‘No,’ I agree. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Just so you know,’ Charles says, ‘it’s actually quite common.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘I’m not . . . you know . . . some kind of freak.’
I take a deep breath and place my feet beneath me ready to stand again. ‘No,’ I say. ‘OK.’
‘I’m in a club. On the internet. And there are over ten thousand other members who like . . . well . . . the same things.’
‘Right,’ I say, nodding, pulling my handbag towards me and standing. ‘Well, this is where we say goodbye.’
Charles, too, stands and rounds the table to my side. I try not to cringe as I accept his hug, but when he pecks me on the cheek, it’s too much, and I pull away.
‘Bye then,’ he says sadly.
‘Bye,’ I answer.
And then I walk out of that room as fast as I can without running.
Back in the lobby, as he hands me my bag, the desk clerk says, ‘Goodbye, and we hope to see you at the Negresco again soon.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, already whizzing my noisy case towards the door. ‘But I doubt it. I really do.’
It takes only minutes, of course, seconds perhaps, for me to realise that not leaving my case at the hotel was a mistake. But I am feeling lucky. For Charles hasn’t asked me – by design or accident, I’m not sure – for a phone number, or an email address for the photos he took, or any other contact information.
I dare not go back now. And so I trundle my case, suddenly as un-steerable as a shopping trolley, down the street, beneath my old window, and then turn right down the first side street that will take me out of sight.
I soon come to a pedestrian precinct I haven’t seen before, and here I find a secluded café where I park my case and order croissants and tea. Any more coffee and I shall blow a fuse.
And it’s here that I spend the most part of the day. I’m really just too tired to bother moving my case again. Plus, sitting and watching the pretty people wandering by, and wondering if they ever failed to give their partners hard-ons, is, I think, all my brain can cope with today.
A little before three, calculating that it’s late enough to be certain of missing Charles, and that they might have some kind of seat I can doze in at the airport, I walk back to the seafront and jump in a cab.
At the airport, I send Mark a text to tell him that I’m on my way home. This initiates a rapid-fire exchange of messages.
‘good! love?’
‘not!’
‘why?’
‘reasons’
‘reasons?’
‘plural of reason’
‘ha! what reasons?’
‘not now’
‘OK see U tonight. love U lots.’
And suddenly, I feel so lucky to have framily to return to, I could cry.
Man Poisoning
By the time I get back to Primrose Hill, it’s seven p.m.
I’m in a state of complete exhaustion, and feeling a little depressed. I’m not that sure I feel up to a kiss-and-tell gossip evening with Mark after all.
When I go upstairs to fetch my furry bed-warmer, Mark, however, is having none of it. ‘I looked after Moggins here for a whole week,’ he protests, ‘the least I deserve is a bit of gossip.’
And so, lured by home-made prawn curry, I agree to stay. Mark is an excellent cook, and my own fridge is in a state of post- absence emptiness.
We proceed to down two bottles of nicely chilled Pinot Gris. As we slurp the evening away, I tell him first about the meetings in New York, and then about Tom and Ron. ‘Poor you!’ he laughs. ‘Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink.’
‘Well exactly,’ I say.
‘You should have sent me – I might have got a shag.’
‘Except that you’re married,’ I point out.
‘Well so are they,’ he argues, as if this makes some logical point. ‘Anyway, of course, you did get a shag, didn’t you?’
So I tell him about being bumped into business class, about sharing a bottle (yes, in the new version, the glass becomes a bottle) of Champagne with Charles.
I exaggerate how good the service was, and how good-looking Charles was, and as the story advances, I start to feel better about the whole thing.
And this, I realise, is how we human beings deal with pain.
This is how we heal. We turn our hurts and failures into stories. Into funny stories for the most part. And with each telling, with each exaggeration, the line between fact and fiction becomes a little more blurred. And at some point along the way, the memory of the event itself is lost – only the memory of the story of the event remains. And when we’re no longer quite sure which part of it was truth, and which part fiction – at that point, the power of the original event to hurt us is gone. For it has become just a story. A story which we tell friends and family. And framily. A story in which we have become the hero.
By the time I stumblingly carry my complaining Guinness back downstairs, I am feeling not only a little sloshed, but a whole lot better.
My meeting with Peter Stanton on Monday goes, of course, like a dream. ‘I don’t know whether to kiss you or give you a pay rise,’ he declares.
‘No offence, but I’ll plump for the pay rise,’ I say with a flirtatious giggle designed specifically to avoid offence.
‘Well, we can discuss it in April,’ he says, ‘when we do the year-end reviews.’
‘Great,’ I reply, thinking, I bet that if I had chosen the kiss, he wouldn’t have needed to wait till April.
I give him a blow-by-blow account of the meetings with Levi’s and Harper & Baker, and, as I now know the outcome, I’m able to exaggerate my role there too. ‘They all behaved like ice-statues,’ I tell him, ‘but I could tell by the twinkle in Craig Peterson’s eye that we had them hooked.’
Stanton is duly impressed, and I am just about to float out of his office on my own little cloud when we have the following comedy exchange:
‘Oh, and CC? While Victoria is away, can you liaise with Sheena and make sure that nothing urgent gets overlooked?’
‘I didn’t know VB was away,’ I retort, lingering in the doorway.
‘Well, yes, of course she is.’
‘How long for?’
‘Well, one never knows with these things, does one?’
Aware that I’m missing something important here, I frown. ‘Where is she?’
‘Well, still at the clinic I would think.’
‘At the clinic?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, I, erm, didn’t know. I mean, I knew she had a breakdown on the way to the airport, but that’s where it ends.’
‘I don’t think she was on her way to the airport.’
‘So what’s wrong with her?’
‘Who knows. Stress, I suppose. That’s what everyone puts things down to these days isn’t it?’
‘Stress? Because of a breakdown?’
‘Rather the other way around I should think.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I would think that it was more the stress which caused the breakdown. If stress was the cause.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, licking my lips and grinding my teeth. ‘Sorry, but which clinic is she in? I might send her some flowers.’ I’m having the first inkling of understanding but I dare not say it in case I’ve got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Check with Sheena, but I think they took her to Saint George’s.’
I nod slowly and stifle a smile. ‘Saint George’s. Right. OK. Well, I better go. Lots to do.’
‘Indeed,’ Stanton says. ‘And maybe you could send the flowers from all of us . . . I’m sure she’d appreciate that.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I say.
‘Thanks, CC. And again – congratulations.’
As the door swings closed behind me I slip into a wry smile. It’s a rather unkind wry smile, of course . . . but the fact that VB is in Saint George’s not only is rather amusing, bu
t it also means that I get a VB-free break of unspecified duration. If she had been nicer to me then I’m sure my thoughts would have been more charitable.
On my way back to my desk, I can’t resist popping my head around the door of Creative. All three men, Jude, Darren and Mark, are slouched in their office chairs with their feet on their desks, and Darren is screwing up balls of paper and lobbing them across the room at, but not for the most part into, the wastepaper bin.
As soon as he sees me, Darren breaks into a broad grin. ‘Got any balloons?’ he asks.
‘Enough of that, you,’ I say. ‘I want no more mention of balloons or anything round, or anything pink, or I’ll be having nightmares.’
‘Prisoner style,’ Darren laughs. ‘Big pink balloons chasing you around.’
‘Indeed. Hey, I just found out about VB. How come you didn’t tell me, Mark?’
Mark shrugs. ‘I assumed you knew.’
‘I thought she’d had a breakdown,’ I say. ‘I mean the other kind of breakdown . . . I thought her car had broken down. Or her taxi, or something.’
Mark bites his lip and snorts. ‘You dippy cow,’ he says. ‘No, she lost the plot in the middle of Tesco and started shrieking or something. They reckon it was the stress of having to go to New York with you. Which I can understand. Sheena says she’s been sectioned in Saint George’s, the old home for loose women, and now for complete and utter loons.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Jude says. ‘My mum went there for a while.’
‘Sorry,’ Mark says, pulling a guilty face.
‘Do you know what you’re doing at the weekend yet?’ Darren asks me.
I shrug. ‘Absolutely nothing, I should think. Why?’
‘Oh, it’s just that we’re all going to that place in Brixton again with Ricardo.’
‘The salsa place . . . Amazonia?’
‘Amazonica, I think, yeah. Jude’s coming too, aren’t you? And Victor needs a dancing partner. He was somewhat smitten by your fancy footwork it seems.’
‘Right.’
‘So, you up for it?’
‘Sorry no . . . No, definitely not. I’ve been away, and, you know how it is . . . I just need a weekend at home.’
‘Sure thing. You just tuck yourself up. I hope you have slippers.’
‘Hey, I followed your advice this weekend, and you know the result,’ I say with a sour laugh. ‘So give me a break.’
‘Sure,’ Darren says with a smirk. And then he starts to sing a pink version of Nena’s hit, ‘Ninety-nine red balloons’.
Of course the double workload from my absence, added to VB’s (unsurprisingly lightweight) tasks, means that my week goes by in a blur. I work late, buy takeouts on the way home, and collapse straight into my bed.
A couple of nights I’m so tired I even forget to feed poor Guinness.
By Friday night I’m in a state of near-exhaustion.
As I leave the office, at the moment I pass through reception, I hear Cheryl, our rather abrupt temporary receptionist say, ‘No, I’m sorry, I’m absolutely certain, mister. We don’t have a single Charlotte here . . . No . . . Sorry . . . No . . . None . . .’
I freeze and listen to the conversation. Please don’t let it be Charles, I think, feeling the blood drain from my face.
‘That’s right. As in, not one. No. Goodbye!’
Cheryl looks at me and frowns. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I say, swallowing hard.
She wrinkles her nose at me and nods vaguely at the switchboard. ‘Some bloke wanted to speak to Charlotte . . .’ she says. ‘No surname or anything, just Charlotte. He called yesterday too.’
I pull a face. ‘Oh . . .’ I say.
‘We don’t have a Charlotte, do we?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No we don’t. And you wanna watch him. I think he’s a weirdo. I got him a couple of weeks ago when the regular girl was at lunch. Next time, just hang up on him. That’s my advice.’
Cheryl pulls a face. ‘I thought he sounded creepy,’ she says. ‘So, yeah, I will. Anyway, have a good weekend.’
I then perform a feat of mental yoga and manage to squeeze Charles back out of my mind.
The next morning, however, when I switch on my mobile to a text message from Brown Eyes, I’m forced to think about him again.
For the sad fact of the matter is that although Charles, other than being a male of the species, clearly has nothing whatsoever to do with Norman, just as a bad batch of seafood can put you off all seafood for months, Charles, the loony looner as Darren has now nicknamed him, has put me off all men. I’m suffering from a bad case of man-poisoning. Let’s just hope that it’s temporary.
I finger the phone for a while, trying to convince myself to send a reply, but in the end I have no choice but to give in to irresistible instinct and delete the SMS.
My phone starts to chirrup, and, convinced that I am now going to have to deal with Norman on the landline, I cross the room and peer at the screen, but the caller ID reveals that it’s in fact my mother’s home number. I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to talk to her.
‘You’re back!’ I exclaim.
‘Yes, darling. I got back last night but I was too shattered to move.’
‘I bet.’
‘It’s terribly tiring travelling.’
‘Tell me about it! I got back from Ni . . . from New York on Monday.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yeah, I was . . .’
‘Look, I was thinking of coming into town tomorrow.’
I grimace at the phone. My mother has visited me in London precisely three times in fifteen years. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Sure. But well, why now?’
‘Well, we never really get the chance to talk, do we?’
‘We’re talking now.’
‘Yes, I suppose we are. So what about lunch?’
‘Lunch.’
‘It’s a meal between breakfast and—’
‘Ha! Sure, Mum, lunch. It’s just you never come into London. Is there a specific—’
‘I’ll leave the car in Richmond and come in on the Tube.’
‘OK . . .’
‘So maybe we could meet in that restaurant in the museum again. That was nice.’
‘It was also years ago, Mum. I don’t know what it’s like now.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘Well . . . no, it probably won’t be.’
‘Well I liked it, dear.’
‘I know you did, but—’
‘So let’s just go there.’
‘I think it would be nicer if—’
‘So if I meet you there about—’
‘Mum! Tomorrow is Sunday. The Tate Britain will be chocka!’
‘I’m sure it won’t be that bad. I’m sure you’re exaggerating.’
‘Mum, listen to me. It won’t be fine.’
‘Gosh, everything’s so complicated with you, isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you just come here?’
‘What about Kew?’
‘Kew?’
‘Yes, Kew Gardens. I haven’t been there for years. And it’s easy for me. I can park up right there.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘If you want . . . I don’t know what the food options are but—’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s some sort of café or kiosk or something. Though I still think the Tate would be nicer.’
‘OK.’
‘The Tate then?’
‘No, Kew.’
‘About midday?’
‘Can we make that one?’
‘You never change. One o’clock it is then, sleepy head. I’ll meet you at the Tube stop.’
‘So, Kew Gardens Tube station? One o’clock.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Mum . . . bring your mobile OK? Just in case.’
‘Yes, dear. OK. Toodle pip.’
I press the end call button and hold the telephone at arm’s length and try to remember the las
t time my mother came to London. I decide that it was nine years ago. It was to tell me that she was selling the family home, something she never finally did.
And then I try to remember the time before that, and realise that it must have been when she travelled in to give me the letter Waiine had left for me.
Ominous. Ominous indeed.
Too Young to Die
When I get up on Sunday morning, I’m met with a predictable veil of grey drizzle. At ten a.m. my kitchen is so dark that I have to switch the lights on. I vaguely think of taking a bread-knife to the Leylandii but there isn’t really time . . . Kew Gardens is right the other side of town, necessitating at least a couple of Tube-swaps.
In fact, the idea of trudging around Kew in the rain now strikes me as so very unappealing that I attempt to phone Mum’s mobile to change the venue, but I’m too late. There is no answer – she must already be driving along the motorway – so there’s no alternative but to dress up like a South Seas fisherman and head off to the rendezvous.
When I get to Kew Gardens Tube station, Mum is already there. Like me, she is dressed in a blue mac, jeans and trainers.
‘Oh look at us,’ she declares. ‘We look like a “pop” group.’ She surrounds the word pop with her trademark inverted commas.
I glance at our reflection in the window and wonder which pop group she’s thinking of – we look more like a school outing to me. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in trainers before,’ I comment.
‘No,’ she says. ‘They’re new. I got them on holiday – in the souk. They were a pound or something.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘There are lots of beautiful walks in the hills above Agadir. But you can’t do them in heels . . . That’s why I got these.’
‘Right,’ I say, bracing myself for a day of surprises. For not only have I never seen my mother in trainers, not only would I never have imagined her buying a pair of twisted-seam Levi’s such as she is wearing, but, now that I think about it, I have never seen her walk anywhere, ever. Not once. When I think walk, I remember my dad and me running along the beach whilst Mum sat in the car with Reader’s Digest and the coffee flask.
‘So what’s this all about?’ I ask, suddenly nervous that there is more.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 16
