The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (19 page)

‘Popped?’ he repeats, frowning.

‘Pop!’ I explain, making a pin motion.

He remains stoic and simply raises one eyebrow.

‘But you might want to find out who was supposed to have the balloons in the first place,’ I tell him. ‘Because some child somewhere is probably not too happy.’

The clerk frowns deeply at me.

‘The balloons . . . If
I
got them, then someone else didn’t.’

The clerk shakes his head. ‘But Monsieur Van Heerden ordered the balloons for you, madam.’

I laugh and shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m telling you. It was a mistake. They must have been meant for someone else.’

The clerk frowns at me and raises the eyebrow again. I decide that he has the most mobile eyebrow that I have ever seen. I wonder if the other one moves as well. I get a fit of giggles at the crazy conversation I’m having. It’s like something from a Carry On movie . . . ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not to me.’ The clerk shrugs and looks back down at his register, which I take as my cue to leave.

Outside, as I wait for the traffic lights to change so that I can cross the road, I read Charles’ note.

Dear Charlotte

Sorry to disappear like a thief in the night, but, as I explained, I have meetings all day today. Will be back about seven for dinner. Meet you in the red room. Have a lovely day. And enjoy the balloons!

Charles xx

Deflation

It’s closer to eight p.m. when Charles and I finally meet up in the red room. He kisses me lightly on the lips – not a sexual kiss, but not chaste either. ‘How did your meetings go?’ I ask, as we cross the lobby and step back out into the evening.

‘Great,’ he tells me. ‘I think I have a new contract with Rawling International. They supply Pirelli, amongst others.’

‘So you’re supplying Pirelli with rubber for their tyres?’ I ask, impressed.

Charles laughs. ‘Well, on paper.’

‘On paper.’

‘Do you know anything about options trading?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘Well, it is kind of complicated. There are markets, the same as stock markets, but these are options markets. People trade options . . . the option to buy things at a fixed price. So, suppose you think the price of petrol is going to go up, you could buy an option to buy it at today’s price. Does that make any sense?’

I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say. In fact it doesn’t really, but the truth is that for some reason, I find myself completely devoid of interest in the subject.

‘So I’m an options trader. Specialised in rubber, copper, and zinc.’

I nod. ‘Great!’ I say.

‘Anyway, how was
your
day?’

‘Fine. Nice. I walked back into town, had breakfast on the Cours Saleya, phoned some friends, just to reassure them that I’m still alive. I bought a few bits, had a peep in the Museum of Modern Art . . . well, just in the shop to be honest . . . it’s been a perfect lazy day in a foreign city.’

‘Nice,’ Charles says. ‘I envy you.’

We automatically head east – back towards the old town again, before Charles asks, ‘So what do you fancy eating tonight? We had fish again at lunchtime, so if I can avoid fish this evening, that would be good.’

‘Actually,’ I laugh, ‘I phoned a friend in England. He knows Nice quite well, and he told me about a little local place where they supposedly do the best pizza on the planet.’

‘Pizza sounds perfect,’ Charles laughs.

‘OK. Well, I think it’s pretty close to the Cours Saleya. It’s sort of a few streets behind it according to the map.’

As we wander back through these streets, by now starting to feel familiar, I become hyper-aware that this is our last evening here. In fact, it’s very possibly our last evening anywhere together. I desperately want to broach the subject and see if, like me, Charles has any desire to take this further. Or indeed, any plausible strategy for meeting again somewhere so that we can take this further. The idea of simply jumping on a plane and arriving back in London as a single girl is heartbreaking. But I can’t help but think that a wrong answer will only spoil our last evening together. It’s clearly wiser to save that discussion for tomorrow.

The restaurant Mark suggested
–
Le Gesu
–
is probably a little lower key than Charles is used to, but he doesn’t say a word.

Though the chairs are plastic, and the prices as low as I have seen for some time, the pizza is as good as Mark said. The base is thin and crisp and somehow vaguely caramelised, whilst the topping is oozing in garlic, olive oil, and beautiful rich mozzarella. In fact, I can only agree with Mark’s verdict: it is probably the best pizza I have ever eaten.

The only real downside to the place is the gigantic Catholic church overlooking the restaurant. I sit with my back to the open door and between conversations I chant a mantra : that I’m not a Catholic, and therefore whatever I do, it
isn’t
a sin . . .

By eleven-thirty, we’re back at the hotel. I’m fully expecting a repeat performance of last night. When I open the door to my room, though, Charles looks momentarily flummoxed.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘The balloons,’ Charles says. ‘They are all gone.’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘I couldn’t move!’

‘You got rid of them?’ he asks, flatly.

‘I did. It was great fun popping them. There were thirty-seven of them. I counted.’

‘Thirty-seven?’

‘Yes. Thirty-seven.’

‘Right,’ Charles says. ‘You could have waited.’

‘Waited?’

‘Never mind.’

‘It was a shame really. I quite fancied a photo of them to send to Mark. He’ll never believe me now of course.’

‘We could get some more?’ Charles offers.

I laugh. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think I’ve had quite enough balloons for one day.’ I step closer and stroke his chest. He looks around the room as though the absence of the balloons has left him disoriented.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ I say. ‘I’m still here.’

But Charles looks suddenly deflated. When I pull him against me, I can feel that, indeed, compared with last night, he
is
thoroughly deflated.

‘You know,’ I say, stroking his wrinkled brow, ‘the man on reception thought that
you
ordered them. The balloons, that is. He said you ordered them specially for me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

Charles shrugs and glances away.

‘You didn’t did you?’ I ask.

Charles shrugs again.

I laugh. ‘You funny man,’ I say, laughing genuinely. ‘You did!’

‘There were thirty-nine,’ he says. ‘One for each year.’

‘Of course. I popped two yesterday. Yes, thirty-nine.’

‘But you didn’t like them,’ he says, sticking his bottom lip out. He sounds about two. He sounds like a toddler about to throw a hissy fit.

‘Sure I did,’ I say. ‘It was funny. They were very . . . memorable.’

Charles smiles weakly at me and we kiss again. I run a hand over the front of his chinos but this only confirms that, if yesterday’s raging erection
was
Viagra-induced, he clearly hasn’t taken the drug today. Maybe, I figure, it’s dangerous to take it two days in a row. I try to remember what I was wearing yesterday, anything I might have done to excite him, but as far as I can recall he pretty much arrived with a raging hard-on.

‘You look sad,’ I say, for some reason in a slightly mocking baby voice I instantly regret. ‘What’s the matter?’

Charles shrugs. ‘It’s just a shame you popped all of them,’ he says. ‘You could have saved one or two.’

I screw my nose up. I wonder,
What’s happening here?

For I can feel the evening slipping out of control and I have no idea why. But I’m sure that this is what is happening. I know this feeling only too well. It’s what used to happen with Ronan all the time when he was drunk. Everything would be going fine, and then, suddenly, as if a cloud had drifted in front of the sun, the light would vanish. And there was no way out.

‘Charles. I think we can manage without balloons, don’t you? They were funny and lovely, and I’m grateful. Now let’s not spoil our last evening here over a bunch of pink balloons, huh?’

Charles sighs. ‘I suppose,’ he says.

We kiss again. He runs a hand down over my buttocks and pulls me roughly against him. And then, suddenly, from nowhere, the storm is upon us: he pulls away. His features are dark and brooding, his brow creased. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘This isn’t going to work. Not tonight.’

‘Oh,’ I say, now holding onto his arm in an attempt at stopping him from pulling away. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just spend the night with me.’

‘No,’ he says, quite literally shaking me off. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Oh come on, Charles. It’s our last night here. Don’t . . .’

But Charles is already heading for the door. ‘No, I have a long day tomorrow. It’s better this way.’

He spins back, crosses the room, and pecks me coldly on the cheek. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But we oldies. We can’t just perform on demand.’

I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s fine. Stay. I don’t mind . . .’

I watch the bedroom door close behind him and sink onto my bed, and try to work out what just happened.

After five minutes, the only theory I have managed to come up with is that his male pride was injured. Men are famously sensitive about their ability to get a stiffy. Or not.

But then I’m famously sensitive about my ability to give my men stiffies. Or not. And
I
haven’t stormed off.

I think about phoning his room to talk about it but remind myself that I don’t know him well enough to know the best course of action. Nothing, for instance, ever made Ronan more angry, more violent even, than following him once he had gone off in a huff. And even if that doesn’t happen, I’m not sure I want to hear what Charles might have to say – for it’s of course entirely possible that he simply doesn’t fancy me that much.

I walk through to the bathroom and turn from side to side and look at myself in the mirror. I look OK. But I have looked better. Perhaps I looked better yesterday.

In my experience, most men can get a hard-on the first time – with pretty much anyone. It’s whether they
maintain
their sexual interest that counts. Maybe Charles only fancied me enough for a one-off.

Yes, best not to explore the subject any further tonight. Far better, whichever way you look at it, to let sleeping dicks lie and salvage whatever can be salvaged in the morning.

But of course I don’t feel at all sleepy now.

I take a trip down to reception for a newspaper to read. The desk is still being manned by the clerk from this morning.

‘Wow!’ I exclaim. ‘
Encore vous
!’

‘
Oui
,’ he repeats drily. ‘
Encore moi
.’

I remember, belatedly that ‘
encore vous
’ is ‘you again,’ whilst, ‘still you,’ which is what I had wanted to say, is
‘toujours vous’.
His expression is enough to tell me that they aren’t the same thing at all.

‘
Désolé
. . .’ I explain grovelingly. ‘Sorry but I mean, you’re
still
here. You must have had a very long day.’

He nods with appropriate tiredness. ‘The other guy is sick,’ he tells me. ‘So, yes. A long day. What can I do for you?’

‘Do you have a paper? Something in English?’

‘American,’ he says, glancing half-heartedly behind him. ‘
Herald Tribune
.’

‘That would be perfect,’ I answer.

He fetches me the newspaper and forces a smile as he hands it to me. ‘Here you are,’ he says switching to excellent English.

‘Oh, and I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘An apology?’

‘Yes, the balloons. Charles
did
order them. For me, that is.’ The clerk frowns, so I elaborate. ‘This morning, I thought it was a mistake, but it wasn’t.’

He shakes his head. ‘No mistake,’ he says.

‘No. So I’m sorry. Oh, how do you say balloon in French?’ I ask.

‘Balloon?’

‘Yes. Balloon.’

‘
Ballon
,’ he says.

‘Oh, OK. Of course. I thought that was a ball, that’s all.’

‘It’s both,’ he says. ‘They are same thing.’

I briefly imagine what football would be like on TV if this were true. Wimbledon would probably be worth a watch too.

‘OK, thanks,’ I say, smiling.

He crinkles his mouth sideways in a sort of wry, suppressed smile. ‘As long as you
enjoyed
them,’ he says. It sounded, for some reason, like he put emphasis on
enjoyed
, but it’s probably just his foreign accent.

I give a tiny, confused shake of my head, lift the paper from the counter, and sweep away. ‘Anyway, thanks for the paper,’ I say.

Just as I am leaving the lobby, I hear him talking to someone else, and glance back. I can’t hear the conversation, but they are both leaning low behind the counter and looking up at me. Whatever he says, both he and the bell boy smile with what I can only describe as smutty schoolboy smirks. And something about those smirks sets my brain racing.

Back in my room, I cast the newspaper aside. Instead I sit and run the evening across the cinema screen of my mind. Frame by frame I analyse it.

I remember Charles raising an eyebrow and smirking in that same way when he saw the balloons. I remember him throwing them at me on the bed and jumping on top.

As I brush my teeth, I remember him reaching down whilst we were bonking and scooping balloons back onto the bed. I start to be convinced that this new theory slowly formulating, is, however bizarre, the right one.

Propped up on pillows, I open my laptop, select Google, and type ‘balloon fetish’.

Already feeling a little sick, I click on the first of 1,400,000 search results. ‘Damn you,’ I mutter. ‘It wasn’t Viagra at all, was it?’

The site is called ‘Looner Vision’. And as the screen fills with images of women blowing up balloons, women popping balloons, women sitting on really big balloons, and one in particular, a busty blonde lying on a hotel bed surrounded by pink balloons, I almost heave.

I click on a couple more links and then close the browser and lie back on my bed.