The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (29 page)

‘Well, we do get a lot of earthquakes,’ SJ says mockingly.

‘Well, my logic circuits weren’t working too well at three a.m. God, it’s good to see you. It’s been ages.’

She glances at me and smiles. ‘Yeah, I know. Sorry about that.’

‘Oh, I’m not . . . I’m just saying.’

‘No. So, why are you dumping the books? Can’t you just fix the shelf?’

‘They make me feel a bit funny, to be honest,’ I say.

‘Because they attacked you in your sleep?’

‘Well exactly. No, they’re all personal development books . . . Yoga and crystals and . . .’

‘Self-help shit?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I remember you doing yoga. You lasted about a week.’

‘Three days. On the third day I cricked my neck and that was that.’

‘I never knew you were into crystals though.’

‘I was when I was eighteen. I just never threw the book away.’

‘Right. What about those stupid balls that Cynthia gave you?’

‘The Qui Dong balls? Yeah, they’re in the boot, along with the instruction manuals.’

‘I still don’t see why you have to get rid of them
today
,’ SJ says.

‘They’re just embarrassing somehow,’ I say. ‘And depressing. I have every self-help book ever written and my life’s still a mess.’

‘Well, I think we’ve all got a few of those kicking around. You haven’t got any on dreams, have you? Cos I’ve been having really weird ones since they put me on oestrogen.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I think I need one. I’ve been having really freaky dreams too.’

‘So the real reason you’re dumping this lot is to make room for more,’ SJ laughs.

‘You know me so well.’

‘Anyway, this is it,’ she says, pulling up on double-reds. ‘So, you stay here, just in case, and I’ll just dump them and run away before they look at them and think that
I’m
the sad-ass?’

‘Exactly.’

Back at the house, SJ offers to help me put the shelf back up, but once she inspects the damage she declares the task beyond even our combined capabilities. ‘Even George can’t fix that,’ she says. ‘You need a plasterer or something. Plus, you don’t want it coming down on you again.’

And so we sit down with a cup of tea and attempt to analyse our dreams instead.

SJ’s are pretty strange, involving rides along Blackpool beach on pregnant donkeys. ‘And I’ve never even been to bloody Blackpool,’ she points out.

‘But nothing bad happened?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nah. It was just a nice day out.’

‘So it’s a good omen. Because the donkeys were pregnant, right?’

‘I suppose so.’

I then tell Sarah-Jane about my nightmare involving Victor and dead Brian, and then, perhaps because of my newly damaged bedroom wall, I remember the dream I had in the Negresco in Nice and tell her about Brown Eyes shagging me and then morphing into Brian.

‘So what do you think?’ I ask her.

SJ shrugs. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘They’re strange. Or bizarre, as you would say.’

‘Do other people really not say bizarre?’

‘Not much,’ she says. ‘Not as much as you.’

‘Maybe their lives aren’t as bizarre as mine.’

‘Maybe. You really need to get rid of that fucking tree, by the way.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s out of hand. You should call the council.’

‘I know. So what about my dreams? Is that
it
? Bizarre? Is that your verdict?’

‘Yeah.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘I thought hard about analysing yours,’ I say in a sullen voice.

Sarah-Jane sighs. ‘I don’t think you’d like what I think, that’s all.’

‘Oh come on, SJ.’

‘Well they’re a bit mad, really,’ she says.

‘Mad.’

‘Yeah. And Brian keeps coming up.’

‘So you’re going to say that I’m still in love with Brian or something?’

‘No . . .’ She swallows and looks out of the window again, then turns back to face me. ‘But I do think you have issues. It’s not that hard to interpret, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘You need professional help, to get rid of Brian once and for all.’

‘To rip his dead corpse from my womb?’

‘Well, yeah.’

I tut. ‘That would be fine, except that I got rid of Brian years ago.’

‘Yeah. Only you haven’t. Or you wouldn’t still be on about him all the time.’

‘I’m not
on about him
all the time. I
never
think about Brian.’

SJ raises an eyebrow.

‘OK, we’re talking about him now . . . but that’s just because of the dream.’

She shrugs. ‘You dream about him, we’re talking about him . . . I just think maybe you need to see someone, to help you deal with all that stuff better.’

I snort and shake my head.

‘And now you’re annoyed with me,’ she says.

‘I’m not. It’s just that I
have
dealt with all that . . . honestly . . . ages ago.’

‘You never even cried. Not when you got the abortion. Not when Brian dumped you.’

‘But you know I don’t cry like you do.’

‘Did you cry when Waiine died?’

‘No. I told you. The last time was when Dad died.’

Sarah-Jane nods thoughtfully. ‘I’m not saying you’re a loony or anything.’

‘Well that’s a relief.’

‘But I do think you should talk to a counsellor or something.’

I nod. ‘I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t know for the life of me what I would talk about.’

‘About the dreams. About what Brian did to you. About how you felt. About losing Waiine. Cos I know you
think
you’re fine. But I don’t think you are really.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Well, you did ask.’

‘You’re right. I did.’

‘Don’t see a Freudian though. They’re all really fucked up. See a Jungian.’

‘Since when were you such an expert anyway? Have you seen a shrink?’

‘Nah. George’s sister has been doing the rounds for years, though.’

‘Hasn’t worked for her though, has it?’

Sarah-Jane ignores this comment. ‘She said most of them are Freudians – they think everything is to do with fancying your parents or something.’

‘Yuck.’

‘Exactly. But she’s seeing a Jungian guy now, whatever that means. It’s supposed to be much more wholesome anyway. And they’re really into dreams apparently. ’

‘Right.’

‘I could get you his number.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Your call.’

‘Right. So, more tea?’

SJ glances at her watch. ‘Nah, I need to be getting home. George will be back soon.’

‘Is tonight a shagging night?’

‘Nope. That’s Wednesdays and Sundays. Thursday is curry night.’

‘You cook a curry every Thursday?’

‘Me? Don’t be daft. George picks up a takeaway on his way home. I have chicken biryani; George gets prawn madras.’

‘Every Thursday?’

‘Every Thursday. I can’t help it. I love chicken biryani.’

Slowdown – Speedup

By Monday morning there remains only the vaguest sign of my literary mishap, a scar so tiny that an intentionally clumsy daub of spot-cover is enough to make it vanish entirely. I’m pretty certain that there will be no scar either as, being blessed with my mother’s miracle skin, I have healed invisibly from far worse incidents.

My BlackBerry has been silent all weekend, but when I find that my inbox on the Mac is empty too, I phone Jerry, our IT man to check that everything is still working.

‘Everyone is saying the same thing,’ he informs me. ‘Just send yourself an email and you’ll see – it’s all working fine.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Sorry to trouble you. It’s just all a bit biz— spooky how quiet it is.’

‘Spooky!’ Jerry says, making me wish that I had gone with
bizarre
. As I hang up, I hear that he is singing the theme tune to
The Twilight Zone
into the receiver.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ Mark, standing just behind me says, making me jump.

‘You’re back!’ I laugh, standing and hugging him. ‘It’s been biz—weird not having you around . . . Now you’re not upstairs any more, well, when you’re not at work either, I really miss you.’

‘I missed you too,’ he says. ‘So what’s going on here? It’s like a ghost town!’

‘I know. It’s bad, huh? I was just phoning IT to check . . .’

‘Yeah, I heard. I just went to see Stanton and he said that with the exception of Grunge!, everything’s on hold.’

‘Well, Grunge! is pretty much done now,’ I say.

‘You know that even Grunge! are thinking of pulling their ads, right?’

I frown. ‘What do you mean,
pulling their ads
? They can’t. They’re already programmed.’

‘Dunno. You’ll have to talk to Peter, but he got a call when I was with him and that’s what it sounded like.’

I shake my head. ‘But they can’t,’ I say. ‘Not till the end of the year, not till next summer in fact. It’s all booked. It would cost them almost as much to cancel as to carry on.’

Mark shrugs. ‘As I say, talk to Peter.’

‘I will. So how was Scotland?’

‘Wales.’

‘I thought you were at Ian’s.’

‘At his sister’s, near Cardiff. It was gorgeous. Amazing scenery. We see so little of Wales on the telly and stuff. It’s a beautiful place.’

‘But full of Welsh people.’

Mark frowns.

‘Sorry. I had a bad experience once – couldn’t get anything to eat because they thought I was English. Kind of put me off.’

‘Oh right . . . I expect it depends where you go. I quite like them . . . Ian’s sister and her husband are lovely anyway.’

‘So, getting on with the in-laws! Nice.’

Mark nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It was ace. Really.’

‘So why the long face?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You don’t look like a man in love. A man in love who just got back from a week’s holiday.’

‘Oh it’s just this place, freaking me out. I can’t believe how dead it is.’

‘Right.’

‘Plus, you know how it is . . . When you get back from holidays and everything . . . I’d rather be in Wales shagging still.’

I laugh. ‘Mona’s law,’ I say.

‘Exactly,’ Mark says. ‘Seriously though, aren’t you worried?’

‘Worried?’

‘Well, it can’t carry on like this for long, can it?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I suppose it can’t.’

In a meeting that lasts most of the afternoon Peter Stanton and I discuss the Grunge! account. He tells me that the slowdown is starting to hit retail hard – high street shops are announcing 70 per cent collapses in their sales volumes, and though initial returns from our campaign were good, overall sales in the sector are plummeting. Even Levi’s have decided to scale back their US campaign for the jeans, and Harper & Baker are rumoured to be laying off a third of their workforce. Stanton doesn’t need to tell me that unless something happens soon, the same thing will be happening here.

As soon as I get out of the meeting, I phone Tom in New York to check that he’s OK. He tells me that, for now at least, any job losses are mere rumour.

Ironically, our own slowdown creates masses of work for me. It’s a bit depressing, but any work is better than none.

On Thursday I have to phone Angelica Wayne’s agent to cancel next month’s photo shoot for the second new-year wave of the campaign, but before I can start to try to squirm my way out of it, he informs me that she has been taken ill and that it’s unlikely she’ll be able to honour her commitments for the next few months anyway. He seems reticent to explain what’s wrong with her, which leaves me intrigued enough to head down to the gossip department, where I find Mark and Jude comparing a load of dairy adverts spread out across the table.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Mark says.

‘God, I hope we get that contract,’ I say. ‘With all this work you’re putting into it.’

‘Yes, well, you make sure we do,’ he says.

‘Hey, I just had Peter McKintock on the phone, Wayne’s agent.’

‘I bet that was interesting,’ Jude laughs.

I shake my head. ‘You see, I knew you guys would be up on the gossip.’

Jude shrugs. ‘Erm,
Hello!
’ he says, reaching behind him for a magazine and skimming it across the table towards me.

I turn the magazine – this week’s edition of
Hello!
– the right way up. The cover shows Angelica Wayne looking even skinnier than usual being led through a rabble of paparazzi into what looks like a clinic.
Anorexia beats Angelica
, the headline says.

I shake my head. ‘How can I not know this?’ I mutter, flicking through the magazine in search of the article.

‘You’re not reading the quality press,’ Mark laughs.

‘Yeah, well, you could have told me. You might have realised that losing our model is kind of important.’

‘Hey, it only came out this morning. Anyway, next month’s shoots have been cancelled, haven’t they?’

I freeze theatrically and drop my jaw at him. ‘And how the hell would you know that?’

Mark shrugs. ‘VB’s new policy of openness,’ he says. ‘Nowadays, if you buy her a soyaccino she’ll tell you anything.’

‘A soyaccino?’

‘A cappuccino made of soya. She’s gone vegan.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Great! Just don’t tell Cornish Cow,’ I mumble, whilst skimming the few words squeezed on the page of photos of our ever-skinnier Angelica Wayne.

‘You see,’ Mark says, nodding at the page. ‘I told you she was too thin.’

‘Yeah. Well. No one could argue with you on that one now. It says here she’s on a glucose drip!’

‘Sexy,’ Mark says.

‘God, I suppose she’ll put on weight now.’

‘Probably come out looking like Britney.’

‘God, I wish,’ I say.

‘Well, they reckon that fat is going to be the new thin,’ Mark says. ‘They reckon there’s going to be a backlash against all these anorexic models.’

‘Maybe my chance will come. Then again, they’ve been saying that for years. Poor lass though. It’s this business. It gets them all in the end.’

‘He’s sexy though,’ Jude says. ‘Farmer Thexton.’

‘Yeah. Farmer. And I’m a supermodel,’ I laugh.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He lives in Docklands in a thirty-thousand-foot glass apartment. All the dreadlocks and the ecology – it’s just image. It’s just bullshit.’

Mark shrugs. ‘That’s our business, sweetie. Bullshit is what we do.’