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 leav
ing 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.
God! I think. When he said he was ‘ in rubber’ I thought he meant professionally.
For a moment, I feel a little better. If Charles’ issue is the lack of balloons then at least his lack of performance isn’t any failing on my part. At least I haven’t somehow become less sexy than yesterday.
And then I realise that if it was all about balloons, then maybe it was nothing to do with me at all. Perhaps any woman in a room full of balloons would have done the trick. Perhaps just a room full of balloons would have done the trick. Perhaps without the balloons he wouldn’t have found me sexy yesterday either.
I have a feeling that tonight the baby blue sky is going to be no solace. It’s going to be a long one.
Early Exit
I hardly sleep at all that night. I stare at the ceiling until about four a.m. and then doze until seven, whereupon, in a fit of activity, I leap from the bed and start packing.
My flight isn’t until five this afternoon, but it’s simple and instinctive: I just don’t want to be here any more.
Down in reception, though, a problem arises. ‘I need Monsieur Van Heerden here for checkout,’ the desk clerk tells me. ‘The room is on his bill.’
‘I’ll pay,’ I say. ‘Really, it’s fine. I would rather pay for myself anyway.’
‘But I am obliged to phone Monsieur Van Heerden. If that’s OK . . . He did reserve the room.’
‘Well, I would rather you didn’t.’
‘Madame, I understand . . .’
I am just about to launch myself into a manufactured explosion which will be so loud and so embarrassing that the clerk will have no choice but to let me have my way, when a hand touches me on the shoulder.
‘It’s fine,’ Charles says. ‘I’m here.’
I shrug the hand off and turn to face him. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to get away now . . . I’m perfectly happy to pay for my own room.’
He laughs. ‘I doubt that,’ he says. ‘Do you have any idea how exp—’
‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’ I say. ‘I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.’
‘I’m sure,’ he says, raising his hands in submission. ‘But really. Please. Let me. To make up for last night.’
I shake my head, but, as often is the case, the two men in the room have decided, with a wink and a nod, to sort this out between themselves.
‘So I’ll just add it to your bill, monsieur?’
‘Yes,’ Charles answers.
The clerk smiles at him, raises the magic eyebrow at me, and slips the manila sleeve back into the drawer.
‘Could you look after my friend’s bag whilst we have a coffee?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘I haven’t agreed to coffee or anything else,’ I point out.
‘I know,’ Charles says. ‘But you can’t just leave like this. The weekend hasn’t been that bad, has it? At least have a coffee with me.’
I sigh. I am, I realise, being a bit rude. And maybe a bit hysterical. ‘Coffee,’ I say, flatly.
‘Coffee. Where’s the harm?’
I stare at him. I stare through him. I try to make up my mind. ‘OK,’ I say after a calculated pause.
‘Can we have two coffees in the red room?’ he asks the clerk.
‘The red room,’ the man repeats.
‘The salon Vuitton or whatever,’ Charles says.
‘Versailles,’ I correct.
‘Yes, of course,’ the clerk says. ‘I’ll send a waiter. Please . . .’
I hand over my suitcase and follow Charles to the Salon Versailles. It’s as stunning as ever, and we take our seats in front of the big bay window, this morning, closed.
I look out over the sea at what is clearly going to be another beautiful day and wonder what it must be like to live somewhere where it’s always sunny. It certainly must make planning picnics easier.
‘I am sorry,’ Charles says earnestly. ‘About last night.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well . . .’ It’s the best I can manage for the moment.
‘Still, we had some fun though, didn’t we?’
I nod vaguely. It’s undeniable that, overall, the weekend has been lovely. Last night was a blip. A profound blip, but a blip nonetheless.
I’m struggling to maintain my hardened features. The resulting expression is the one that, when my mother does it, I call ‘sucking lemons’. And I wonder why we still do this as adults. For there’s clearly something very childish about pretending to be miserable when you aren’t, just to make a point. ‘Cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ my father called it.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, my voice softer than I had intended.
A waiter arrives and takes our order, and we sit silently watching the sun rising in the empty sky until he returns with the drinks.
‘So back to London for you,’ Charles says finally.
‘Yes. Back to my long-suffering cat.’
‘Will he be OK?’
I nod. ‘Yeah. Apparently he’s moved into my neighbour’s place. They have no loyalty, cats.’
‘It’s good to have good neighbours,’ Charles says. ‘Useful.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Mark’s an old friend. And a work colleague too. In America they say that people like that – people you know so well they’re like family – they call them framily.’
‘Framily?’
‘Yes. I really liked that.’
‘So Mark is your framily?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Were you and he ever . . . you know . . . together?’
In spite of my desire to remain stony-faced, I smile. ‘No! Mark is gay.’
Charles nods. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘And you . . . I mean . . . that isn’t a problem for you?’
‘No,’ I say, frowning now. ‘Why would it be?’
Charles shrugs and sips his coffee. ‘I’m not sure what I think about that sort of thing, I suppose. But then I’m older than you.’
‘You just have to let other people be the way they are,’ I say. ‘There’s really no other choice.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Charles says.
‘I know so,’ I say.
‘I always think that there need to be some limits though . . . to what’s acceptable . . . I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your friend is very nice . . . but . . . well, I’m sure you know what I mean.’
So, homophobic! I sigh and shake my head gently. I wonder, if we sat here all day, how many other things would fall out of Charles’ closet? How many other ‘brown sock’ moments would we have? Plenty, I’m guessing. ‘When’s your flight to Dusseldo
rf?’ I ask.
‘Half-three,’ Charles says. ‘And then tomorrow night, to Berlin. And then on to St Petersburg.’
‘In Russia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you get tired of all that moving around?’
Charles shakes his head. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I used to. When I had stuff to get home for. Nowadays I don’t mind so much.’
‘Sure,’ I say, finishing my coffee and putting the cup down decisively. If he carries on like this I shall start feeling sorry for him, and that isn’t what I want at all. ‘Well, thanks, Charles. It’s . . . it’s been fun. And you’ve been very generous.’
He smiles and nods vaguely. ‘My pleasure. And you’ve been wonderful company. And I am truly sorry about last night. These things happen at my age, sadly . . . it’s . . . unpredictable. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.’
I run a finger across my brow. I had been about to leave, but this is suddenly sounding like he thinks I’m upset because he couldn’t get it up. And that’s not the problem. That’s not the problem at all.
‘It wasn’t that,’ I say, settling back into my seat for a moment longer. ‘It was the balloon thing.’
‘The balloon thing?’ Charles repeats.
I wrinkle my nose and lean in. ‘Yes. You have a bit of a balloon thing, don’t you?’
Charles swallows and straightens his back and turns to look out of the window.
‘It’s fine, Charles,’ I say, suddenly wondering if I have got this wrong. ‘But it’s not for me.’
‘Right,’ he says, still looking away. ‘Not for you . . . Why?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose, erm, when I sleep with someone, I like to think that it’s about them finding me attractive, really . . . rather than about the, um, accessories.’
‘Oh, but I do find you attractive,’ Charles says.
‘Yes,’ I say. But only in a room full of balloons, I think.
‘Anyway, it’s like you said,’ I continue. ‘There have to be limits. And everyone’s limits are different. You’re not comfortable with gays . . . I’m not that comfortable with off-the-wall fetishes.’
Charles nods, thoughtfully taking this in. ‘It’s not really the same thing though, is it,’ he says.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 15