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Authors: Nick Alexander
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend
Nick AlexanderNick Alexander
was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. He is the author of the 5-part ‘50 Reasons’ series of novels, featuring lovelorn Mark, and when he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend
was an eBook bestseller in early 2011, netting sixty thousand downloads and reaching number 1 on Amazon. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodovar films. Visit his website at
www.nick-alexander.com
Also by Nick Alexander
THE 50 REASONS SERIES
50 Reasons to Say Goodbye
Sottopassaggio
Good Thing, Bad Thing
Better than Easy
Sleight of Hand
SHORT STORIES
13.55 Eastern Standard Time
First published in Great Britain in 2011
by BIGfib Books.
This edition published in Great Britain in 2011
By Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Nick Alexander, 2011
The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978-0-85789-631-5
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Ormond House
26-27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
Table of Contents
The Ups and Downs of Self-Help
EXTRA CONTENT - Read the first chapter of the sequel: The French House.
Dead Chuffed
When I open my front door, the bouquet of flowers that greets me is so vast, so dense, that I can’t actually see who is holding it. The bouquet comprises roses – which I hate – and deep, green sprigs that look like they might have come from the Leylandii in Mrs Pilchard’s garden.
My first thought is,
God, how dreadful!
And then, in case He, or She, or whoever, or
whatever
, is listening, I try to think graceful, grateful thoughts instead. For, truth be told, it’s been a stunningly long time since anyone sent me flowers – even awful flowers – and
Thinking Your Way to Happiness
says one has to work harder on one’s automatic thought patterns, so working harder, one is.
The voice that springs from behind though, is easily identifiable. ‘Hi, babe,’ it chirrups: Mark, my neighbour from upstairs.
In fact, as Mark both lives in the flat above mine,
and
works one floor up from me at Spot On advertising he is pretty much ‘upstairs’ in one form or another twenty-four/seven.
I’m feeling somewhat disappointed that the flowers are not the long dreamt of
Eureka!
moment where gorgeous-unknown- secret-admirer reveals that he has in fact been in love with me for years. And then again I’m also feeling somewhat relieved that I will not have to house the horrid bouquet for long.
I squash myself against the wall and let Mark squeeze past. ‘They’re not for you I’m afraid,’ he confirms, ‘they’re for Ian’s mother.’
‘I thought you two split up,’ I comment, frowning and following him through to the kitchen. ‘
And
I thought she was dead.’ My gay friends have such a constant stream of boyfriends, confusion is always a distinct possibility.
With me, of course, it’s easier – there is nothing
to
remember.
What we need here
, I think for the umpteenth time,
is a little redistribution of boyfriend material.
I hope He/She/It is listening.
‘Well, yes, they’re for her funeral,’ Mark explains, propping the bouquet up in my kitchen sink and turning to face me.
The world is divided into those who dare to address me by my horrific first name, and friends who know better. Mark knows better. ‘So how
is
my little CC?’ he asks, stepping forward and kissing me on both cheeks.
‘OK,’ I say, vaguely.
‘These are nice,’ he adds, tapping one of my earrings. ‘I haven’t seen you for
days
! Have you been away or something?’
Still thinking about the earrings, I shake my head a little more vigorously than I would otherwise. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been stuck down in Media all week trying to sort out the magazine space for those Hi Five ads. Actually, these are props from that shabby/ chic photo shoot we did for their autumn collection.’ I tap my right ear with my index finger. ‘. . .last worn by Angelica Wayne I’ll have you know!’
Mark nods, impressed. ‘Well, they suit you brilliantly,’ he says. ‘They look even better on you than on her.’
‘If only the rest of me looked like her, eh?’ I laugh, picturing Wayne’s nano-waist and involuntarily pulling my tummy in.
‘I told you, she’s too thin,’ Mark says. ‘She’s ill.’
‘. . . no such thing as
too thin
in this business,’ I say. ‘Anyway, enough of work . . . So are you telling me that Ian has now invited you to his mother’s
funeral
?
’
Mark grins and runs his fingers through his tiny Tin-Tin quiff. ‘I know,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I’m dead chuffed . . .’ He pulls a face: thoughtful, confused. ‘Must remember not to say that to Ian . . .
dead chuffed.
It’s not ideal, is it? But yes, we’re back together.’
I shrug and shake my head. ‘But how? I mean the last time you mentioned Ian . . .’
Mark shakes his head and pushes his lips out. ‘I don’t know really,’ he interrupts. ‘I mean, I was just getting used to the idea of being single again and then his old mama goes and dies, and within hours he was knocking on my door and weeping all over me. He stayed the night, and then we woke up together and, tada . . . we’re an item again. Nothing like a bit of grief to put an argument into perspective eh?’
I shake my head. ‘Apparently not,’ I say. ‘I must remember that one next time someone dumps me. Murdering one of their parents is the answer, it would seem.’
‘But I do think it’s a sign at least,’ Mark says. ‘It demonstrates a certain level of trust and intimacy, inviting your boyfriend to a funeral, don’t you think?’ He looks at me and wrinkles his brow. ‘What’s up? Am I burbling? Or is it that you’re jealous?’
‘Erm,
no
!’ I laugh, turning away to pull mugs from the cupboard. ‘Do you want tea?’
But
of course
I’m jealous. I’m jealous but quick enough to realise that being sorry because I don’t have a boyfriend to invite me to his mother’s
funeral
is a tad on the sick side of
sad
and best not admitted to. Ever.
‘A cuppa would be lovely,’ Mark says, rubbing his nose and then hauling himself up onto the counter top.
‘So are the burbling and that jiggly foot there a sign of too much coffee?’ I ask, pointing the kettle accusingly at him. ‘Or have you been . . . you know . . .?’
Checking the screen of his mobile, Mark replies, ‘Sweetie – it’s six p.m. on a Thursday night!’
Mark is developing quite a cocaine habit, and I have to say, I am beginning to get a bit concerned about it. But then again, it often seems that half of London is taking the stuff these days. I push the bouquet to one side and fill the kettle. ‘That’s not an answer,’ I say. ‘And well you know it.’
Mark shrugs, rubs his nose again, and grins coyly, confirming my doubts. ‘Maybe a bit,’ he admits. ‘But it was only a booster shot – we had to finish the visuals for Hi Five and I had a hangover. Plus I’m off tomorrow for this funeral thing, so . . . Anyway, I’ll be calm now.’ He takes a deep breath, then says with theatrical poise, ‘So how are you?’
I lean back against a cupboard and smile weakly. ‘Me?’ I say with a mini-shrug. ‘Oh, I’m fine.’
Mark nods thoughtfully. ‘You look a bit bluesy,’ he says.
I shrug again.
‘So is this need-a-man blues?’ he asks. ‘Or empty-weekend blues?’
I laugh. ‘You know me so well,’ I say. ‘Though really I think it’s just plain old
February
blues.’
Mark chews the side of his mouth. ‘I could probably get you an invite to the funeral,’ he offers with mock seriousness. ‘If you want.’
I shake my head. ‘Not quite
that
desperate,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I guess not. You should call Darren. He’s going to some fabulous pervert view on Saturday. Didn’t he tell you?’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t seen him all week. As I say, I’ve been stuck down in Media. A private view, you say?’
Mark laughs. ‘No, this one really is a pervert view,’ he says. ‘Some Colombian bondage photographer called Ricardo something or other. It should be fabulous. Apparently the waiters are all going to be dressed up in gimp outfits. It could be a hoot.’