Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about!

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘Wow. Only in New York.’ Birdie laughs gleefully. ‘Show me the picture of Chuck!’

  I take the photograph out of my bumbag and hold it up to the screen.

  Birdie squints and smiles sadly.

  ‘Ah, I bought him that shirt,’ she says with a nostalgic sigh.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ I say.

  ‘He was gorgeous,’ Birdie agrees.

  ‘Well, according to Anders, Chuck works in Wall Street. Or at least he did. So that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘But… it’s Sunday.’

  ‘I know that now! I didn’t even think until I got here. I’ll have to wait until Monday,’ I say. ‘Hopefully he’ll be working at the bank still, I can give him the letter and I’ll be back with you as soon as possible.’

  Birdie nods. ‘Thanks, Brewster. This really does mean a whole bunch to me.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ll find him, don’t worry.’

  I see a flash of emotion cross Birdie’s face, but before I can decipher what it is, it’s gone and she’s smiling again.

  ‘Hey, make sure you read my list of recommendations, won’t you?’

  ‘I will.’ I grin back. ‘You always did say that you’d show me NYC one day,’ I point out with a wobble in my voice.

  Birdie sighs. ‘Well, there you go.’ Her voice wobbles a bit too. ‘Take pictures of everything, okay? I’m getting such a kick out of you being there!’

  ‘Definitely.’ I’m pleased that I agreed to do this for her, despite the fact that it’s been a teensy bit traumatic so far.

  ‘Anything else interesting happened today? Besides your crazy-ass hair?’

  I cover my face because I can’t believe what I’m about to say. I can’t believe it actually happened.

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ I say breezily. ‘Except… I was just accused of having a public wank in Gramercy Park. Plus, I stole a key.’

  And although I’m not really up for reliving my humiliation, the fact that Birdie is laughing before I’ve even started relaying the story means that I tell her every last detail.

  Chapter Fourteen

  @ElissaJohnson to @NYPD

  I apprehended a pervert in Gramercy Park today. Upon phoning police, I was told that someone would be with me in two minutes. 1/2

  @ElissaJohnson to @NYPD

  20 mins later a cop FINALLY arrived. The pervert had fled, stealing a valuable key from around my neck. Appalled and disappointed in NYPD!!! 2/2

  @ElissaJohnson

  Everyone! Beware of a deranged British woman wearing her hair in an aggressive phallic arrangement. She is a pervert and thief

  @ElissaJohnson

  Thanks for your well wishes @Designermommy23 and @organic_hemingway_brooklyn. I am recovering at @GuerlainSpa. Just hope the police find her! Am filing complaint as we speak.

  By the time I get back to the handsome leafy streets of the Upper West Side, I can barely keep my eyes open. I grabbed a few groceries on the way back, so at least I’ll be able to make a coffee to keep myself awake!

  Up in the apartment it takes me an hour to remove all the kirby grips in my hair and even when they’re all out, every strand remains in perfect place. Anders must have used some extra-super-strength hairspray; my hair is all crunchy. I step into the narrow shower and wash my hair vigorously until the horn structure starts to disintegrate and the gross blue hair drops out, pooling disgustingly in the plughole. Slipping into my white cotton dressing gown, I dry my hair, lay the sheets out on the sofa bed and switch on the TV.

  Oh, The Big Bang Theory is on! I think of Alex and Donna at home. I wonder how they’re finding it without me in the house. This is only the second time in my life that I’ve not slept in my own room. Donna’s probably loving it. I wonder if Alex is too. He’s not been in touch since I left so I’m guessing the answer is yes.

  I thought I would hate staying in an apartment here alone. But it’s actually quite nice. I can just sit here with no worries of Donna knocking on my door, or Alex bursting in to tell me that Donna is getting on his case because I’ve left the toothpaste lid off again. I look around me. No one is going to interrupt me in here. I can do anything I like.

  I glance over to the blinds to make sure they’re definitely shut and then I take off my robe so that I am naked.

  There.

  I am completely in the buff.

  And no one can do anything about it!

  It’s not bad.

  It’s actually quite comfortable.

  And then something even more exciting occurs to me. I don’t have to watch The Big Bang Theory. I’m here alone. I have the power. I can do whatever I damn well please in this tiny studio apartment.

  I’ve never really experienced that before!

  So I pick up the remote control, point it at the TV and, with a flourish, turn The Big Bang Theory over to a completely different channel.

  And, honestly, it’s the best I’ve felt all day.

  I snuggle myself down into the sofa bed with a massive yawn. And before I’ve even found something I want to watch, my eyes drift close.

  I don’t know how long I doze off for. It must be ages because it’s dark when I wake up. The TV is still on, colourful lights casting a blue glow around the room.

  Dammit. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I should have made a coffee as soon as I got back earlier. I squint at my watch. 11 p.m. Nooooo! Now I’ll be awake all night!

  I sit up, feeling a slight chill on my naked body. Grabbing my robe, I wrap it around me and pad over to the kitchenette to make a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

  I notice I have a sweet text from Colin asking me what my favourite breakfast food is. I smile to myself and type back ‘Weetabix.’ A few seconds later, he sends a reply. ‘Weetabix for me too!’ it says.

  Not many people would choose Weetabix. This has got to be a sign of some sort. Of what, I don’t know… But, still. It’s got to be a good thing, right?

  Outside on the street I hear the sound of a police siren fly past and feel my shoulders bunch up.

  I tell myself that of course they’re not coming for me. I made a clean escape from Gramercy Park, they don’t even know I’m here! But nevertheless the sound of the siren makes me feel a bit on edge. I grab the remote and turn the telly down to mask any outdoor noise.

  Oh! Look! It’s that show, Sunday Night Live! The show that Seth the queue jumper said he wrote for. We don’t get it in the UK, but I see the clips floating around the internet every Monday morning.

  The actors on screen are dressed as aliens, and they’re all hanging out at a bar in outer space playing some alien version of pool. It’s a bizarre and funny sketch and pretty soon I find myself laughing along with the live audience. I wonder if Seth wrote this sketch? If this was what he was typing away at on the plane? I watch with renewed interest until the advert break.

  Having finished my tea and toast, I head to the kitchenette to rinse the crockery. When I return there’s a new sketch playing out on the screen. Set on a turbulent airplane, from the looks of things. How they’ll make a turbulent airplane funny, I have no clue.

  ‘This is my first time on an airplane,’ one of the actresses screeches, swigging back from a bottle of champagne. ‘I live in England, don’t you know,’ she’s saying to one of the other passengers – a bespectacled man. ‘It’s the best country in the whole wiiiiiide world.’

  She’s putting on a British accent.

  A really twangy northern accent.

  Like mine.

  How weird.

  I frown. And then, almost as if in slow motion, I notice that the actress on screen is in a wig of massive brown wavy hair. Like mine. And – oh my god – is wearing a bumbag. A pink bumbag. Like mine.

  All at once my jaw clenches, my cheeks get very, very hot and I can only stare, mouth agog, as the actress on the screen invites a bespectacled fellow plane passenger to join her in the mile-high club.

  ‘I need it,’ she says. ‘I need it reeeeeal bad.’

>   When the actress who looks like me and the bespectacled guy enter the airplane toilet, the actress rips off her top, sits onto the loo and says, ‘Olivia likes to be watched! WATCH ME! WATCH ME PIDDLE.’

  Oh. My. God.

  My mouth completely dries up as the bespectacled man tries to escape the airplane loo but the woman makes him stay and watch her have a wee.

  No. No! That is not what happened.

  What the hell?

  How did he? Why did he?

  I jump up from the sofa bed and switch the telly off in shock.

  That damn queue jumper! He has completely screwed me over. He used my fear of planes against me! How mean is that! Stunned tears cloud my vision. He didn’t even disguise me. Olivia? From England? Wearing a beautiful pink bumbag?

  The adrenaline I felt earlier today is back in full force and I am wide awake.

  And there I was thinking this trip couldn’t go any more terribly.

  Boy, was I was wrong.

  I spend the next twenty minutes pacing around the tiny apartment angrily. But it doesn’t calm me down. Not at all. I suppose it doesn’t help that the entire length of the room is about seven steps end to end.

  I peek out of the window blind. The man in the flat opposite is sitting bottomless on his sofa again, watching Sunday Night Live!

  Seth. That absolute bellend.

  I grab my phone and log onto the internet. I Google ‘Seth writer Sunday Night Live idiot’.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. His home address, so I can go over there and kick him right in the goolies?

  Nope. No home address. There is an article, though, published a few days ago on a comedy website called Splitsider. The title of the article says ‘Seth Hartman. Sunday Night Live’s Rising Star’.

  I furiously click on the article and growl in rage as the screen fills up with a picture of the man from the plane. Ugh. His smug eyes are trying to look like the eyes of a normal, innocent kind person who once helped an anxious woman to navigate a long haul flight.

  Those eyes lie!

  I scroll down and start to read.

  Seth Hartman has been a staple at the writer’s desk of Sunday Night Live for the last five years. The thirty-five-year-old Harvard graduate came up through Second City Chicago as part of the popular comedy improv troupe ‘Everybody Loves Dumplings’ and while originally auditioning for spot as a performer on the show, he has become a solid part of the writing team. As well as his writing duties, he still regularly performs and teaches improv in New York and was recently the keynote speaker at the UK’s Comedy Sketch Festival held every year in Manchester.

  With a huge eye roll, I click off the article and load up Twitter, desperately hoping that, by some fluke, everyone else’s TVs crashed at the same time and no one but me saw that horrible sketch.

  But no. The world is loving what has now been termed the ‘Watch Me Piddle’ sketch.

  I furiously scroll the #watchmepiddle hashtag.

  The funniest thing Sunday Night Live has done in years!!

  Kelly Cannon shines as Olivia the kinky British girl on a tempestuous flight. lololol #watchmepiddle

  Seth Hartman is the new Steve Martin. Put him on the screen already @SundayNightLive.

  Omg. That piddle sketch was bizarre. In a good way. Funny AF. WTF??

  I scroll through the endless tweets for far too long. My hands shaking, my face burning with shame.

  I need to talk to someone. I go to FaceTime Birdie, but realise that it’s about 5 a.m. in England and the hospital makes everyone turn their phones off between 11 p.m. and 7 a.m.

  Instead, I FaceTime my brother. He’s usually up pretty early.

  It rings for a while before Alex answers, his shell-shocked face popping up onto the screen.

  Okay, maybe this is a bit too early.

  ‘Olive? What is it? Are you alright? Are you safe?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I know it’s early. I… I just needed to talk to someone…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Alex says gently, wiping his eyes.

  Beside him Donna’s head pops up from the pillow. ‘It’s 5 a.m., Alex! Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Olive,’ he replies. ‘You go back to sleep, love.’

  Donna moves her face right up to the screen. Her usually perfect hair is all mussed up, her eyes puffy.

  ‘Oh, Olive,’ she says. ‘What have you done? Are you in trouble? Do you need money? You need money, don’t you? Has she messed it up already? Oh darling.’

  ‘Harsh, Donna!’ I grumble.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Alex says, his eyebrows lowering worriedly. ‘You look like you’ve been crying.’

  I want to tell him. I want to tell him how weird and tough this day has been. How I’ve just been humiliated on live TV, how I’m so stunned I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. But Donna's there, staring at me through the phone screen. And I can feel her judgement from here.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about!’ I say. ‘But… it is kind of private…’

  ‘You want to talk to me alone?’ Alex says, climbing out of the bed.

  ‘Oh, nice!’ Donna mumbles. ‘I don’t exist, do I?’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I just …want to talk to my brother.’

  Donna rolls her eyes. ‘Donna’s just second fiddle. That’s fine, I guess.’

  Argh!

  Alex shakes his head and climbs back into the bed. ‘Of course not, Donna.’ He turns back to me. ‘Are you sure you can’t speak in front of Donna? She’s part of this family too.’

  I’m well aware. It used to be that Alex and I were our own little team. A bit sad, a bit messed up, but a team, nevertheless. He never judged me for being so particular, for being easily spooked by so many things. He was the same for a while after our parents left. But now Donna is here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that she makes him happy. I mean, she’s clearly helped him to deal with all the shit Mum and Dad dumped on us when they left him in charge of a house and an eighteen-year-old sister when he was only twenty-two years old himself. But she’s always there now. I never get to talk to him properly anymore. I miss that.

  I shake my head. ‘Ah, it doesn’t matter. It was nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Alex says. To his credit, he does look slightly apologetic for Donna’s behaviour. But not enough to leave the room and talk to me alone. ‘Do you need to come back early?’ he adds. ‘Because I can lend you the money for an early flight, just about?’

  Donna huffs. ‘Although that wouldn’t be ideal,’ she points out, nudging Alex with her elbow. ‘We have a filing cabinet to order and I’ve just seen some candle moulds in the shape of Siamese cats that I think will be perfect for the “Creamy Nights” candle scent. We could do without spending the money on a flight, Olive.’

  I sigh. ‘I don’t need an early flight. Everything’s absolutely fine. I’ll see you guys when I’m back.’

  And before they can say anything else, I end the call feeling utterly, guttingly alone. I have a little cry and a sniff which makes me feel a bit better.

  As I plug my phone into the charger beside the bed there’s a loud knock at my door.

  Who the heck is that at this time?

  Chapter Fifteen

  @ElissaJohnson

  Don’t usually watch @SundayNightLive but I’m sure that the #watchmepiddle woman is based on vile menace who robbed me.

  @ElissaJohnson

  Had forgotten she was wearing a fannypack. Has anyone else encountered her? Pls RT.

  Don’t be the police. Do not be the police.

  I head over to the door and take a peek through the spy-hole. It’s a very short round woman of about sixty with silver hair down to her waist, and fifty-pence shaped glasses. She doesn’t look like po-po. She’s leaning on one crutch, a bandage wrapped around her knee, which is poking out from beneath the red and yellow polka dot nightdress she’s wearing.

  I open the door.

  ‘Can I help you?’r />
  The woman pokes her head in my flat and looks around nosily. ‘Are you all right? I can hear you crying through the walls!’

  Her voice is lilting and melodic, her accent a cross between New York and Spanish.

  ‘Oh bugger, I’m so sorry!’ I say, wiping away my tears with a piece of toilet tissue. ‘I genuinely thought I was doing my quiet cry.’

  The woman shrugs a shoulder. ‘Maybe you were, but these walls are as thin as a water biscuit. I’ve complained to the building managers but, eh, they don’t listen to me. “Old Mrs Ramirez, complaining once more,” they say. They think that just because my rent is controlled that I’ll never leave no matter what. They think…’ she looks up and down the hallway with a confrontational expression, as if ‘they’ are listening ‘…that I don’t know they talk about me. But I know. I know everything that goes on around here.’

  I nod. ‘Oh dear. Well… I’m really very sorry. I’ll keep it down. I should probably stop crying actually. It’s no help!’

  The woman looks down into my hand at the screwed-up loo roll and blows the air out from her cheeks, giving a little shake of her head.

  ‘Come with me, cariño,’ she commands, promptly spinning around and marching across the hall into the flat opposite mine.

  Hmmm. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to enter into a second stranger’s house in the same day. But… this Mrs Ramirez looks harmless. I don’t think she’ll want to do my hair… God, I hope not.

  Not everyone in New York is a weirdo, Olive.

  I pop my head outside into the hallway. She’s left her front door open for me.

  I step out of my flat and tentatively cross the hall into hers.

  As I enter, I notice that Mrs Ramirez’s studio is exactly the same as mine, only everything’s the other way around.

  Her walls are filled with framed pictures of landscapes and seascapes and mountainscapes and there are little ornaments dotted here there and everywhere. Glass ducks, and matryoshka dolls, tiny cactuses and exotic-looking bowls and vases.