The Case of the Missing Boyfriend by Nick Alexander

says, nodding exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, sorry.’ He raises a finger to his lips and says, ‘Shhh!’
    ‘Betina,’ I spit. ‘If you don’t tell me what you’re talking about, I swear . . .’
    She licks her lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that, Brian, you see . . .’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Martin says. ‘He’s got kids. I can’t believe you don’t know that. Surely, you know that, right? I mean, it’s been two fucking years . . . it’s hardly news.’
    ‘What do you mean,
kids
?’ I ask, performing a quick bit of mental arithmetic. ‘How can he have kids? Plural? And what do you mean,
two years
?’
    Betina nods slowly, then says, terribly, terribly quietly, ‘Twins. They had
twins
.’
    Martin swigs at his port. ‘Did you really not know that?’ he asks.
    ‘Betina’s right,’ I say, standing. ‘Shut up! Just, shut up!’
    As I leave, Betina scoots around the table sliding chairs underneath as she does so, but I’m too quick for her.
    I run upstairs, and barge into the bathroom.
    Pete and Carl look up at me. They are kneeling in front of the toilet. The seat-cover is down, and Pete is rubbing his nose.
    Carl is holding a rolled banknote. He smiles at me and raises a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word to the missus,’ he says. ‘Cyn might find this a bit sordid. You want some?’
    I back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me. I hear Carl say, ‘I thought you locked the door.’
    ‘I thought I did,
sorry,
old chum,’ Pete replies. ‘You don’t think she’ll tell Betina, do you?’
    I am trembling with shock, and though I never really blub these days, my eyes are watery enough to be blurry. I need somewhere to be alone.
    I cross the landing and take the first door I find – a bad choice, because, of course, this is one of the children’s bedrooms.
    And there, seated on a Barbie quilt cover, surrounded by paraphernalia which could have belonged to my own little girl, I sit and gnaw my knuckle and mutter, ‘
Fuck Brian! Fuck him
,’ and wait for my heart to slow.
    When I finally make it back downstairs, word has clearly spread. Everyone looks up at me wide-eyed.
    I wave a hand at them as if batting a cloud away. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Whatever.’
    But of course it isn’t fine. My shock is subsiding, but now I’m being assailed by waves of mounting anger. I’m just hoping to keep it bottled until I can get away.
    ‘Sorry,’ Martin says, incongruously raising his glass at me, as if in a toast. ‘Bad choice of subject.’
    ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well, at least now I know, eh?’
    ‘So stupid!’ Cynthia mutters. I’m not quite sure who she means. Brian? Martin?
Me?
    ‘How old are they?’ I ask. ‘Did you say they’re
two
?’
    ‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Cynthia says.
    ‘How
old
are Brian’s kids?’ I ask, my voice quivering.
    ‘They’re two,’ Carl answers, provoking a glare from Cynthia. ‘I think she needs to know,’ Carl tells her, with a shrug, then to me, softly, ‘They’re just two, a week ago. They were two last Thursday. I’m sorry, CC.’
    ‘I couldn’t know she’d be upset,’ Martin says. ‘I mean . . . it was just a bad choice of subject. But I couldn’t know.’
    I take a deep breath and grasp the edge of the table. ‘Yes,’ I say, with artificial poise. ‘Bad choice. Never mind, eh?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Cynthia says. ‘Let me get you a coffee or something.’
    ‘In fact, Martin,’ I continue. ‘You’ll probably want to remember never to bring that subject up again. With anyone.’
    He wrinkles his nose at me and nods. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘If you say so.’
    ‘I do,’ I say. ‘Because, when you ask a woman of my age, a woman who is forty this year, why she hasn’t had kids, the answer will usually be either that she hates the fuckers – which will make
you
feel uncomfortable, or that she loves them, but her boyfriend doesn’t, or didn’t, which will make
her
feel