The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Read Online Free

and cross the room to kiss her on the cheek.
    ‘You have to get the pan really bloody hot,’ she explains. ‘burn the buggers before they realise what you’re trying to do to them. So how was dating-hell this week?’
    ‘Oh, not bad,’ I say. ‘Actually it was bloody awful. But there was
one
potential, at least.’
    Sarah-Jane nods. ‘There’s some Chardonnay in the fridge,’ she says in response to my own bottle of shop-warm Bordeaux. ‘So tell me, what was it like?’
    ‘As I say. They were all revolting except this one guy.’
    ‘What’s his name? And what does he look like? Did you get his phone number?’
    ‘Well he’s got brown eyes,’ I say, ignoring the first question, ‘balding, sort of chunky, a bit rugby-player-ish. Potentially cuddly.’
    I pull the wine from the fridge, a glass from the shelf and pour myself a hefty slosh.
    ‘Sounds good,’ Sarah-Jane says, fishing strips of browned tofu from the pan and pouring in a bag of stir-fry veg. ‘No beard then?’
    ‘No beard.’
    ‘So, shaggable?’
    ‘Trust you get straight to the point,’ I laugh.
    But really it’s what I love about Sarah-Jane. Well, one of the many things I love about her. I take a gulp of wine. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Given the chance . . . definitely.’
    She takes a sip from her own glass. ‘What did you say his name was?’
    I wrinkle my nose. ‘I didn’t,’ I say.
    ‘INS?’ she asks.
    What with her being a chavvy Essex-girl called Sarah-Jane and my being an equally misnamed daughter of a lawyer from Surrey, we have invented an abbreviation for such situations: INS, or, Inappropriate Name Syndrome.
    ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Definitely INS.’
    ‘Come on then,’ she prompts. ‘What is it? Dwayne? Barry? Don’t tell me . . .
Winston?
’
    I laugh. ‘There
was
a Barry,’ I say. ‘But no. This one’s a Norman.’
    She pulls a face. ‘Eeek!’ she says. ‘Norman Bates! Doesn’t live with his mum, does he?’
    I nod. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Personally I kept thinking about that
Spitting Image
puppet of Norman Tebbit.’
    ‘Fucking hell,’ she says. ‘Norman! That’s not good. That’s really not good.’
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘I blame the parents personally. But if there’s anyone who can ignore a bad first name, well, it’s gonna be me really, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘I s’pose. What’s his surname?’
    I shrug. ‘We don’t get that information. Just a phone number.’
    ‘. . . course. But you got it?’
    ‘I did,’ I say. ‘There was a Dustin too . . .’
    Sarah-Jane winks at me. ‘Now yer talking,’ she says. ‘Always had a thing for Dustins.’
    ‘Yeah, I thought of you. He was about thirty,’ I say. ‘About thirty
stone
.’
    ‘You’re such a fattist,’ she laughs. ‘Does that exist? Fattist?’
    I shrug. ‘I know . . .’ I say. ‘I’m not in any other area of my life, honest. I mean, if I have to
work
with a porker, I don’t even think about it. But having been on a diet since 1971, I don’t expect to then have to sleep with someone who needs industrial liposuction. Does that make me
horribly
shallow, do you think?’
    Sarah-Jane shrugs. ‘Nah, love,’ she says. ‘It’s just, well, I like a bit of padding myself. Anyway, you were
born
in 1971.’
    ‘Exactly,’ I laugh. ‘But seriously, you didn’t see them – you honestly have no idea. Dustin looked like Ricky Gervais. A
fat
version of Ricky Gervais. Talked a bit like him too.’
    ‘Now, you see . . . I
like
Ricky Gervais,’ Sarah-Jane says, adding the contents of a sachet of sweet and sour sauce to her mix. ‘I think he’s funny.’
    ‘Yeah, but not in your bed,’ I laugh.
    ‘No,’ she agrees. ‘No, I suppose not. Anyway tell me about
Norman.
’ She pulls a face as she says the name.
    I shrug. ‘You don’t get a great deal in three minutes, but he does something in mental health, something to do with half way houses.’
    ‘Probably lives in one,’ Sarah-Jane laughs.
    ‘Don’t,’ I