‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Your cat’s moved out on you,’ Mark says.
‘Moved out?’
‘Yeah. He’s fine though. He’s up in my flat. He tried to follow me on Monday when I went in to feed him, and he’s been up in my place ever since.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Just go and get him. You still have a key, don’t you?’
‘I do. Thanks for that.’
‘So what’s this about a bloke?’
‘Oh I really don’t want to go through it all again.’
‘OK.’
‘Just a guy on the plane. Asked me to go to Nice for the weekend.’
‘Are you going? Because don’t worry about Guinness . . . I can—’
‘No, I’m not,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong with him then?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t know really . . . I only met him a few hours ago. He seems nice enough.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. I don’t jump on planes with people I just met, that’s all.’
‘Why not?’ Mark sounds genuinely confused.
Darren’s voice comes from behind again. ‘Tell her to go!’
‘Darren says you should go,’ Mark says.
‘I heard.’
Then Jude’s voice: ‘Me too!’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Lucky I have my own brain for deciding these things then, isn’t it.’
‘You Catholic girls,’ Mark says. ‘You just can’t do it, can you?’
‘Do what?’
‘Let go.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with being Catholic. Or letting go. Anyway, I’ve told you a million times, I’m not Catholic.’
‘OK . . .’
‘Don’t OK me like that,’ I say.
‘All I’m saying is that you act like you are. Catholic that is. Jeez. Don’t go home and sit in the gloom. Go to Nice. Have a proper pizza. I would.’
‘Pizza is Italy, sweetie,’ I say. ‘Nice is in France.’
‘I know. I’ve been there. And they make the best pizzas on the planet,’ Mark says. ‘Thin and crispy and mmmm.’
‘I’m not going to Nice, Mark. Anyway, he’s gone now.’
‘OK. Well, I’ll call in and see you on my way home. We can have a cup of tea together in your kitchen. It’s not quite a glass of rosé on the Cours Saleya, is it? But there you go.’
‘Right. See you later.’
‘Laters.’
As I stand and watch the baggage carousel, I reflect on all these different definitions of reasonable behaviour. My gay friends clearly all err on the side of what I would call recklessness. My own value system, if I’m being honest, clearly is rooted in religion. In the end, it all does come down to what a priest would consider a sin, and what he would think to be OK.
And running off to Nice with a stranger, could lead to sin. And going home to Guinness, tea and my kitchen, clearly won’t.
It always amazes me how all of the fun options are denoted as ‘bad’ by all the major religions. And I wonder if I shouldn’t do more to break free. Maybe I should go to some kind of personal development course that teaches how to be reckless.
My bag eventually arrives, and, feeling somewhat despondent, I traipse through customs and out into the main hall. Beyond the vast glass windows, it now looks even darker than before. The rivulets of water streaming down the windows make them look like water-features. I scan the walls for signs to the Tube station, and head, tiredly, off.
I only get a few feet, though, before someone grabs my arm. I turn to find Charles gripping my sleeve.
‘I didn’t get your email address,’ he says. ‘Can I at least have that?’
‘Have you been waiting here all this time?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘The Nice flight isn’t for another three hours, so I was having a coffee. Having a coffee and regretting not getting your email address. I want to spend the weekend sending you photos from Nice so that you can regret not coming.’
I smile and flick my hair. ‘Well, that’s very sweet,’ I say.
‘I’m a very sweet guy,’ Charles says, smiling beautifully and pulling his iPhone from his pocket. ‘So?’
‘OK, it’s, erm . . .’
For a second, I’m not sure that I want to give him my email address. And then I think, ‘Why not?’ And then I think of an even better idea.
‘It’s Charlotte . . .’
I stand and do battle with my entire upbringing as I watch him type the letters. After all, I reason, I am a grown woman. I can defend myself. I have credit cards and enough French to book my own taxis. I can find alternative accommodation if need be. It’s not like anything would be out of my control.
‘At,’ I dictate.
‘Yes?’
‘T-A-K-E,’ I spell. ‘M-E . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘T-O.’
‘Right.’
‘N-I-C-E. Dot. Com.’
‘So,’ Charles repeats. ‘Charlotte @ take me to mice dot com ?’
‘Not mice,’ I laugh. ‘It’s an N.’
‘OK . . .’ he says, positioning his cursor to make the correction. ‘So take me to nice . . . Oh! Nice!’ He looks up at me with a wry grin. ‘Really?’ he says.
I shrug. ‘You’re only young twice, huh?’
‘Gosh!’ he says. ‘Wow. Um. Excellent. OK. Um. Really?’
I nod. ‘But no funny business.’
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘No funny business at all.’
Baroque Dreams
On the way to the BA desk, Charles insists that he wants to pay for the ticket.
Initially, at least, I’m glad about this.
It’s not that I can’t afford it myself, or the fact that I approve particularly of chivalry . . . No, it’s simply that, as game-breakers go, after my dislike of beards, tightness comes a close second.
In fact, I’m of a very generous nature myself: in our family everyone has always argued about who will pay. To be the one being paid for was the shameful role.
The problem is that I also detest being taken for a ride. So if I find myself in the presence of some thrifty Timothy, I have to stop being generous in order to avoid being used as a walking credit card. And it’s that very fact of having to change my own nature that irritates me so much.
So, South Africa, six points . . .
When we get to the British Airways counter, of course, I suddenly realise that for Charles to book my flight I will have to reveal my real name. So at the not inconsiderable risk of looking like a hysterical bitch, I freeze and stare him straight in the eye. ‘You know what?’ I say.
‘Oh please don’t pull out,’ he says. ‘Not now. I’ve got you to the desk, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Humm . . .’ I say. ‘Well, OK. But you have to let me pay. My self-esteem requires it.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts.’
‘Can I at least pay for the hotel then?’ Charles asks.
I stifle a huge sigh of relief. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s a deal. Now you go sit down over there and let me do this. You’re on the 13:55 flight, right?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘So go sit down.’
‘But I’m—’
I give him my raised-eyebrow serious-schoolteacher look, and, bless him, he complies.
I turn to face the girl behind the counter. ‘Hello, I’d like to book a flight to Nice. On the 13:55 flight. Or at least I think I would.’
‘You think you would?’ she repeats unsmilingly.
‘Joking,’ I say.
The girl frowns at me.
‘I do,’ I say.
‘On today’s 13:55 flight?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘If that’s possible . . .’
‘OK.’ She taps at her computer screen. ‘It’s not going to be cheap, but it should still be possible as long as there are some seats.’
As she clicks her way through seemingly endless screens, I glance over at Charles, now obediently seated,
and wonder if I’m not making a mistake.
This of course is the problem with snap, reckless decisions. They have to be made, and remade, every step of the way – as I buy the outrageously overpriced tickets, as we head for passport control, as we wait for the gate.
Charles, I’m guessing aware of my internal struggle, switches to charm overdrive, and he’s very good at it. Good enough, in fact, to keep me on track until take-off. And let’s face it, by the time he has got me that far he has pretty much won.
But I never manage to silence the nagging voice telling me that I’m completely crazy, that the weekend will be horrible, that he’s a rapist or a serial killer . . .
Indeed, like a Met officer hunting terrorists, my finger is constantly trembling on the trigger: the eject-and-run-away- quickly trigger.
Amazingly, though, we make it as far as Nice. I can see from the slow descent along the beautiful coastline that the weather is exactly as predicted by Charles’ iPhone.
We’re quickly out of the lovely bright airport and whizzing down the palm-tree-lined Promenade des Anglais in a taxi.
The Negresco hotel is stunning: it’s a vast white building with a huge pink dome on the top. The overall effect is that the place looks like a luxury wedding cake. Of course I have seen the Negresco from the outside before – it’s something of a landmark on the Promenade des Anglais. Nothing, however, has prepared me for the palatial interior.
‘Jesus! Do you stay here often?’ I whisper as we cross the cavernous white lobby.
‘No,’ Charles says. ‘Not lately. The last time I stayed here was 2003, I think. It was out of my price range for a while. Lovely though, don’t you think? Again, it’s good to be back.’
He follows my gaze and looks up at the enormous chandelier above our heads. ‘That was commissioned for Nicolas the second, the Russian Czar,’ he tells me. ‘He had to cancel his order because of the revolution so they had to find another buyer. That’s what it says in the hotel brochure, anyway.’
At the check-in desk, Charles asks, without prompting, for a second room, and then, in answer to the clerk’s question, replies, ‘No, not adjoining.’
South Africa, huit points . . .
Charles quickly asks for the second room to be added to his bill (I don’t even get to see the cost this time, but the mind boggles), and then the porters head off with our baggage.
I start to follow them, but Charles grabs my elbow. ‘Just let me show you something first,’ he says. ‘It’s my favourite room here, and that way we can meet there later.’
He takes me through a round, white, museum-scale central hall, and on to an incredible lounge which the plaque says is the Salon Versailles.
The Salon Versailles is totally breathtaking. It has blood red walls, adorned with giant renaissance oil paintings, and theatre-like drapes either side of the doors and windows. The floor is a beautiful giant marble mosaic, the ceiling is comprised of stunning trompe- l’oeil framed squares each containing a painting, and the furniture is an orgy of velvet and gold baroque excess. But most stunning of all, set in the middle of the longest wall, is a huge, floor-to-ceiling window, open onto a view of the blue sky, sea and the swaying palm trees of the Promenade des Anglais.
‘Absolutely gorgeous,’ I say in a whisper, not wanting to disturb the old lady in the corner. She’s snoozing with a novel on her chest.
‘Isn’t it lush?’ Charles murmurs. He nods towards the old lady. ‘There are quite a few rich widows living here full time.’
‘How the other half lives,’ I say. ‘Or rather, lived.’
‘How this half lives,’ Charles laughs. ‘For the next two days, at any rate.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.
‘Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m feeling somewhat shattered – jet lag and everything. I think I need a shower and a snooze.’
I nod and follow him from the room. ‘Good idea,’ I say.
As we head up in the lift, Charles says, ‘Don’t expect too much of the room. I went for the most basic option. I tried the expensive rooms before, but it never felt worth it. Not when you can go and sit in that wonderful red lounge.’
‘I’m sure it will be lovely,’ I say.
‘Shall we meet at, say, seven?’ he asks.
‘OK,’ I say vaguely.
Seven is later than I had figured, and I’m kind of wanting to make the most of my time in Nice. Foreign places do that to me. I rarely feel able to rest on arrival, no matter how tired I am.
‘Or is that too early?’ Charles asks, flashing his watch at me.
‘Oh, is that the time here?’ I ask. His watch says five, and I was convinced it was more like three.
‘Yes, we’re another hour ahead here.’
‘Of course. My internal clock is way out. So in the crazy red room at seven?’
‘Perfect.’
The lift door opens but Charles doesn’t budge. He just smiles at me. When I glance out of the door, he says, ‘I think that this is your stop.’
I check my room key. ‘Oh, yes, of course, thanks.’ I had momentarily forgotten that we weren’t staying in the same room, which strikes me as most peculiar on my part, especially considering all the implications that that would have. I put it down to tiredness.
‘See you at seven then,’ I say, giving him a little wave as I leave the lift.
My room, of course, is fine. It doesn’t have a sea view which is a tiny disappointment. It looks out instead onto a broad side-road.
It also has a few quirky features that one wouldn’t expect in a luxury palace.
The most notable of these is the fact that the electrical cable for the bedside lamp has been clipped around the top of the baroque golden bed-head with white plastic cable clips. But this actually makes me smile. It all somehow adds to the crazy charm of the place.
If only I had a camera, I think. I could send a photo to Mark. He’d be so impressed at such a stunning outcome to my new- found recklessness.
I open the window and lean out and look at the unbelievable blue of the sea at the end of the road. Then I sniff the various lotions in the bathroom, and finally I throw myself onto the springy mattress and stare at the painted clouds on the light-blue ceiling and think that if ever I have a baby, this is how I will paint the ceiling of his or her bedroom.
Within seconds, I’m asleep.
I sense a warm presence against my back. I yawn and stretch and roll over to find a brown-eyed man smiling at me. Even though his features are Ron’s, I somehow know that this is in fact Norman.
‘I thought you might fancy a shag,’ he says with shocking straightforwardness.
‘Hum,’ I murmur.
The room is deepest red, like a womb, and beyond the huge window I can see the twin towers. ‘I thought they were—’ I say, but Brown Eyes raises a finger to my lips. ‘Shhh!’ he says. ‘No one knows they’re here.’
He wriggles across the bed towards me. I can feel his dick pressing against me. It feels bigger than I remember dicks generally being, but, well, it’s been a while.
He fidgets around and then reaches down and positions himself. He’s pressing at the gate, now, slipping past security. Now he’s in.
He rolls with me so that I am on my back and he’s on top of, and inside me. I try to focus on his face but he’s somehow too close, it remains a blur. He lifts my arms above my shoulders and slips my hands through the loops of cable along the top of the bed-head. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. But for some reason, though I try, I can’t move the muscles to resist. I wonder if I have been drugged.
And then he’s writhing against me, and then slamming into me and the bed-head is bashing against the wall, and something is falling around me. I look up and see that the bed is knocking lumps of red plaster from the wall. Blood is oozing from the holes.
‘Brian!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re damaging the . . .’
And then, surprised at my own utterance, I look back at his face and it’s no longer Ron masquerading as Br
own Eyes. Brian is on top of me.
‘Brian, stop,’ I say.
‘But I want a baby,’ he says, breathlessly. With each thrust he adds another word: ‘You. Will. Give. Me. A. Baby.’
I struggle but I can’t get my hands out from the loops of wire. The bed-head continues to slam into the wall. I can feel the blood oozing up through the bed. Bang. Bang. Bang.
‘Brian, stop,’ I cry. ‘Brian, please stop.’
‘I’m coming,’ he says. ‘I’m going to . . .’
‘No!’ I shout. ‘Stop!’
I close my eyes and then feel Brian’s body spasm and collapse against me, and then his weight vanishes.
I gasp and open my eyes.
Above me is a beautiful baby-blue ceiling with clouds.
I lift my hands just to prove that I can. I glance above my head to see the wall intact. Only the banging sound continues.
And then a voice: ‘Charlotte? Are you there?’
I slide to the side of the bed and sit and rub my eyes. ‘Jesus!’ I mutter.
‘Charlotte?’
‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I call.
I shake my head vigorously as if this will help put extra distance between reality and the dream. And then, with a final check that I am still dressed, I cross the room and open the door.
Charles smiles at me and then slips into a frown. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Sorry, yes, I went out like a light.’
‘I waited for a while, but then I thought I should come and find you,’ he says.
‘Umh. I had a weird dream. Jet-lag sleep. What time is it?’ I’m sure I’ve been asleep for minutes, not hours.
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘In the evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just checking. OK, can you give me another fifteen minutes, just to have a shower?’
‘If you’d rather just sleep through . . .’ Charles offers.
I think for a moment. The bed does seem incredibly appealing.
‘I’m only going for a glass of rosé and a bite to eat in the old town,’ Charles says. ‘So you wouldn’t be missing much.’
I run a hand over my face. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll come. There’s no point coming to Nice and then just sleeping, is there?’
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 12
