The Case of the Missing Boyfriend by Nick Alexander Page B

glass, I sigh heavily and walk the length of the hall, bracing myself for SJ’s fabulous (but occasionally hard to bear) brand of irrepressible optimism.
    The Sarah-Jane I find on the doorstep, however, looks as sullen as myself.
    ‘Hiya,’ she says, managing to make the word sound like a sigh.
    She kisses me perfunctorily on the cheek and heads straight through to the kitchen. I frown, close the front door, and follow her.
    By the time I reach the kitchen she has already slumped into a chair, and I realise that this isn’t me communicating stress, or even projecting my own angst onto her: something is seriously awry.
    ‘Are you OK?’ I ask her. ‘Because you look the way I feel. And I’m more used to you looking the way
you
feel.’
    Sarah-Jane rests her head on one hand and looks up at me dolefully. ‘You too, huh? And there was me thinking you were gonna cheer me up.’
    I pull another mug from the cupboard and glance over my shoulder at her. ‘Sorry, babe,’ I say. ‘We’re all out of cheer here. I can probably manage tea and sympathy but that’s about as far as it goes.’
    ‘So what’s up with you?’ she asks, as I make the tea. ‘Whatever it is, I bet mine’s better.’
    ‘You first then,’ I say with a little, sour laugh. ‘If you’re going to get all competitive.’
    ‘Nah, go on – I’m bored with mine.’
    ‘Me too,’ I reply.
    ‘Work? Men? Life? That bloody tree?’
    ‘Brian,’ I say.
    SJ rolls her eyes at me. ‘You
are
joking?’ she says. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you got over bloody Brian?’
    ‘I went to dinner at Cynthia and Carl’s,’ I say. ‘You know, the usual birthday thing.’
    Sarah-Jane nods. ‘No wonder then. You always come back miserable as sin from those.’
    I laugh sourly. ‘That’s actually pretty good,’ I say. ‘Miserable as sin . . . miserable as Cyn . . . get it?’
    Sarah-Jane frowns at me in a way that leaves me unsure if she ‘gets it’ or not. ‘So what is it this time? That wanker . . .
Martin
is it? Did he say something?’
    I shake my head in amazement. ‘You should get one of those little huts on Brighton Pier,’ I say. ‘Sarah-Jane Dennis, fortune- teller extraordinaire.’
    She nods, her expression still blank. ‘So?’ she prompts.
    ‘It seems that Brian has kids,’ I say. ‘Two of them.’
    SJ rubs an eye and pulls a confused expression. ‘
Your
Brian? I mean . . .’
    ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘Yeah.
My
Brian.’
    ‘And
kid-z
with a z, as in more than one?’
    I shrug. ‘Apparently so. Twins. So lovely Martin says.’
    ‘Wow,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘That was quick going.’
    ‘And the best bit,’ I add, ‘is that they have just had their second birthdays.’
    Sarah-Jane scrunches her brow and rolls her eyes to the ceiling, clearly performing mental arithmetic, then says, ‘Oh, do the maths for me, will you? I’m too tired to work it out.’
    ‘Estimated insemination: about two months after he picked me up from the clinic.’
    SJ’s mouth drops. ‘God!’ she says. ‘What a fucking cheek. That guy is such a worm.’
    ‘He is,’ I agree, adding milk and handing her a mug of tea.
    ‘Someone needs to just stop him, you know what I mean?’
    ‘I do,’ I say.
    ‘Someone should just shoot him and put him out of his misery.’
    ‘Put everyone else out of his misery, more like.’
    ‘God you must be devastated,’ she says.
    I shrug. ‘I guess . . .’ I say, then, ‘no, not really. Just sort of in shock.’
    ‘Did you weep all over their dinner party? I bet Cyn loved that.’
    I pout and shake my head.
    ‘No, of course,’ she says. ‘You never do really, do you? Though I still think a good blubber every now and then would do you good.’
    ‘If the tears aren’t there . . .’ I say.
    ‘I s’pose not,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘You should listen to Ben Harper more. Always does it for me.’
    ‘I tried,’ I say, ‘the last time you gave me that advice. I watched
The English Patient
, too, on