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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Okay, so I have done some pretty menacing things over the past few days. But I didn’t mean to. It was all accidental. I didn’t really have any choice! And this is New York! A massive, bonkers city. There are worse criminals than me! Since I’ve been here I’ve seen a person not pick up their dog’s turd. I’ve seen multiple people having road rage. I’ve even seen a man throw a frosted cronut at a sightseeing tour bus. What about those people? Those are the real menaces.

  But the NYPD don’t care when I inform them of this. I don’t think it helps that my voice is very high-pitched and my face is as red as a cherry. They just tell me to be quiet and wait. Wait for what? I don’t know.

  I do as I’m told and end up sitting in the holding cell for two entire uncomfortable hours before it occurs to me that I’m allowed to make a phone call! That’s the thing isn’t it? One phone call!

  I stand up from the bench, avoiding eye contact with Mandy Banana, and wobble over to the front of the cell, putting my hands around the bars.

  ‘What now, English?’ the officer at the desk asks without even looking up. He’s been calling me English since I got here. He thinks it’s funny or insulting or something. Little does he know that I quite like it. I’ve always wanted a nickname. In primary school I tried to get everyone to call me Olli, but it never took. I tried again in secondary school, urging people to call me Liv, but that never caught on either. I tried to get both Joans to call me ‘Speedy Brewster’ because I’m the fastest filleter on the team. But sadly it never happened. Since being in New York I’ve aquired two whole nicknames. The Menace of Manhattan and English. I definitely prefer the latter.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ I say to the officer.

  He sighs. ‘What do you want, English? Why can’t you wait patiently for your assigned legal counsel like Mandy Banana over there, huh? I just want an easy day. That’s all I want.’

  ‘I get a phone call, right?’

  The officer looks up. He seems weary, his blue eyes tired beneath his grey eyebrows. He has a kind face, though.

  ‘You didn’t make your call yet?’

  ‘Nope. I get a call, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you do.’

  Yes! Aha!

  The officer unlocks the cell, attaches a handcuff to my wrist, which he then clips to his own wrist, and leads me over to his desk, pointing at a cream-coloured desk telephone.

  ‘I need my mobile,’ I say. ‘It has all my numbers in it!’

  ‘You don’t know any of your numbers by heart?’ he says in disbelief.

  ‘Of course not! Humans stopped remembering phone numbers with the invention of the smartphone.’

  With another laboured sigh, the officer takes the phone and dials a number. ‘Joyce? It’s Officer Leeland. Can you bring Olive Brewster’s smartphone please…? No, she doesn’t remember her numbers by heart… I know. Thanks.’

  Within a minute or so, a pretty, chubby woman arrives in the office with my phone. I reach out to grab it from her.

  ‘Not so fast!’ Officer Leeland says, taking the mobile before I can. ‘You can tell me the name of the person whose number you want and I will find it.’

  ‘I can’t give you my passcode! I have private things on there!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Not, like, sexy stuff. Just… lists and reminders and notes and links to videos of dogs and cats being friends. Sometimes turtles.’

  ‘I won’t look at anything. But I’m afraid you can’t have your phone back.’

  ‘What do you think I’m gonna do?’ I blurt. ‘Text my way out of jail?’

  My sarcasm does not sit well.

  ‘You are arrested,’ Officer Leeland says sternly. ‘You do not get your mobile phone, capiche?’

  I nod, willing my ratty temper to simmer down. Now is not the time to get snappy.

  With Officer Leeland looking at me expectantly, I realise that I don’t actually have a large pool of people to call. I’m in a different country after all. Then I get an image of Seth giving me his number in the hallway at Trickys this morning. He will help me! ‘Seth,’ I cry. ‘Call Seth. It’s in the contacts app, under Seth.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Leeland deadpans, pulling up the number and tapping it into his landline.

  He passes the handset to me and I press it to my ear, my stomach flipping at a) the prospect of talking to Seth again after this morning’s kiss fest and b) having to tell him I’m in freaking jail. Very attractive. Olive. Not that I care about how attractive he thinks I am.

  Except I totally do.

  Olive Brewster, you are a damn fool.

  Seth’s phone rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  When it eventually disconnects, I panic.

  ‘He didn’t answer! My one phone call and he didn’t answer! He doesn’t even have a voicemail.’

  And then, I can’t help it, I burst into tears. What the hell will I do now? I only get one phone call and he didn’t bloody answer! Oh dear.

  ‘Calm yourself, English!’ the officer says sternly. ‘It’s not true that you only get one phone call. That’s just in the movies. We’re not total monsters. Just call someone else already.’

  A river of relief runs over me. But then it occurs to me… I don’t have anyone else I can call. Birdie or Alex and Donna can’t do anything from the UK. And I don’t have Mrs Ramirez’s number.

  Officer Leeland is scrolling through my contacts list. ‘You don’t got many friends, huh?’

  How rude. ‘I have friends,’ I say, blowing my hair out of my face. ‘I’m very well thought of in Manchester, England.’

  But the truth is I have a great friend. Birdie. And soon she’ll…

  Nope. Do not think about that. This is not the time to think about that.

  ‘Anders von Preen?’ Officer Leeland snorts. ‘Sounds like a made-up name. You makin’ yourself up some friends, kid?’

  Anders! The hair-obsessed socialite of Gramercy Park…

  I couldn’t…

  Could I? I’ve only met him once. And he was really very strange…

  But I don’t have many options here.

  ‘You want me to call someone or not, English?’

  ‘Call Anders von Preen,’ I instruct Leeland with a firm nod.

  So he does.

  But to my dismay, Anders doesn’t answer either! Unlike Seth, though, he does have a voicemail facility on his phone.

  I leave a frantic, jumbled message asking Anders to please come to the precinct and help me.

  When I’ve put the phone down, I look at Officer Leeland in despair.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘You wait for your assigned legal counsel, like I already told you,’ he answers, leading me back to the holding cell.

  ‘How long will that be? I have a flight back to the UK in…’ I look at the clock on the wall. ‘Thirteen hours! And I still have to track someone down before then.’

  He shrugs. ‘It takes as long as it takes. New York is a very big, very busy city.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ I snip back. I’ve never had such a quick temper before. But I guess if anything is going to bring it out of a person, it’s this!

  ‘Sit down and keep it down, English. Manhattan Menaces do not get to answer back to New York city cops, all right?’

  With slumped shoulders and still trembling legs I shuffle back to the bench of the holding cell, sitting as far away as possible from Mandy Banana.

  ‘You’re the Menace of Manhattan?’ Mandy asks, giving me a sidelong glance.

  ‘Oh, um… Yeah, but it’s all a mistake, I didn’t—’

  ‘So cool! You’re, like, famous or something!’ She scooches down the bench to sit next to me. I dare to make eye contact and see that her angry face has transformed into a smiling one. Up close I notice she has little freckles all over the bridge of her nose. I thought she was in her early thirties when I first saw her, but she must only be about eighteen or nineteen. I think it’s
all the eyeliner she’s wearing. ‘I’ve been reading about you on the New York Daily News blog. You’re a fuckin’ baller! Not the jerking off in public – gross – but they did you on Sunday Night Live, right? I love that show!’

  Mandy Banana’s voice has completely changed from rough and aggressive, to sweet and interested. She seems very impressed by me.

  ‘W-what are you in here for?’ I ask, still too afraid to look her directly in the eye. She might, frankly, still want to cut a bitch.

  ‘I just stole my boyfriend’s car. The douche has been putting his dick inside the whole of the fuckin’ east village. Dirtbag.’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod. Stealing her boyfriend’s car. That’s not so bad… not really. And the guy sounds like he deserved a bit of a spook.

  Mandy nods. ‘Yeah. Then I set fire to the car. I drove it to a parking lot and just set it off. It was a biiiiiig fire.’ She looks psyched, her eyes staring wistfully into the distance. ‘It was fuckin’ beautiful.’

  ‘Oh. Gosh.’

  Car on fire. That’s a little more serious then.

  Mandy pulls her purple furry jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. ‘The idiot won’t be cheating again anytime soon.’ She says to herself with a wry smile. ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘Wait… you’re staying with him?’ I ask in astonishment. ‘What about all his, um, hoes in different area codes?’

  Why did I just say hoes in different area codes? It sounded hip and cool in my head, the kind of thing Mandy might be impressed by, but out loud I sound like l learned all of my cool lingo from a sexist 90s dance movie. Jeez.

  Mandy laughs and shrugs. ‘I love him. I love him so much I could die, ya know?’

  Wow.

  I wonder what it’s like to be so in love with someone that you completely lose your shit and set fire to their car?

  I shake my head in wonder.

  But then it dawns on me… I do know how it feels to be so head over heels about someone that you behave in ways you never thought you would. Because that’s what I feel about Birdie. About our friendship. This whole thing, the depth of my feelings for her has got me losing my shit like I never have in my life. I mean, I’m in a jail cell for goodness’ sake.

  Despite my daunting situation right now, I feel a bubble of laughter bounce in my chest. The irony of it. All these years I’ve been avoiding men and sex and anything that might make me ‘feel’ too much because I so desperately wanted to keep a tight hold on my emotions. But here I am! In a freaking jail cell for Birdie!

  I look over at Mandy beside me. ‘I get what you mean,’ I say to her, a small smile lifting the corners of mouth. ‘Love can make you do some crazy things.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Text from Alex: Really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, sis. We’ve missed having you here!

  ‘Oh Olive, you poor poor goose. You poor frightened trembling little goose.’

  I wake up to the sound of a very thin, drawling voice calling me a frightened goose. My eyes flutter open and I’m peeved to discover that I am not on a sofa bed in the Upper West Side, but still in a jail cell, my head resting on the furry-coated shoulder of Mandy Banana who is lightly snoring beside me. I rub my eyes. Anders is in front of the holding cell, his horrified face poking between the bars. He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt and baggy white jeans on his skinny frame. With his white blonde hair and pale skin, the effect is startling.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ he says, grasping onto the bars of the cell with a quiet drama. ‘I had my phone turned off – I was dyeing hair extensions and I didn’t want to be disturbed – it’s a very particular process. Anyway I’m here now, you poor sweet jail kitten. I’m so glad you called me. Surprised – people never seem to call me again – but glad.’

  ‘What time is it?’I ask, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘It’s 3 a.m,’ Anders says, his perfect face looking not at all sleepy. ‘How long have you been here? Don’t worry. I’m getting you out.’

  My stomach drops into my feet. 3 a.m.? My flight home is in six minutes. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed my way out of here. And I haven’t found Chuck. And Seth probably thinks I stood him up! Why did I fall asleep? Why isn’t my legal counsel here? What am I going to do now?

  ‘No, no. no,’ I mutter to myself. ‘I can’t have missed my flight.’

  Officer Leeland appears behind Anders. ‘You’re a lucky kid, English. Your friend here has a hotshot lawyer. She’s spoken to the prosecution office, they’ve deemed this a low-priority case and are choosing not to file charges.

  I blink.

  ‘You mean, I can leave? I - I can go?’

  ‘Yup,’ Officer Leeland says, unlocking the cell, and letting me out. ‘English, you are free to go.’

  In the cab, I tell Anders how and why I got arrested. He seems thrilled with the drama of it all. ‘And there I was thinking you were such a meek little thing!’ He’s even more thrilled that a photo of me with hair styled by him has appeared in the New York Daily News.

  When the taxi pulls up to my apartment building and before I can even open the car door, Anders has dived out and done it for me. I get the sense that, like me, he doesn’t have many friends and that’s he’s quite pleased to be the one helping me. Or maybe he is just being nice until he can knock me out and have his way with my hair. Only one way to find out.

  Upstairs, I take out my key, as Anders shudders at the ‘miniscule dimensions’ of the vestibule. I just want to flop on the sofa bed, FaceTime Birdie, eat some comfort food and figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.

  But as I open the door to my apartment I’m greeted by the sight of a young red-haired woman painting her nails on the futon. She jumps up in fright at our arrival.

  ‘What the hell?’ she yells, the little pot of pink nail polish tumbling off the futon and spilling onto the parquet floor. ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’

  I frown as I take in the apartment. None of my stuff is here!

  ‘Who are you?’ I step inside and glance around. Where are all my belongings? ‘I… this is my apartment,’ I say. ‘Where’s my stuff?’

  ‘Oh!’ the girl’s confused face relaxes into a smile. ‘Oh, yeah. The doorman said you might turn up. Yeah, so this is my Airbnb now. I checked in half an hour ago. The super said you were supposed to have left by now. He was gonna take your belongings down to the basement but the woman in the apartment opposite said she’d look after it for you, that you weren’t the kind of girl who left without saying goodbye. I guess she was right!’ She turns to Anders. ‘Nice jeans.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘Prada.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. Now I have no place to stay? How the ham sandwich has everything gone so completely and utterly wrong! This is chaos! Bona fide chaos!

  Anders following me, I hurry out across to Mrs Ramirez’s place and give it a gentle knock. It’s almost 5 a.m. Man, I hope she’s an early riser. I feel like a dick for potentially waking her up, but what else am I supposed to do? I need my stuff. I need to change out of these stinky clothes ASAP.

  Within a few seconds of me knocking, the door swings open. Mrs Ramirez stands there, fully dressed, her long hair damp.

  ‘Ah, I knew you hadn’t run away! Come in, dear.’

  I walk into Mrs Ramirez’s apartment, Anders close behind.

  ‘I’m Anders von Preen,’ he tells Mrs Ramirez. ‘I rescued Olive from jail.’

  ‘Jail? Ay no! I’m Mrs Ramirez,’ Mrs Ramirez replies, leaning over to shake Anders’ bony hand before hobbling back over to her armchair, hand rubbing her injured knee.

  While they’re making introductions, I notice that there, in the corner of Mrs Ramirez’s flat, is all my stuff. Piled up in a jumbled, unorganised way, nothing in its place. And while ordinarily the sight of such disorder would freak me out, today it seems so inconsequential compared to what else is going on. Like the fact that I’ve completely failed Birdie and I have no earthly idea how I’m going to fix
it!

  ‘I need some air,’ I mutter, leaving the room while Anders dramatically relays to Mrs Ramirez the story of how I ended up in jail.

  Out in the hall, I get into the elevator and am about to press the button for the ground floor when I notice the button at the top. Roof Deck. Before I can psyche myself out of it, I place my finger on the button and push. If I’m about to call Birdie and let her know that I’ve not found Chuck, I can at least go and see the view from the roof like she asked. I can fulfil that promise to her. Even if it does scare the living shit out of me.

  When the lift comes to a shuddering stop, I really really really want to press the button that will take me back down. But I don’t. I exit the elevator, walk up the corridor towards a door marked ‘roof’ and, with trembling hands, I push it open. I’ll just step out for thirty seconds, have a little peek at the view Birdie was so excited about and then get back inside to safety.

  But what I see when I step out onto the deck makes me suck in my breath, my heart filling with wonder.

  The early morning sun is rising in the cornflower blue sky, casting a pink, orange and yellow glow over the buildings so that they look almost golden. Stretched out ahead is acres and acres of greenery and the gorgeous, lush trees of Central Park, and beyond that is the shimmering silvery blue Hudson river set against everlasting skyscape. New York City is waking up right in front of me, getting ready for all of the amazing moments that are going to happen today.

  I take a few steps forward and take a seat at one of the teal painted chairs set out for residents of the building. My legs are wibbly at the thought of being so high up. But I am okay. I breathe in and out through my belly. And it works. Everything is okay. I am safe on this seat. I am safe here in the sky.

  A gentle breeze whips its way through my messy hair and my eyes fill with exhausted, overwhelmed tears. I look out over miles and miles of city and shake my head at its magnitude. In that moment it occurs to me that I’m probably safer up here than anywhere else in the world right now. Everything that could possibly go wrong here has done. And at the end of it all, I’m still going to lose my best friend. And I’m fucking terrified. That’s the worst thing in the world. What else do I have to be afraid of? There is nothing else to be afraid of.