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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘Yes!’ I almost shout. ‘Yes,’ I repeat at a more reasonable volume.

  Seth leads me across the enormous lobby, grabbing me a guest pass from the reception desk.

  ‘I thought you’d stood me up.’ He laughs as we head over to the lifts. ‘I’m sorry you were arrested but, as excuses go, that’s a pretty stellar one.’

  The lift door opens and we step in. A large group of tourists shuffle in behind, squeezing us all up against each other like sardines.

  Seth does a loud spluttery cough. ‘Three days of this virus and no sign of it going anywhere!’ Then he gives a huge, fake cough and then a really over the top fake sneeze. ‘And a rash too! It itches! It burns!’

  The cluster of tourists give Seth a horrified glance before hurrying right back out of the elevator and into the lobby. One even covers their nose and mouth in an effort to avoid his ‘germs’.

  I can’t help but laugh as the lift doors close and Seth gives the tourists a friendly goodbye wave.

  Now it’s just me and him here in the lift.

  Alone.

  Seth takes a step towards me.

  ‘Fuck, I’m really glad to see you again,’ he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him.

  And before I can respond that I’m glad to see him again too, he’s kissing me, his hands lacing up into my hair, his nose pressing against mine, my hand under his T-shirt running across the smooth hot skin of his broad upper back.

  I don’t have much experience of kissing, but with Seth, it feels like I’m doing it exactly right. Like I’m an expert kisser. Like if there were an annual convention of kissing, I would be appearing on a panel of some sort to instruct other people how to do it this perfectly.

  My body zings with nerves and emotions and feelings, every hair on my body stands on end. I can’t control it. Not one little bit. And right at this moment, that’s absolutely fine by me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Text from Colin: How was your flight back? Are you glad to be back in Manchester? I’m looking forward to coming home. It’s a little hot out here! And I’m really looking forward to our date! Are you?

  Text from Alex: If you need to stay longer, you need to stay longer! Fine by me. It sounds like a real adventure. I’m proud of you. Don’t stay too long though, haha. I miss you! It’s… different in the house without you here. Lots of love sis x

  Text from Donna: Hi Olive! Hope all well! Make sure you give Alex plenty of notice when you want collecting from the airport so he can make plans accordingly. He was in the car about to set off to pick you up when he got your text. Just thought you should know! All best x

  After a make-out session that lasts the duration of the lift ride up to the twenty-fifth floor of the Rockefeller Center (apart from between floors fifteen and twenty when some other people got on and we had to try to keep our hands off each other), we reach the Sunday Night Live floor. I step out into the carpeted corridor and wait for the icky sense of panic I would ordinarily get from being on such a high floor. And while it’s definitely there, a little fizz of unease in my belly, it’s nowhere near as bad as it was. After being on the roof this morning, and experiencing such a peaceful, gorgeous moment up there, it doesn’t feel quite so scary to be this high up.

  Moreover, any panic I do feel is overtaken by a massive sense of excitement. Is it possible for creativity to be airborne? It feels almost buzzy with expectation, just in the corridor. The walls are lines with framed pictures of movie stars, huge name comedians and musicians who have appeared on the show.

  ‘Oh my god, it’s Steve Martin!’ I say, pointing at one of the pictures. ‘And there’s Goldie Hawn! Ooh, look it’s Britney Spears! Argh Chris Rock, I love him!’

  Seth laughs. I bet everyone he’s ever brought up here does the exact same thing. I don’t care if I look uncool though. This is well exciting!

  We turn a corner and walk into an office. It’s a tiny office but with an incredible view of the Empire State Building. Woah.

  Seth invites me to sit in the office chair. He perches on the end of his desk.

  ‘Oh, hey, did you hear about your audition yet?’ I say. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t asked. How did it go?’

  Seth grins. ‘It went really well. They loved the whole John Malkovich bit you wrote. It killed.’

  I feel a pleasant warmth in my cheeks. I like being referred to as someone who ‘wrote’ a joke. It sounds so cool and crazy and badass!

  ‘I should hear this week actually,’ Seth continues, picking up a guitar pleck from the desk and turning it over in his hands. ‘I don’t know… there were a lotta people going up for it this year.’

  Standing up from his desk, he heads over to a mini fridge in the corner. He opens it up and pulls out a huge takeaway container. He carries it back to the desk, opening a drawer and taking out two plastic forks from a packet full of plastic cutlery.

  ‘I hope cold chicken avocado pasta is okay?’ he asks. ‘It’s from this amazing deli down the road. I’m addicted.’

  ‘It smells dreamy,’ I say, grabbing a fork and helping myself to a mouthful.

  ‘So, what can I help you with?’ Seth asks, also tucking in.

  I explain about how me and two friendly randos I have met in New York are trying to get the word out about Chuck in an effort to find him before I go back for Birdie’s surgery. I ask Seth about the TV studio PR people and if they’d be willing to give us some tips for getting the word out.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Seth says. ‘And I’ll help all I can. I’ll be working most days and some nights, but anything I can do.’ He puts on a weird ET voice. ‘I’ll be… right… here.’

  I hold my finger up and he presses his finger against it.

  Then Seth leans forward, our noses almost touching and just smiles at me for a long moment.

  Holy cow, he is sexy. He’s so confident in his skin and laid-back and… sexy.

  Seth’s phone beeps with an alarm. ‘Shit. Time flies like an arrow. I’ve gotta get back to work.’

  ‘You set an alarm?’ I ask incredulously. ‘You laid into me for doing that at Trickys!’

  Seth’s face pinkens a tad. ‘Everyone here gets mad at me for being so late all the time. I… decided to take a leaf out of your book.’

  ‘Next stop, a five-year plan,’ I tease.

  ‘Never utter those words in my presence again.’

  I laugh. His pure abhorrence for any form of rigidity still seems utterly bonkers to me. But with arms like that. And legs like that. And eyes like that. And a tongue like that, it hardly seems important.

  Seth looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you think you could stick around for another couple of hours? I’ve got a two-hour writers’ pitch meeting – why don’t you sit in on it, and when it’s done I can introduce you to Sharon who runs PR for the show. She can give you some tips, some local media contacts and help you come up with a plan.’

  A pitch meeting? Aren’t TV writing rooms sacred spaces? And he’s inviting me to watch? My heart leaps like I am a ten-year-old and it’s Christmas morning. I’m a little surprised by how interesting the prospect of watching joke pitching sounds to me. But now that he’s suggested it, I know that there is nothing else I would rather do for the next two hours. Anders and Mrs Ramirez are back at Anders’ house making leaflets and doing internet research. And if I have to wait to see the PR woman anyway…

  ‘What do you say?’ Seth asks, grabbing a bottle of water from his desk, taking a long swig and grabbing the carton of pasta to take along to the meeting.

  ‘I say yes please. Very much yes please.’

  ‘Okay then! Let’s go!’

  The sensation of delight I’m getting, purely by being in a place so full of comedy legend and history, is getting bigger and more intense, until I’m so full of glee I legit worry I’m about to explode with it!

  I’m seated at a large round table with around ten writers. After they ribbed me about the whole Watch Me Piddle thing, I curried their respect by ripping
right back into them about ‘maybe learning to create original characters’. I pulled up all my courage, lifted my chin and told them in no uncertain terms my propensity for piss play was no longer available for creative fodder but that they were welcome to use my desire to only make love to men dressed up like giant hot dogs. That, to my delight, made them properly laugh and I was welcomed into the fold.

  Now, I watch in astonishment as these people invent sketches and jokes out of thin air! The energy is crazy. Everyone is laughing, no one seems scared to say the wrong thing and if they do say something unfunny everyone boos them – but it is a sort of playful, non-dickish way. And when someone picks up on the idea of a joke that the team likes, they develop it and riff with each other until the joke becomes progressively tighter and funnier. It’s fascinating.

  I watch, captivated as the sketch ideas go from rough, vague jumping-off points to fully fledged ideas with solid characters and catchphrases. Tomorrow all of the ideas will be presented to the executive producer of the show, the cast and the celebrity host. Then only a few will get chosen to air.

  Seth comes up with a sketch idea that everyone likes. It’s a parody commercial, advertising an invention for the socially awkward. The invention is for a food postbox that enables people to get takeaway delivered without having to interact face to face with another human. It’s really weird and funny. His delivery is dry and relaxed and the rest of the writers clearly love him.

  ‘What do you think?’ he turns to me. I give him a thumbs up. There’s no way I would make a suggestion in a room like this, full of experts and people who are actually funny. I couldn’t…

  ‘Would you change anything?’ Seth asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No!’

  ‘Come on! If you had to change something, what would it be?’

  I look at the table, my heart pounding. ‘Um, well, I don’t know… maybe it could be more specific. Like, a slot in the door just for pizza,’ I say quietly. ‘Like a tiny, narrow slot that would be useless for any other food except pizza. Not even pizza in a box. Just, like, unboxed pizza.’

  Seth nods. ‘Yeah. I like it. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You could call it Pizza Flap?’ I add, which gets a huge laugh around the room. The sound of it ringing out and echoing around me makes my heart sing in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  Seth gives me a huge grin.

  ‘Where did you find her?’ one of the other writers asks and I turn red with pride.

  When the writing session is over, I’m buzzing with my tiny, tiny contribution and the fact that, no word of a lie, that past couple of hours was the most fun I think I’ve had in my entire life. I can’t believe that somebody gets to do that for their actual job. It makes no sense. I’ve never really minded my job at Joan’s Fresh Fish. I mean, I’ve never loved it, but it’s been, you know, sufficient. But that? Seth gets paid to do that? No wonder he’s so chilled out and confident all the time. He gets paid to have the most fun that anyone could possibly have. For a brief moment I picture myself getting up in the mornings, going to work somewhere where my entire job would be to write things to make people laugh.

  My heart pangs with longing.

  Seth’s friend Sharon – the PR woman at Sunday Night Live – turns out to be the blonde woman I saw him with that day when I collared him for writing about our humiliating airplane dalliance. She’s lovely and clever and super attractive. I wonder if she’s the ‘blondie’ ex that Phyllis was referring to… She’s so put together, so confident and sure and at ease with herself. Basically the opposite of me.

  She’s really keen to help with the cause and not only does she give me personal mobile numbers of people at local radio and news outlets, but she also says that she will send a tweet out from her personal Twitter account, which – she tells us proudly – has over twenty-thousand followers. I thank her profusely and in response she lays her head onto Seth’s shoulder.

  ‘Any friend of Hartman’s is a friend of mine,’ she grins. He doesn’t seem particularly comfortable with the exchange and steps out of the way so that Sharon’s head is left sort of dangling where Seth’s shoulder once was.

  Yes. Those two have definitely done sex together. I am alarmed at the spike of jealousy that flies through me. I haven’t felt jealous of anyone or anything in years. Ugh. It’s horrid, all burning and ragey. Ew! I do not like! I try my best to shove it aside and tell Sharon that I’ll keep her updated with the search.

  ‘I’ll be writing all night tonight, but can I see you tomorrow night for dinner?’ Seth asks as he walks me out of the Rockefeller Center.

  ‘Yes,’ I say at once.

  ‘Awesome. I know a great place near Gramercy. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  As I hail a cab, he leans in and I think we’re going to start snogging again, right in the middle of the street, but instead he kisses me softly on the cheek and it makes my insides flip.

  I grin at him and he grins at me.

  ‘WATCH ME PIDDLE!’

  I look up to see a group of Sunday Night Live fans, outside the building, pointing at me and snapping pictures. ‘ENGLAND IS SOOOOO AMAZING!’ they giggle. I think of what the guy at the Rockefeller reception said about how many people would love to be immortalised on a show that big. Even if it is for entirely nefarious reasons.

  And these people taking pictures. They seem really happy to see me. They’re laughing and smiling and waving. And for someone who, until this week, has gone pretty unnoticed in the world, it’s a damn nice feeling.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Text from Birdie: A date! A real live date!

  Text from Olive: It’s not a date. It can’t possibly be. We live in different countries. What would be the point?

  Text from Birdie: Fair enough. But you could have a fling with him? If you fancy him that much it would be a great way to dip back in, so to speak! If it’s not good it doesn’t matter because you’ll be back in Manchester soon, far far away!

  Text from Olive: I do fancy him… I finally get what all the fuss is about. My loins are gagging for him.

  Text from Birdie: Haha. Also, that’s gross. Text me later. Doctor BJ just came in for his rounds and he’s wearing a shirt with SHORT SLEEVES. He might be too much of a professional to get it on with a sexy patient but that doesn’t mean I can’t do some high-quality ogling.

  Text from Olive: He’s a fool for not crossing the boundaries of patient-doctor relationships with you. A fool to resist you! A damn fool! Also do you know how much I love you? I miss you and I love you and I think you are amazing and brave and pretty and smart and cool and strong. Just thought I would tell you that.

  Text from Birdie: Gush much?

  Text from Olive: Shuddup. I love you, all right.

  Text from Birdie: Not as much as I love you.

  I wake up the next morning with a brand new feeling in my stomach. It’s a feeling I’ve not had before, at least not that I can properly remember. Maybe I had it when I was in school – when I did my creative writing lessons and the teacher said I’d done well. Or maybe the day I met Birdie and we talked for six hours straight. I’m not sure. Either way, it feels entirely unfamiliar. Like everything is in colour. Like everything is louder and crisper and more and less terrifying all at the same time.

  Like I’m alive.

  After showering in Anders’ wet room, stocked with as many Sisley products as I could ever hope to see and white towels that are as soft as puppies, I pull on my jade-green long-sleeved jersey dress, and head downstairs to the kitchen. Anders is already sitting at the large white marble table, Mrs Ramirez sitting right up next to him. The pair of them are hunched over a laptop, chattering away.

  ‘You’re here already?’ I remark to Mrs Ramirez. ‘Thank you! That’s so kind of you.’

  ‘Anders here had a car sent for me,’ Mrs Ramirez says proudly. ‘Not a cab. A car.’

  ‘Of course,’ Anders says with a benevolent smile on his tranquil face. ‘You have to take care of th
at knee.’

  I give them a curious look. They appear to have made firm friends. I’d never have put them together in a million years. But they seem completely relaxed in each other’s company, Anders not quite as stiff and sinister-seeming as he was the day I met him.

  ‘Why are you staring at us?’ he asks.

  ‘Come on!’ Mrs Ramirez claps her hands together. ‘We have work to do!’

  Over three hundred brightly coloured leaflets are printed off, showcasing a close-up picture of Chuck’s head from the old photo that Anders kept from college. The text at the top of the leaflet asks, ‘Where In The World is Chuck Allen?’ And below that there’s the number (of a burner phone that Anders has acquired for the occasion) for people to call if they have any information.

  We spend the rest of the morning walking all over Manhattan, giving out leaflets to everyone we see, asking shops, cafes and delis to display them in their windows. It takes us a little longer than anticipated: Mrs Ramirez’s bad knee slows us down a tad, but mostly, we’re held up because she wants to know the life story of everyone we meet and ends up exchanging phone numbers with around half of them. I’ve never met anyone who makes friends so easily. I don’t know what we’d have done without her actually. I reckon Anders’ ghostly aristocratic presence either intimidates or terrifies most people (I’ll go for terrify), and me? Well I am polite and awkward and British. Not exactly great for getting busy New Yorkers to stop and talk to me.

  Mrs Ramirez returns to the Upper West Side after lunch so she can take her usual siesta, while Anders and I head back to his place. While he slides off to do a yoga session in his home gym, I shoot off a bunch of emails to all the media contacts Sharon gave me. Immediately after sending them I refresh my emails about five times in the hope of speedy replies. The thought of going on the radio makes me want to burrow down into a hole of my own making, but I can’t deny that the opportunity to reach people on a national level, to really have a great shot of finding Chuck, is too amazing to not completely go for.