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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Fury immediately sparks through my entire body. Even my earlobes and toes and my butt cheeks. There is fury everywhere!

  What are the chances? In a city so big and busy, what are the chances that the person I have spent the entire morning wanting to kick in the goolies is here? A few metres away, ripe for the kicking?

  I take a deep breath, adrenaline whizzing through my blood, geeing me up to race over there and destroy those goolies.

  Then I stop myself. Violence is never the answer. Except in 1994 when Tracy Henshall stole my beloved Ninja Turtles pencil case and I threatened to snap her rainbow pen in half, unless she gave it me back at once. But I’m a grown-up now. And I’ve already gotten myself into enough trouble. I should just go over there. Calmly tell him that I think he is a bad person. That he has made me upset, that sharing my likeness on national TV is simply Not Fucking Cool.

  The blonde woman throws her head back and laughs at something Seth is saying. Ugh. I bet it’s not even that funny.

  I feel anger bubbling up in my chest like hot lava about to boil over.

  No, Olive. Keep calm. Be a grown-up. Do not lose control. You are not a woman who loses control.

  ‘Oi!’ I bellow, not calm at all. ‘Oi, you!’

  Seth, the blonde woman, and another five surrounding people all swing their heads around.

  ‘You!’ I shout, pointing at him. If I had a vein in my head it would be throbbing right now for sure! ‘Yooooou. Seth! Queue jumper!’

  He screws his face up, trying to place me. Without my bumbag and with my curls tucked into the beret, he doesn’t have a clue who I am. He steps out from under the canopy, into the rain, to get a closer look. ‘Sorry, do I know you?’ he asks, a quizzical look on his dumb face.

  ‘Watch me piddle?’ I hiss furiously, marching up to him and yanking off the beret so he can see who I am ‘Really? Really?’

  His jaw falls open and he does an actual, audible gasp. With big round eyes, he starts to shake his head in astonishment. He’s pretty much doing a replica impression of me last night, you know, when I saw myself on national TV.

  ‘It’s you! Wow.’ He steps cautiously closer to me, like he’s approaching a bear or some other badass kind of animal who might kick him in the goolies at any moment.

  The rain splats down on his head. The blonde woman, still under the canopy, gives me a curious look.

  ‘Seth?’ she calls over. ‘Is everything alright?’

  Seth looks back at her. ‘Sharon, um… thanks for breakfast. I’ll call you later, okay?’

  He puts his arm out into the street for a cab. One immediately screeches up. The woman looks a little put out at my interrupting the two of them but, after giving Seth a kiss on the cheek, gets into the cab and zooms off.

  He turns back to me. ‘Hi. Um… I didn’t think I would ever see you again. This is… awkward.’ He looks around as if searching for an escape.

  ‘Yeah. Awkward!’ I say, my voice all high-pitched. ‘You humiliated me on live television. You used me for a joke! How could you?’

  ‘Umm…’ Seth grimaces, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. ‘I… I don’t know what to say… I’m, um, actually in a bit of a rush right now I have to be some—’

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ I cut in furiously before he tries to slink away. ‘You can explain yourself. And apologise! People have been stopping me all morning shouting Watch Me Piddle. I pull the beret back onto my head with a tug. ‘I have to wear this hat so people don’t recognise me.’

  Seth looks skywards and the rain starts to properly come down. No longer a drizzle but chubby cold raindrops plopping down at speed. ‘Shit.’

  Ha! I feel a dart of joy. Of course he doesn’t have an umbrella. This guy doesn’t charge his electrical equipment before taking trips, he jumps queues, he thinks women want to have sex with him in airplane bathrooms, he steals people’s likeness and manipulates it for a TV show. Of course he doesn’t have an umbrella.

  ‘Can I just…’ he says, shuffling forward and ducking his head down to try to get underneath my brolly with me.

  ‘No way!’ I say, taking a step backwards. ‘You don’t get to share my umbrella!’

  His eyes widen. He flings his arms protectively over his head, as if that will be any use. ‘Seriously? I’m going to drown here!’

  I shrug. ‘It’s the least you deserve.’ I lift my chin. ‘I won’t keep you long. I just want to say that I think you’re a horrible person. I was really scared on that flight and you used it for jokes. And now everyone in Manhattan seems to recognise me! How many people even watch that show? It seems like everybody does!’

  A proud little smile lifts the corners of his mouth, before he quickly realises how inappropriate that is and puts it back into a straight line.

  A drop of rain falls off his hair into one of his eyes and he winces.

  ‘It’s only rain,’ I scoff.

  ‘I’m wearing hair gel!’ he protests, blinking quickly. ‘It stings.’

  I sigh. It does sting when you get hair gel in your eye. As someone who used mousse every day during her teenage years, I’m only too aware of the pain that product in eyes can cause.

  I don’t want him to go blind.

  I suppose.

  ‘Just get under, already,’ I grumble.

  He dives quickly under my umbrella. He’s much taller than me so he has to stand there with bended knees. All at once, his stoopid face is really close to mine and I notice that his eyes aren’t blue, like I thought. But more like a pale turquoise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with turquoise eyes before.

  Another drop of water falls from his eyelashes and onto his jaw which, I notice, is covered in a light golden stubble that you can’t see unless you are mere centimetres away. It seems to shimmer. It must be the water or the sunlight or something. It looks like little flecks of gold.

  I must be staring because the next thing I know Seth has leaned in so close that I feel the heat of his breath on my face. ‘Hello? Olive? Earth to Olive?’

  What the hell am I staring at his five o’clock shadow for? I immediately snap out of it. ‘Earth to Olive?’ I sniff. ‘Who even says “earth to” anymore? What is this? Saved by The Bell?’

  Seth snorts with mirth. ‘You’re mean! You look very sweet with those eyes and those rosy cheeks.’ He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of my face. ‘But you are mean.’

  ‘Actually I’m not mean!’ I protest. ‘I am the opposite of mean. I have no problems with anyone. Except for my sister-in-law Donna who is a true dick, but other than that everyone likes me. Even Mr Rishi on the market – who hates everyone – loves me. YOU,’ I say, poking a finger onto his wet shirt. ‘YOU are mean.’

  ‘It was all in good fun!’ Seth says with a shrug. ‘You were a little crazy on that flight.’

  ‘I was freaking out!’

  ‘You let me believe you wanted us to…’ he trails off, pushing his glasses up his nose and raising a suggestive eyebrow. Ugh!

  ‘That was your filthy mind. I was just hoping you would accompany me down the airplane aisle. It was so shaky. I didn’t want to fall! I was scared, and you used it against me. On TV!’

  Seth stares at me for a moment. I think he’s going to apologise but instead he says, ‘It’s my job. I was just doing my job.’

  ‘It’s your job?’ I repeat, raising my voice so that he can hear me over the thud of the rainfall on the top of my umbrella. Is he for real? ‘So it doesn’t matter who you hurt, or humiliate in front of an entire country, if it’s your job? That’s what… assassins say. I was just doing my job. My job of murder! Doesn’t make it okay, dude!’

  He glances from side to side as if looking for an escape. ‘Look, dude, I don’t know what I can do beyond say, my bad!’

  ‘My bad?’

  He pulls his phone out of his shirt pocket and looks at it. ‘And I wasn’t lying when I said I was on my way somewhere. I have to go. I really am late for something.’

  Ugh. What
an absolute turd this man is. ‘You are a lying turd,’ I say.

  Amusement sparks in his eyes. ‘A lying turd? Nice phrase. Maybe I’ll use that in next week’s show.’

  I’m so angry that my mouth opens and closes. How dare he?

  ‘Seriously, Olive Maudine Brewster. I’m being truthful. I was due at the Riverside Theatre five minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh the theatre!’ I repeat in a fancy voice. ‘How lovely for you! Well don’t let my humiliation keep you from the theatre.’

  He looks at me and shakes his head in astonishment.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so mad at a person in my entire life. How can he not see that what he did to me was completely wrong! He’s acting like I’m the nutcase when he is obviously some sort of sociopath.

  ‘Jeez,’ I sigh, clearly getting nowhere. I pull Mrs Ramirez’s postcards out of my bumbag and push them angrily into the mailbox. Then I shoo him away with my hand. ‘Go. Go to wherever you’re going. You’re not the only one with things to do and places to be.’

  He holds his hands up innocently. ‘I’m sorry if you’re upset,’ he says, which is the flimsiest apology on earth. ‘It was all just a bit of fun.’

  I stare after him as he turns around and darts off back down the street, holding his arm out for a cab as he does so.

  I realise that my heart is pounding in my chest. I shake my head in disbelief. Shouting and pointing in the middle of the street in a beret. That’s just not me! I am a woman who complains via a well thought out email, or the contact form on a retailer’s website. But that idiot? I don’t think anyone has ever infuriated me so much.

  I watch through narrowed eyes as he gets into a cab and zooms off.

  I go to zip up the bumbag dangling from my hand.

  Something is amiss. I frown and peer down into the bag. My phone, Rescue Remedy, earphones, painkillers and hand sanitiser are all there…

  No.

  Oh no.

  Nooooooo.

  My stomach lurches as the familiar and comforting sight of Birdie’s letter to Chuck is no longer there where it has been safely nestled for the past three days.

  ‘Noooooo,’ I mutter to myself. ‘No. NO. NO.’

  I frantically open the other zips in the bag, desperately hoping that I moved Birdie’s letter to one of the other compartments.

  Nope.

  This is not happening. This cannot be happening.

  I quickly lean forward, pull down the shutter on the mailbox and peek inside. I can see nothing. Just blackness. And the smell of paper, which ordinarily I like but today makes me feel sick.

  My cheeks start to burn.

  Birdie’s letter.

  Birdie’s final letter.

  Oh my god.

  Chapter Eighteen

  @janeyjaneyjaneyUWS

  I swear to god the Watch Me Piddle woman just came into Zabar’s. Here’s a picture. It’s definitely her, right??? #watchmepiddle

  @NewYorkDailyNews to @janeyjaneyjaneyUWS

  Hi! We’d love to use your picture. Can we DM you?

  @janeyjaneyjaneyUWS

  Sure thing!

  It’s okay. It’s fine. Everything is going to be just fine. I can get it. I can get the letter. I have long enough arms to reach down into the mailbox, don’t I? I can just get it. It’s one of those thick-papered expensive envelopes. I’ll be able to feel it, pull it out and then everything will be okay. I can deliver it to Chuck at the bank and all will be fine. Fine! Fine.

  I peek out from beneath my umbrella. It’s so busy on this street and everyone’s moving quickly to avoid being out in the rain. No one is looking at me. No one would see…

  As casually as I can manage, I lean to the left and discreetly snake my arm into the mailbox.

  I feel around. There’s a mass of papers and… ew, something soggy?

  ‘Ugh,’ I shudder, moving my hand to the right to feel for Birdie’s letter.

  My hand grabs onto a large thick envelope. It’s the right size, the right weight…

  I pull it out hopefully.

  This envelope’s brown.

  Birdie’s is cream.

  Shit.

  Keeping hold of the brown envelope so I don’t repeat grab it, I reach my hand down again and clutch about, like one of those fairground machine claws.

  ‘Excuse me,’ comes a voice from my left. ‘What are you doing?’

  I jolt upright from the mailbox so quickly that my beret falls off, my curls springing free.

  The person asking the question is a handsome besuited dark-skinned man with a sour look on his face.

  ‘I… I accidentally posted a letter,’ I explain.

  The man’s mouth turns down. ‘I know you…’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, pulling the hat back on quickly. ‘I don’t think you do.’

  The man examines my face suspiciously. ‘I know you, I’m sure… And it’s not for a good reason… Are you, wait, are you stealing mail?’

  ‘No!’ I assure him. ‘Of course not! I’m trying to get back the letter I accidentally posted!’

  I really don’t need some busybody interrupting me right now. And then I notice that the guy has got longer arms than me.

  ‘Ooh, will you have a try for me?’ I ask. ‘Your arms are longer, you might be able to get further down.’

  Pursing his lips, the man steps away from me, looking around worriedly.

  ‘It’ll only take you a second!’ I add. ‘Just have a dig around. The envelope is thick. High-quality paper. I beg of you. This is a life or death situation and your help would be much appreciated.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ the man yells out into the busy street. ‘I need some assistance here!’

  I follow the man’s line of sight and notice that he is calling over a cop.

  ‘Good idea!’ I say. ‘He’ll probably know what to do with lost mail. Shit. What a nightmare!’

  The cop comes over – a short, skinny man with pockmarked skin.

  ‘This woman is fishing for mail! I think she’s looking for cheques.’ The besuited man tells the cop, like a kid telling over another kid. I throw him a dirty look.

  ‘Of course I’m bloody not!’ I protest. ‘I dropped my friend’s letter in there by mistake! I promise I’m not a mail thief. I’m Olive. I’m from England. I respect the postal service very much. Can you help?’

  The cop nods and smiles at me, pulling out his phone.

  ‘Thank you!’ I say in relief as he taps onto the screen. ‘Anything at all you can do to assist. Maybe have someone unlock it and I can just take my letter and then I’ll be going.’

  Forehead crinkling, the cop stares at his phone and then at my face. Then at his phone and at my face again.

  ‘Ma’am, do you know anything about an incident in Gramercy Park yesterday?’ he asks.

  ‘Nope,’ I say immediately. ‘What, um, is Gramercy Park? Incident? No, thank you.’

  Eek. I sound super guilty. They must have that stupid picture the woman in the park took on file. How on earth does he recognise me, though? I have a regular face. My eyes are a bit far apart from each other, but not in a freaky, instantly recognisable way. And I’m not wearing a unicorn horn today.

  Then I realise the pink bumbag is still dangling from my arm after I posted all of the stuff. Damn. This beautiful bag is causing me more problems than it’s worth.

  My instinct – the safest option – is to try to reason with the cop. To tell him that yes, it was I in Gramercy Park yesterday, but the whole situation was a misunderstanding. I could reasonably explain to him that the incident in Gramercy Park was just me being wrongly accused of something I did not do. And that also today I am once again being accused of something I didn’t do.

  Hmmmm.

  Even to me that sounds highly suspect. A cop won’t believe that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, two days in a row? Even if it is completely true, it sounds like a total lie!

  ‘Ma’am?’ the cop says again, glancing down at his phone and then at my
bumbag. ‘Can you tell me your name, please?

  I look around me in panic. And in that moment, I make a decision I may well come to regret. But, honestly, all I care about right now is Birdie and getting that letter back for Chuck.

  ‘Oh wow!’ I exclaim loudly, pointing into the distance. ‘It’s beloved pop icon Beyoncé!’

  The two men whip their heads around – no one is immune to Beyoncé. And when their heads are turned, I leg it and dive behind a nearby hot dog cart. A I crouch down, I hear the cop yelling into his walkie-talkie. ‘Menace located at the mailbox on 106th and West End Avenue. On foot. Holding a pink fanny pack, a brown grocery bag and a Samuel L Jackson style beret.’

  Menace? He’s calling me a menace? Rude.

  The cop looks up and down the street, assuming I’ve run far away. I feel a dart of cleverness at my decision to hide unexpectedly nearby.

  As the grumpy besuited man walks off shaking his head, and the cop heads to his car, I take the opportunity to run away, as fast as I can.

  Running away from the law twice in two days.

  I think technically that makes me a fugitive.

  Holy Fuck.

  I’m intermittently looking at my Citymapper app and walking quickly through the streets of NYC. Damn that Seth Hartman. If I hadn’t been so focused on calling him out on his awful behaviour, I wouldn’t have been distracted enough to post Birdie’s letter along with Mrs Ramirez’s postcards and had to run away from the mailbox to avoid getting arrested!

  ‘Riverside Theatre,’ I mutter to myself. He got me into this mess and he can bloody well get me out of it. I bet he’s in the theatre right now having a ball, while I’m out here on the run from the NYPD. I bet he’s with all his thespian mates and they’re congratulating him on his sketch comedy glory. I wonder if they know that it didn’t even come from his own brain, but from a real person. Me! I wonder if he’s even allowed to impersonate a real person so closely on a TV show. I mean, of course he is, Sunday Night Live is full of celebrity impressions and such. But I’m not a celebrity. I’m a sweet and innocent person who didn’t ask to be in the public eye.