NICK ALEXANDER
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend
Nick Alexander
Nick Alexander was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. He is the author of the 5-part ‘50 Reasons’ series of novels, featuring lovelorn Mark, and when he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com. The Case of the Missing Boyfriend was an eBook bestseller in early 2011, netting sixty thousand downloads and reaching number 1 on Amazon. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodovar films. Visit his website at www.nick-alexander.com
Also by Nick Alexander
THE 50 REASONS SERIES
50 Reasons to Say Goodbye
Sottopassaggio
Good Thing, Bad Thing
Better than Easy
Sleight of Hand
SHORT STORIES
13.55 Eastern Standard Time
First published in Great Britain in 2011
by BIGfib Books.
This edition published in Great Britain in 2011
By Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Nick Alexander, 2011
The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978-0-85789-631-5
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Ormond House
26-27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One
Dead Chuffed
Carpenter Pants
Knowing Where You’re Going
SAD Syndrome
The Right Words
House of Cards
An Arse-Slapping Success
Two for the Price of None
Numb
The Apprentice
Hotline
Men Only
Funny, Awful and Ironic
If It’s Fun, It’s a Sin
Baroque Dreams
A Near Miss
Romance by Design
The Wrong Kind of Rubber
Deflation
Early Exit
Man Poisoning
Too Young to Die
On Any Other Day
Part Two
Autumn Blues
The Ups and Downs of Self-Help
A Mug’s Game
All It Takes is a Plan
What a Waste
Dealing with the Past
Slowdown – Speedup
I’m Fine
Fun and Standards
Disposable One-liners
Test Drive
A Ghostly Presence
Genetics
The Gift of Time
The High
Soup and Sympathy
Surprise Visit
What He Would Have Wanted
Icy Water
Why We Need Prozac
Office Minimalism
Body Double
The Matrix
Choreographed Compromise
Nothing Gay About It
Dodgy Equipment
Short-Sighted Date
Seize the Day
The Day Before You Came
Acknowledgements
EXTRA CONTENT - Read the first chapter of the sequel: The French House.
PART ONE
Dead Chuffed
When I open my front door, the bouquet of flowers that greets me is so vast, so dense, that I can’t actually see who is holding it. The bouquet comprises roses – which I hate – and deep, green sprigs that look like they might have come from the Leylandii in Mrs Pilchard’s garden.
My first thought is, God, how dreadful! And then, in case He, or She, or whoever, or whatever, is listening, I try to think graceful, grateful thoughts instead. For, truth be told, it’s been a stunningly long time since anyone sent me flowers – even awful flowers – and Thinking Your Way to Happiness says one has to work harder on one’s automatic thought patterns, so working harder, one is.
The voice that springs from behind though, is easily identifiable. ‘Hi, babe,’ it chirrups: Mark, my neighbour from upstairs.
In fact, as Mark both lives in the flat above mine, and works one floor up from me at Spot On advertising he is pretty much ‘upstairs’ in one form or another twenty-four/seven.
I’m feeling somewhat disappointed that the flowers are not the long dreamt of Eureka! moment where gorgeous-unknown- secret-admirer reveals that he has in fact been in love with me for years. And then again I’m also feeling somewhat relieved that I will not have to house the horrid bouquet for long.
I squash myself against the wall and let Mark squeeze past. ‘They’re not for you I’m afraid,’ he confirms, ‘they’re for Ian’s mother.’
‘I thought you two split up,’ I comment, frowning and following him through to the kitchen. ‘And I thought she was dead.’ My gay friends have such a constant stream of boyfriends, confusion is always a distinct possibility.
With me, of course, it’s easier – there is nothing to remember. What we need here, I think for the umpteenth time, is a little redistribution of boyfriend material. I hope He/She/It is listening.
‘Well, yes, they’re for her funeral,’ Mark explains, propping the bouquet up in my kitchen sink and turning to face me.
The world is divided into those who dare to address me by my horrific first name, and friends who know better. Mark knows better. ‘So how is my little CC?’ he asks, stepping forward and kissing me on both cheeks.
‘OK,’ I say, vaguely.
‘These are nice,’ he adds, tapping one of my earrings. ‘I haven’t seen you for days! Have you been away or something?’
Still thinking about the earrings, I shake my head a little more vigorously than I would otherwise. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been stuck down in Media all week trying to sort out the magazine space for those Hi Five ads. Actually, these are props from that shabby/ chic photo shoot we did for their autumn collection.’ I tap my right ear with my index finger. ‘. . .last worn by Angelica Wayne I’ll have you know!’
Mark nods, impressed. ‘Well, they suit you brilliantly,’ he says. ‘They look even better on you than on her.’
‘If only the rest of me looked like her, eh?’ I laugh, picturing Wayne’s nano-waist and involuntarily pulling my tummy in.
‘I told you, she’s too thin,’ Mark says. ‘She’s ill.’
‘. . . no such thing as too thin in this business,’ I say. ‘Anyway, enough of work . . . So are you telling me that Ian has now invited you to his mother’s funeral?’
Mark grins and runs his fingers through his tiny Tin-Tin quiff. ‘I know,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I’m dead chuffed . . .’ He pulls a face: thoughtful, confused. ‘Must remember not to say that to Ian . . . dead chuffed. It’s not ideal, is it? But yes, we’re back together.’
I
shrug and shake my head. ‘But how? I mean the last time you mentioned Ian . . .’
Mark shakes his head and pushes his lips out. ‘I don’t know really,’ he interrupts. ‘I mean, I was just getting used to the idea of being single again and then his old mama goes and dies, and within hours he was knocking on my door and weeping all over me. He stayed the night, and then we woke up together and, tada . . . we’re an item again. Nothing like a bit of grief to put an argument into perspective eh?’
I shake my head. ‘Apparently not,’ I say. ‘I must remember that one next time someone dumps me. Murdering one of their parents is the answer, it would seem.’
‘But I do think it’s a sign at least,’ Mark says. ‘It demonstrates a certain level of trust and intimacy, inviting your boyfriend to a funeral, don’t you think?’ He looks at me and wrinkles his brow. ‘What’s up? Am I burbling? Or is it that you’re jealous?’
‘Erm, no!’ I laugh, turning away to pull mugs from the cupboard. ‘Do you want tea?’
But of course I’m jealous. I’m jealous but quick enough to realise that being sorry because I don’t have a boyfriend to invite me to his mother’s funeral is a tad on the sick side of sad and best not admitted to. Ever.
‘A cuppa would be lovely,’ Mark says, rubbing his nose and then hauling himself up onto the counter top.
‘So are the burbling and that jiggly foot there a sign of too much coffee?’ I ask, pointing the kettle accusingly at him. ‘Or have you been . . . you know . . .?’
Checking the screen of his mobile, Mark replies, ‘Sweetie – it’s six p.m. on a Thursday night!’
Mark is developing quite a cocaine habit, and I have to say, I am beginning to get a bit concerned about it. But then again, it often seems that half of London is taking the stuff these days. I push the bouquet to one side and fill the kettle. ‘That’s not an answer,’ I say. ‘And well you know it.’
Mark shrugs, rubs his nose again, and grins coyly, confirming my doubts. ‘Maybe a bit,’ he admits. ‘But it was only a booster shot – we had to finish the visuals for Hi Five and I had a hangover. Plus I’m off tomorrow for this funeral thing, so . . . Anyway, I’ll be calm now.’ He takes a deep breath, then says with theatrical poise, ‘So how are you?’
I lean back against a cupboard and smile weakly. ‘Me?’ I say with a mini-shrug. ‘Oh, I’m fine.’
Mark nods thoughtfully. ‘You look a bit bluesy,’ he says.
I shrug again.
‘So is this need-a-man blues?’ he asks. ‘Or empty-weekend blues?’
I laugh. ‘You know me so well,’ I say. ‘Though really I think it’s just plain old February blues.’
Mark chews the side of his mouth. ‘I could probably get you an invite to the funeral,’ he offers with mock seriousness. ‘If you want.’
I shake my head. ‘Not quite that desperate,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I guess not. You should call Darren. He’s going to some fabulous pervert view on Saturday. Didn’t he tell you?’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t seen him all week. As I say, I’ve been stuck down in Media. A private view, you say?’
Mark laughs. ‘No, this one really is a pervert view,’ he says. ‘Some Colombian bondage photographer called Ricardo something or other. It should be fabulous. Apparently the waiters are all going to be dressed up in gimp outfits. It could be a hoot.’
‘And you’re missing this?’ I ask incredulously.
Mark wrinkles his nose and nods sadly. ‘Yeah. Dead in-laws in Glasgow take precedence,’ he says.
‘She’s from Glasgow?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Mark says. ‘Though I think you’ll find that was from Glasgow is the correct tense. Anyway, call Darren. He split up with Peter again, so I’m sure he would love you to go.’
‘I take it Ricardo Thingamajig is gay,’ I say, ‘. . . the photographer?’
Mark nods and wrinkles his nose. ‘Probably,’ he says, pushing his lips out. ‘Bisexual at worst, I would think. Or from your point of view, I suppose, bisexual at best.’
I grimace.
‘I’m sure there will be some straight arty types there though,’ Mark says raising one shoulder. ‘And it has to be better than sitting here feeling sorry for yourself in the dinge all weekend,’ he adds, nodding out of the kitchen window at the mass of green shadow beyond.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
Once Mark has drunk his tea and swooped off with his flowers, I sit and stare out of the window at the base of the Leylandii and think about the invitation. A year ago I would have jumped at it. But that was before I started worrying about The Missing Boyfriend.
Of course, in a way, I have always worried about The Missing Boyfriend – I have worried about him, or his absence, so frequently that I have had to shorten it to TMB just to save brain energy. Even when I was dating someone, even when I was married to Ronan, or living with Brian, I still worried about TMB, for the person sitting opposite never quite fulfilled the image I had in my mind’s eye about how TMB would/should/ could be.
It’s not that I am particularly demanding, honestly it isn’t. It’s just that the men I have ended up with have been so spectacularly lacklustre. And ever since Brian . . .
A gloomy image of my life with Brian appears at the periphery of my mind’s eye, like a storm on the horizon threatening devastation. I pause and sigh before swallowing hard and pushing it away.
God it’s still there! Three years on, and Brian is still lurking around the edges of my brain ready to pop up at any moment. Break-ups are survivable. It’s the aftershocks that get you.
Suffice to say that ever since that bastard Brian, finding a man, finding the right man, has started to feel urgent, because of my age. Well, my age and the baby thing.
So Darren and Mark and their boyfriends du jour may be fabulous fun, but I am increasingly aware that they are not the correct route through the maze that is my life – they will not lead me to the TMB.
And so I make a compromise with myself: I will go to the dreaded speed-dating thing again and as a reward I will let myself go to Ricardo Whatsit’s bondage exhibition. And you don’t need to be Mystic Meg to predict which is going to be the most fun.
I reach for my mobile and dial Darren’s number.
Carpenter Pants
Fridays! They’re always the worst. Days stuffed with itsy-bitsy multicoloured tasks that fill every second of the day, but like M&Ms fail to nourish in any way.
I make a phone call here, send a couple of emails there, courier a DVD to the printer.
These days – and in advertising there are many of them – drive me insane. Because though I run around barely pausing for breath, schmoozing here, smoothing ruffled feathers over there, chivvying along and calming down as required, no single task is ever consequential enough to give any kind of character to the day. These days, and they fall often, though not exclusively, on Fridays, leave little or no sense of achievement. They are the kind of day that, when Ronan or Brian would ask me what I had done that day, (usually in response to my state of evident exhaustion) I was hard pressed to think of a single thing I had achieved.
Nowadays no one asks of course – perhaps the only advantage I can think of in being single.
Though painfully vacuous, these days are, however, essential. For without schmoozing, clients look elsewhere, and without smoothing, ruffled feathers fly away. And without chivvying, neither Media nor Creative do anything at all.
It’s four p.m. I put down the phone and sigh. It’s the first time since eight this morning I have had time to think about the ADD nature of the day.
I look over towards the coffee room to see if the dreaded Victoria Barclay is lurking, waiting to assail me with one of her complex look/sigh combinations – a raised eyebrow here, a pouty mouth there. Though the meaning is never explicit, I am always left feeling guilty. Just as with my mother, any look other than a smile leaves me feeling as though I am somehow a disappointment, if not to the partners (of
which she is one), then to womanhood, or perhaps even to the entire human race.
And then I think about the chivvying thing again, and realise that Creative haven’t given me anything whatsoever for my Monday morning pitch to Grunge! Street-Wear, so I grab the phone. When the boys fail to pick up their extension I literally jog across the room and throw myself through the closing doors into the lift.
Gotcha! Victoria Barclay, lying in wait, spider-like, gives me the once over, raises an eyebrow and then screws the end of her nose as if I am perhaps smeared in dog shit. ‘Running late for a change?’ she asks.
I smile at her. ‘Not at all,’ I say.
I turn to face the doors and wait for my chance to escape.
Of course, not getting anything from Creative – The Gay Team as I call them – is pretty par for the course really. As far as I can see they just sit around all day talking about their sexual conquests and smoking until half an hour before the deadline, whereupon they somehow miraculously defy gravity or time or something by slinging together some irritatingly fabulous idea.
Whether this ability to do nothing and then come up with the goods at the last possible moment is a sign of their brilliance, or a severe failing on their part, I can never really decide. I often wonder how good the campaign would be if they spent, say, a whole afternoon on one. But with Mark away, and with Jude famously refusing to work weekends (nothing must get in the way of his cycling) this is cutting things even finer than usual.
Sure enough I catch Jude and Darren leaning out of the window smoking. They drop their cigarettes into an old Marmite jar on the window-sill and spin to face me. ‘Oh it’s only you,’ Jude says. ‘Damn! Waste of a good ciggy.’
‘Thank God you’re still here!’ I reply. ‘Where are the visuals for the Grunge! pitch? I just realised, I haven’t had anything.’ I note a slightly hysterical tremor in my voice and decide to get a handle on that.
‘What? For the pervy jeans?’ Darren asks, frowning.
‘German carpenter pants, I think you’ll find,’ I say calmly.
Carpenter pants are in fact black jeans, only with two zips for the fly, one to the right and one to the left of the normal opening. Quite why German carpenters, or anyone else for that matter, should need two zips for peeing is beyond me, but the Grunge! designers are convinced that it’s the next big thing. It is up to us at Spot On to make it so.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 1
