‘Sorry,’ Ron says. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘CC,’ Tom volunteers. ‘She doesn’t like her name so she just goes by CC, don’t you?’
I nod. ‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘It’s actually Chelsea, which in England is a real trailer-trash name, which is why she prefers CC. Isn’t that right?’
I cringe at this brutal explanation and wonder if my mother would be as devastated as I suspect if I changed my name by deed poll.
Ron nods. ‘I see,’ he says, sounding like he doesn’t see at all.
‘So what do you do, Ron?’ I ask, trying to move away from a subject which is starting to seriously irritate me, and at the same time determined to find out why Tom has brought him here.
‘Oh!’ Ron says. ‘That’s a bit like your name. I try not to talk about it.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Because?’ No one is sparing my feelings here. I don’t see why I should start wearing kid gloves.
‘It’s a bit of a cliché,’ Ron says.
I nod. ‘I see,’ I say, using exactly the same tone of voice as Ron just did.
‘Ron is a hairdresser,’ Tom volunteers. ‘He has some very famous clients.’
I nod. I think that I must have drunk too much. It seems as if everyone is speaking in tongues.
‘And that’s a cliché because . . .?’
Ron frowns at me, and then stands. ‘I’m going to put some music on,’ he says, then to Tom, ‘Explain to your friend, would you?’
I watch Ron cross the bar and turn my frown upon Tom. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Call me stupid, but . . .’
‘We’re partners,’ Tom says.
I nod. ‘In his hairdressing business?’
At the very moment I say this three things happen.
The first is that the intro to ‘Enough is Enough’ by Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand starts to drift from the Jukebox, apparently chosen by Ron.
The second is that a big bearded biker at the bar, behind Tom’s head, kisses the little Asian guy sitting on the bar stool opposite him. On the mouth.
And the third is that I manifest what I’m pretty sure must be the brightest, reddest blush my face has produced since Nigel Perry kissed me in the middle of the netball court.
‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I scare myself sometimes.’
‘No. He’s my partner,’ Tom says. ‘We’re a couple.’
‘Yes, yes, I get it,’ I say. ‘Doh! Gosh. Sorry.’
Tom shakes his head in confusion and glances over at Ron, beckoning him with a nod back to the table, but Ron rolls his eyes and turns back to the jukebox.
‘Is that OK?’ Tom asks. ‘I mean, if you’re not cool with that . . . ’
I shake my head. ‘Oh, I’m very cool with that, Tom,’ I say. ‘Nearly all my London friends are gay. I’m probably London’s biggest fag hag. I don’t know why my gaydar is so dodgy tonight.’
Tom nods and grins. ‘Cool,’ he says. ‘I knew you’d be cool. I can usually tell. Ron! Come over here!’
I take a heavy swig of my drink and exhale slowly.
‘This is awful, sweetheart,’ Tom says when Ron returns. ‘Why did you put this on?’
‘It’s funny,’ Ron says. ‘And ironic.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s just awful,’ Tom says.
Ron looks at me and shrugs, a little camply, I now see. ‘You choose,’ he says. ‘Ironic, or awful?’
I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘I think it’s exactly like life,’ I say. ‘Awful and funny and ironic. All three at the same time.’
If It’s Fun, It’s a Sin
The next morning I wake up feeling good, almost joyous in fact. My hangover is surprisingly lightweight.
I yawn and stretch luxuriously on the hotel bed. The sheets, which up until now I have been too stressed to notice, feel crisp and fresh.
I lie and reflect on my successful night out on the town. Once my fag-hag credentials had been established, things had become much, much more fun with Tom and Ron. After a couple of drinks in the Excelsior, they whisked me further across town to Club 40c.
Here, I felt immediately at home amidst the fifty/fifty straight/ gay mix. I even had a dance with Ron at one point which was nice in a make-believe kind of a way.
Today being, for them at least, a work day, the evening had wound up just before one a.m. when they dropped me off at the hotel. This probably explains the lack of anything seriously resembling a hangover.
All in all, other than Ron’s not being straight and not having a farm, I couldn’t have hoped for a better night. My working relationship with Tom is now forged in steel, and I have a couple of new clubbing friends if I have to come back to New York for work, as I hope I might.
Showered and dressed in simple jeans and a pullover, I head out into the sunshine. It’s a beautiful spring day and my only agenda is to find the three coffee shops Tom listed for me and have a walk in Central Park. I’m sure the girls from work will all be asking me what shopping I have done, but strangely for someone in my field, shopping has never really done it for me. Though I do spend a fair bit on clothes (many of my clients pretty much expect this of me), in fact, I tend to shop like a man:
1: In.
2: That’ll do.
3: Out again.
I often feel a bit of a failure as a tourist because of my lack of any kind of ambitious agenda. I know people, indeed, have dated men, who arrive in each new city with an alphabetic list of museums to be visited.
I never want to do much more than sit quietly in a café or coffee shop and watch the locals being themselves. That’s what, bizarrely, interests me about other places.
Right now I am heading for Union Square where Tom has told me I can get a perfect American breakfast.
My day goes exactly to plan, which is, after all, the advantage of non-ambitious plans. The Coffee Shop is perfect, with bar-stools and long swoopy counters and a gum-chewing waitress with a notepad clipped to her belt. I overdose on calories by ordering the special: pancakes with eggs, bacon, strawberries, maple syrup, and cream. Only in America!
I head down as far as Wall Street and watch the city traders (all wearing blue shirts with white collars) dosing on caffeine. I stand and wave at people on the departing Staten Island ferry which feels silly but rather lovely.
A couple of times I think that it would all be nicer if I had someone to share it with, but I remind myself that this is a business trip and that even if I did have a boyfriend at home, the feeling would be the same.
On my way back up to Central Park, I walk along Fifth Avenue (Audrey Hepburn requires this of me) and I even find five minutes to pop in and buy a pair of Marithé + François Girbaud trousers and a jacket. The exchange rate, I calculate, makes this a good enough deal for me to momentarily consider forgetting Central Park in exchange for more shopping time. But thankfully I resist – feeding the birds at the John Lennon memorial is the perfect end to my perfect blip-visit of a day.
Then it’s back to the hotel, and off to the airport.
By eight p.m. when I arrive at JFK I feel like I have had not one day, but one week’s holiday.
There are moments in life – and I would have to admit that I don’t have them as often as I would like – when everything just comes together, and when, even being single, I feel happy, relaxed and confident. Some days, like today, I feel, as the French would say, so comfortable in my skin, that I could almost cry with the joy of being alive.
On top of my great night out and my perfect New York day, two more things happen at the airport which lock me definitively into my happy zone.
The first is that Peter Stanton phones to congratulate me because Levi’s, apparently, loved our campaign and will be coming over to London shortly to discuss possibilities for collaboration.
The second (and this one is a bit shallow, but does nevertheless make me giggle with joy), is that I get bumped up from economy to business class, no doubt because of my new Girbaud outfit and oozin
g smile.
As our plane swoops out over the Atlantic, and as the squares of sunshine from the windows sweep through the cabin, I take my first sip of complimentary champagne.
‘This is more like it,’ the man beside me – an elegant fifty-year old – declares.
‘Yes,’ I say, smiling. ‘It is.’
‘Business wasn’t so good for a while,’ he says. ‘So I had to plump for economy. It’s good to be back.’
I grin at him and raise my glass. ‘To business class!’ I toast. ‘Charles,’ he says, raising his own glass and then proffering a hand. ‘C . . . Charlotte,’ I reply.
Air travel is such a strange experience. It’s such an intimate thing, to travel alongside a stranger for so many hours, to eat together, take in a film, snooze side by side. In economy I think that it’s so intimate, that like neighbours on the same landing, most of us consider that it’s better not to take the risk of ever getting to know them. In business class, there’s just enough room – as elbows don’t actually touch – to take that chance.
He is, he tells me, South African, but left when he was twenty. ‘I could never stand apartheid,’ he says, ‘which is why I left. Ironically, my parents, most would say, deservedly, lost pretty much everything when apartheid ended, so there’s not much point going back. Of course, I visit them, but . . .’
Charles tells me that he is ‘in rubber’. He’s a specialised commodities trader. There’s lots of money in rubber, it would appear.
For a slightly older man, he’s pretty attractive. Salt and pepper hair, rounded friendly features, a fit trim body. He has a slightly wicked sense of humour, and keeps me regaled with funny stories about his many business trips.
We chat and drink and chat and eat and chat some more until they dim the cabin lights, and then, as air travel dictates, we snooze side by side. His presence beside me feels somehow reassuring.
As we start our descent to Heathrow, Charles asks me if I’m travelling on anywhere else today.
‘No, just home,’ I say. ‘To London. I had a really successful trip to New York, so my boss has given me tomorrow off to recover. So it’s just back home to a lovely long weekend.’
‘Well I hope you have someone lovely waiting for you,’ he says.
I laugh. ‘Yes. Guinness will be waiting.’
‘Guinness?’ He pulls a face. ‘Funny name.’
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘He’s my cat. And you?’
‘Oh, I’m single. And no cat.’
I bite my lip. ‘Sorry, that sounded . . . I meant where are you going?’
‘Oh. Sorry. I’m flying on to Nice. In France. I have a meeting on Saturday, but other than that I just intend to kick back.’
‘Nice is nice,’ I say, unable to resist the cliché comment.
‘It is,’ he says. ‘I suspect that the Niçois themselves are more friendly if you can speak the language, but the town itself is lovely.’
‘You don’t speak any French then?’
‘Oh, I can say, “Bonjour,’’ he laughs. ‘And, “Je ne parle pas Française.”’
‘Français,’ I say with a grin. ‘Je ne parle pas Français.’
Charles frowns. ‘I was told it was feminine. Because languages are all feminine or something.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I laugh. ‘If you say, “Je ne parle pas la langue française,” then that would be feminine. But the name of the langue française is just Français. It’s completely crazy of course.’
Charles grins at me, apparently impressed.
‘A level French,’ I say. ‘It was my best subject. I spent a year on exchange in Aix en Provence too, for my degree.’
‘Clever, pretty . . . where does it all end?’ Charles laughs.
I laugh too and do my hair flicking thing. ‘Oh, not so clever . . .’ I say. ‘I just have a good memory.’
‘I don’t suppose you want to come and translate for me?’ he asks.
I laugh. ‘Thanks, but . . .’
Charles shrugs. ‘Oh well, it was just a thought. And then on Monday night I’m off to Dusseldorf.’
‘Eeek,’ I say. ‘I think I prefer Nice.’
‘Yes,’ Charles laughs. ‘Better food too. I know some lovely restaurants in the old town. And a great one on the port in Villefranche.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ I say.
‘You could come,’ Charles says. ‘I mean, seriously, I would love to spend the weekend . . .’
I laugh lightly to cover my embarrassment. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say as lightly as I can manage. ‘Really.’
Charles turns to look out of the window. ‘Raining,’ he says. ‘Can’t see a thing.’
‘It always is,’ I say.
Charles turns back to face me. ‘Look, Charlotte. I know this sounds weird . . .’
I laugh. ‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘You’ll get over it,’ Charles says. ‘But I won’t if I don’t say this.’
I shrug and stare at my lap. ‘OK,’ I say.
‘I don’t know if you could come to Nice with me, I mean, I don’t know how your life is organised . . .’
‘I really—’ I start.
‘Hear me out,’ he says. ‘Please.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘I travel on my own all year round. I see beautiful places and eat in beautiful restaurants all year round. And it’s fine. I enjoy it. But there’s always this moment when I feel a bit sad because I don’t have someone with me. Someone to say, “isn’t this lovely”. So I’m not being heavy here at all . . . at least I hope not. I’m just saying that I’ve enjoyed your company today and if you did want to spend your bonus long-weekend in Nice with me, well, I would think that was absolutely lovely. I would obviously get you your own room at the hotel. I’m staying at the Negresco, by the way. And I would promise to be the perfect gentleman at all times. There. It’s said.’
To disguise my embarrassment, I laugh lightly. ‘It’s very sweet,’ I say. ‘Really it is. But I can’t. I . . . I have to get home. I have obligations.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for starters, I have Guinness to feed. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death of a cat, would you?’
Charles grins and shrugs. ‘Absolutely not,’ he says. ‘Oh well. Life, huh?’
I nod sadly. ‘Life!’ I say.
The weather at Heathrow is truly atrocious. It’s nine-thirty by the time we reach passport control but outside it still looks like midnight.
‘It’s sunny in Nice,’ Charles declares, pointing his iPhone at me. The display shows seven little suns with smiles.
‘Lucky you!’ I say.
‘So I can’t convince you?’ he asks. ‘Because this is where the paths split.’
He points at the queue for immigration and I realise that he now has to go to the tiny ‘Non EU’ side whilst I have to snake my way along the mega ‘UK Citizens’ queue.
I shake my head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, but . . .’
Charles shrugs and holds out a hand. ‘Well, have a lovely weekend,’ he says.
‘You too!’ I say, shaking it vigorously.
As he heads off, I add my body to the end of the snake and watch him as he queues for the desk, then hands over his passport, and then, with the tiniest wave, vanishes from sight.
I feel a pang of regret, but, well, no one could deny that it was an absurd proposition, could they? Surely any sane person would have done the same thing . . .
And anyway, I now remember, I have a date with Brown Eyes this weekend. I’m a little shocked at myself for forgetting.
I switch on my BlackBerry which instantly beeps with a text message. A text message from Brown Eyes, no less.
soz had go new castle again next weekend?
I roll my eyes. ‘Men!’ I mutter.
The second text is from Darren: call me when you get in. question about grunge!
I delay until I am through immigration and waiting for the ba
ggage carousel then phone the office. The receptionist answers the phone with, ‘Congratulations! I hear you were brilliant. The whole place is abuzz.’
‘Thanks!’ I tell her. ‘Can I speak to Darren?’
Darren also congratulates me. His query is simple enough – whom specifically to address the final versions of the visuals to at BRP. I tell him that he should mark them for the attention of Clarissa Bowles. ‘Even if she just gives them to someone else, she likes to feel that she’s being kept in the loop.’
‘Great,’ Darren says. ‘Well, I’ll get those off today. I hear the pitch went well.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Apparently so.’
‘And New York?’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Like London. Full of poofs.’
‘Brilliant. Well, you’ll have to tell me about that. I hope the weather was better than here.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘I just had someone trying to convince me to go to Nice for a dirty weekend. When I saw the weather I was sorely tempted.’
‘Who’s that then?’ Darren asks. ‘That bloke from speed dating?’
I laugh. ‘Nope! He just cancelled our date for this weekend, so I’m Johnny-no-dates again. No, it was just the guy next to me on the plane. Wanted a translator. And a shag probably.’
‘Brown Eyes cancelled?’ Darren asks. ‘Amazing. What’s wrong with these guys?’
Even though he can’t see me, I shrug. ‘I have no idea,’ I say.
‘So why aren’t you off to Nice?’
‘What, with a stranger I met on a plane? Oh come on.’
‘Was he bad?’
‘No, he was pretty cute. But I can’t just go swanning off with the first person who happens to chat me up.’
‘Lord no,’ Darren laughs.
I’m glad he understands.
‘Heaven forbid,’ he continues. ‘You might actually have had some fun. Anyway, Mark’s here. He wants to talk to you.’
Feeling a little slapped down by his heaven forbid, I say, flatly, ‘OK, bye.’
‘Hello, beautiful,’ Mark says.
Behind him I can hear Darren telling the story, presumably to Jude. ‘She’s only been stood up by that bloke from speed dating, and now some other geezer has invited her to Nice for the weekend, but she’d rather sit at home with her cat. I can’t work out if she’s lazy or crazy . . .’
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 11
