone back inside yet.

  Nope. He’s still waving.

  I give him a quick wave in return and dive around the corner to catch my breath.

  That might be one of the strangest things that’s ever happened to me. And I recently peed in front of a total stranger. Holy moly.

  I continue half walking/half jogging my way to towards the nearest underground station, but the quick movement means my too-small tights are falling down. If I move much further without rectifying the situation, they will be around my knees and that won’t be pleasant for anyone.

  I peer around me in search of a private corner or hidden doorway and spot a runner heading through a gate into some sort of park. I follow, pulling the gate closed behind me and waddling down a gravelled path.

  The runner jogs off behind some trees and I try to find a secluded spot in which to rearrange my tights without anyone seeing. As I round the corner at the end of the gravelled path, I breathe in sharply.

  Because this is one absolutely beautiful park. It’s clipped and neat, but charmingly designed, with winding paths and trees that look like they’ve come straight out of a fairy-tale picture book.

  This must be Gramercy Park! I can’t help but smile to myself. How gorgeous that in the middle of the bustling city is a place that looks as serene and composed as this! I can almost block out the sound of the hubbub and traffic from the next street over.

  It’s not busy in here at all. I wonder why. Surely anyone with any sense would want to hang out here on such a fresh spring day. I shrug away my confusion. The lack of people around means there’s no one to see me hitching my tights back up in the most unladylike fashion.

  I spot a big oak tree and slink behind it, hitching my dress up slightly so that I can pull my tights back around my waist where they belong. But then I realise that my bumbag is so tight across my middle that I can’t get the tights up far enough to stay put.

  I quickly unclip the bumbag and place it on a little wooden bench beside me. I take another furtive look around – no one nearby. With all of my strength, I yank up my tights again, my dress bunched up around my thighs. They really are a bit small and so I squat, hitch them up my legs bit by bit and wiggle so that they’ll come up over my belly. I’m almost there when I hear the worst sound a lady can hear when she is pulling up her tights. The sound of a rip.

  Nooooo!

  I look down to see how bad it is. Dammit. They’ve split right up the crotch. No! These are my favourite tights! They’re maroon. Maroon tights! They make me feel like Zooey Deschanel. Maaaan. I pull at the hole with a sad, frustrated sigh.

  ‘You!’ comes a furious voice from behind me.

  I spin around to see a snooty-looking woman staring at me in absolute disgust. She’s frowning, her top lip is curled, the whole shebang.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she spits at me, a vein popping out of her smooth forehead. ‘Where is your key?’

  I pull my dress down hurriedly. ‘My tights were… Wait, what key?’

  Two spots of colour flush onto the woman’s high cheeks. ‘You don’t have a key?’ she asks, seemingly horrified. ‘This is outrageous.’

  What is she talking about? What key? Is Gramercy Park the go-to place for all the odd people in this city?

  The woman looks down at my dress in horror, her mouth agog. I follow her gaze to find that I somehow haven’t pulled the skirt of my dress all the way back down. In fact, a chunk of the fabric has tucked itself into the waistband of my tights. As I struggle to pull it out, the woman stares at the crotch hole in my tights and inhales sharply before taking out her phone and frantically pressing at the screen.

  ‘I didn’t think anyone could see me!’ I explain. ‘How embarrassing. Sorry!’

  ‘Police, please,’ the woman shouts into the phone, one arm outstretched, palm flat. ‘You stay there. Don’t move a muscle.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, wondering why she’s calling the police. ‘Is there a criminal? Are you in danger?’ I crane my head up to take a look in the near vicinity. I don’t see anything suspect. What the heck is going on?

  The woman ignores me, her hand trembling. ‘There’s a pervert in Gramercy Park,’ she says into the phone.

  I gasp, my heart starting to speed up in fear. A pervert in the park? Shit. I look around again, eyes wide. ‘Shouldn’t we be running away?’ I ask frantically. ‘We should get out of here!’

  The woman’s hand is still warding me off. She continues speaking into her phone. ‘This is the second time this has happened!’ she snarls furiously into the receiver. ‘I want someone here immediately.’

  The second time a pervert has been here? But it’s such a classy park. It doesn’t look like the kind of place a perv would visit, even a high-class perv.

  ‘She can’t leave because she doesn’t have a key. She is keyless. She was touching herself in broad daylight. And… and she has some sort of phallus on her head.’

  The pervert is female. That’s unusual. And she has a phallus? What the hell is a… A hot feeling floods over me as it dawns on me that this woman is talking about me! That I am the one with a phallus on my head. That I am the pervert she’s talking about.

  ‘Wait!’ I shout in disbelief. ‘I’m not a pervert! I was just sorting out my tights! I was hitching them up and they ripped!’

  Ending the call and dropping her phone into her handbag, the woman puts her other hand out, feet in a wide, defensive stance. ‘You do not speak to me. Do not come near me. I will not have it. This is a private, decent park for private, decent people!’

  This is nuts. I’ve got to get out of here! I make to leave, but the woman yells so loudly that I stop in my tracks.

  ‘Don’t even think of it. You cannot leave. You do not have a key! You can’t get in or out without a key.’

  I think back to the jogger running into the park before, how I followed her through the gate before it had fully closed. I didn’t know this was a private park! How was I to know that?

  ‘There is a cop two minutes away. You will not get away like
the last one.’

  I blink. Why is this happening to me? Why won’t this woman understand that I was just hitching up my tights? Has she never encountered a saggy crotch?

  ‘I was hitching my blimmin’ tights!’ I protest again. ‘I swear!’

  ‘I don’t care what you Brits call it! It’s disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourself! Maybe you can get away with this depravity across the pond. But not here. Oh no.’

  The woman pulls out her phone again and takes a picture of me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, shielding my face with my arms.

  ‘Taking a photograph for evidence. I will name and shame you!’

  I feel myself starting to panic, sweat pooling under my arms and on my forehead. Why doesn’t she believe me? Okay, it might look a little weird, a girl with a unicorn horn examining her own crotch hole by a tree. But that doesn’t mean I’m a pervert. I mean, I’m so inexperienced in sex! I’m basically the opposite of a pervert. I have had sex one time. Ten years ago. In the missionary position. And it lasted for three minutes. And I didn’t get off in any one of those minutes! I’m the least perverted person on earth, pretty much!

  ‘How dare you say I’m a pervert,’ I say, fury burning in my belly now. ‘I don’t even have sexual feelings.’ Except for that library scene, I add to myself silently. ‘You are completely wrong on this. Just let me leave!’

  ‘NO!’ she shouts. ‘The only way you are getting out of here is with a New York City Police escort.’

  Ugh! This woman is horrible! And judgey! I bet she just got out of bed this morning, hoping for some drama to tell all her snooty friends about. She thinks she’s so important with her park key. ‘They will be here any second now,’ she says, taking another picture of me before I can cover my face again.

  Holy shit. I can’t get arrested! In America. I’ve only been here for one day. What if they deport me? Then I’ll never find Chuck and Birdie will be devastated! What if they send me to prison? I would never survive in prison. I have no tattoos. And I am weak. I am physically very weak; how would I stand up for myself? Oh God. What would Colin think if I went to prison? Would he still be interested in me? Would he be willing to be a prison husband? Would I have to do a conjugal visit with him? I mean, I don’t think I’m ready for conjugalities in general, let alone in prison!

  As these scenarios flash through my head, I get more and more freaked out. It can’t happen. This is not happening. This day cannot get any worse than it already has been!

  I soften my voice, try to sound reasonable, polite, non-deviant. ‘Look, I didn’t know it was a key-only park! I’m sorry. Please let me out. I beg of you.’

  ‘Everyone knows that Gramercy Park belongs only to its residents.’

  Man, this woman is the worst.

  ‘Well it seems unfair that only some people get to enjoy it!’ I retort before I can stop myself. I don’t think I’ve ever acted so cocky before. But then, I’ve never been accused of public indecency before and if anything will bring out a person’s grumpy side then that surely is it.

  The woman sneers at me. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me with your kinky eyes.’

  She’s so mean. I feel tears rush to my kinky eyes.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now. I can’t just wait around for the police to come. Donna would have a field day if that happened. No. I won’t do it.

  I notice that the horrid woman has a little string around her neck. And on the end of it is a golden key, glinting in the spring sunlight. That must be the key. The key to the park. The key that makes her think she is so much better than everyone else.

  And I must be a damn fool because before I can think too much about it, I’ve reached forward, snatched the key from around the woman’s neck and I am legging it. I am legging it like the motherfucking wind.

  From behind me I hear the woman scream after me. ‘Thief! Pervert! Thief! Pervert and Thief!’

  I feel the stupid tights falling all the way down my legs. But I don’t care. I will not get arrested. Not today. Not ever!

  The tights make my run more of a fast penguin waddle, so as I’m running I grab underneath where the hole is spreading and I rip it as hard as I can. Reaching the gate, I slide the key into the lock, turn it, and get the hell out of there!

  Now that I’m on a busy New York City street, no one seems to notice me, my ripped tights and my unicorn horn, and those that do don’t care. I look behind me for any sign of the cops, and spot one leaning on a wall, eating a gigantic slice of pizza folded in half. He looks pretty chill but it could be a ruse.

  I take no chances and continue scampering all the way to the underground. Once I’m on the train I take the only free seat and try to catch my breath. A weird buzzy feeling courses through my body. I feel full of energy, like I could take on a bear. I think it’s adrenaline. Or endorphins. I need to calm down.

  I yank the rest of my ripped tights off, bundle them up and shove them into my bumbag. A girl sitting opposite gives me a thumbs up as she watches me do it.

  ‘Walk of shame!’ she laughs. ‘Alright!’

  If only she knew.

  I return her smile with an exhausted one of my own, close my eyes for a moment and try to breathe my heart rate back to normal.

  What the fuck just happened?

  I realise I’m gripping onto something extra tightly. I open my fist to see the little golden park key sitting there.

  Oh my god, I just stole a key!

  My stomach churns. What if the police are hunting for me right now!

  I tuck the key into a little coin pouch and shove it into the secret pocket of the bumbag next to Birdie’s letter.

  Jeeeeeez.

  I shake my head in disbelief as the subway whizzes away from the scene of my crime.

  I’m not having the best luck at all today. I need to get this letter to Chuck as soon as possible before it gets any worse.

  I take out my phone, open up my apps and plan a new travel route.

  Next stop: Wall Street.

  My run of bad luck is not over yet. Because it turns out that not only is Chimes Investment closed on a Sunday, but pretty much the entirety of Wall Street. Of course. It’s Sunday. Duh. Obviously I should have thought of that, but with a random socialite doing my hair in return for Chuck intel, being accused of public indecency and stealing a key from the most horrid woman in NYC, my head is a teensy bit full.

  A doorman at Chuck’s company tells me that the stock market is strictly a 9-5 Monday to Friday situation like I’m some sort of idiot, which, of course, I am.

  Out in the street, it seems oddly quiet and a little bit eerie. The buildings surrounding me are huge and beautiful, if a little intimidating. It’s nothing like the genteel beauty of Gramercy or the leafy family vibe of the Upper West Side. On the subway over here no one seemed to care about my weird hair. But in the financial district people very definitely notice it. One besuited gentleman actually does a double take.

  I plonk down onto some steps opposite a bronze sculpture of an aggressive-looking bull and get out my phone, pressing the FaceTime option to call Birdie and update her on the situation regarding Chuck.

  When she answers, her lovely pixie face flashes up on the screen. She’s smiling but she looks bone-tired. My heart lurches a little. Poor Birdie.

  No matter how awful my day has been and how knackered I feel right now, I’m lucky. I’m lucky not to be stuck in a hospital room, awaiting a surgery that might give me a little more time before the inevitable.

  I shake away my self-pity and plaster a smile on my face.

  ‘Heya!’ I say, full of enthusiasm. ‘I’m in Wall Street! Sitting next to a statue of a very hostile-looking bull!’

  Birdie stares at me for a moment and then her face crumples. At first I think she might be crying. But then I realise that she is laughing. She is cry-laughing.

  And she won’t stop.

  She points at me as she laughs.

&nbs
p; Oh yes. My very own horn.

  ‘I know,’ I say, reaching up to feel the offending structure atop my head. ‘I’ve had the weirdest morning!’

  But Birdie can’t even respond, she’s laughing that hard. Tears stream out of her eyes, the phone camera shaking as she squeals with delight.

  ‘All right. Calm down.’ I roll my eyes, although her laughter is making me laugh too.

  When she’s caught her breath, she wipes the tears away from her eyes.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ she eventually gets out.

  ‘You don’t think it suits me?’ I strike a pose, hand on hip, smiling into the mid-distance. ‘Unicorn chic?’

  ‘You look insane.’

  ‘I feel insane. And it’s really heavy. I feel like my head is drooping. My neck actually aches a bit.’

  ‘Wait, let me take a screenshot.’

  ‘This.’ I point to my head. ‘Was my payment for a Chuck lead.’

  ‘I’m guessing he wasn’t at the place on East 18th Street?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Birdie nods, not looking all that surprised by the information.

  ‘I did meet his old friend from Princeton, though,’ I continue. ‘His name was Anders. He was living in the house, renting from Chuck’s parents who, apparently, haven’t seen or heard from Chuck in six years.’

  ‘Wow. He always did have a weird relationship with them. I wonder what tipped it over the edge into complete estrangement.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe they had affairs and ran away like my parents did.’

  ‘Oh sweetie,’ Birdie says sympathetically.

  ‘I’m just messing,’ I say quickly, annoyed at myself for being negative in front of her, especially when she doesn’t even have a family to complain about. ‘Anyway. Anders gave me a picture of Chuck in exchange for letting him do my hair.’

  ‘What the shit?’

  ‘Yep. He invited me in, letting me believe that he was in fact Chuck Allen and then told me there was a “certain beautiful uniformity” to my curls.’