The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

by Alexander, Nick

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You too.’

  ‘And now I must sleep. Bus at six,’ he says. ‘Up at five.’

  I nod. ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Sleep well.’

  Nervously he shuffles towards me again, and this time I stand and reach out to hug him. But he just pecks me on both cheeks, swivels on the spot, robot like, and slides from the room. The overall impression is that of a polite child forced to give Mummy’s guest a goodnight kiss.

  I glance at Mum and she smiles and raises an eyebrow. ‘It just makes you want to eat him up really, doesn’t it!’

  I force a smile and nod and sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, right.’ I clap my hands. ‘So! Dishes.’

  ‘I’ll wash, you wipe,’ she says, standing.

  We wash and wipe in well-rehearsed fashion for a while and then, despite the fact that it’s a bit risky, I try to start a proper conversation about Saddam. ‘I still don’t really understand . . .’

  ‘Why I don’t get a dishwasher?’ she says. ‘I know.’

  I had been about to say, ‘what your relationship with Saddam is all about.’

  ‘Well, no,’ I say. ‘It’s easier. They say it’s cheaper now than all that hot water anyway.’

  ‘Yes, I know, dear,’ she says. ‘You always say it. But I like it. Washing-up and ironing. Now if someone could come up with a machine to do the hoovering or clean the windows, that would be a different matter.’

  By ten, Mum has retired to bed as well, and though I am quite shattered myself, I can’t quite face retiring to my old room, just two doors away from her and Saddam.

  And so I sit in the lounge and watch, but don’t actually listen to the TV, and wish again that Waiine was here to talk to.

  ‘He’s a doormat,’ I would say. ‘He’s just a kid. She’s stomping all over him.’

  And Waiine would reply, ‘Other than a doormat, who could possibly put up with our mother?’

  Over the sound of Have I Got News For You I can hear a faint banging noise. It’s not loud, but it’s jolly regular and goes on for a very, very, very long time. I turn the TV up and pour myself a whisky and try not to think about where it’s coming from.

  Genetics

  It always feels weird waking up in my old bed – there are always a few seconds when I’m not sure where I am, or more importantly when I am.

  I glance at my alarm clock, its flip-over numerals tell me that it’s 8:59, sometime after 1979 when I was given it for Christmas.

  As I watch, it flips over to 9:00 a.m. with a satisfying thrrup sound, and I remember lying awake, waiting for 11:59 to change to 00:00 that first Christmas.

  I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling and wonder what, if anything, I want to say to my mother. And then, immediately fazed by the impossibility of resolving that one, I slip back into my memory banks and remember the sounds of my childhood – Waiine tearing around, Dad calling me down for breakfast of a Sunday morning in time for Mass. Both, of course, now gone.

  Eventually I slip back to sleep and have a pleasant, if, on reflection somewhat unnerving, mini-dream about slotting together a Scalextric car track. In the dream there are three of us playing sweetly together: myself, Waiine and Saddam.

  I find Mum in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea and the Daily Telegraph.

  ‘Oh, hello, Sleepy-Head,’ she says predictably. ‘Tea’s in the pot.’

  ‘I always sleep so well here,’ I say, moving to the counter and pouring myself a cup. ‘I should take that bed back to London.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she says.

  ‘So did he get off OK?’

  ‘Yes. The shuttle was ten minutes late – so there was a moment of stress, wondering if it would come, but it all turned out OK. He sent me a “text” to say he was boarding.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, taking a seat opposite her. ‘Do you miss him when he goes?’

  She screws up her face and raises an eyebrow in disdain. ‘Well of course I do,’ she says. ‘It’s no fun rattling around here on my own.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The financial crisis seems to be going from bad to worse,’ she says, nodding at the paper. ‘They make it sound like the end of civilisation as we know it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can’t help but think they’re exaggerating a bit, though. I suppose it sells more newspapers that way.’

  ‘Well, I hope they make all these bankers pay for the mess they’ve made,’ she says.

  I pull a circumspect grimace. ‘I think you can be pretty certain that they won’t.’

  ‘Well, no. No, I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘They’ll probably find some way to come out richer than before.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum says. ‘So.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So. Go on. I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me why I have it all wrong.’

  ‘What? The financial crisis?’

  ‘Saddam,’ she says, then correcting herself, ‘Adam.’

  I sigh.

  ‘I knew it,’ she says. ‘You had a face like a slapped arse all through dinner.’

  I drop my mouth in outrage. ‘I did not!’

  ‘That’s the one,’ she says.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’m joking! So come on. What did you think?’

  I shrug. ‘He seems . . . nice.’

  ‘Ah. So you’ve decided to chicken out? To just tell me what I want to hear?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Jeez, Mum. I can’t really win with you.’

  ‘You think he’s too young, of course.’

  ‘Well yes. Of course I think he’s too young. He’s a lad, Mum. He’s a naïve young lad.’

  ‘I had a two-year-old baby when I was his age. And a job. And a husband.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose you did.’

  ‘I was old enough to decide what I wanted. Why shouldn’t Adam be?’

  ‘Because of where he’s from,’ I say. ‘He probably doesn’t feel he has as many options as you did.’

  ‘Options?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘What would you know about what options I had?’

  ‘Yes, sure. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘You mean he wouldn’t be seen dead with a wrinkly old crone like me if he didn’t need a ticket out.’

  I frown. ‘Well I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ I say.

  Mum nods and pulls off her reading glasses. ‘Well that’s not it,’ she says. ‘He has a very nice life in Agadir. But he loves me.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ she says, sharply.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ I return to sipping my tea.

  ‘And even if that were the reason,’ she says. ‘Even if Adam did want to be with me because he wants a better life, what would be so wrong with that?’

  ‘Well, it would be . . .’ I say. But the word on my lips is ‘prostitution’ and I can’t say that. I struggle to find another way to express what I want to say, but the words that come to mind this time are, ‘economic slavery’ which clearly aren’t helpful either.

  ‘Why did Jenny Robinson leave Robert?’ she asks me.

  ‘Because being married to a man with a speech impediment – a man called Robert Robinson, or rather Wobert Wobinson – was just too silly for words?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ she says, ignoring my rather witty retort. ‘Because he couldn’t hold down a job. Because he was always drunk.’

  ‘And the Wobinsons are welevant because?’

  ‘You stay with someone for a whole host of reasons. Because you find them attractive. Because they make you laugh. Because they have a good job. Because you think you’ll have a nice life together.’

  ‘Yes but that shouldn’t be the principal reason,’ I say. ‘Surely.’

  She shakes her head and looks out of the side window.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I’m just wondering how you see me,’ she says.

  ‘How I see you?’

  ‘Well yes.
If you can’t imagine anyone wanting to be with me.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. I can! I love you. Dad loved you. But . . .’

  ‘But Adam doesn’t . . .’

  ‘I just think it’s . . . confused. Because of the age thing.’

  ‘He likes older women, dear.’

  Another not-useful word pops into my brain. Gerontophile. I think of a Little Britain sketch where the young man keeps accidentally touching-up the Gran.

  ‘He likes older women,’ she says again. ‘He likes me particularly. He wants a better life. He sees he can have that with me . . .’

  ‘And you? What’s your end of the deal?’

  ‘It’s not a deal, dear.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I love it when he’s here.’

  ‘OK. Why?’

  ‘Because having someone in my bed after twenty years of sleeping on my own is wonderful. Because having a bit of youth in the house makes me feel younger. Because I’m enjoying sex again.’

  ‘Mum,’ I say, pulling a face.

  ‘Because I’m enjoying sex again,’ she repeats pedantically, ‘and I didn’t think it was possible. Because having him around reminds me of when you and . . .’

  ‘When Waiine was at home.’

  Mum shrugs.

  ‘But those aren’t the right reasons,’ I say. ‘Surely you can see that those aren’t the right reasons to go out with someone. Because he reminds you of your daughter who has flown the nest and your dead son.’

  ‘It’s why people have relationships, dear,’ she says. ‘All those reasons are why people get together. Because it’s bloody lonely and bloody boring being on your own.’

  ‘I just don’t think—’

  ‘Why do you think you go around with so many homosexuals? We’re all trying to replace what we have lost.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘And who are you to judge anyway?’ she asks, starting to get seriously hot under the collar. ‘Who are you to tell me which are good reasons and which are bad? Since when did you become such a relationship expert?’

  The comment stings me to the core. I’m lost for words.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry,’ she says.

  I shrug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  I stare out of the window at the grey day. I think of an Everything But The Girl song: ‘Two Star’, about not being able to judge the lives of others when your own is a mess.

  ‘Right,’ I say again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be . . . There are lots of reasons people marry, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Marry,’ I say.

  ‘Well, live with, stay with, go out with, you know what I mean.’

  ‘But you said marry.’

  ‘I was talking hypothetically,’ she says.

  ‘So you’re not going to get married?’

  ‘No. Well . . . Oh, look . . . of course I am.’

  ‘Of course you are?!’

  ‘You’ve already worked that out anyway, haven’t you? Let’s not play games.’

  And though that knowledge hadn’t yet been acknowledged – though it was merely lurking at the back of my mind, she’s right. I did know.

  ‘And you don’t approve.’

  I shrug. ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re right. Let’s not play games. I don’t approve. No.’

  ‘Plus it’s the only way to really sort out all this visa mess,’ she says.

  ‘So you get married, and he gets nationality?’ I say. ‘That’s the deal?’

  ‘There’s no deal,’ she says. ‘Honestly, dear. But if we’re going to be together, well, being married makes it all much easier. That’s what Giles says anyway.’

  I blink and shake my head in disbelief. ‘This is Giles . . . Dad’s old partner from the law firm?’

  ‘Yes, Giles Anderton.’

  ‘You’re consulting Giles Anderton, Dad’s partner . . . to work out the best way to get your twenty-year-old Moroccan lover into the country.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘Darling. Whatever is wrong with you these days?’

  ‘Do you think that’s appropriate?’ I ask.

  Mum sighs deeply and shakes her head. She looks red-faced and angry, but also somehow slightly amused.

  ‘What?’ I prompt.

  ‘Enough,’ she says.

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘Yes. Time to change the subject.’

  ‘Just, please don’t rush into this. Just . . . give it time. There are legal implications and . . .’

  She shakes her head again.

  ‘What?’ I say again.

  ‘You remind me of my grandmother,’ she says. ‘Always very concerned about what was “appropriate,” Granny Stevens was. Lucky I didn’t listen to her, or you wouldn’t be sitting there today.’

  I nod.

  ‘I never thought you’d end up so stuffy. I suppose it’s like hair colour.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it can jump a generation. Anyway, I need a drink.’ And at this she stands and struts from the room.

  A drink! At ten a.m.! I sit at the kitchen table and think of Absolutely Fabulous.

  ‘I have become Saffy,’ I mutter morosely, ‘and my mother has turned into Edina.’

  But no, it’s worse: my mother has turned into Patsy.

  The Gift of Time

  The first thing I do on Monday morning is to look up Giles Anderton’s number and call him. The fact that he is ‘advising’ my mother has been playing on my mind and I need to talk to him about it.

  He picks up the phone on the third ring.

  ‘Hello, Giles, it’s CC, remember me?’ I say.

  ‘CC?’

  ‘Yes, Angela’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, Chelsii . . . sorry. So how are you? It’s been ages, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It has. Really ages!’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I expect you can work out why I’m calling.’

  ‘I could hazard a guess, yes.’

  ‘I’m really worried about her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She says you’re advising her.’

  ‘Well, advising is probably overstating it a bit. But I’m giving her a helping hand.’

  ‘With Saddam’s immigration?’

  ‘Well . . . Um . . . I’m sorry. It’s a bit delicate. I, er . . . Well, I can’t really discuss a client’s affairs. Not even with you.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Silly me. Sorry.’

  ‘No problem, it’s just . . .’

  ‘Sure. No worries. You retired, didn’t you? When Dad . . .’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘That would be the last time I saw you I think. At his funeral.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember when he used to bring me into the office?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You used to let me use the typewriter.’

  ‘That’s right. I remember. You used to hit all the keys at once and jam it.’

  ‘Yes. But you’re retired now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s life like without clients?’

  ‘Oh . . . rather nice really.’

  ‘Right. So I suppose Mum’s not really a client then, is she?’

  ‘Well, no . . . I’m more giving her some advice. As a family friend.’

  ‘Right. She’s my mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well, I’m part of that family.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘All I want to know is if she’s being careful, Uncle Giles.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘Yes. Has she, say, mentioned pre-nups to you?’

  ‘Ahh! So you know then.’

  ‘Well yes. She says you told her that marrying Saddam would make things easier.’

  ‘In terms of his immigration, well, yes, it undeniably does.’

  ‘It also makes it co
nsiderably easier for him to walk off with half of her estate. Half of our family estate.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And seeing as I’m the only remaining family, that does rather affect me.’

  ‘I suppose it does.’

  ‘If Mum ends up destitute, she’ll end up on my couch.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t think it will—’

  ‘Or yours perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, Chelsii. I get your point.’

  ‘I don’t want to be pushy, Uncle Giles, but . . . well . . . I want to know that we’re singing from the same song sheet here.’

  ‘I really do think that you need to discuss this with—’

  ‘Oh, I will. Of course I will. But if she asks you, then you would obviously give her the same advice as me. Which is that a pre-nup is essential.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that is what I would say.’

  ‘Good. I just wanted to check that you agree with me. Before I try to discuss it with her.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Entirely. Of course. Anyway, do call in and see me next time you’re over this way.’

  ‘Are you still in . . .’

  ‘Yes, still in Farnham. Still in the same house.’

  ‘Great. Well, then I will. It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, and Chelsii?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please don’t phone me before ten. I am retired, you know.’

  I glance at the clock on the wall (five past nine). ‘God, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Not as such, but I only just got up so . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No problem. Bye, pumpkin.’

  When I hang up, my voicemail informs me that I have a message from Peter Stanton. He’s asking to see me about Cornish Cow.

  As they aren’t yet clients of ours, and because they have, to date, ignored my suggestions of a visit, there doesn’t seem to be much to discuss. In the end, Stanton simply wants to remind me how important a potential contract would be for the agency at this time.

  ‘There’s a rumour that Unibrand is going to buy them out,’ he says. ‘If that happens then their marketing budget could go sky high.’

  I return to my desk and make a fresh attempt at calling their MD. I’m thoroughly convinced that his secretary will fob me off again, so I’m pretty surprised when she says, ‘Oh yes. The meeting. Mister Niels suggested Thursday. Not this Thursday, that would be next Thursday. Thursday the twenty-third. First thing.’