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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Text from Birdie: Seriously. Hubba.

  As the cab pulls up outside of Chimes Investment, I feel a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I’m finally going to meet the man who Birdie loved for so long. The one that got away. The man too cool for even the slightest whiff of social media presence: Chuck Allen! I have an appointment. I have the letter. I am in the right place. Nothing can go wrong.

  At floor eighty-four I get out of the lift, my knees wobbling at the notion that I am really really really high up in the building. My chest tightens a little.

  ‘Everything is fine. If I relax, it will pass,’ I mutter to myself, breathing deeply like Phyllis showed me.

  It helps. I still feel scared and I will be avoiding all windows up here. But I don’t feel like I want to be sick and that’s definitely an improvement!

  I head over to the reception desk, where a very neat and pretty woman is sitting, tapping quickly on a keyboard.

  She looks me up and down with a sneer. Can she tell that I am wearing yesterday’s clothes? Is she judging my hair, which – due to a lack of straighteners at Trickys – is now poofed up in all of its gigantic curly glory. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  Hmmm. I don’t like her attitude.

  I find myself lifting my chin up and blasting into the plummy voice I used yesterday on the phone call to Chuck’s assistant.

  ‘I am Olive Brewster!’ I declare. ‘I have an appointment with Chuck Allen. I… would also like a coffee please. At once.’

  The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh, of course! Sorry Mrs Brewster. I spoke to you yesterday on the phone? I’m Lisa.’

  ‘It’s Ms. Muzzzz. If you don’t mind, Lisa,’ I say imperiously.

  Lisa flusters, all traces of attitude gone now that she thinks I’m some rich investor. ‘Yes, yes. Of course. If you’d like to take a seat.’ She indicates a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs shaped like eggs. ‘I will let Charles know you’re here and I will get you that coffee.’

  ‘Good,’ I sniff.

  ‘How do you take your coffee?’

  ‘Like I take my men. Milk and one sugar.’

  Okay, I took it too far. That doesn’t even make any sense.

  Lisa just nods.

  I take a seat and pull Birdie’s letter out of my bag. I clutch it to my chest. Shit! I’m about to do it. I’m about to meet Chuck Allen and give him Birdie’s letter. My hands shake a little with the magnitude of it. Wow. I’ve done it. Me, Olive Brewster has conquered Manahttan! I may be on the NYPD’s wanted list, but I have made my best friend’s wish come true.

  Lisa brings me the coffee – which I gulp back eagerly in a bid to wake up a little more, when the door to another office opens and a man walks out.

  He strides over to me with a friendly smile, holding his hand out for me to shake.

  Ooh. Who is this guy? Chuck’s mate? His other assistant?

  ‘Charles Allen,’ the man says. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  I… I don’t understand.

  This man isn’t the man in the photo I have. This man is short. And bald. And in his fifties.

  ‘Ha ha.’ I nod slowly. ‘Very amusing. Where is he really?’

  The man’s shiny round head turns from side to side. ‘Excuse me?’

  I sigh. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I really haven’t got the time or the energy for this. ‘Where is the real Chuck Allen?’ I ask. I think I must say it pretty loudly because a few other people in the reception area turn around to look.

  The man stutters a little. ‘I… um… I am Chuck Allen. Charles. Only close friends and family call me Chuck.’

  Huffing, I dig into my bag and pull out the photograph of Chuck in college.

  ‘This is who I’m looking for.’ I touch my finger to Chuck’s smiling face. ‘This is Chuck Allen.’

  Fake Chuck looks around uncomfortably. ‘I… clearly that’s not me.’

  Lisa from the reception desk approaches us. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

  Fake Chuck nods. ‘Yes, Lisa. There appears to be some confusion.’ He purses his lips, throwing Lisa a stern look. ‘You arranged this appointment, correct?’

  ‘I’m looking for Chuck Allen,’ I say, handing her the picture. ‘This guy. Chuck Allen.’

  Lisa takes hold of the photograph, her eyes screwing up.

  ‘Oh! Yeah. That’s Chuck Allen. He used to work here in Private Equity.’

  I’m so confused.

  My stomach churns with a sense of dread. I turn to the bald man. ‘So why are you saying you are him?’

  Fake Chuck takes the photo from Lisa and holds it very close to his nose. ‘Ah yes! I see. Yes. Chuck! He left about two years ago, I think. Isn’t that correct Lisa?’

  ‘Correct, sir.’ Lisa smiles. ‘It’s funny, after he handed in his notice, he seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. My friend Jodie in Legal dated him for a little while. Lord knows what happened to him.’ She turns to me. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Argh!’ I cry to the ceiling, my temper – not helped by the lack of sleep last night – starting to bubble up in my chest. ‘I thought he was here!’ I point at the bald man. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘This is Charles “Chuck” Ellen.’ Lisa says.

  ‘Ellen with an E,’ Fake Chuck says. He points to the picture. ‘That’s Chuck Allen. Allen with an A.’

  No. No. NO.

  ‘How funny!’ Lisa simpers, seeming to find this all genuinely funny. ‘It must be the British accent. I thought you were calling to ask for Chuck Ellen with an E!’

  No. No. I cannot have misheard them saying Chuck Ellen instead of Chuck Allen. Nope. After everything, that cannot be what’s happening here.

  Lisa and new Chuck are chuckling over the confusion. ‘I can still assist with your financial queries?’ Chuck Ellen says, shaking his head like this mistaken identity is the most exciting thing that has happened here in years, which, to be fair, it probably is.

  I go hot at the realisation that my flight home is in less than twenty-four hours and I have no clue in the world where the real Chuck Allen is.

  This cannot be happening!

  ‘Miss?’ Chuck Ellen says. ‘Shall we go step into my office and we can discuss those investments?’

  I swallow hard, desperately trying to come up with a new option to track down Chuck before I leave.

  ‘Miss?’ Chuck Ellen repeats. ‘Your investments?’

  ‘There are no investments,’ I say, my voice forceful with frustration. ‘There is no money.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m not a billionaire! I’m sorry but I lied on the phone so I could get an appointment to see Chuck Allen. I have a letter for him and it’s really really important.’

  ‘Not a billionaire?’

  A small crowd of besuited people has started to gather at the commotion.

  ‘Not even a hundredaire at this point. There isn’t any money!’ I can hear my voice getting higher and higher. Holy crap. How can this day have started off so well and gone downhill this fast? ‘I don’t have any investments to make! I am poor! I work as a fish market assistant. I gut fish and sell the remains to northern people who want to eat the fish flesh. It does not pay well!’

  There’s a shocked silence around the room. It must be the talk of gutting fish. It always makes people a bit queasy.

  ‘You have no money?’ Chuck Ellen gasps like he’s never encountered such a thing.

  ‘Argh!’ I yell, burying my head in my hands.

  I hear the crowd of people muttering around me. Words like ‘real life poor person’ and ‘maybe call security’. But I can barely pay them attention. All I can think about is the fact that this man is not Chuck Allen and I have no new leads! I have no more time!

  I had one job! One job and I’ve well and truly messed it up. Shit. I should have found some way to get back to Manhattan yesterday. At least I would have had more time. I rested on my laurels. I didn’t prepare.

  ‘Nooooo!’ I mutter, plonking down ont
o the egg seat. ‘Gaaaah!’

  ‘Is she all right?’ I hear someone say.

  ‘Is she staging a sit-in?’

  ‘What is she protesting?’ someone else says. ‘They already put in the organic vending machine.’

  ‘I think I recognise her…’ A voice pipes up.

  Great. Of course someone recognises me. Neither my hair, nor my accent is disguised.

  I wait for someone to shout out ‘Watch me piddle!’ But instead I hear a sharp intake of breath.’

  ‘Oh my god! It’s her! It’s the Menace of Manhattan!’

  ‘Oh my goodness. I see it! Shall we call the police?’

  ‘We definitely should. Don’t let her get away.’

  I look up sharply. They’re talking about calling the police on me? Why are they calling me a menace? I’m just having a little meltdown is all. A tiny little meltdown. And with very good reason, I think!

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, peering up at the small crowd of besuited people. ‘Look, I’ve just had some bad news, okay? Sorry to be making such a fuss. I’ll just go.’ I stand up. ‘You don’t have to call the police! Talk about overdramatic.’

  Lisa, the assistant, stands in front of me. ‘Sit back down! You’re not going anywhere. We know what you’ve been doing!’

  ‘We all know,’ Fake Chuck adds.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ someone in the crowd pipes up gleefully.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I stand up again and try to get past Lisa, but a few other people have joined her in an attempt to block me in. What the fuck is happening now?

  A young man in a suit hurries over from a nearby office carrying a bunch of newspapers. ‘This is you, is it not?’

  Puzzled, I grab the papers off him. All of them are copies of a paper called the New York Daily News. I squint at the paper on top of the little pile.

  ‘Ten per cent off at Patz Deli? Huh?’

  I don’t get it.

  Lisa taps a manicured finger at a picture and small column on the bottom left of the page. ‘There! We know all about you.’

  I look more closely at the newspaper and start splutter-coughing as I realise that the picture is a picture of me. In Gramercy Park. Unicorn horn atop my head.

  Key Stolen in Gramercy Park reads the headline. I feel my cheeks flush. I quickly scan down the text. It’s a report of a ‘British girl with a pink fanny pack masturbating in Gramercy Park without a key’. And when confronted by a resident – one Elissa Johnson, a luxury mommy blogger – she stole a key from the local and ran away.

  Oh my god.

  I quickly pull out the next paper in the pile. There, again, in the bottom left corner, is another picture of me at the mailbox where I accidentally posted Birdie’s letter. I’m clasping my pink bumbag to my chest. Next to me is the cop I ran away from and the dumb man who reported me. The headline here says ‘Gramercy Park Thief Caught Stealing Mail’. I read the accompanying text that outlines how I tried to groom a New York citizen into helping me to steal mail, then when confronted ran away again, escaping the cop who ‘gave chase’.

  What the hell? I wasn’t stealing mail! I wasn’t trying to groom anyone and that cop did not ‘give chase’. And even worse, the picture is very obviously me. That beret, as it turns out, was not covering as many as my curls as I had hoped.

  Right at the bottom there’s a one-liner that suggests that the recent ‘Watch me piddle’ character in Sunday Night Live appears to be based on this ‘Menace of Manhattan’, as spotted by a waitress at Zabar’s.

  You’ve got to be kidding me!

  I pull up the third paper and look at the bottom left corner.

  It’s another picture of me, taken when I was in Zabar’s innocently trying to order a bagel with smoked salmon!

  The headline here says: ‘Menace of Manhattan pilfers hat from passerby.’

  Pilfers a hat? I’ve never pilfered a hat in my life! I read on, my eyes quickly skimming down the salubrious copy. Apparently I stole a hat from one Franklin Beckett.

  ‘She whipped the beret right off the top of my head!’ said Franklin, a 54-year-old saxophonist from Morningside Heights. ‘And it was my favourite beret!’

  ‘Outrageous!’ I hiss at the newspaper, my hands trembling. ‘That guy told me it wasn’t his favourite beret! He sold it to me! I paid ten American dollars for it!’

  This whole thing has become ridiculous. Now I’m the Menace of Manhattan? This is farcical. It can’t be real!

  ‘I need to leave,’ I utter, trying to get past Lisa, Chuck Ellen and the mini barricade they’ve made.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, arms folded. ‘The police will be here any moment now. They’ll know what to do with you. I knew you were a fake when you called us yesterday. Billionaires are not discreet.’

  ‘You totally believed me,’ I snipe back, feeling very angry indeed.

  ‘Menace!’ someone in the crowd heckles.

  ‘Public fiddler!’

  ‘Watch me piddle!’

  These Wall Street people are horrible! They are properly ganging up on me! Ugh!

  Two cops, one female and a male, push through the little crowd, looking slightly bored and unimpressed.

  ‘What seems to be the problem here?’ the woman policeman says.

  I peek at her badge. Officer Parker.

  ‘Officer Parker, there is an explanation for everything, I swear.’ I hold my hands up in innocence. ‘You’ve got to understand, these past few days have been a little tricky and everything is not as it seems.’

  ‘Wait…’ the male cops says slowly, leaning forward to get a proper look at me. ‘I know you! You’re the Menace of Manhattan!’

  ‘We thought it was her,’ Lisa says superiorly. ‘We restrained her for you.’ She’s sucking up to the cops like a real goody-two shoes. I should introduce her to Donna, they’d got along great!

  ‘I am not a menace!’ I protest. ‘I am Olive Maudine Brewster. Fishmonger. From Manchester. God, This stupid city! It’s been a nightmare from start to finish! I’m just trying to deliver a letter, that’s all! I’m just trying to help my friend!’

  Officer Parker grimaces. ‘We don’t take kindly to foreigners calling our city stoopid. New York is the best city in the world.’

  ‘Yeah!’ the crowd agree. ‘Go Knicks!’

  ‘Actually it is not,’ I say, my temper now wildly out of control… ‘That’s so arrogant to say that. Have you been to all the cities? Have you? No. I bet you haven’t.’

  ‘Miss, did you expose yourself in Gramercy Park?’

  ‘No! I was hitching my tights.’

  ‘Did you steal mail from a public mailbox on 106th Street and West End Avenue?’

  ‘No! I accidentally posted a very important letter. This letter!’ I wave Birdie’s letter in the air. ‘I was just trying to get it back! Please. I really need to go. I have a flight at 3 a.m. and I really need to find a man!’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Fake Chuck mutters to himself wistfully.

  ‘Miss, did you steal a Gramercy Park key?’ the male officer asks.

  Shit. I did do that. I could deny it but… That key is in my satchel right now. Wait… is it in the bum bag at home? Argh! What if they search me? Take all of my private belongings out of my bag one by one, in front of all of the eighty-fourth floor Chimes Investments. I can’t have that happen. Oh god. There’s a joint in there. Phyllis’s joint! They can’t find that. Maybe they’ll let me off lightly if I’m honest about the key. Cut me a deal.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking down at my feet. ‘And I am truly sorry. I panicked. I can give it back to you right now. And then you have to let me go! Seriously!’

  Officer Parker snorts. ‘We don’t have to do anything.’ She turns to the male officer. ‘Let’s bring her in.’

  I look at the male cop’s badge – Officer Gallo. And I can only watch as – oh shit – he magics up a pair of handcuffs and before I can even protest he’s snapped them around my wrists.

  ‘Olive Brewster,
you are under arrest.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Text from Colin: Hey Olive! You didn’t reply to my last text. Is all okay? I am hung-over after the beach party, but it is very warm today. Poolside chill-out day, methinks!

  Text from Colin: What’s your email address? I have some amusing memes I can send to you, if you like! I have a folder of them on my iPad :D :D

  The thing they don’t show in TV shows is that in addition to it being super nerve-wracking, getting arrested involves a whole lot of admin. There was a queue. Usually I love a queue. But this was the worst queue I had ever encountered. Really shit queue mates. The woman in front of me said she would perform some erotic poetry for ten dollars and then called me a ‘sumbitch’ when I declined the offer. The man behind me wanted to sell me meth and didn’t mind if I paid him or not. He just wanted a buddy to do the meth with. And the man behind that man just kept yelling that he had to get home immediately because his baby iguanas needed feeding.

  After booking me in, taking my prints, mugshot and all of my personal belongings – including, much to my humiliation – the joint that Phyllis gifted me earlier, I was taken to a holding cell. That’s where I am right now.

  In a jail cell. A freaking jail cell. I don’t even know what’s going to happen next! Do I get a lawyer? Are they going to make me wear an orange jumpsuit? Will the British Embassy be informed? I think I’m in shock. It all feels like a crazy scary trippy dream. This time last week my biggest worry, after Birdie, was the fact that Alex and Donna were making me move into the box room. And now… I am in jail! Sitting next to a woman who tells me her name is Mandy Banana and that I should not look her directly in the eyes because she will ‘fuck a bitch up’.

  Oh Jeeeeebus.

  I sit huddled on the cold bench of the holding cell – one of those real American movie ones with actual bars – and I shake. My hands, my legs, my bum, my chin, my ears, probably. All of it is trembling. Because at each stage of the booking-in process I’ve tried to explain why I’m here and what I’m trying to do for Birdie. I don’t want to play the ‘my friend is dying’ card, but I do it. And no one seems to care. All they care about is the fact that I am ‘The Menace of Manhattan’ and that I called New York stoopid.