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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘Um…’ I say, nerves starting to simmer up in my stomach. What if I speak too loudly into the microphone and no one can tell what I’m saying? What if I burp? What if I burp on the radio? What if a random made-up word pops out of my mouth? A word that means nothing. Like fleperty. What if I say fleperty! Fleperty.

  Mrs Ramirez grabs the phone out of my hands. ‘We’ll be there,’ she declares and then hangs up.

  ‘Argh.’ I stare at the phone. ‘I’m not prepared. I’m tipsy. I have nothing to wear. My hair is a frizzy mess.’

  ‘It’s radio. No one cares what you look like,’ Mrs Ramirez calls from the hall where she’s grabbing my coat from the hat stand.

  I stand still and take a deep breath, remembering all of the new things I have done this week. How I’m starting to feel like a totally different person. A braver, more badass Olive. I can do this! I have to!

  Mrs Ramirez hands me my satchel. I squint at it, noting Birdie’s letter tucked inside. I don’t even like this satchel. It’s nowhere near as cool as…

  ‘I’m taking my bumbag,’ I say firmly, adrenaline coursing through me.

  ‘That horrible pink fanny pack?’ Anders screws up his face. ‘Why? Why?’

  I lift my chin. ‘Because I love it. And I’m sick of not being able to wear it in case people stop me in the street.’

  ‘Yes!’ Mrs Ramirez calls out.

  I smile at her. ‘I mean what am I so afraid of? A few people yelling “Watch Me Piddle” at me? Pah! Worse things have happened.’

  Mrs Ramirez starts clapping. ‘Yes!’

  ‘And it has a holographic sunshine on the front,’ I add.

  ‘Ick,’ Anders drawls, pulling on a long dark coat.

  ‘It’s waterproof and has a secret pocket and did I mention the holographic sunshine? Way better than a safe, boring old satchel.’

  ‘YES, CHICA!’

  ‘And most importantly it’s the safest place for Birdie’s letter,’ I say, grabbing the bumbag from where it lies atop my suitcase in the corner of the living room. I transfer everything from my satchel into it and clasp it firmly around my waist.

  I turn around to Anders and Mrs Ramirez, my hands on my hips in a total superwoman stance.

  ‘Let’s do this!’

  Anders sighs dramatically, smoothing his ice blonde hair back from his forehead. ‘Midtown. Ugh. The lengths besties will go to.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Olive’s recent search history:

  Improv Manchester

  Tips for being on radio interview

  How to suppress burps discreetly

  Bruised penis painful?

  Bruised penis common injury?

  Fleperty

  When the cab pulls up outside Anchorage Studios, I’m surprised to see how close it is to the Rockefeller Center. I think about what Seth’s doing right this minute. He told me he was working tonight. He’s probably up there right now. Studiously avoiding my text. Icing his bruise.

  Myself and my two unlikely sidekicks march through the door. At the reception desk, the man behind it gives the three of us a confused look. Granted we don’t look quite like the kind of people who frequent radio station studios on the regular. The last-minute nature of this whole thing means that my hair is all big and tangled around my head, my eyes tired and my dress crumpled. Mrs Ramirez looks like she should be sitting on a front porch, rocking in a chair somewhere. Anders looks impeccable as always but, you know, like Anders.

  We’re instructed up to the fourth floor and when the elevator doors open we are met by Terri who looks much like she sounds – cropped blonde hair, sturdy athletic figure and stylish no-fuss outfit of black jeans, a white shirt and high-heeled leather ‘don’t fuck with me’ boots.

  ‘Thank god you’re here,’ she says, grabbing my hand and speedily yanking me down a corridor without even saying hello. ‘You don’t look great but, fuck it, we don’t have many options right now.’

  Rude!

  I look behind me, wide-eyed, as Mrs Ramirez and Anders try to keep up with Terri’s rapid pace but don’t quite manage it considering Mrs Ramirez’s dodgy knee and the tightness of Anders’ jeans. The pair of them look genuinely excited to be here, though, and that excitement ignites a little fire in my belly too. I’m going to be on the radio. Actual radio!

  Terri pushes open a big set of double doors and into a huge, warehouse-type room covered in lights and lines of tape over the floors and massive expensive-looking cameras.

  ‘Ooh it’s a TV studio as well!’ I say. ‘Is the radio studio bit far?’

  Terri throws me an annoyed look for slowing her pace. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The radio studio,’ Mrs Ramirez enunciates very slowly from behind, her Spanish accent making the ‘r’s roll melodically. ‘She said the radio studio.’

  ‘Who gives a shit where the nearest radio station is!’ Terri barks. ‘Who listens to radio these days! This is Evenings with Craig and Diane!’

  ‘Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness, Olive!’ Mrs Ramirez squeals, pressing a hand to her bosom. ‘I love Craig and Diane!’ She absolutely beams. ‘I thought I recognised this set.’

  ‘This is TV?’ I yelp as Terri grabs my arm again and pulls me across the studio floor, pushing me into a small, bright room with mirrors across the wall, a row of spinny chairs and tons of hair and make-up products laid out on countertops.

  ‘Live TV,’ Terri corrects, looking at her watch. ‘I’ll be back in five. Hair and Make-up should be with you in two. Your friends can sit in here with you for now. There’s a water cooler over there.’ She points into the corner of the room.

  ‘W-wait, what shall I—’ I start, but before I can even finish the sentence Terri has left.

  ‘How exciting!’ Mrs Ramirez sings. ‘Craig and Diane! Craig is my favourite. An American hunk!’

  ‘Live TV!’ I choke, my voice all wobbly. I was feeling so brave before. But that was when I thought I was going on radio! But TV? Live TV? ‘Argh! Live TV? Oh man. I don’t even know who Craig and Diane are!’

  ‘It’s a local talk show,’ Anders says dismissively, picking up a hairbrush from the countertop and inspecting it. ‘It’s a five boroughs news TV show. So millions of people will definitely not be watching.’

  ‘This is all a good thing!’ Mrs Ramirez points out, admiring herself in the mirror. ‘TV has much stronger reach than radio. We have a far better chance of someone who watches knowing where Chuck is!’

  I peer at my terrified face in the mirror and think of my best friend. Mrs Ramirez is right. This isn’t about me. It’s about Birdie and I will do anything to make this happen for her.

  ‘I can do it,’ I say to myself sternly. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘You can do it,’ Mrs Ramirez says, rubbing my shoulders as if I’m a boxer about to go into the ring.

  ‘You can do it, Olive,’ Anders says, picking up a comb and running it gently through my curls.

  ‘I can fucking do it,’ I say, taking off my coat and bumbag and brushing lint of my dress. I do some jumps in the mirror and a few karate chops to psyche myself out. ‘I can do it!’

  I can do it.

  Can’t I?

  I have a little light concealer and powder pressed onto my face and my hair fluffed and combed by a woman who seems perturbed when Anders tells her that she’s not doing it right and nudges her out of the way to do it himself and, after the gorgeous job he did for my dinner with Seth, I let him. Then, as Terri attaches a microphone to my dress, feeding a wire down past my bra and round my back, she, for the millionth time in the past ten minutes, goes over how this is all going to work. I will sit on the studio sofa with the presenters of the show, Craig and Diane. They will ask me about my search for Chuck Allen, why I’m looking for him and how people can get in touch with me. I absolutely must relax and act like I’m having a simple chilled out conversation with two friendly middle-aged people in primary-coloured suits. I absolutely must not curse or look directly into the camera.

  �
�Got it!’ I promise, my stomach starting to roll and jolt as the commercial break begins and Terri tells me it’s time to go sit on the sofa.

  Eek!

  ‘Cariño, if you get scared all you have to do is imagine everyone in their underwear,’ Mrs Ramirez says kindly.

  ‘Or don’t,’ Anders adds.

  ‘I’ve got this,’ I yelp, my nostrils flaring a little. ‘I’ve definitely got this. Live TV! No big deal!’

  Don’t puke, Olive. Do not puke.

  I hand Mrs Ramirez my bumbag (I had wanted to keep it on, but Terri put a halt to that idea pretty quickly), clutch Birdie’s letter to my chest and, with shaky legs, head across the studio to take a seat on the big purple sofa with Craig and Diane. Craig looks like a fifty-something superhero, with a dark quiff and a matinee idol jawline. Diane is very pretty and bright-eyed, with lovely long brunette hair that’s been so perfectly blown out it shines like glass.

  I inhale and breathe out slowly, thinking of all the people who might be watching this show. All the people who might have information leading to Chuck…

  ‘Hello Olive,’ Diane says with a dazzling smile, as the make-up artist comes over and dabs a shit-ton of powder on her forehead. ‘Thanks for coming to the rescue.’

  ‘No probs. Thanks for having me!’

  She seems nice. This is going to be okay.

  Craig gives me a brief smile, but is mostly busy reading over his paper notes. He’s preparing. I can get on board with that.

  Before I know it, someone I can’t see is counting down from five to zero and saxophone theme music starts to play.

  Goodness me. This is it.

  The lights are ridiculously bright. And it’s so warm. Really hot, actually. Why is it so hot in here? I can see the camera! Must not look into the camera.

  When the theme music comes to an end, Diane and Craig’s faces magically zing into megawatt super-toothy smiles.

  ‘Welcome back!’ Diane says into the camera. ‘Next up we have a guest with a very interesting story. This is Olive Brewster who has come to New York from England to find a man.’

  Craig does a cheesy laugh. ‘The lengths we go to, huh?’

  Diane giggles too. ‘Olive is here to find a man, but not in the way you might expect, Craig. Why don’t you tell us why you’re here in Manhattan, Olive.’

  Holy moly.

  My throat immediately goes dry. The lights beam down on my forehead making me sweat. It’s so warm.

  I take a big steadying breath and think of Birdie.

  ‘I’m here for my friend,’ I say to Diane and Craig. ‘Her name is Birdie and she has lupus which, because of associated complications, has become terminal.’

  Diane and Craig’s faces immediately switch into sad sympathetic expressions.

  ‘How awful.’ Diane frowns, pressing a manicured hand to her chest.

  ‘Yep. It is,’ I say, stealth tears popping into my eyes. Go away, tears! You are not welcome! I carry on. ‘Birdie’s American. She was born and raised in Manhattan, but now she lives in England. Manchester, actually. She asked me to come to New York to deliver a letter.’ I hold up Birdie’s letter and wave it a little, discreetly fanning myself at the same time. ‘She wants me to give it to a man she lost touch with long ago. His name is Chuck Allen and he was the love of her life.’ I frown slightly. ‘Chuck Allen. That’s Allen not Ellen. A L L E N.’

  Craig gives a little snicker of mirth at my spelling. I don’t care. I’m not chancing another Chimes Investments wrong Chuck scenario.

  ‘And why does Bertie—’

  ‘Birdie. Birdie Lively.’

  ‘Why does Birdie want to find this man now?’

  ‘She… she hasn’t got long left.’ My voice shakes. ‘And she’s been thinking a lot about her life and her past. Chuck was her Big Sexy Love and she—’

  ‘Sorry?’ Craig interrupts with a slight frown. ‘Big Sexy Love?’

  I grin, fiddling with the corner of the letter. ‘That’s what Birdie calls epic love. We used to talk about one day finding our Big Sexy Love – the greatest love known to humankind. I guess it’s kind of a private joke type thing…’

  Craig nods, looking slightly befuddled.

  ‘…And she wants me to deliver this letter,’ I tap a finger to the envelope, ‘so that Chuck can know how she truly felt about him. She never told him when they were younger and she doesn’t want any regrets.’

  Diane puts a finger to her chin, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘It certainly seems a long way to travel to deliver a letter! Is Chuck not on social media? Can she not reach him on the telephone?’

  ‘Chuck is not on social media. Trust me, I’ve searched, she’s searched. He is elusive.’

  ‘Not on social media? He sounds like he might be in Brooklyn!’ Craig chuckles.

  ‘We’ve looked everywhere, handed out leaflets, posted online, offered a reward like in Annie, visited his last-known locations. But we can’t find him. And I have to leave in a few days. Birdie’s having kidney surgery next Monday and I need to be back before that. So it’s… well, it’s pretty desperate.’

  ‘That sounds very risky,’ Craig says. ‘A surgery when she is already so unwell…’

  I bite my lip. It does sound risky. It is risky.

  ‘Are you scared?’ Craig says, leaning closer towards me.

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘Not as scared as Birdie, probably.’

  I think of my friend. Her big eyes, her mischievous grin, her filthy laugh, her sweet, kind, failing heart.

  I only realise I’m full-on crying when Diane hands me a box of tissues. Craig gives me a satisfied smile and I get the feeling it was his intention to make me cry.

  A spark of anger flickers in my chest. This isn’t a game. This isn’t TV fodder. This is serious.

  I fiercely wipe my tears away and when Craig starts talking I gather up all of my courage to interrupt him. I turn and look directly into the camera even though Terri told me to definitely not do that.

  ‘Chuck Allen, if you are out there, you better blummin' well get in touch,’ I say, quickly trying to keep my voice steady. ‘If anyone watching knows where he is, they can reach me by emailing whereischuckallen@gmail.com. Please!’

  ‘Um. Okay, there are the details!’ Diane says brightly. ‘Thanks for joining us Olive. And please give Birdie all of our love.’

  That’s it? I did it? It’s done?

  I look around, expecting Terri to come and lead me off the set when Craig presses his hand to his earpiece.

  ‘Olive… one of our researchers has just informed us that…’ he widens his eyes in glee, ‘…you are the Menace of Manhattan? That you were arrested for stealing a Gramercy Park key?’

  ‘That was you?’ Diane asks, her eyes squinting to get a closer look at me. ‘It is you! You were in the New York Daily News!’ Her expression changes from one of pity to one of absolute disgust.

  Shit! No. No. I am not here for this. This is about Birdie and finding Chuck.

  My mouth opens and shuts gormlessly. I’m not sure what to say.

  I panic. ‘Um… fleperty.’ Gaaaah. I just said the made-up word I was worried about saying! Oh Olive.

  ‘Excuse me, did you say fleperty?’ Craig asks.

  ‘Fleperty,’ Diane repeats slowly. ‘What is fleperty? Is it a British thing?’

  ‘Do you steal things often, Olive?’ Craig asks.

  ‘Er… Um…’

  ‘And do you only take keys? Or are you open to thieving a variety of items?’ Diane adds.

  ‘Do you steal so that you can feel something, Olive? Truly feel something. Something more than just the endless tedium of day to day life, staring into a lens, talking to people you will never ever meet and who care not one iota about you.’

  Diane gives Craig an odd look. As do I. He turns red, clearly horrified at his little burst of emotion.

  ‘Back to “fleperty”,’ Diane says, trying to retain an air of professionalism. ‘Is that UK slang for, um… public masturbatory pract
ices? Tell us more, Olive.’

  Public masturbatory practices? Okay, this is getting out of hand now. Heart pounding, I stand up off the sofa and march over to the camera. ‘Chuck Allen. I will be waiting for your call!’ I say intensely before jogging off the set, much to the horror of Diane, Craig and Terri, who I jog past.

  Anders and Mrs Ramirez stand on the sidelines just staring at me in absolute disbelief.

  ‘Holy fucking turd alert!’ I hiss, grabbing my coat and bumbag off Mrs Ramirez. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  I feel a huge yank on my back.

  ‘Ouch!’ I turn around to see Terri, her face flaming, holding wires in her hands.

  ‘Your microphone was still on,’ she spits, her eyes bulging angrily. ‘You just said Holy Fucking Turd Alert to our entire audience!’

  Oh no! This is not good. This is really not good. I really am The Menace of Manhattan.

  I gawk at Anders and Mrs Ramirez in panic. Anders grabs my hand and then Mrs Ramirez’s hands and in the highest volume his thin voice can manage, he yells, ‘Ruuuuuuun!’

  We only run about ten metres because Mrs Ramirez’s knee means we can’t take the stairs and we have to wait for the lift. So the three of us stand there feeling all kinds of awkward as various crew members walk past and throw us dirty looks.

  Once we’re outside the studio, Mrs Ramirez gets emotional. ‘When you walked up to the camera and spoke directly to Chuck? Oh, I felt it in my heart, Olive.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Ramirez. I just hope it works.’

  I stare at the pair of them and suddenly I start to laugh with relief and adrenaline. They join in. ‘That was bonkers,’ I breathe. ‘I can’t believe they knew about that whole Manhattan Menace thing. There’s been nothing in the papers about me for two whole days now! I thought people were losing interest in—’

  ‘Olive?’

  I turn around at the deep, warm voice behind me.

  It’s Seth.

  Huh?

  ‘Seth? What are—’

  ‘This is Seth?’ Mrs Ramirez holds out her hand to him. ‘You are right, Olive. His eyes are turquoise. I didn’t think it possible, but it is!’