The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

by Alexander, Nick

  When I open the door, however, it’s not Mark that I find on the doorstep but Victor. He looks serious. Stressed even.

  ‘Victor?’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, I’m disturbing you,’ he says.

  ‘Are you OK? You look funny,’ I say.

  ‘You look worse,’ he says.

  ‘Shit,’ I say, rubbing at what I don’t doubt are my panda eyes. ‘Bloody mascara,’ I say.

  ‘Are you OK, CC?’ he asks, reaching out to touch my shoulder. ‘Because you look like you’ve been . . .’

  And then my face collapses anew, and my body shudders. Victor steps forward and first rubs my shoulders tentatively and then, as I continue to sob, wraps his arms around me, and I think, Nice one CC. That’ll seduce him.

  ‘Hey. Hey!’ Victor says.

  ‘I never cry,’ I gasp.

  ‘No. I can see that,’ he says. He just sounds embarrassed.

  ‘It’s just . . . bloody . . . everything. I’m just so useless. I’m completely useless.’

  ‘You’re not,’ he says, rubbing my back and pressing the side of his head against my wet cheek. ‘You’re beautiful and funny and smart, and a surprisingly good salsa dancer.’

  I manage to merge a laugh and a gasp into an entirely convincing but not very seductive piggy noise.

  Victor steps back and looks into my eyes with wry amusement, then, glancing behind me, leads me into my lounge.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just been such an awful few weeks. With work, and stuff with my mother, and Darren, and now today . . .’

  He sits me on the sofa, reaches for the box of tissues and then crouches in front of me. ‘Here,’ he says, proffering the tissue.

  ‘I’m not like this,’ I snivel. ‘Honestly I’m not.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen you being not-like-this, remember? But shit gets us all down sometimes.’

  I blow my nose. ‘Sorry. Jesus! So . . . what? How come you’re here? Did Mark give you my address?

  ‘I called him, but he wanted to ask you first. He’s loyal that one.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘So no. I called the office and got it from your file. Are you OK now?’ he asks. ‘Is there something . . .’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine, really. It must just be hormones or something. I’m all over the place at the moment.’

  ‘OK. Sure. Well . . . maybe now’s not the time.’

  ‘For what? Why are you here?’

  ‘I just didn’t want to . . . well, to leave things like that.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I . . . Well. I really like you, CC. A lot. I always did. And it’s stupid, I mean, just because I’m moving . . . I . . . I don’t know what you think, but maybe . . . I just thought, perhaps we could stay in touch. Maybe you could even visit me . . . and if, say, suppose you like it down there . . . . Oh, I don’t know. This sounds stupid now.’

  I’m aware that I’m grimacing, my teeth clenched against a stupid smile and/or a new flood of tears. And then, I can hold them no longer, and a fresh batch of them rolls down my cheeks.

  Through my blurred vision, I see Victor look confused, and then disappointed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I knew it was stupid even before I came here. I sound like a bunny-boiler. I should go.’

  But as he stands, something in me shifts. I think, No, not this time. I hear Darren, his voice clear as a bell. It sounds like he’s in the room. ‘If you do know what you want, then seize the day, CC,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say quietly.

  ‘No?’

  I stand and throw my arms around him. ‘No,’ I say, again, my tears now wetting his cheek.

  ‘CC?’ he asks, trying to pull away to look at me. ‘You’re freaking me out now.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that,’ I say. I lean back and look at him and start to smile.

  ‘You can’t?’ he says

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t.’

  And then, bracing myself for the prickle of his stubble, I do it. I kiss him.

  The kiss is my first ever sober kiss with Victor, but amazingly I remember the feel of his lips, I still remember the physical sensation of the last time at Mark’s party, and it feels comfortable, it feels like home.

  Victor laughs and then brushes his nose against mine, and then I slightly part my lips and lean into him again, taking his bottom lip gently between my own.

  ‘God,’ he groans.

  I pull away and smile at him, and we look deeply into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I am going, though,’ he says, after a few seconds.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I am going. To France. Whatever happens, you can’t expect me not to go.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘If we do . . . do this, you can’t then ask me not to go. I’ve been planning it for years.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe I don’t care,’ I say.

  ‘You say that now, but once I’m in the Alps and you’re in . . .’

  I raise a finger to his lips to silence him. ‘Shush . . .’ I say. ‘Maybe I need a change too.’

  Victor frowns at me, then raises one eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Really,’ I say.

  ‘Well then that’s something we can work with,’ Victor says.

  ‘It is,’ I agree.

  And then he grins, and leans towards me again. ‘In the meantime,’ he murmurs, putting one hand behind my head and reeling me in.

  The Day Before You Came

  An hour later, once Victor has gone, I sit on my sofa and think about phoning SJ but decide that I can’t call her without telling her what’s happened, and that it’s premature to tell her what has happened. I need to wait at least until I see if he returns.

  I look around the room.

  With the exception of Victor’s scarf which he has forgotten, nothing in my lounge has changed. And yet, everything looks different. The scarf changes the entire room, in fact, I feel like a completely different person.

  I am CC Kelly who seizes the day. I am CC Kelly who, incredibly, unbelievably would appear to have a new boyfriend: a beautiful, wonderful man with dreams of farms, and plans to make those dreams come true. A beautiful man with olive skin and a stubbly chin ( just within acceptable limits, it turns out) who is coming back in two hours’ time for dinner, and who, if I have anything to do with it, will be staying the night.

  As I shower and change, and fix my face, I can hardly believe it’s true. When did that happen?

  It was Brian who taught me that nothing is permanent, and of course, Victor could still panic and change his mind. He could still phone and inexplicably cancel. He could still decide that it’s all a bit too heavy, and do a runner.

  But as I rummage in the freezer for something for dinner and hesitate with the thought that perhaps I shouldn’t defrost two tuna steaks until he returns, I decide that no, this will happen. The act of putting the two steaks out to defrost, of laying the table for two, of cooking courgette gratin for two feels superstitious – it feels in fact like black magic.

  Once everything is ready I lean back against the counter-top and dare to look at the kitchen clock. It’s five past eight. He should be here by now.

  And at that instant, there’s a knock at the front door. I cross the hall and open it.

  Yes, it was Brian who taught me that everything can change in an instant, Brian who taught me that no matter how good things are, all it takes is a gust of wind and the whole shebang comes toppling down.

  I should have known this time around. I really ought to have realised.

  I should have understood that it works both ways.

  I should have believed Mark when he said that, like that Abba song, no matter how bad things are, everything can change in an instant.

  And one day, against all expectation, you open the front door, and there he is. The missing boyfriend is missing no more – he’s right there on the doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine and grinning cutely and rubb
ing his chin.

  ‘Better?’ he says.

  I laugh and point at my own face. ‘Better?’ I ask.

  ‘You said you weren’t so keen on the stubble so . . .’

  ‘No. Weird shit. I’ll tell you all about it one day,’ I say, ‘but not now. It might scare you off.’

  I take Victor’s coat and hang it in the hall, and then turn towards the kitchen, but he reaches out and touches my shoulder from behind and says, ‘Hey.’

  When I turn back to face him, he kisses me.

  It’s not a big passionate kiss. It’s nothing more, in fact, than a peck, a peck that says, simply, ‘I can do this.’ But that peck, well, it’s a peck that promises a thousand future kisses.

  ‘You!’ I say, smiling, and taking his hand to pull him through to the kitchen. ‘Oh, can you just give me one minute,’ I say. ‘I have to call Sarah-Jane. She left a message on my voicemail earlier on.’

  ‘Sarah-Jane Dennis?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you should definitely call her,’ he says.

  ‘She says she has some news.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  I frown at him. ‘How would you know?’

  Victor shrugs mysteriously.

  ‘Is it good news?’

  Victor grins. ‘You’ll have to call her yourself, won’t you?’

  I grab my BlackBerry and head through to the lounge. ‘I’ll be one minute, honestly,’ I say as I leave the room.

  ‘Something smells good,’ Victor calls behind me.

  ‘Well I hope so,’ I shout back. ‘I hope it all turns out OK.’

  But for the first time in ages, I know it will.

  For the first time in ages, I know that everything, for once, will turn out OK.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Fay Weldon for encouraging me when it most counted. Thanks to Rosemary, Adrian, Giovanni, and Allan for all their help and support.

  Read on for a taste of CC’s further adventures

  in

  THE FRENCH HOUSE

  Coming from Corvus in April 2013

  THE BIG SKY

  When I get to Nice airport, I am expecting my new boyfriend to be ready and waiting, pulling faces at me through the glass as I watch for my suitcase to appear on the carousel.

  I’m already in a heightened state of anticipation about this trip because, however it goes, it will influence our future. If I like it here as much as Victor seems to, then we could end up together in France. If I don’t . . . well, that hardly bears thinking about.

  When he still hasn’t appeared by the time I drag my suitcase out into the arrivals hall, I feel a spike of anxiety.

  I scan the crowd a few times, walk around the big fish tank – twice – and even read the names people are holding up on their scraps of cardboard, before doubtfully following the smokers outside.

  I switch on my phone and adjust the clock to local time – 2 p.m.

  It’s a crisp January afternoon and the sky is deepest blue, the light low and yellowy. It’s exactly the same weather as the last time I came to Nice and I wonder if it is always this way. I check my mobile and start to compose a text message asking Victor where he is but am interrupted by two hands slipping around my waist from behind.

  ‘Hello, sexy lady. Don’t turn around,’ he says in a dodgy French accent.

  I giggle and attempt to turn but Victor hops around and manages to remain behind me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, starting to laugh and finally pulling free before spinning around to face him.

  Victor raises his hands to cover his grinning mouth. My own smile fades.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll get rid of it as soon as we get back.’

  I have had a phobia about men with beards for as long as I can remember. I even saw a shrink once, and we pretty much traced it to the fact that my father had one. But, sadly, knowing the origin of a phobia doesn’t seemingly make it go away. Such are the limitations of therapy.

  I swallow hard, and pull his hands away from his face. ‘Jesus, Victor!’ I say. ‘You look like Osama Bin Laden.’

  ‘It’s why I was late,’ he says. ‘They wouldn’t let me into the airport until I could prove I wasn’t a terrorist.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No,’ Victor laughs. ‘Not really.’

  I pull a face in spite of myself.

  ‘I know!’ he says. ‘Honestly, I was going to shave but the pipes froze.’

  ‘They froze?’

  ‘Yeah. It was cold last night and both the tank in the van and the standpipe froze. But I’ll do it as soon as we get back, I promise.’

  I nod and just about manage a smile. ‘You will!’ I say.

  ‘Anyway,’ Victor says, moving in. ‘Any chance of a kiss from my little Chelsii?’

  I shake my head. ‘None,’ I laugh. ‘And calling me Chelsii definitely won’t help your case. You know I hate it.’

  ‘Sorry. CC. And just a peck then?’ he says. ‘To say hello?’

  I close my eyes and lean in, trying to push my phobia from my mind. Our lips meet, but then his straggly beard tickles my top lip and I suddenly feel sick. ‘That’s it!’ I say, covering my disgust with a false little laugh. ‘Sorry but . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ Victor says, serious now. ‘It’s OK. You told me all about it. I know. I’m sorry.’

  He starts to drag my suitcase towards the car park and reaches for my hand. ‘So how was the flight?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Orange.’

  ‘On time, anyway.’

  ‘Yes. Unlike someone I could mention.’

  ‘Yeah, the roads were bad,’ he says. ‘So I had to take it easy. Have you eaten?’

  ‘A sandwich. Horrible but filling. And what do you mean the roads were “bad”?’

  ‘Oh, icy. Slippery.’

  ‘Eek,’ I say. ‘Should I be scared?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe just a bit. Later on, I’ll tell you when.’ He squeezes my hand tight. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ I say. ‘Well, it will be when you get that doormat off your face so that I can see you.’

  Once Victor has negotiated the traffic and merged onto the motorway, I ask, ‘So we don’t go through Nice, then?’

  ‘No,’ Victor says, leaning forwards to look in my wing mirror before changing lanes. ‘No, we’re, um, west, so . . . But if you want to go down and visit, it’s only an hour.’

  ‘Is it hard having a right-hand-drive?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘You get used to it. But ultimately I’ll end up swapping the van for a French car. As soon as I don’t need to live in it any more, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s freaky sitting here,’ I say. ‘I feel a distinct need for a steering wheel.’

  ‘We’ll get you one,’ Victor says, casting me a wink. ‘One of those stick-on kid’s ones.’

  We sit in silence for a minute or so and I steal a glance at Victor’s bearded profile. Surprisingly, I think it suits him. He looks rugged and sexy. It’s just the sensation of it against me that I can’t stand.

  After only a few minutes on the motorway we turn off and immediately start to head up into the hills. ‘I had no idea that the coastal towns ended so abruptly,’ I say, watching the clichéd tableau of French Provençal life sliding past the windows.

  ‘Yeah,’ Victor says. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? And this is still town compared to where we’re going.’

  The road winds past stone cottages and along tree-lined country lanes and then up and over a small hillock and through a copse of dense trees. When we come out on the other side, a majestic mountain range comes into view – bleak and grey and stark against the blue sky.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. I point to a raggedy village clinging to the side of the mountain. ‘Is that us?’

  ‘No,’ Victor says with a laugh. ‘No, we’re right over the other side of that mountain.’

  We continue on and up, and around each bend there is another b
end, and over each peak there is another peak.

  ‘So many hilltop villages,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. And all empty.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Pretty much. Most of them have twenty or thirty old people living in them. When they’re gone, I think that will be it.’

  ‘Incredible views, though,’ I say.

  And they are. As we round another bend, suddenly we can see the road before us. It is a simple ledge carved from the side of the mountain winding around its contours, gradually heading towards the peak. To the south I can see the Mediterranean Sea in all its turquoise glory, and in the distance I can see huge, white, snow-capped peaks.

  ‘They’re like proper mountains,’ I say.

  ‘They are, they’re the Alps.’

  ‘They’re not, like, the actual Alps, though, are they? Not really.’

  ‘Yes,’ Victor says, glancing at me. ‘They are. Really.’

  ‘It’s not snowing where we are, is it?’

  ‘No. Not yet at any rate.’ He glances at me. ‘Are you scared?’

  I look down at the sheer drop below and say, ‘No, not yet. Is this where I should start to be?’

  ‘No,’ he says, slipping one hand onto my knee. ‘Not of my driving, anyway. You should maybe be scared of the facilities.’

  ‘The facilities?’

  ‘The bathroom. In particular.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘Nice. I love a cold bathroom.’

  ‘Very, very, very cold,’ he says.

  ‘OK,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I shall prepare myself for that.’ I turn back to look out at the scenery. ‘I’m in awe. I had no idea the Riviera could look like this.’

  ‘No,’ Victor says. ‘It’s surprising, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s just so big.’

  ‘You said you’ve been here before, though?’

  ‘Yes, but just to Nice. And along the coast a bit.’

  ‘On a date, you said.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t want to tell me about it.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  After a full minute of silence, Victor laughs. ‘OK then. I’ll just try to imagine it, shall I?’