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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  When I FaceTime Birdie to update her on our progress, she answers not with her usual bright smile, but with tired, teary eyes.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I say at once, my chest tightening.

  Birdie sighs, rubbing her hand across her face. ‘I shouldn’t have answered. I’m sorry. I’m not having a great day. I’m tired and achy. I feel rotten.’

  ‘Oh Bird. Tell me. What’s happening? How can I help?’

  Birdie looks up into the screen. ‘I’m just… I’m scared today. I’m really fucking scared. I’m fine most of the time. I know what’s going to happen and I’ve made my peace with it. But today… I feel terrified.’

  My eyes immediately sting with tears. Birdie always puts on a brave face about her situation. Through the surgeries and tests, through the hopes that they would find a way to fix her, and the disappointments when they couldn’t. She’s always always been stoic.

  This is new. My heart cracks. I wish I was there with her right now.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk about it.’

  Birdie fiddles with her earlobe and exhales through her cheeks, making a sound like a horse. ‘I just keep thinking. What if, when I’m gone, no one remembers me?’

  I almost laugh, it’s so outrageous.

  ‘That will never happen.’ I say firmly. ‘How could anyone forget you? You’re literally unforgettable.’

  Birdie half smiles. ‘You won’t forget me will you?’

  ‘Are you for real? I could never forget you. There are some things about you I wish I could forget. Like your crap taste in music and the time you considered becoming vegan. But that shit’s sticking around forever, dude.’

  Birdie nods. ‘Good.’

  ‘And I will tell everyone I ever meet about you, for as long as I’m lucky enough to be walking this earth. I will bore them silly with stories of you and how amazing you are, how everyone who meets you falls in love with you—’

  ‘Except Dr BJ.’

  ‘Yes, except that fool Dr BJ.’

  ‘Damn fool.’ A small smile tugs at the corner of Birdie’s mouth. That’s better.

  ‘Damn fool. Then I’ll show them photos upon photos of you and all the wonderful times we’ve had together. It will be intense, Birdie. People in the street will start to avoid me in case I collar them to talk about you. They’ll be like, “There’s that curly-haired girl obsessed with Birdie Lively! I didn’t think she had any more Birdie stories to tell us! But, oh boy, she does! She has never-ending Birdie stories!”’

  Birdie laughs. ‘Will you show them videos of me too?’

  ‘I will make a fucking reel of them. And set them up on one of those projector thingies. I will project the videos of you onto Manchester Town Hall. It will be like an art installation. It will be a veritable fucking Birdie Fest.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Birdie yawns. ‘God, I’m really tired.’

  ‘Have a nap.’

  She nods, her voice going small. ‘Will you stay on FaceTime. Just until I fall asleep? I just…’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  As Birdie’s eyes drift close, her breathing settling into a steady rythym, I watch her. Not in a creepy way. Just in a way that allows me to memorise every inch of her face. Which I guess sounds a little creepy. But I don’t want to forget a thing.

  I sigh, utterly full to the brim with adoration for this American livewire. And completely heartbroken that, in the not too distant future, she’ll only be alive in videos and stories and dear, dear memories.

  I lean down and whisper into the phone, into her dreams.

  ‘Birdie, Lively, You will never be forgotten.’

  Later, when Birdie is deep in Naptown, Snoozeville, I check my emails for any response on the Chuck search. But there’s zilch. I turn the burner phone on and off a few times, just to make sure it’s working properly. It is. And no-one has called.

  Anders returns from his workout session, holding a black briefcase an excitable glint in his eyes. Hope blooms in my chest. Has he found something?

  ‘Hair time!’ he says.

  Oh. Yeah. I agreed that in exchange for letting me stay here he could do my hair once a day.

  He opens the briefcase onto the dining table to reveal that it is actually a briefcase full of hairdressing tools, gleaming like chef’s knives. Wow. He means business. What have I let myself in for?

  ‘I… can we do it tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘I’m, um, going for dinner tonight.’

  ‘With the comedian?’ Anders says, raising an eyebrow. From the way he says it, I can’t tell if it’s derogatory or complimentary. ‘All the more reason to have a little pampering!’

  I suspect our definitions of ‘pampering’ differ, somewhat.

  Crap. I can’t go to dinner with another unicorn horn.

  ‘You promised,’ Anders scolds. ‘That was the deal, darling?’

  He’s right. I did promise. And Olive Brewster doesn’t break her promises. Whatever he does to my bonce is going to have to stay like that for my date – I get the feeling that taking it out beforehand will hurt his feelings. And I definitely don’t want to do that.

  ‘Okay… Can… you keep it subtle?’ I ask. ‘Like, no structures. Bouffants or… horns.’

  Anders shrugs a bony shoulder. ‘I’m an artist, Olive. I do what the muse tells me to do. Do you not trust me, after all we’ve been through?’

  ‘Um… I don’t know you that well!’

  ‘Yet you stay in my house, accept my hospitality.’ He sniffs, looking hurt. ‘Call me to rescue you from incarceration. I think we know each other well enough.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. If it weren’t for Anders, who knows what would be happening to me in jail right now. ‘I’m sorry. Go for it.’

  He licks his lips, pulls out his scissors and snaps them together in a way that looks entirely menacing.

  Here goes.

  Two hours later and Anders blasts my hair with a mist of extra-super-strength hairspray. Once again he has not allowed me to peek at the work in progress, which means that my bum has been glued to this chair for all that time and now I have a numb butt cheek, which I didn’t even realise was a physical possibility. But it is. It really is.

  I hobble across the parquet floor as Anders proudly leads me to the hallway mirror.

  My shoulders hike up to ears, in anticipation of the possible monstrosity he has concocted atop my head. What will it be this time? Medusa style snakes? A ginormous mohawk? Antlers?

  And then I see myself.

  Oh wow.

  Wow.

  I look like me. But a polished, put together, confident, sexy version of me. Anders has waved and brushed my hair so that the curls are big and uniform, one half of my hair across my face, almost obscuring my eye, and the other side tucked behind my ear with a hidden clip. I’m practically a Hollywood starlet!

  I shake my head in disbelief and look closer. There are shiny copper strands subtly laced throughout the do. They catch the light when I turn my head!

  ‘How…?’ I ask, putting a delicate hand to my hair. I vetoed any use of hair dye… But these strands of copper are astounding – they brighten my entire face!

  ‘Extensions!’ Anders declares, a huge grin stretched across his normally motionless face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so delighted. He looks crazy. But in a good, happy way.

  ‘How the heck did you do that?’ I ask. ‘I can’t see where you’ve added them? It looks like my own hair!’

  ‘I’ve bonded them at the root. It’s all very understated, like you asked.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘And you can take them out later.’

  I’ve had the same hairstyle my entire life. I’ve never wanted to risk changing it in case it didn’t suit me and I couldn’t change it back. But this is epic. I don’t look like oddball Olive, fastest fish filleter in the north anymore. I look like… I look like I belong in New York City.

  I spin around and pull Anders into a hug. His la
nky body stiffens – I wonder how long it’s been since he had a genuine hug? I squeeze him a little until he relaxes. He hugs me back.

  ‘You are talented,’ I tell him with a grin. ‘And your college room-mate, Warner, was it? Well, he totally missed out not getting those fiery red locks cut by you.’

  ‘Really?’ Anders says, cocking his hip to the side. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I nod emphatically. ‘This is the best my hair has ever looked. I love it. Thank you.’

  Anders takes a deep breath, his eyes filling with tears. He flaps his hands in front of his face like a pageant winner. ‘I think this is what happiness feels like, Olive,’ he says. ‘I’ve taken every drug that has ever been invented, dined at the finest restaurants the world has to offer and been blown by the sultriest male models of New York, Paris and Tokyo. But a happy hair client… there’s nothing like it.’

  And then he bursts into joyful laughter, pulling his phone out of his pocket and taking pictures of my hair from every angle.

  ‘So much better than doing it on a mannequin!’

  I laugh out loud at his laughing.

  He may be the weirdest person I’ve ever met. But he’s definitely growing on me…

  Chapter Thirty

  Text from Birdie: Thanks for before, Brewster. Feeling a bit brighter after a long nap xxxx

  Text from Birdie: Also: Good luck tonight. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. If you don’t feel ready to DO IT, you don’t have to! And if you do feel ready, for the love of Tina Fey USE PROTECTION. This has been a public service announcement.

  Text from Birdie: ALSO remember everything. I want to know it all. ALL.

  Seth picks me up at eight as promised. When Anders’ doorbell goes, my forehead immediately breaks out in a light sweat. I’m nervous. But not in the all-encompassing way I have been so many times before. In an excited way.

  After much discussion with Anders, I’ve decided to wear my lucky red tea dress. Lucky because I once found a two-pound coin on the street in Saddleworth and what was I wearing at the time? Oh yes. The red tea dress. As I fastened on the only bra that looks good underneath it, I felt very justified in bringing fifteen bras for what was supposed to be a five-day trip.

  I don’t really know how to do make-up and I don’t like the feel of it on my skin, so I just curled my eyelashes, combed my unruly brows into submission and dabbed on some cherry-coloured lip-stain to match the dress. I don’t wear high heels – the possibilities for falling over a bump in the pavement and breaking my leg are too much to contemplate – and so I wear my favourite chunky Doc Martens. I’m not sure they go with the tea dress but Anders told me it looks very ‘Drew Barrymore.’ Which I take as a compliment. I like Drew Barrymore. I like the way her mouth moves when she talks.

  ‘Hey, girl,’ Seth greets me in a daft voice when I open the door. He coughs straight after he says it and it strikes me that maybe he’s a bit nervous too. The thought makes my shoulders drop comfortably. If confident, chilled Seth is feeling a bit nervy about this dinner of ours, then it’s not just me being a fusspot.

  He’s noticeably made an effort and it takes all of my effort not to dive on him right there on the stoop. Instead of his usual T-shirt and hoodie he’s wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal lightly tanned, capable-looking forearms, and new-looking dark blue jeans. He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and I get a whiff of his lovely cologne. It smells like wood and figs and grown-up man. The scent sends a tingle of lust right through me.

  Man, oh man. How the hell do people cope feeling this feeling and reining it in? How do horny people make it through the days without feeling themselves up the whole time just to keep the randiness at bay?

  ‘Hey, boy,’ I respond in the same daft voice and step out the door into the balmy spring evening. Just as I’m about to close the door behind me, Anders runs towards me out of nowhere, carrying his tin of hairspray like a weapon. He liberally spritzes it over me, causing all three us to cough dramatically.

  ‘Apologies!’ Anders says. ‘I didn’t think it would come out that rapidly.’

  ‘Anders, this is Seth Hartman. Seth, this is Anders von Preen.’

  Anders nods regally, one eyebrow raised, while Seth gives Anders a friendly, slightly befuddled handshake.

  ‘I’m Olive’s dear friend,’ Anders says territorially. He crosses his arms and lowers his voice dramatically. ‘If you hurt one hair on her head I will find you… It took me a long time to get it to shine like that.’

  I laugh so that Seth knows that Anders isn’t being serious (although I suspect he is) and shoo him inside, instructing him to call me if we get any important news regarding the search for Chuck. It’s been nearly twelve hours and we’ve had zero responses. But I’m still hopeful. I’ve brought the burner phone with me, so I’m fully available if anyone calls.

  As Seth and I walk down the glittering Manhattan street towards the restaurant Seth has chosen – The Bistro on Irving Place – we don’t really say much. We just keep looking at each other and bursting into laughter, although nothing that funny is happening.

  The restaurant is only a few minutes away yet it’s a world away from Trickys. I walk in first, Seth behind me, and my heart dips at how lovely and pretty it is. It’s busy, but in a quiet, gently buzzy way not in an overwhelming crowded way. The walls are all dark wood, the ceiling is strung with hundreds of tiny lanterns, and all the tables are intimate and private so that all conversation is strictly between you and your dinner guest.

  This is not just dinner. This is a date. I’m on my first ever date!

  Once we’re seated, we order drinks – sparkling water for me – I have lots more Chuck searching to do tomorrow and need to keep a clear head – and a glass of merlot for Seth.

  I take my phone out of my bag and quickly press refresh on my email. I don’t mean to be rude, but, as I’ve already explained to Seth, I need to be completely present and ready for any Chuck-related news. I’m desperately hoping that one of the gazillion leaflets we sent out will lead to information soon. Impatiently, I wait for my inbox to load and feel a thud of disappointment when I see nothing about Chuck and nothing from any of the radio stations I contacted. All that trickles in is an offer to upgrade my Still Minds app for a discounted price. Masking my frustrated sigh as best I can, I put my phone away and once we’ve got our drinks, Seth lifts up his glass.

  ‘I’ve got some great news. I… got the job!’ His turquoise eyes glint with pride. ‘I’m gonna be a cast member on Sunday Night Live!’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ I jump out of my seat, my knee bumping into the table and making everything atop it wobble precariously. ‘Wow! Come here!’

  Despite my own dramas right now, I could not be happier for Seth. What an incredible thing for him to have achieved!

  He stands up and does an adorable ‘aw shucks’ shrug. I give him a hug, my head barely reaching his chest. Would it be appropriate to just stay here for the rest of the night? Would it be terribly impolite to just unbutton a button on his shirt and maybe have a little lick of his chest. Right here in the restaurant.

  Get a grip, Olive!

  I reluctantly pull away. ‘That’s amazing, Seth! Actually incredible!’

  He laughs as we sit back down. ‘I found out this afternoon. It’s going to be announced formally tomorrow and I’ll be introduced on the live show this Sunday night.’

  ‘Formally announced?’ I ask.

  ‘So, the press release will go out tomorrow and it should make Deadline and Variety as well as the comedy blogs. This dumb face is gonna be everywhere.’ He points at his face and does a gormless expression. ‘And then on Sunday night, I’ll appear on the live show with the host. I’ll be introduced as the new featured cast member, and then I’ll actually start appearing in sketches next week.’

  ‘Woah!’ I shake my head. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘No,’ Seth says, taking a sip of his wine. ‘I’m fucking terrified.’
/>   ‘You will be brilliant. Holy moly. Are you going to be famous now, then?’

  ‘Little bit, yeah.’ He sniffs and brushes some imaginary lint off his shoulder. ‘I’ll have to start wearing sunglasses indoors and shit. Drinking green juices, getting manicures, working out so I’m camera-ready.’

  I have a little daydream of Seth working out. All sweaty. No top on. No bottoms on either, come to think of it. He still has his specs on though. Like a naked, cocky Clark Kent, lifting dumbbells. Maybe in the library from Atonement. Yes. Perfect. I feel like a cartoon wolf about to do a howl. I do not howl, though. This is a nice restaurant and if I’m going to start feeling these smutmuffin feelings I’m going to have to learn to control them at least a little. Instead of howling, I quip, ‘Good idea. Everyone knows they don’t let you on TV if your cuticles are ragged.’

  Seth wiggles his eyebrows excitedly. ‘Hey, maybe the woman who owns my local deli will finally remember my name. She’s been calling me Ted for three years. I correct her every time I go in there. And I go in there a lot – they do the best soup in Manhattan, you have to try it – but it’s like she decided I look more like a Ted than a Seth and opted to stick with that.’

  I raise my glass of water. ‘To Ted, featured cast member on Sunday Night Live.’

  Seth raises his wine glass. ‘And to Olive Brewster, without whom my John Malkovich impression wouldn’t have knocked anyone’s socks off.’

  We eye one another, grinning madly as we toast. That I might have had a tiny something to do with him getting his dream job is a really great feeling.

  ‘Seriously, Olive,’ Seth says putting his glass back onto the table. ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, but you have a natural ability for it. The team were really impressed with your input at the writers’ meeting.’