‘Sorry, but who is Brian?’ he asks.
None of your business, I think. ‘Oh, nobody,’ I say. ‘An ex.’ Norman smiles. ‘Should I take that as a good sign then?’
I screw my eyes up and tilt my head to one side. ‘Erm . . . no. No, you probably shouldn’t,’ I say with exaggerated seriousness.
‘OK. Anyway, don’t get the wrong end of the stick, there. God, me and my big mouth! I will leave Cathy . . . just as soon as I meet the right person . . . when I, you know, have somewhere to go to.’
How lovely! I think. ‘Right,’ I say, flatly.
‘Because obviously, we live together. So there are material issues too. I nearly left her at Christmas. I was seeing this girl . . . I thought it was going to work out. But then she dumped me.’
I nod and swallow hard again. ‘So you were living with your wife and seeing someone else?’
‘Well yeah,’ he says. ‘For a bit. Temporarily.’
I think, What a slimeball. I sigh deeply. ‘And presumably your wife didn’t know about this?’
He frowns. ‘Well no. She’d make my life hell if she knew. I may like a bit of kink, but I’m not a masochist.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘So you had an affair. I mean . . . Well, really, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’
He frowns. ‘Well no. I mean, not really. Because I would have left her. I was going to do it on Boxing Day. I didn’t want to spoil Christmas, that’s all.’
I nod. ‘Right,’ I say. I think, Worm.
‘But women aren’t cars,’ I continue, starting to feel truly angry now. ‘You can’t just go around test driving them until you find a model that suits you better and then trade up.’
‘No,’ Norman says, thoughtfully. ‘Well you sort of can actually,’ he adds. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, of course women aren’t cars, but as a bloke, well, you can’t let them boss you . . .’
Mary, mother of Jesus!
‘I need to pop to the loo,’ I interrupt, pushing away from the table and grabbing my bag. I’m scared that if I let him finish that phrase I shall have to slap him.
‘Me too,’ Norman says, standing too. ‘Too much tea at work.’
We head to the back of the restaurant side by side. I want to push him away from me. I have a little fantasy of him falling into the hot-pot at the big group table, sit-com style.
The ladies’, as always, is occupied, so I wait and watch Norman disappear into the men’s. As he vanishes behind the door, he winks at me again.
Cocky little shit, I think, as I fake a smile and give him a little wave.
And then I have an idea. I scoot back across the room and grab my coat from the seat-back, and not even taking the time to put it on, I stride to – and then out of – the door of the restaurant.
When I get outside it is drizzling lightly but there is nowhere really to hide. And so I literally jog – well, as close to jogging as heels will allow – to the first side street.
Once I have rounded the corner, I slow to a brisk walk until I manage to flag down a passing cab. The street is one way, so the taxi driver has no choice but to drive me back to the main road, and back past the restaurant.
I slump as low in the seat as I can; my heart is pounding. I feel like I have done something naughty and am about to be caught out. I feel the way I did when I went through my brief stint of shoplifting at thirteen. Adrenalin. Fight or flight.
I shake my head at my inability to ever pick a sane, normal, single, heterosexual male. Does such a person even exist any more?
I feel a wave of dismay at the fact that I have spent so very many months fantasising about this, entirely pointless, worm of a man.
And then I think of one of Darren’s fabulous one-liners – do I look like a side-dish for bored couples? – and wish that I had used it.
For a moment I think about texting the line to Norman, but then I decide that picturing him waiting for me to return from the ladies’ is going to be far more satisfying.
A Ghostly Presence
Because I have a car booked for nine, I have to set my alarm for seven. What with thinking about Norman, men, and my life in general, plus worrying about meeting Saddam, it’s four a.m. before I finally drift off into the lightest of slumbers. What’s more, I’m awakened a full fifteen minutes before the alarm by the dulcet tones of Guinness retching. I switch the light on just in time to see him vomit a prodigious quantity of semi-digested cat food over the pile of (until that moment, clean) washing I left on the armchair.
I groan, roll from the bed, scrape the worst of the brown gunge from a sweatshirt into the loo, and carry the entire pile of folded washing straight back to the washing machine.
I’m lacking so much sleep that I feel like I have been at an all- night party (when was the last time I did that?). So I dig out my trusted college-year remedy (vitamin C tabs) and make myself two double espressos and head for the shower. Vaguely aware that I’m trying to look younger but determined not to think about why, I dress in my trendiest pair of G-Star jeans and a French Connection sweatshirt, dump another pile of cat-food (a different brand this time) in Guinness’ bowl, and head from the door.
It’s a cold but sunny day, and I’m hugely grateful for this. Motorways in the rain have always given me the willies. For some reason I have always felt that I will probably die in a slithering pile-up on the M11.
At easyCar Euston, I learn that somebody has pranged my Ford Ka, so I’m ‘upgraded’ to a diesel Mondeo, which, due mainly to tiredness, makes me disproportionately furious. I don’t like big cars anyway but the Mondeo makes me feel like a long distance sales rep.
But once I get out of London and onto the M11 I forget about it and get entirely lost in my own thoughts which flip back and forth between yesterday evening’s long-anticipated reunion with Norman (who this morning, I feel, probably should have received at least a slap) and nervous, sickly anticipation of meeting Saddam.
Thinking about Darren, Saddam, Charles, Brian and Norman, I decide that in fact men in general could do with a slap. In a vague fantasy world, I toy with the idea of becoming a lesbian. I imagine living with a woman instead of a man. I picture having her butch animal-rights friends around for a Sunday nut-roast. It actually all feels quite appealing until the movie in my mind reaches the obligatory sex-scene, upon which I pull a face and blank that entire thought process by thinking about Mum and Saddam again.
I wonder what he will be like. Mainly, when I try to picture him, my mind produces images of Saddam Hussein. Old and bearded, the day he was captured. God! I hope he doesn’t have a beard! Not that I’m intending to kiss my mother’s boyfriend of course, but all the same . . . You don’t want your stepfather – stepfather! now there’s a thought! – being called Saddam, and looking like him. I remind myself that he’s too young to look like Saddam Hussein, and force myself to imagine someone younger, but the image my mind’s eye conjures up looks more like a twelve-year-old than a young man of twenty-three. And then I remind myself that I have already glimpsed him in Mum’s photos so I try to recover that image. Interestingly enough that part of my data-bank is entirely blank.
As I hit the M25, thick grey cloud fills the sky, but the roads remain dry and the traffic is light, so I make good time. The radio in the Mondeo only seems to pick up soppy love songs which are sooo not where my brain is at this morning, so I end up switching it off and humming The Strokes instead. I pull onto Mum’s drive at eleven o’clock precisely.
She appears from the side of the house, trotting across the gravel.
‘I thought it might rain,’ she says as I climb from the car. ‘I’m so glad it didn’t. I know how you hate driving in the wet.’
‘Dry all the way,’ I say, slamming the car door and hugging her perfunctorily as is our way.
‘That’s a big car for you,’ she says.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘They ran out of little ones. I wanted a Ka.’
Mum nods. ‘Well . . . yes . . .’ she says. ‘Oh, a “Ka”
. That little blobby Ford thingy.’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Well come in,’ she says, ‘before it does rain.’
‘Do you think it’s going to?’ I ask as I follow her to the house. I think, Suspend judgement. Maybe he’s nice.
‘Adam’s out,’ Mum throws over her shoulder, as if she’s reading my thoughts. ‘He’s having a driving lesson.’
I smile and grimace at the same time. ‘A driving lesson! Wow.’
I step into the hallway and Mum pushes the door closed behind me. ‘Now don’t be like that . . .’
‘I’m not being like anything.’
‘He can already drive. It’s just he has to take his test again. They only give you twelve months on a Moroccan licence.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Did you say Adam, or did I mishear you?’
‘No, that’s right. We’ve decided to re . . . what is it you advertising people say?’
‘I don’t know. Re-brand him?’
‘Yes. That’s it. We’ve decided to “re-brand” him.’ I restrain a smirk as she makes speech-marks with both hands. ‘The Saddam thing is turning out to be a bit . . . challenging . . . so . . .’
I briefly think of pointing out that Chelsea is a bit challenging as well. Especially when my birth certificate and passport say Chelsii. Waiine, Chelsii, what was she thinking of?
I decide, however, not to provoke her this early on. ‘And he doesn’t mind? Being called Adam?’
Mum shrugs. ‘Why would he? Now come on in. A cup of tea?’
‘Oh yes please,’ I say, following her into the kitchen. ‘I’m gasping.’
As she fills the kettle, I glance around the room trying to spot any signs of Saddam/Adam’s presence, but other than a rather nice Adidas sweatshirt that I wouldn’t mind myself, there are none.
‘So how have you been?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Well, great really. You just get into the habit of saying fine, don’t you? Yes, I spent the day gardening yesterday, sorting those rose-beds out.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, ‘. . . keeping busy. Did Saddam help you?’
‘Adam? No. Gardening’s really not his thing.’
‘Right. He could still give you a hand though, couldn’t he?’
‘Well I don’t see why you would say that,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d be on his side.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well you certainly never gave me a hand in the garden.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t. But I help with other things.’
‘Well so does Adam.’
‘Fair enough.’
I hear the crunch of wheels on the drive, and then a car door opening and closing, but frustratingly the kitchen is at the rear of the house so I can’t see him arrive. I would have liked to catch a glimpse of him before having to meet him face to face.
As I hear him put his key in the lock (so he has keys!) my heart starts to pound.
‘That’ll be Adam now,’ Mum says checking her watch as if she might have different men coming at different times of the day.
And then he’s there, standing in the doorway, jingling his keys. Our eyes meet for half a second, and then he averts his gaze and stares at the floor.
He’s wearing jeans, a plain white shirt and Adidas trainers.
My first reaction – which I suppress – is to laugh. It’s not that there’s anything ridiculous about Saddam per se, it’s just that if you were to fill a warehouse with photos of every single person on planet Earth, and ask someone to pick out a photo of my mother’s partner, Saddam’s photo would be, almost certainly, anyone’s, everyone’s last choice.
He is young (obviously). The white shirt somehow doesn’t help this. It makes me think of school uniform. But he’s also taller and darker than I imagined, almost black in fact, with frizzy, short, jet black hair. He has the largest, darkest eyes that I have ever seen, big cheekbones, and full, almost girlish lips. OK, OK, I admit it. He’s very good looking. Almost too good looking – almost model-pretty.
‘Hello!’ I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, on reflection probably overdoing it a bit. I sound a bit like a Club Med guide.
He looks up at me and breaks into a big toothy smile – born more, I’m guessing, from embarrassment than pleasure. ‘Hello,’ he replies.
And then I decide that he reminds me of someone else, and realise that he looks like a younger, plumper version of President Obama. Obama with lip implants perhaps. I wonder if he’s aware of the irony of being called Saddam and looking like Obama.
‘How did the lesson go?’ Mum asks, thankfully breaking the tension.
‘It went good,’ he says.
‘Well,’ my mother corrects him. ‘It went well.’
‘Well,’ he says, unconvinced. He shuffles from one foot to another and takes a half step towards me. ‘Should we . . . embrace?’ he says.
‘Kiss,’ Mum corrects him. ‘Adam wants to kiss everyone. They’re very French in Morocco.’
He lowers his gaze again and then steps back to the doorway.
‘Tu parles Français?’ I ask him.
‘Oui,’ he replies, briefly flicking his eyes at me.
‘Not that it’s much use here,’ Mum says. ‘And you’re not to talk to each other in French, you hear? I’m not having you two forming some secret club.’
‘Non, Maman,’ I say, provoking another grin from Saddam.
‘You make coffee?’ he asks my mother.
‘Yes. Do you want a cup?’
‘Yes, and a sandwich. Cheese.’
I brace myself for Mum to explode and remind him of his manners, but she doesn’t. She simply says, ‘I’ll bring it through.’
‘So how did . . .’ I say, turning back to the door. But he has already left the room.
‘He’ll have gone to watch TV,’ Mum says. ‘It’s good for his English. He likes the American stuff best. He says it’s easier to understand.’
‘Well that’ll be where, “it went good,” comes from,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Staying and talking would probably do his English more good,’ I point out.
She wrinkles her nose as she fills the cups. ‘Yes, well, I expect he’s a bit shy,’ she says.
Once she has made my tea and his coffee and sandwich, I expect that we will head through to the lounge to join him, but in fact Mum delivers his snack-pack and returns to the kitchen.
‘Shouldn’t we . . .?’ I say, nodding my head towards the lounge. People eating or drinking in separate rooms was always a no-no in my day.
‘No, he’s better just watching TV,’ Mum says. ‘So. What do you think?’
Following our three second exchange, it’s entirely impossible to give an honest or educated reply, so I just say, ‘Yes. He seems nice.’
That question – what do I think – remains impossible to answer as the day passes, for the simple reason that Saddam’s presence in the house seems more like that of a timid lodger, or perhaps the ghost of a timid lodger than anything to do with my mother.
I catch glimpses of him from the corner of my eye, padding silently from one room to another. I hear the toilet flush and the TV go on and off, as if, perhaps, operated by an invisible, silent poltergeist. As I tour the garden with Mum, I glance up and catch a vague, somehow transparent glimpse of him upstairs, looking at us from behind the shiny windows of her bedroom – he instantly slips out of sight.
For the evening meal, Saddam momentarily occupies the same room as Mum and me. I’m reassured to be reminded that he is made of skin and bones. I was starting to feel a little spooked by his invisible presence.
Mum, for many years champion of the British-Meat-And- Two-Veg school of cooking, knocks up a surprisingly good lamb couscous, and once it’s served and ready to roll, Saddam, summoned, joins us at the table.
He smiles at me, then lowers his gaze to the plate and starts to eat rapidly.
‘So, S
addam . . .’ I say. ‘Sorry, should I call you Saddam or Adam?’ I ask.
‘Adam,’ Mum replies.
Saddam flicks his eyes at me and smiles briefly. ‘Adam is OK,’ he says.
‘So you’re flying home tomorrow?’ I say.
‘Yes, he gets picked up by a shuttle tomorrow morning,’ Mum answers. ‘I hate driving these days.’
‘So what do you do in Agadir?’ I ask. ‘It is Agadir, isn’t it?’
‘Well he’s a guide, dear,’ Mum says. ‘You know that.’
I turn to my mother and smile tightly. ‘I thought Adam might like to tell me about it himself,’ I say, pointedly turning back to face him.
‘Yes. A guide,’ he says.
‘So do you get to use your English when you’re working as a guide?’
He nods and points at his mouth to indicate that it’s full of food, and I wait for him to finish without glancing at my mother. But once he has finished, he just forks another lump of lamb into his mouth.
I glance back at Mum, a little consternated and she wrinkles her nose and mouths the word, ‘Shy,’ at me.
‘You have brothers or sisters?’ I ask, trying again.
‘He has . . .’
‘Mum!’ I say, shooting her a glare which effectively silences her.
He raises four fingers in reply and continues to chew.
I wait until he swallows and ask, ‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘Three sisters. One brother,’ he says with a vague French accent, before loading up with another forkful of couscous.
It would be easy to interpret these monosyllabic responses as rude or begrudging, but his body language, his facial expressions, his aura, his toothy grin, his wide eyes dropping to the plate at every available opportunity are anything but rude. In fact he emanates nothing but timidity and sweetness. He’s a sweet, unsophisticated Moroccan boy who finds this whole situation rather uncomfortable, and – against all expectation – slightly more embarrassing than even I do.
At this point, I start to worry – not about Saddam fleecing Mum – but about her dominating and exploiting him.
I end up shovelling my food in a similar fashion to Saddam, just to get it over with. Immediately I have finished my plate, he stands, wipes his mouth, delicately folds the napkin, and says in a rigidly polite voice that is so quiet that I can barely hear him, ‘Well, it was very good to meet you.’
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 26