Boyfriend in a Dress (21 page)

Charlie and I go our separate ways at the train station. I make my way back to my flat, and he heads towards more questions. I have a quick shower, slap on some make-up and set off for work. Even in my jeans and a vest top I feel over-dressed for the heat, and Charlie, hoping it will make a good impression, is wearing a suit. I’ve phoned his work on my mobile and explained to his boss that Charlie will phone him later. He seemed fine about it, even nonchalant, which I took to be a good sign. He obviously didn’t believe it, or maybe he didn’t give a shit about Charlie. I wasn’t sure which was better.

My biggest surprise as I walk into the office is to see Phil in a shirt. My first thought is hat he must be going for another job, and a wave of affection hits me, at the thought that he can’t bear the idea of working there without me.

‘What time’s your interview?’ I ask, and take a swipe at the back of his head with my newspaper. I can be social, my spirits seem to have lifted, shifted somehow, towards optimism. Phil ducks out the way of my paper, and raises his eyes to heaven.

‘I wish. No, they made me go to two of your
Evil Ghost
meetings yesterday, and I figured you wouldn’t be in today
either, so I’m going to have to start dressing up for work now.’ He sighs, like he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders for a matter of seconds, and then as usual, it lifts.

‘But Phil, I never dress up for work, I mean unless it’s really important,’ I say, and beckon him to follow me into my office.

‘Yes, but you are overlooking the very important fact that you know what you are talking about, whereas I –’ he golf swings with an imaginary club, and follows the imaginary ball with his eyes – ‘do not.’ He slumps down in the chair in front of me.

‘Are you going to miss me then? I bet you never counted on that,’ I say as I dump the contents of my in-tray onto my desk.

Phil doesn’t answer, just golf swings again in his chair. He seems a world away from me, another generation, when in fact he is only three years younger than I am. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asks as he makes his way out of my office.

‘Yes please, and then can we have a quick meeting, half an hour, current status etc?’ I hear a faint ‘yep’ as he walks towards the kitchen.

I turn on the TV with the remote, and switch to the news, but it’s just another report on the weather. More heat this afternoon, breaking tonight with a storm. Thank goodness, I think as I wipe the sweat off my neck, the air needs clearing.

Phil returns with my coffee, and shuts the door behind him.

‘Are you seeing anybody at the moment?’ I ask suddenly – it occurs to me that Phil doesn’t seem to be troubled like the rest of us, with matters of the heart.

‘Only lady palm and her five lovely daughters,’ he says, and I raise my eyes to heaven while he chuckles to himself. Lucky, innocent, naive, immature Phil. Still living with his
grandfather, completely untouched by the responsibility and guilt of a relationship that lasts more than a night. I still wouldn’t want to be him though. Nothing can be that bad that I’d wish my life away to a world that revolves solely around the FA Cup, the Premiership, and Sunday League football. I once accused Phil of being insensitive, after he showed a complete lack of interest in the death of Angela’s cat. He got quite angry, and informed me he had cried ‘when Fulham went down.’ Enough said.

My mobile rings again, and I note the number before turning the phone off completely – it is Dale, for the third time this morning. I will phone him later, I have to see to Phil, I tell myself guiltily.

We spend the next hour going through stuff I think he should know. The scriptwriter will need to cut his hair at some point, because José will fire him otherwise with me out of the way. We still don’t have a lead, the model we used in the teaser will need to be in the production somewhere, but don’t let José convince her to go nude, because we won’t get it past the authorities. The sales team needs more brochures, music needs clearing, contracts need drawing up, and somebody needs to monitor the budget, because José won’t. Phil seems petrified at first, as I reel off the things I do, but relaxes into boredom after the first twenty minutes; it is too much for him to take in all at once. I make him listen nonetheless, hoping some of it will sink in. He really doesn’t have any ambition at all. On my departure he will either have a very rude awakening, but throw himself into it and get himself a promotion, or else he’ll just get a bar job and have the time of his life. Yes, I am back to going away again. Charlie has my faith, if not my complete trust.

My office phone rings and I pick up, as Phil spies an opportunity to make a dash for the door and hovers by the handle waiting for the nod from me to say he can go. After
a couple of seconds I shake my head and point back at the seat in front of me. He sighs heavily and slumps into it, arms crossed, practically horizontal, staring off into space.

I hang up, and decide I have to tell Phil, if nobody else.

‘Look, Phil, one last thing.’ His mood noticeably brightens at the word ‘last’.

‘I have to tell you something, but it is completely confidential, and if I hear that anybody else knows I’ll know it came from you, okay?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he says quickly, and tries to hurry me up with his hand, anxious to know what it is. I raise my eyebrows annoyed, and he sits back and waits for me to tell him.

‘I have to go out now.’

He sighs heavily.

‘I have to go to the police station,’ I say to get back his attention.

‘Why, mate, what have you done?’ he asks, concerned.

‘It’s not me, it’s my boyfriend – you remember Charlie, you’ve met him a couple of times.’ I watch his face drop slightly. I know that he thinks Charlie’s a wanker. He had done everything short of saying it to my face, some kind of misplaced concern on his part for me, the little brother I never had.

‘Look, he hasn’t actually done anything, they are just questioning him, but now they want to question me, so I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, okay? Are you going to be all right – can you cope if I pop out?’

Phil’s persona changes instantly, and his gentlemanly side takes over.

‘Absolutely, you go.’ I smile and say thanks.

‘But take your mobile with you, just in case,’ he says quickly, before shutting my office door behind him. I don’t have a chance to say anything back. I resolve to phone up Nim and Jules, both of whom Phil fancies, and bribe
them to go with him to his next football ‘do’, as a thank-you.

As I head down in the lift I think about where I am going for the first time. I have never had to speak to the police, officially, before last week, and now I can’t seem to get away from them. What do they want to ask me anyway? It crosses my mind that Charlie might have given my name as an alibi for the night of the attack. I feel my face flush just at the prospect – I can’t lie to a policeman, it would be like lying to a priest – it’s not allowed, but then it’s never stopped me before. Maybe they just want to ask me a few questions about Charlie generally, where we went in Devon etc … It is only this non-threatening thought that gets me to the station. I chain smoke the whole way.

I sit in reception on a hard, plastic chair waiting for the officers to call me through, and read the various pamphlets pinned to the noticeboard. They are all don’t drink and drive, or have a smoke alarm, put locks on your window, don’t inject heroin … all sensible stuff, and I comply with them all. So far, I am faultless. I feel a slight sense of relief. I wonder where Charlie is, somewhere in the building, in an office, or even a cell, being asked whos and whats and whens about a night he just wants to forget.

Eventually an Officer Brown comes and introduces himself, and asks me to follow him. He doesn’t look any older than Phil, and his clothes seem a little silly on him, a kid in a grown-up’s uniform, but I follow him nonetheless. I am not about to tell him he looks stupid. He leads me into a room at the back of the station full of desks and paper and filing cabinets, and asks me to sit down in front of one of the desks. A couple of other policemen mill about at the door, chatting. I expected it to be more organized than this, tidier. I also expected to be locked in a room with a two-way mirror with the suggestion of somebody lurking behind it,
watching my every move. But instead I just sit where I am told, among the piles, and watch him as he shuffles through some paper to find a notepad. He stares at the pad for a while, and I cough uncomfortably as the silence drags on. He looks up at me, and I realize that he is actually trying to get a word out, but struggling. I narrow my eyes slightly, and nod my head at him to go on, but it doesn’t appear to make much of a difference. He is having real trouble. Stutters are the strangest things, so hard to understand, and yet so hard not to laugh at the awkwardness of it all. There is a song, by the Bare Naked Ladies, I think, where it talks about being the kind of person who laughs at funerals, and this is exactly the same thing. The compelling need not to laugh at all, the tragedy of the thing, sometimes seems like the biggest incentive to collapse into hysterics. I make a real effort not to, however, and also fight the urge to tell him to ‘just sing it’. Finally when the word arrives, I am shocked to hear the noise come out of his mouth.

‘C … C … C … CCCCan I ask you a few questions?’ he asks.

I want to say ‘you may, but whether you can or not remains to be seen.’ But I just say, ‘Sure.’

He asks me about Charlie, how long we’ve been together, but he seems to focus on the fact that he has just resigned. I explain that I have done the same thing, that we have decided to go travelling. He seems happy enough with this answer, and then asks if Charlie has spoken to me about a woman being attacked outside of his apartment on the evening of Wednesday last week. I say yes, and try and remember what Charlie had told me about the night itself. I start with Charlie going out on to his balcony and looking down with a beer, and finish with him phoning the police. I leave out the part about him having sex with her, or the dress-wearing incident the next day – after all, he didn’t ask me about those bits. Again,
he seems quite happy with the answers. I have forgotten all about the stutter by now, as he seems to have completely forgotten himself. But as he stands up, it starts again.

‘T T T T T TTTT …’ is all he is saying, and I stick out my hand to shake his to break the silence. He shakes my hand but carries on with the ‘T T T T TTTT’ in rhythm to our hand shaking, and after a while my arm actually begins to ache. Again, as if my growing tired and or bored is the trigger that he needs, he blurts out,

‘TTh Th Thank you for meeting with me, it was good of you to spare the time. Your boyfriend will be out front by now, so you are both free to go together.’

Out front Charlie is indeed waiting, by the noticeboard, reading a pamphlet on littering and the fact that it is just rude, and I dig him in the back with my finger.

‘You ready to go then?’ I ask, with a smile.

‘I can’t believe they called you down here,’ he says with sincere concern.

‘Are you okay? Did they ask you horrible questions about me?’ He wants to know everything, I can tell, and I want to tell him everything.

‘No, not really. You told them you’ve resigned, and he only seemed interested in knowing if I had done the same thing. I think they were just corroborating your story. It was fine, I promise,’ I tell him, and rub his back.

‘Okay.’ He looks away, and then back at me.

‘You really are great, Nicola, you know that, don’t you?’ he says, and I am taken aback by the affection in his eyes. It makes me feel like a fraud.

‘Yeah, I’m bloody marvellous,’ I say, and try and conceal the sarcasm, directed right at myself.

Charlie announces that he wants to head into work, put on a brave face, spread the word that he’s done nothing wrong, and that everything is fine. We kiss at the tube, and
make arrangements to meet that night. I have a work thing I have to go to, some clients taking us out to a restaurant in town, which I had completely forgotten about, and which I desperately don’t want to go to, but have to really, seeing as it’s kind of for me, and if not Phil will just feel uncomfortable all night.

I say I’ll be over to his late, and he should eat without me, and I jump on the tube. I check my watch as I get off at Leicester Square, and realize the battery must have died hours ago. I switch on my mobile knowing there will be messages. There are three, all from Dale. The first is concerned, the second is agitated, the third is kind of angry, and why not? I have stopped him going to Scotland, and now I won’t even take his calls. I check the time – it is three o’clock. I shiver slightly, and check the sky. I can see clouds creeping in from the west.

Back at work Phil has told everybody about my imminent departure, and they are all very anxious to hear about where I plan to go on my travels, and good for me, how they wish they were going etc … ‘Just go then,’ I say, ‘just jack it all in and go.’ But they make their relevant excuses: debt, kids, career … I sit there thinking how great Charlie and I are, and how brave. We are seizing the day, we are throwing caution to the wind.

I head into the kitchen to get away from the feigned sincerity of some of the younger bitchier secretaries, who are just using me as an excuse to hang around Phil’s desk. I think it’s his shyness that they mistake for aloofness that attracts them. And he is a very good-looking young man. If only they knew that they petrified him, they’d have him tied to the desk in no time.