The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

by Alexander, Nick

  As tradition requires, we relate our favourite stories about Darren. I can’t help but wonder if he is watching us, and if he approves. Perhaps he would say, ‘Just because I joke about my life doesn’t mean that you can.’

  Or perhaps he would now see the funny side. Maybe he would now see how stupid giving up on life was, when all he had to do was join us in laughing at the absurd pointlessness of it all.

  Afterwards, Mark and Ian head off to Cardiff and I take a train to London. As I tipsily watch the rolling Sussex countryside slide past, dappled with winter sunlight, I think again about Darren and with alcohol-induced simplicity wonder why he didn’t just take some Prozac. I know he was against antidepressants. The crazy universal reliance on antidepressants was a subject we agreed on. But that now strikes me as an absurd hypocritical position to have taken. Darren, after all, took coke to get going, E to get high, dope to mellow out, and Valium to come down. What the hell was stopping him taking a few Prozac to stay alive?

  Myself, if I have an infection I take antibiotics, if I have a headache I take an aspirin. If I felt so sad I couldn’t see the point of carrying on, why on Earth wouldn’t I take an antidepressant?

  I think about an article I read in the Sunday Times about how they test these wonder-drugs. Apparently they make rats swim in icy water and time how long it takes before they give up and resign themselves to drowning. The longer they struggle to stay alive, the better the pill has worked. And I think that though that struck me as a stupid, cruel and obscene way to test a pill, that must have been exactly how Darren felt. Icy water, and no way out. And I realise that I have been feeling pretty much that way myself. The last few years, since Brian left at any rate, have felt like slowly drowning in icy water. And so, as I sit on that train, watching farmhouses and hamlets whizz past, I decide that I will give myself until Christmas to put together a realistic escape plan. I will allow myself nine weeks to turn everything around. And if I haven’t managed it by then I shall go to the doctor and get a prescription for something to keep me afloat.

  I spend Saturday in a my-head-may-be-a-mess-but-look-at-my- house cleaning spree. Guinness, who hates the hoover, watches me from the garden. He looks thoroughly irritated by my burst of cleanliness.

  Sunday, I walk to the Asian supermarket where I buy proper ingredients and cook myself a real chicken Korma, and then spend the afternoon browsing potential properties to visit during my Devon trip.

  By Monday morning, as I brace myself for the freshly chilled water of Spot On, I’m feeling quietly optimistic that, at least until Wednesday night when I head off to Devon, I can stay afloat.

  Deciding that if I put it off, the shadow will hang over me all day, the first thing I do is march into Creative. Mark and Jude are sitting at their desks but clearly staring into the middle distance.

  ‘Morning, chaps,’ I say brightly.

  Both men look at me as though I have just murdered their mothers, so I feel obliged to explain myself. ‘Listen, guys,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry if this offends anyone, but I can’t do this any more. I spent all last week feeling guilty. I went to the funeral. I felt like shit all weekend. But if it carries on any longer I swear I shall end up taking an overdose myself.’

  Mark smiles weakly at me and says, ‘I feel exactly the same. But . . .’ He shrugs and nods at Darren’s empty desk.

  ‘Right,’ I say, leaving and heading for the storeroom.

  I return with two empty boxes and start to scoop everything from Darren’s desk into the boxes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jude asks.

  ‘This desk has to go,’ I say, ‘and it has to go now. You’re the boss here. You should have done this before Mark arrived.’

  He stands and crosses the room. He raises one hand. ‘A minute,’ he says. ‘Just one minute.’

  He stands and stares at the desk, and I realise that without having attended the funeral, he needs a symbolic moment.

  I pause and after a few seconds start to feel emotional again, but then, thankfully, Jude says, ‘OK. You’re right. Let’s do it.’

  As we clear the desk, then carry both the table and the chair to the storeroom, the energy in the room changes. You can almost feel the oxygen flooding back in.

  Afterwards I head up to Peter Stanton’s office. He is with Victoria Barclay (who, to my relief, fails to hug me). They both look miserable as sin, so I explain to them what I have done. ‘There’s only so much misery people can take,’ I tell them, ‘and things haven’t exactly been optimistic lately here anyway. The funeral is over, and I really think we all need to make an effort to pep things up again.’

  And then I tell Peter that if he doesn’t give me some work to do soon, I shall just go home and start redecorating my lounge.

  ‘What about Tom?’ VB suggests. ‘Don’t they have anything they need help with in New York?’

  I shake my head. ‘I called. And no. Nothing.’

  ‘Cornish Cow?’ Peter Stanton asks hopefully.

  ‘I’m going down Wednesday night. But the pre-pitch is all ready.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I can think of,’ Peter says. ‘But I don’t think you’re going to want to do it.’

  And that is how I end up tasked with taking two American, rather good looking, slightly shiny-faced, very well dressed Levi’s account executives out on the town.

  Why We Need Prozac

  Peter Faulks and Michael Faegan are both in their early forties. Peter looks vaguely like an older version of Justin Timberlake, and Michael could probably pass, on a good day, for Colin Farrell. They are both from Levi’s accounts division in Delaware and are both exquisitely dressed in sheer business suits (one grey, one black), white shirts and sober ties. Both have wedding rings.

  I feel a bit like I’m stepping out with the glamour department of the Mormons – if they had such a thing. I am wearing the Girbaud outfit I bought in New York, and a pair of stilt-like Jimmy Choos. This is just as well as both guys are pretty tall.

  As we step out of the lobby I catch a glimpse of us in the window opposite and think, Wow! and wonder if Peter Stanton was taking the mickey when he said that I wouldn’t want to do this. Because right at this moment in time I can’t think of anything more likely to distract me than an expenses-paid night out on the town with two, young, good looking, heterosexual men.

  To ease us into our evening together, I take them to The French Bar in Covent Garden. The two men clearly know each other well, are friends even, which eases considerably the task of entertaining them. In fact, as discussion of work is basically off- limits (their reasons for visiting Spot On are top secret, though I hope to interrogate them once drunk), my role is reduced to listening to their happy banter and laughing appropriately. And even that’s not too hard. These are, as it turns out, two pretty funny guys.

  The French Bar does exactly what it says on the tin. It’s a perfect replica of a French brasserie along with marble tables, waistcoated waiters and po-faced service.

  I match the men’s double whiskies one-for-one with gin and tonics (singles). I will have to slow down later, but for now I know that, for outings like these, alcohol is the oil that makes the wheels turn.

  After two whiskies the men loosen their ties and start to laugh more honestly as they tell me some well-rehearsed stories from previous trips abroad. I attempt to find out more about what they do by asking why they were in Hong Kong, but Mike just says, ‘On business, as always,’ and simply winks at me.

  They tell me about a trip to Paris and how Mike bet he could run to the top of the Eiffel Tower and needed a paramedic after doing so.

  ‘But other than that, and maybe that big museum with the pyramid thing . . .’

  ‘The Louvre?’

  ‘Yeah, other than that, Paris was kinda boring.’

  ‘Like here,’ Mike says.

  ‘Yeah, like here.’

  Clearly my signal to move things along.

  The three of us stride towards Soho where I have booked a table a
t Little Italy, the best Italian restaurant I know around here.

  Darren of course, is lingering around in the shadows, waiting to trip me up, so I talk a little maniacally, and laugh a little too loudly, determined to fill the centre stage enough to keep him in the wings. And the strategy works. It feels good. As I walk along, dressed to the nines, a beautiful young man on each side, I wonder if in some parallel universe Chelsii strides out on the town like this every night. I suppose that if it’s true, then there surely exists another one where she never gets to do it at all, and decide, in line with my new policy of positive thinking, to be grateful for small mercies and simply enjoy every second of it. Which for now involves downing another half a bottle of wine with my Tortellini del Mare. Between them, the guys polish off another bottle and a half.

  Outside the restaurant my chaperones decide they require a normal English pub, so I lead them along Compton Street towards the Coach and Horses.

  As we walk past Comptons, Pete says, ‘Hey what about this one? This place looks busy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, pausing, and pulling an embarrassed face. ‘Actually, it’s not quite a normal English pub . . . It’s gay.’ Pete grins, and for a second I think he is going to reveal, like Tom in New York before him, that Comptons suits them both just fine.

  Instead, Mike laughs, pushes Pete towards the entrance and grabs my arm. Shouting, ‘You go explore your feminine side, boy, I’ll look after CC here,’ he drags me off down the road.

  Pete runs to catch up with us and takes my other arm. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he laughs. ‘You think I’d leave this lovely lady alone with a monster like you?’

  I know I should unlink my arms from theirs . . . I know that it’s unprofessional . . . But what can I say? It feels lovely.

  Inside the Coach and Horses, the crowd is already thick. The men adventurously demand pints of ‘English’ beer, and then, these pushed to one side, settle for pints of lager. I myself move, discreetly, from G&T to simple ‘T’.

  The TV is showing American football, prompting a spirited if incomprehensible debate about NFL and NCAA rules. I smile demurely throughout.

  As the crowd swells we’re inevitably pushed closer together, and again, I can only admit that it still feels lovely. The men are elegant, good looking, fit, well dressed, funny . . . and sexy. In fact, at such close proximity, they’re maybe a bit too sexy. It might just be the temperature within the pub, but by ten-thirty I’m starting to feel a little flushed.

  When I suggest that we move on, however, Mike smiles amiably and insists that he’s fine. He too is looking a little red- cheeked.

  ‘So, CC,’ he asks me, whilst Pete is in the loo, ‘how come you don’t have one of these?’ He flashes his wedding ring at me.

  I shrug. ‘Divorced. You know how it is.’

  ‘How anyone could divorce you,’ he says. Then to Pete, who has apparently reappeared behind me, he says, ‘Eh, Pete! This one isn’t married! What do you think of that?’

  Pete lightly places one hand on each of my hips and grooves a little to the music – The Sugababes.

  I gently push his left hand from my waist, and then transfer my glass to the other so that I can repeat the action on the other side. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you that you both do have rings,’ I say, tilting my head away from Pete’s chin and pointing at Mike’s hand.

  He shrugs and steps forwards, and with a devilish grin he removes his wedding ring and drops it into his top pocket.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘And who says romance is dead?’

  I realise that Pete is pressing against my back now, indeed Mike is so close I can feel his breath on my lips. Suddenly, very suddenly, things have got out of hand.

  I shift my head to the left to escape Pete’s mouth against my ear as he whispers, perfectly calmly, ‘Hey, no offence, but you don’t fancy showing us back to our hotel, do you? I’m not sure we can find it on our own.’

  I break away, squeezing sideways from between the two men. ‘Hey! Boys!’ I say with a perfectly faked laugh. ‘Calm down. It’s not going to happen. I need to go to the ladies’, so in the meantime I suggest you boys find yourselves a fresh target to seduce. Preferably one you don’t have to work with tomorrow morning.’

  As I queue for the ladies’ I realise that I’m trembling. Of course, a come-on from two guys, from two work colleagues, is stressful. I have handled it well.

  I have to admit to myself, though, that I’m not only trembling from stress – I’m trembling from arousal too. It’s a good job humans can’t read each other’s thoughts, because just at the moment I said, ‘Hey! Boys!’ an image had slipped through my mind, an image I would never share with anyone. I saw myself, with my dress slipping to the floor, and with Pete/Justin Timberlake behind me, nibbling my ear, and Mike/Colin Farrell cupping my breasts from the front, caressing them gently with his smooth hands. In my imagination I even felt the silky sensation of Pete’s erection pressing against my buttocks. No wonder I’m feeling flushed.

  And then, a moment later, I’m not sure if I did imagine that, or if I’m only now realising that that is what just happened. Because Pete was pressed against my back. For a moment, just for maybe ten seconds, I let myself stay with that reverie. And then I think, Out of hand! Go home!

  Apparently I think this thought out loud because the woman in front (she looks like Anne Robinson or Esther Rantzen – it’s hard to tell them apart these days) turns to me and says, ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

  As I head back through the bar I’m still feeling a little flattered by the attention, but I have also re-centred myself. I know exactly where I’m going from here: home.

  At the bar I find that the men have already found themselves a new target: they are standing either side of a tall blonde woman. She’s pretty, if perhaps what my mother would call brassy. I nod a warm, ‘hi,’ to show her I’m not a competitor, and say, ‘Hey, boys. I’m gonna have to go now.’

  ‘Sure,’ Mike says, placing a hand on my back. ‘I hope we haven’t vexed you. Pete was only horsing around, weren’t you, Pete?’

  ‘Sure,’ Pete says, winking at me.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘But I have a long day tomorrow and I don’t think . . . anyway, I just need to get home now.’

  Pete lurches and pecks me on the cheek. ‘Thanks for an awesome night out,’ he says. And then Mike does the same thing, and repeats, ‘Yeah. Awesome.’

  ‘Can you find your way back to the hotel?’ I ask.

  ‘Without you?’

  ‘Seriously, guys.’

  ‘We just get a cab and say the Hyatt, right?’ Mike asks.

  ‘The Regent’s Park Hyatt,’ I say. ‘There are a few Hyatts and you don’t want to go the wrong one.’

  ‘OK. Regent Park Hyatt. You got that, Pete?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he laughs.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they get back OK,’ the blonde woman says.

  I bet you will, I think. For some reason a scene from the Almodovar film High Heels flashes through my mind. And then with a little wave, I turn and start to squeeze my way through the crowd towards the door.

  As I walk, something about that film registers though, so I pause and glance back at the threesome to check. Sure enough, Blondie is marginally taller than either of the guys, at least six foot two, and sure enough, when I peer at her feet, I see that she isn’t wearing high heels – she’s wearing flats. I wonder if the guys aren’t going to be in a for a little surprise when they get back to their hotel.

  As I put one hand on the doorknob to push out into the street, someone grabs my arm. I turn back to see a guy with a red face staring at me. ‘Excuse me,’ he says excitedly, droplets of spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘But my mate really likes you. Can we, um, buy you a drink?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But I’m just on my way . . .’ And then I see the friend.

  Wow! Colin Farrell, Justin Timberlake and a Colin Firth lookalike in the same evening?

  I hesitate jus
t long enough for him to reach us through the crowd. He’s rolling his eyes in embarrassment, which I find rather cute.

  When he reaches his friend he knocks his sweaty paw from my arm. I’m somewhat grateful for this. Then he glances at me, smiles vaguely, and says, ‘Sorry about that, love,’ and yanks his friend back into the crowd.

  I watch their backs for a moment, and then shrug and step outside. It has started to rain.

  Just as the door closes behind me, I hear the fat guy say, ‘What? You said . . .’ And unfortunately, I also hear the Colin Firth lookalike reply, ‘Not her, you prick. The other one. The brunette with the tits over there.’

  The noise of the pub vanishes as if sucked out of an airlock as the door finally closes behind me. I stand and look at the newly wet streets and think that, yes, this is why we need Prozac. For whose ego could possibly stand up to this kind of battering without chemical help?

  Office Minimalism

  I never see or hear of Peter Faulks or Michael Faegan again. Which is a shame if only because I never get to find out if they did in fact end up taking a six-foot tranny back to their hotel.

  I take Wednesday morning off to pack for Devon and phone a few estate agents, and in the afternoon I head down to easyCar and pick up another grey-and-orange Mondeo.

  It’s another cold sunny day and as I head down the M4 and then onto the M25, I wonder, naughtily, whether global warming might mean that this is now what British winters will look like. I know that’s a bad thing to dream of, but I’m sure we would need far less Prozac as a nation if every day looked like today.

  Unlike my mother, I love driving. It sends me into a meditative trance where I perhaps don’t think about driving as much as I possibly should, but where I find the space and time to drift around and sift through my thoughts in a way that doesn’t happen to me at any other time. And with four hours’ driving ahead of me, I don’t even need to schedule my thoughts . . . there’s room for everyone.

  I think about Pete and Mike to start with. Both apparently married, both apparently determined to find some business-trip excitement. I wonder what their wives are like. I wonder if they could ever imagine their two husbands either side of a six foot blonde. And I wonder, almost jealously, what that might have felt like for her. Quite a result, I would imagine.