Free The Case of the Missing Boyfriend by Nick Alexander Page A

dream of mine – that out there, somewhere, hiding, there exists a guy who is cultured and calm, and smiley and faithful, who wants to escape the rat-race with me and, apparently like the French, wear wellies and make cheese . . . Well, I wonder if it can possibly exist.
    I don’t want much . . . just someone who would lie flat on his stomach next to me in the garden watching ants carrying crumbs through the jungle of blades of grass. I wonder if that can
ever
exist, anywhere, for anyone.
    Personally, I blame
The Good Life.
My father was obsessed with it, which is strange really, as it bore so little resemblance to our own lives. Perhaps that was the appeal. My brain developed in a white, aseptic box in deepest most comfortable Surrey, filled – by TV – with images and dreams of something different, something better: pigs and chickens, greenhouses and piglets.
    My family life
was
Margo and Jerry, only with two extra kids and a TV showing
The Good Life.
And all I ever really wanted was to move next door to live with Tom and Barbara.
    I refocus on the room and realise that some time has passed and that our numbers have dwindled.
    ‘Go and chivvy them along would you?’ Betina, who is somewhat trapped in the corner, asks. ‘I would go myself, but . . .’
    I smile at her and feel a little guilty that in my dreaming I have failed to notice the departure of Cheryl and Cynthia, and that Betina is now encircled by men – men apparently discussing
Top Gear
.
    Here, I can only agree with my gay friends: heterosexual men truly do have the strangest conversations. Right now they are arguing about whether Jeremy Clarkson is a tosser or, according to Martin, a
very cool dude.
    I mean,
hello?
    In the kitchen, I find Cynthia and Cheryl blowing smoke out of the back door. As I enter, Cheryl is saying, ‘Since September last year!? Oh you poor thing!’
    When she catches sight of me she jumps. ‘Oh! Hello.’
    ‘Hiya,’ I say. ‘I have been sent to find out where you have vanished to. Poor Betina is being ambushed by the Jeremy Clarkson fan club.’
    ‘Sorry,’ Cynthia says, glancing furtively along the corridor. ‘You know how it is. We were talking about sex.’
    Cheryl pulls a face. ‘Can you believe Cyn and Carl haven’t had a bonk since . . .’ she says.
    ‘ Cheryl!’ Cynthia protests. ‘
Don’t . . .
you know . . .’
    From this I deduce that though my sex life is public domain, for the married women amongst us, it’s clearly a private club.
    Cheryl pulls a face and stubs out her cigarette on the side of the doorstep.
    ‘Sorry,’ Cynthia says. ‘Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. If you can carry the plates through, and you the sauce there, and I’ll get the
gougère
from the oven.’
    ‘So what have you done with the kids?’ I ask as we head through to the other room. Carl’s previous birthday dinner had suffered a constant stream of interruptions as Chloe and Lilly found a never-ending series of reasons to come downstairs.
    ‘Oh, they’re at my sister’s,’ Cynthia laughs. ‘Never again! Not after last time.’
    This leads inevitably to a round of kiddy conversation, another constant in our dinner parties. It’s not that I don’t like kids, it’s not that at all. It’s just that there’s only so much you can say about them before it all goes around again. I mean, I like sunflowers. But I’m not going to talk about them
every
time I see anyone.
    And so I listen, and smile, and nod as we hear about how
well
Chloe and Lilly are doing
academically
at the new school (I mean, they’re five and seven, for Christ’s sake) and how well Thomas, Pete and Betina’s little lad, is doing at toddler group, and finally a round of baby advice for pregnant Cheryl which includes the charming dinner-table advice that Pampers are worth the extra cash because Tesco’s own-brand leak (shit presumably) all over the shop.
    I struggle to remain present in the conversation. I know I want kids myself, but I