The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (30 page)

‘What we did,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Mark says knowingly. ‘You could be right.’

As I close the magazine, Jude leaves the room, and Mark looks surreptitiously after him and then says, ‘Did you know Darren’s job might be on the line?’

I frown at him. ‘No,’ I say. ‘And if it’s the case, I really don’t think that it’s right that you should know that when I don’t.’

He shrugs. ‘Darren told me. Stanton hinted that if things don’t pick up in October he might have to let him go.’

I grind my teeth. ‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should talk to him. Stanton, I mean.’

‘I don’t think you should,’ Mark says. ‘He’s not supposed to tell anyone. Stanton doesn’t want the whole place freaking out.’

‘Just Darren.’

‘Well, he was just warning him, I think. So that he can think about other options.’

‘Right. God, poor Darren. Well, I’ll see if I can get Stanton to tell me . . . Is he OK?’

Mark shrugs. ‘He’s been a bit down lately anyway. I don’t think this exactly helps.’

I spend the entire week struggling not to think about my underlying feeling that this crisis is more than just a blip . . . that in some way our western way of life is unravelling, and that along with the banks, advertising may be doomed. I study cancellation clauses and haggle with our own media department, advertising brokers, and occasionally the magazine owners themselves as I struggle to reduce the Grunge! advertising commitment in any reasonable way, but for the most part, it’s a losing battle. In a recession it’s every man for himself. By the time Friday night comes I have pulled half of their advertising but have only saved a quarter of the budget. I’m glad Stanton will be the one to announce the figures to them come Monday morning.

I’m Fine

‘I don’t know what to say really.’

‘Anything. Or nothing. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘OK. I don’t know why I’m here really.’

‘No?’

‘Though, I suppose everyone says that, don’t they?’

‘Not everyone.’

‘No. But it’s not like I’m depressed or anything. Well, I don’t think I am, though you’re the expert.’

‘So would you say that you were happy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘Well, happy might be overstating it a bit. But I’m OK. I’m fine.’

‘Fine is good too.’

‘My friend Sarah-Jane wanted me to come.’

‘I see. Is she your partner?’

‘No! No. Sorry. I don’t have anything against . . . you know. But no. I’m single. And straight. SJ is just a friend.’

‘And she wanted you to come here today?’

‘Yes. Yeah, she’s convinced I have issues . . . or one big issue about to swallow me up and leave me gabbling in a corner. It’s mainly because I never cry. SJ is convinced everyone should blub regularly.’

‘I see.’

‘But I just don’t feel the need. Does that make me crazy?’

‘No. I don’t think that does.’

‘But you think I’m a bit mad anyway?’

‘I have no opinion on you whatsoever.’

‘No. I suppose not . . . I thought you’d have lots of books and a big mahogany desk and stuff like they always do in films. But this is more IKEA isn’t it?’

‘Yes, some of it is IKEA.’

‘Look, I don’t think this is going to work.’

‘Because the furniture came from IKEA?’

‘No. Silly! No, I don’t think I need this. I think I need something else.’

‘What do you think you need?’

‘More like a life coach. To sort my life out.’

‘I see.’

‘My problems are more, well, practical really.’

‘Practical.’

‘Yes. I need to reorganise my life. I mean, my life is fine. It’s just that I want to change it all and I don’t know where to start really. Because everything is linked to everything else, isn’t it.’

‘Things have a tendency to be like inter-linked, yes.’

‘What I’d really like is to be living on a farm in Devon with some lovely bloke, growing veg.’

‘I see. And how does that differ from your life now?’

‘Well, I live in a flat here in London. And I’m single. And I work in advertising.’

‘So it’s very different.’

‘Yes. But I don’t want to do it on my own. So I really need to meet the bloke first.’

‘I see.’

‘But my life here fits perfectly. I mean, I have friends and a job and . . . So I don’t know how to start changing it all around.’

‘No.’

‘And I don’t think you can help me with that sort of practical stuff, can you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No. You see.’

‘. . .’

‘. . . I don’t know what to say now.’

‘I expect something will come.’

‘Humm. I hope so. It’s a bit expensive to sit in silence really, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘So do you think it’s a problem?’

‘What’s that?’

‘That I never cry.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No.’

‘Do
you
? Think it’s a problem?’

‘Not really. I mean . . . I hate crying anyway. I think panda eyes are overrated, don’t you? Sorry, but are you gay? Am I allowed to ask that?’

‘You can say or ask anything that you wish. Do you think I’m gay?’

‘No. Yes. Maybe . . . I mean, I have lots of gay friends, so it wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘I see.’

‘And lots of them seem to have goatees and cargo pants at the moment. That’s all.’

‘I see.’

‘I have a bit of a beard thing.’

‘A beard thing.’

‘Yeah, I hate beards.’

‘I see.’

‘Not yours, of course. But I hate kissing men with beards. God that sounds terrible. That sounds like I’m thinking about kissing you which of course I’m not. God, that sounds worse now. Just shut up, CC.’

‘So would you rather I didn’t have a beard?’

‘No, not really. Seeing as kissing is off the agenda it doesn’t worry me at all.’

‘Good.’

‘So . . .’

‘So.’

‘Change the subject, CC.’

‘If you wish.’

‘I haven’t actually cried since Dad died.’

‘Would you like to talk about it? Perhaps you’d like to tell me how he died?’

‘No. Not really. I only thought of him because . . . never mind.’

‘OK.’

‘. . .’

‘Did you cry a lot when he died?’

‘Yeah. I couldn’t stop. For days. Maybe a week.’

‘I see.’

‘But then you have to stop, don’t you? At some point you just have to make a decision that the tears stop now. Because otherwise, it could go on forever.’

‘I can see how it could feel that way, yes.’

‘It was a heart attack, by the way. In a shopping centre.’

‘I see.’

‘It was horrible. He just collapsed on the escalator. Mum was hysterical. Which is understandable. But she kept hitting me.’

‘Hitting you?’

‘Yes. I was trying to, you know, resuscitate him. And she was hitting me round the head, telling me to leave him alone. I don’t think she thought I knew what I was doing.’

‘That must have been very traumatic.’

‘Yeah. And I didn’t really.’

‘You didn’t . . .?’

‘Know. What I was doing. Well, I
did
. But I was too upset to do it properly.’

‘Of course.’

‘But I don’t suppose it made any difference. I mean, I don’t feel as if I killed him or anything like that.’

‘Good.’

‘But you always wonder don’t you? If things had been different.’

‘If you had done it properly.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Don’t you feel brave that you tried? Under the circumstances?’ ‘Yes, I do. That too. But they said it was massive anyway. The heart attack. I don’t think there was much hope.’

‘No.’

‘But you always wonder.’

‘Well, it’s famously difficult to perform any kind of intervention on a family member. It’s the reason doctors and surgeons never treat anyone they know. All anyone can do is their best.’

‘Well that’s what I think . . . Wow! Another ten minutes.’

‘Yes. Does that seem like a long time?’

‘It’s just finding stuff to talk about.’

‘Of course.’

‘Because I’m done really.’

‘So that’s all you wanted to talk about? Your father’s death?’

‘Well yeah. No, I mean . . . I mean, I didn’t really. Want to talk about it, that is.’

‘OK.’

‘So.’

‘So.’

‘Do we just sit here now and watch the hands go around?’

‘If you want.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well that’s fine too.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, anyway. That’s the last time I cried.’

‘I see.’

‘And then Waiine died two years later and SJ thinks I should have cried.’

‘Waiine?’

‘My brother. He died of Aids.’

‘That must have been tough too.’

‘Yes. I suppose so. I suppose he’d be saved today. I mean, they have all these drugs now, don’t they.’

‘Yes. Were you with him too? When he died?’

‘No. I was at college. And he was in hospital for months. I came down to see him when I could, but . . . Well, I had exams and stuff. I couldn’t be there all the time.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And no one knew when he would go, of course, so . . .’

‘Of course.’

‘So SJ thinks I’m abnormal for not crying.’

‘This is Sarah-Jane, your friend?’

‘Yes. And you? What do you think? Should I have cried?’

‘I don’t think there’s any
should
about it.’

‘No.’

‘Do
you
think you should have?’

‘Not really, no. I think it’s fine. I didn’t
want
to start crying again in case I never stopped.’

‘Well that’s a good reason.’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK.’

‘So.’

‘So, do you think that might really have happened?’

‘What?’

‘That you might really have not been able to stop crying?’

‘No, not really. I was talking metaphorically.’

‘I see.’

‘Because you would have to stop at some point, wouldn’t you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Otherwise you would end up rocking in the corner of a padded cell somewhere.’

‘That sounds like a worrying idea.’

‘Yes. So better not to start in the first place. Less risky.’

‘I see.’

‘But I
was
sad. Really sad. I’m not cold. And I miss him. Well, both of them. In different ways though.’

‘How so?’

‘Well Dad I miss because of who he
was
. I miss not having that funny, lovely man in my life.’

‘Right.’

‘And Waiine I miss more because of who he might have
become
. He was so young really. He wasn’t really
done
yet, you know? So it’s more of a fantasy about what might have been.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s sad though, isn’t it? When someone, just . . . you know . . . ceases to be.’

‘Yes. It’s very sad.’

‘But I think I have coped pretty well really. I mean, I’m still here, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Do you think I haven’t? Coped that is. Because maybe I don’t see myself clearly.’

‘I don’t really have an opinion. We each cope to the best of our abilities.’

‘Right. Well. It’s pretty much half past. Can I go now?’

‘You have another three minutes, but it’s really up to you.’

‘Good. Thanks. Well, I think I’ll be getting off then.’

‘OK.’

‘Is it up to me if I come again next week?’

‘Everything is up to you really, isn’t it. I mean, I have no way of physically constraining you to come here.’

‘Good. Well, then, I’ll, erm, let you know.’

‘But when you booked I told you it was a minimum three sessions.’

‘Right.’

‘And you agreed. So your word is rather at stake.’

‘I see.’

‘So I’ll see you next week hopefully.’

‘Hopefully, yes.’

‘Good. Well, goodbye then, Chelsea.’

‘Good . . . I told you I hate being called Chelsea.’

‘Yes, sorry. Why is it that you hate that?’

‘Well, it’s just such a chavvy name, isn’t it?’

‘It’s
your
name though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Well I don’t like it.’

‘No.’

‘OK, bye then.’

‘Goodbye.’

Fun and Standards

Out on the street, I start to walk towards the taxi rank at Acton station, and try to work out how I’m feeling. The answer is:
pretty strange.

I’m feeling inexplicably tense, somewhat irritated, incredibly tired, and just a tiny bit tearful. I feel like one of those snow- globes that has been shaken up. I feel like I won’t really know how I feel until the snow has settled again.

When I was with Mr IKEA, other than a little irritation that I had made such an illogical decision as to go there in the first place, I felt little. But now I’m outside in the early evening air, I find myself with a sufficiently unfamiliar mix of emotions and feelings that I’m forced to admit that at least
something
has taken place. Only once all the flakiness has settled will I have any idea if that is a good or a bad thing.

The taxi rank at Acton station is empty, but there is no queue either so I stand at the head of the queuing zone and deliberate whether or not to cross to the tube station instead. I don’t like the tube much at the best of times, but tonight, half an hour in the quiet sealed box of a taxi, alone with my thoughts, definitely strikes me as preferable.

Luckily, within a few minutes a taxi rolls into view. A big built guy in a dark suit squeezes himself from the rear of the taxi with a back pack and the proverbial laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He holds the door open for me, but as I start to duck to get in, he says, ‘CC?’

I pause, and straighten to look up at him. ‘Oh! Bro— Norman?’

‘Huh, nearly got the name wrong,’ he says, winking.

‘No, I . . . never mind,’ I say, scanning this new suited version of my speed date with approval. ‘How have you been?’

‘Good. Fine. And you?’

‘Fine too.’ I lean into the taxi briefly to ask him to wait, then straighten up again.

‘You never called,’ Norman says.

‘No, well . . .’ I say. ‘After two cancellations I tend to give it up as a lost cause.’

‘No tenacity,’ he says, smiling.

‘Maybe not.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about that,’ he says.