Page 31 of Big Sexy Love
‘Which bank wasChuckat?’
‘Chimes Investment on Wall Street, Ibelieve.’
‘Does he still workthere?’
‘Who knows. I stopped caring about Chuck Allen the moment he dropped me after the Princeton scissor scandal. He was Team Warner. They were always very close to each other. Always leavingmeout…’
I sigh. Chimes Investment. It’s a lead, I guess. Even if Chuck isn’t still working there, someone will know something, surely? Theyhaveto!
Anders clears his throat. ‘Oh, I do have a picture of him, if thathelps?’
‘Arecentone?’
‘Well, from about sixyearsago.’
That’s better than nothing. Birdie didn’t have any photos of him, on account of burning them all on the demise of theirrelationship.
‘Yes! That would be great.Thankyou!’
Anders wanders off out of the room, I’m assuming, to get the photo. I get up from my chair and search the room for a mirror so I can see what he’s done to my hair. But there are no mirrors anywhere! I spot a gigantic metallic vase holding an extravagant array of cream and pale pink flowers. I dash over it, but just as I crouch to see my reflection, Anders glidesbackin.
‘I said no peeking,’ he barks again. ‘I want it to be a wonderfulsurprise.Sit!’
‘Jeez.’
With a tut, I traipse back over to my chair. Anders hands me a photograph. It’s an image of three young men with their arms around each other, grinning widely into the camera. One is clearly a young Anders, though he looks much more bro-like than he does now; beefier, and with his platinum blonde hair spiky like a Backstreet Boy. The middle guy is a redhead with the most beautiful long hair. That must be Warner before Anders attacked him with professional scissors. And the last man in the group must be Chuck. I look closely. He’s gorgeous. Exactly Birdie’s type. I can totally see what she saw in him. His hair is short and dark, and he’s clean-cut and preppy with startlingly green eyes. He’s smiling freely into the camera, completely confident with his picture beingtaken.
‘Chuck Allen,’ I whisper tomyself.
For the hundredth time since Birdie gave it to me, I think of the letter, now safely back in my bumbag, and wonder what it says. I get a vision of Chuck flying back to England with me, him running into Birdie’s arms, turning out not to be a douchebag at all. Maybe having the solution to a cure. Or knowing something, anything tosaveher.
Tears sting my throat and I immediately disregard this scenario. Birdie has already told me a million and one times that there’s nothing that can be done. No transplant, no magic medicine, no holistic cure. They’ve done everything they can. It’s happening. It’s happening and I need to accept it, likeshehas.
Once again I force the thoughts about Birdie’s illness off, like a light going out, and try to focus on the situationathand.
‘Thanks, Anders,’ I say, moving my thumb over the corner of the photograph. ‘I think this will really help.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I really do need to get going. How long until this isfinished?’
Anders leans into me and as he gets close I notice his cologne is a gorgeous boyish aquatic at odds with his stiffdemeanour.
He puts a hand onto my head, fiddles with a strand or two andstepsback.
‘It’s done! It’scomplete!’
Thank jeebusforthat.
‘Come and see!’ Anders says, leading me out of the living room and into the grandhallway.
I follow him into a large marble downstairs bathroom and peer into the mirrorexpectantly.
Holy.Shit.
No.
Oh mygoodness,no.
You know in those hairdressing competitions, where the contestants have to make – not a normal hairstyle – but a kind of sculpture out of hair. The more outlandish thebetter?
Yeah, well that is what Anders has donetome.
