The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

by Alexander, Nick

  I retain a fixed, benevolent expression until the room is empty, then let my face fall into a grimace befitting my state of tired, irritated disappointment.

  Tom sticks his head back in the door. ‘Ooh!’ he says, catching a glance of my grotesque snarl. ‘The mask falls!’

  I switch back to smile. ‘Sorry, it’s been a hard day.’

  ‘I bet,’ he says. ‘You’re at the Park Lane, right?’

  I nod. ‘I am,’ I say.

  ‘OK, I’ll pick you up about seven. OK?’

  I shake my head in bewilderment. ‘For . . . what exactly?’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t Cindy tell you? I’m officially charged with showing you a good time tonight.’ Here he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ I say.

  Tom winks at me. ‘Sure you’re sure,’ he says. ‘See you at seven in the lobby.’

  And with that he is gone.

  This time, I cross the room and close the door before I let my face collapse. I sit in a chair at the empty table and rest my forehead on one hand and sigh.

  Half an hour later, back at the hotel, I drop my bag inside the door and hurl myself despondently onto the bed.

  ‘Mary, mother of Jesus!’ I mutter.

  Funny really, how adversity always seems to bring out the Irish in me.

  Funny, Awful and Ironic

  I hesitate long and hard over what to wear for my ‘date’ with Tom. It’s always difficult with these hybrid professional/social events. If Tom is going to turn up in his suit and spend the evening discussing work, then my best bet is to recycle the Westwood suit. Then again, if he turns up in casual clothes and takes me to a drinking den, I would be better off in jeans and a pullover.

  I change four times, but in the end I simply can’t face the suit again. Whatever tonight turns out to be, I don’t want it to be a continuation of today. I settle for a compromise. Black trousers and a heavy, grey, belted cardigan. I get to the lobby at five to seven and find Tom already waiting for me, changed, I note with satisfaction, into grey combat trousers, sweatshirt, and a leather jacket.

  Dressed differently, I suddenly see him in a different light. Sneaking a peek at his pert bum – what my gay friends would call his bubble butt – it suddenly crosses my mind that tonight may not be so bad after all. I always was a sucker for a pretty bum.

  ‘Hello!’ he says. ‘You look more relaxed.’

  I smile. ‘Is this too relaxed?’ I ask. ‘I wasn’t sure where we were going so . . .’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Tom says, then nodding towards the door, ‘Shall we? ’

  Outside the hotel we jump into one of the waiting cabs. The temperature is dropping fast and I’m glad not to be wearing a dress. ‘West Village,’ he tells the driver. ‘I’ll tell you where when we’ve decided.’

  ‘So,’ he asks me, ‘what do you want to eat? Sushi? Italian? Chinese?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m pretty easily pleased when it comes to food. As long as I don’t have to cook it’s all fine.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘Well it’s your choice,’ he says.

  ‘Sushi?’ I say, simply because it was the first on his list.

  ‘Sushi it is,’ he laughs. He leans back towards the driver. ‘That’ll be the junction of Thompson and West Houston then,’ he tells him.

  The cab lurches away in that unique New York way. I seem to recall that it’s something to do with V8 engines and automatic gearboxes and then remember geeky car-fan Ronan telling me exactly that on our trip here twelve years ago. Funny the random bits of information the brain retains.

  ‘You were great today,’ Tom says.

  I laugh lightly.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ Tom says flatly.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head.

  Tom frowns at me. ‘Really?’ he asks.

  I laugh a little louder. ‘Oh come on, Tom,’ I say. ‘Half the people there fell asleep. The other half committed suicide shortly after I left the building.’

  Tom laughs. ‘You’re hard on yourself,’ he says. ‘Women in business are. Cindy is the same.’

  I shake off the comment and look out of the window but wonder if this is true. I suppose we have to be tougher on ourselves than men do . . . we know about the invisible ceilings we’re trying to break through.

  The cab slows to squeeze through a crowd spilling off the pavement.

  ‘They’re queueing for tickets,’ Tom tells me. ‘Actually, if you want to go to a show or something after dinner, then . . .’

  I shake my head and look back at him. ‘I went to see Cats when I was here in ninety-six. It put me off musicals for life.’

  Tom nods. ‘That good, huh? I haven’t seen it myself.’

  ‘I fell asleep in the first fifteen minutes. Let’s say I enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed my presentation,’ I say.

  Tom laughs. ‘Now there you go again. I really don’t see—’

  ‘Tom,’ I interrupt. ‘Stop pretending. I’m not blind. Or deaf. No one smiled, no one laughed at the jokes, no one had a question at the end.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘That’s normal,’ he says.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Sure. It’s big-client paralysis,’ he says with a shrug.

  I turn towards him and rest one arm along the back of the seat. ‘Big-client paralysis?’ I say. ‘Sounds like an official diagnosis.’

  ‘It’s what we call it,’ Tom says.

  ‘When . . .?’

  ‘When . . . OK, so . . . Levi’s is our second-biggest client, right? So without Levi’s, half of us get redundancy.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘So everyone is scared.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘So no one from HB can react until the client does. I mean, if Craig had laughed, then everyone would have laughed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And if Craig had said he loved the pitch, then everyone would have loved the pitch.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Only he didn’t.’

  Tom pouts and wrinkles his nose. ‘He never does. He never expresses a view in public.’

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  ‘He will go back to his office and sit down with, say, Michael James and Rowan Askey, and say vaguely that he enjoyed it, or didn’t, and depending on how they react they will all whip themselves into a frenzy about this being the best thing they ever saw or . . .’

  ‘Or the worst.’

  ‘Well, there’s always that possibility, but having been there today, I’d honestly say you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’m sure they loved that Irish accent you put on.’

  I open my mouth in mock outrage. ‘I did not put it on,’ I say.

  ‘Ooh! It’s back!’ Tom laughs.

  ‘My father was Irish,’ I say. ‘It comes and goes.’

  ‘Well, it came at the right moment,’ Tom says. ‘Craig Peterson’s grandmother is Irish. Well, she was. He’s very proud of his Irish heritage.’

  ‘And if, despite my lovely accent, he hated it?’

  Tom shrugs. ‘You’re dead in the water. Me too, probably, for setting it up.’

  ‘Great,’ I say again.

  ‘But it’ll be fine. You’ll see.’

  I’m not entirely convinced. This could just be Tom trying to make sure I have a good evening, but, for the moment at least, I decide to suspend judgement. For now, I decide to enjoy a night out in New York with a very good-looking man.

  When we get to the restaurant, Tomoe Sushi, at least twenty people are queueing outside.

  ‘It looks a bit busy,’ I say. ‘If you want to go somewhere else we can . . .’

  Tom shakes his head and grabs my arm, pulling me towards the door. ‘If you’re eating raw fish, never go to an empty restaurant,’ he says.

  Just as in films (for this clearly never happens to me) the Japanese guy on the door spots Tom and beckons him forward. As he leads us past the front of the queue, he apologises to those now behind us.
‘Sorry, but he’s my brother,’ he says.

  Once we are seated, I lean towards Tom. ‘He seems really sweet but I’m assuming that he isn’t really your blother.’

  ‘No,’ Tom laughs. ‘But he is kind of framily.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘No, framily. Don’t you Brits use framily?’ Tom asks. ‘It’s, you know, friends who you’ve known so long that they’re like family.’

  I smile. ‘No, I never heard that,’ I say. ‘But I like it.’ I think of Mark and Darren and wonder if they are my framily. ‘I like it a lot,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I’ve known Tamotsa for . . . yikes! Maybe twenty years.’

  ‘Schoolfriend?’ I ask, looking around at the restaurant. It’s a far less chic choice than I thought Tom would have chosen, but it’s clearly incredibly popular. A couple of tables are occupied by gay couples, but then we are on the edge of The Village here.

  ‘No,’ Tom says. ‘Not really.’

  Apparently switching from a subject he doesn’t want to talk about to one that I don’t want to talk about, he says, ‘Sooo. What’s all this CC business? Everyone’s intrigued about that.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Not at all. So, what are you eating?’

  ‘I don’t know yet . . . Sorry. Look. It’s Chelsea,’ I say. ‘I said so in the meeting.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tom says. ‘It’s just that no one can see why you wouldn’t like that. But anyway, it doesn’t matter. What are you eating?’

  ‘It’s a bit chavvy, that’s all. It’s no big deal. I fancy some kind of soup and then some fish. Preferably cooked.’

  ‘They do a mixed fish grill,’ Tom says. ‘It’s excellent. A bit what?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your name. You said it’s a bit . . .’

  ‘Oh! Chavvy.’

  Tom shakes his head.

  ‘Never mind,’ I say.

  Tom puts down the menu and puts both elbows on the table and leans his square chin on both hands. He looks hopelessly cute. ‘I did teach you framily,’ he says.

  I sigh. ‘Oh Lord,’ I say. ‘Chavs . . . chavvy . . . how to explain it? Chavs are, you know, a certain kind of girl. Well, or boy. But usually girls.’

  ‘A certain kind?’

  ‘They wear pink hoodies and low-waist jeans and wander around in winter with their pierced belly-buttons showing.’

  Tom looks at me wide-eyed. ‘And they’re called Chelsea?’

  ‘Lots of them are, sadly for me. Plus my mum didn’t even spell mine properly,’ I tell him. ‘But that’s a whole different story.’

  ‘The pink hoodie thing . . . sounds like you’re describing Britney Spears,’ Tom comments.

  ‘Well those that aren’t called Chelsea often are called Britney,’ I laugh. ‘Or Ashleigh. Or Tammy.’

  ‘So anything ending in an ee sound,’ Tom laughs.

  ‘Mostly,’ I say. ‘I never really thought about it. Or Jordan. Or Chantelle.’

  ‘Right,’ Tom says. ‘So chav means kind of the same thing as trailer-trash?’

  I laugh. ‘I love that. Trailer-trash. Always makes me laugh.’ ‘Trailer-trash names would be, um, let me see, um . . . Doreen, or Joleen, or, no wait, Turleen. Turleen is an excellent trailer-trash name.’

  ‘Turleen?’ I repeat. ‘Is that really a name?’

  ‘It is if you come from Texas.’

  ‘Well there you go. I’m sure if you were called Turleen, you’d reduce it to T on your business cards.’

  Tom raises an eyebrow. ‘I think I would change it to Tom, Turleen being a girl’s name and all.’

  ‘Of course,’ I laugh.

  ‘So that’s it. Chav equals trailer-trash. You see. This is educational.’

  ‘I suppose so. It supposedly stands for Council House And Violent.’

  ‘Council house and violent,’ Tom repeats. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Council houses are special low-rent houses.’

  ‘Like the projects.’

  ‘Yes, like your housing projects.’

  ‘But violent.’

  ‘Exactly. Sometimes.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And CC? What’s the other C? The second C?’

  ‘It’s a nickname. From my younger years. When I still thought it was funny. When everyone thought it was funny. Chelsea Chav.’

  Tom laughs loudly and slaps his thigh. ‘I love that. That way you Brits have of laughing at yourselves. Well, it’s special, that’s all. Chelsea Chav. I love that.’

  I smile and lower my gaze. ‘Good. Now we have that out of the way . . .’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom says, still smirking. ‘So what do you want to eat?’

  An hour later, after a wonderful bowl of clam soup, some excellent grilled mixed fish, and four glasses of sake, Tom bundles me into another cab, this time to show me his favourite neighbourhood bar.

  As the alcohol takes effect, I’m finding Tom increasingly attractive.

  Of course, it’s not difficult: he is attractive. He may not have brown eyes, and he may not be dark and swarthy, and he may not have a farm either, but he is a very good-looking man, and he is open and funny and charming. As the taxi hurls us around the corners, I am feeling increasingly drawn to the flesh beneath the cotton of his combat trousers. Drawn enough to accidentally let my leg bump against his.

  I sit and calculate exactly how much thigh to thigh contact can be allowed to ‘accidentally’ occur, and ponder the fact that he has chosen his favourite neighbourhood bar. It’s likely, of course, to be near his flat.

  The fact that tonight might turn out to be more than a simple drink with a work colleague seems increasingly evident. And I really need to get a grip on how I feel about that before we get to the point of no return.

  I glance at Tom who is texting on his iPhone, and he looks up and smiles at me. ‘Is this OK?’ he asks, ‘because if you want something more memorable I can take you to Bar Centrale . . . we might even spot some New York celebs. Actually, we can do that after if you wish. The night is young.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, this is fine,’ I reassure him. ‘Much nicer to have a genuine experience of New York . . . to see where you would normally go.’

  Tom snorts as if this is somehow cute or funny and returns to his texting operation. I, for my part, turn back to the window and watch New York spinning by, and calculate the pros and cons of letting myself have a business trip fling.

  Pros: He’s fit. He’s funny. He’s good looking.

  Cons: He’s a client. He’s a client. He’s a client.

  For, of course, that’s the biggy. I have known many a contract crumble to dust because someone, somewhere, shagged the wrong person.

  But then, if, as Tom says, it’s really Levi’s running the show . . .

  But even then, one-off business-trip sex is pretty slutty. Do I really want to live up to my chavvy name? But do I really want my vagina to heal over through lack of use either?

  ‘Hey,’ Tom says, squeezing my shoulder to get my attention. ‘We’re here.’

  That squeeze somehow shifts the balance in Tom’s favour. It’s been a long time, too long in fact, since anyone squeezed any part of me.

  The Excelsior is exactly as a New York bar should be. Lots of dark wood and low suspended lights. A big jukebox in the corner . . . Big slatted wooden blinds fill the large windows, making the place feel intimate and private.

  There are only perhaps twenty people here for now, mostly men, all very casual/chic, very Abercrombie and Fitch.

  ‘This OK?’ Tom asks, returning from the bar with a bottle of beer and my white wine spritzer.

  ‘Perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘So do you go out much in London?’ he asks. ‘I had such a great time when I was there three . . . no, four years ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Quite a bit. Probably not as much as I should. You know what it’s like when you live somewhere.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom says. �
�And is there a Mister Chav or do you go out on your own?’

  I laugh, shake my hair, and notice that I am being outrageously flirtatious. ‘Not now,’ I say. ‘There was once. Now I just go out with friends.’

  Tom nods. ‘The city is better when you’re single,’ he says.

  I take a sip of my wine and Tom smiles at me, and then slips into an amused grin. I assume that it’s because he has noticed that I’m flirting with him.

  And then he glances behind me, as if lost in thought, smiles broadly and slides along the bench seat until he’s only a few inches away.

  I’m a little surprised that the moves are coming so fast, and wonder, as if I am watching someone else, how I will react.

  I suppose it depends on what happens next. And how it feels once it happens.

  What does happen next is that a very tall, thin, dark-haired man looms over our table. ‘Hello,’ he says, looking at Tom, and then me.

  ‘Hello!’ Tom says. ‘CC, meet Ron. Ron, CC.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaim, holding out my hand and freezing my face before it can form a frown. ‘Hello!’

  Ron shakes my hand but looks at Tom as he says, ‘You’re so lucky. I was just about to jump in a cab over to Avenue C when I got your text.’ He looks at me and adds, ‘Mister Last-minute- invitation here!’

  I look from Ron to Tom. Tom shrugs. ‘I just wanted you to meet CC here,’ he says. ‘I thought you would really enjoy each other.’

  I can’t help it any longer. I start to frown. Either Tom here is setting me up with Ron. Which, seeing as we were getting on so well, looks more like fobbing me off on Ron. Which despite Ron’s ideal dark, swarthy looks, would have to be classed as somewhat insulting. Or this is some dastardly piece of industrial espionage on behalf of one of Grunge!’s competitors whom Ron works for. Or Tom is hoping for some weird kind of threesome – which would be really exciting and of course completely impossible to go along with, and which would really upset the apple cart in terms of our business relationship.

  As Ron heads off to the bar for a drink, I try not to look too wide-eyed and wait to see what’s going to happen next.

  He returns almost immediately and grabs a spare chair from a nearby table. He seats himself opposite at which point Tom slithers back along the bench to his original (distant) position.