Читать книгу The Dating Detox: A laugh out loud book for anyone who’s ever had a disastrous date! - Gemma Burgess - Страница 11

The next morning I wake up with a predictably dry and foul-tasting mouth. I open one eye, noting thoughtfully the crusty-eyelash sensation that means I demaquillaged imperfectly, and discover a piece of paper on my right breast. Naturally, dear reader, you’re one step ahead of me—I’d expect nothing less—and you know already that this piece of paper will be the list that I remember reading (with one eye shut, due to mild vodka-induced double-vision) as I went to sleep last night.

THE DATING SABBATICAL RULES

1 No accepting dates.

2 No asking men out on dates.

3 Obvious flirting is not allowed.

4 Avoid talking about the Sabbatical.

5 Talking about the Sabbatical is permitted in response to being asked out on a date. Until then it would just intrigue them and be another form of flirting and in fact be taken as a challenge.

6 No accidental dating, ie, pretending you didn’t arrange to meet them just for a movie or something when you blatantly did.

7 No new man friends. It is just as confusing. And it would open up opportunities for non-date-dates, ie, new-friend-dates, which are just the same as dates, when you get down to it.

8 Kissing is forbidden. Except under extreme circumstances, ie, male model slash comic genius is about to ship off to sea to save the world and as you say goodbye he starts to cry and says he never knew true love’s kiss.

9 Actually, if you meet a male model slash comic genius who is about to save the world, you can sleep with him. Otherwise keep your ladygarden free of visitors as it will complicate matters. None. At all.

10 No bastardos.

I signed it and Bloomie signed it. Our signatures have, unsurprisingly, slightly more flair than usual. In fact, I’ve added an ‘Esq’ to mine. Hmm.

What the hell is a ladygarden?

Shampoo, condition, fuck shaving the armpits, brush teeth extra thoroughly, no one will see my legs, to hell with exfoliating, towel, where the fuck is the moisturiser, who cares, deodorant, perfume. My sartorial motivation today is comfort. So I turn to some very old Levi 501s, a soothing, eight-year-old grey T-shirt I call Ol’ Grey, a brown cardigan, woolly socks and Converses. I look like a Smashing Pumpkins fan. A male one. In 1992. This isn’t working. Normally, when I doubt my outfit, I give myself the ‘if I think it works, it works’ speech, but I can’t make this one fly.

I take everything off and think for a moment. What else is comforting? Living in the 70s would be comforting, I think. No email or mobiles, you could smoke everywhere, and use a typewriter. How simple. So I put on some very flared blue jeans, a ribbed white top, my Converses again, pull my damp hair into a side plait, lace a mildly retro silk (polyester, whatever) scarf from H&M through the belt loops and tie in a side knot, and consider myself again. Ah yes. Vaguely Co-Ed 1972. This will do fine. Thank fuck I work in advertising and can wear anything I want; if I had to put on a suit right now I’d slash my wrists…Make-up…hmm. My eyebrows are being blatantly annoying, and I don’t have the patience to deal with them today. Lots of mascara, some bronzer and blush to fake good health, lipbalm. I add a beige checked men’s coat I bought in a charity shop and voilà. Slightly watery-eyed, but not bad. I check my watch. It’s taken me twice as long to get ready today as yesterday. This is the reason that I don’t drink. (Much.)

On the tube on the way to work I ponder the Dating Sabbatical. Obviously, it’s kind of a silly idea. But also so easy. An easy way to put off dealing with being back in the singles game.

I could go on a Dating Sabbatical and nurse my aforementioned bruised heart—OK, OK, so it isn’t bruised and I didn’t really give Posh Mark much thought at all yesterday. (Jeez, you’re a tough crowd.) But my heart is very shy right now and it doesn’t feel like coming out to play for awhile. It would rather eat chocolate in the bath and read Jilly Cooper’s Polo.

I open my lucky yellow clutch to take out the Dating Sabbatical Rules for a quick review, and pull out a bunch of receipts from drinks last night adding up to over £60. Yikes. I mentally add this to the spreadsheet I keep in my head of incomings and outgoings. (No, it’s not a foolproof way to plan my finances, but it works for me. Ish. Since I don’t earn much money, I have to make some sacrifices to spend as much as I like on what I consider essentials, like clothes and vodka and black cabs. So I don’t belong to a gym, never get my hair done, and spend almost nothing on things like, you know, food. I eat a lot of baked beans, tinned tuna, bananas and toast.)

I get to work, the perfect coffee in hand, and email Bloomie:

Duuuuuude. I’m still in.

She replies:

Ha, really? Fine. You can test it tomorrow night at Mitch’s party.

I reply:

Roger that.

I hide behind my computer all day. Andy doesn’t look at me once, and though I’m meant to talk to him about a new brief, I decide to send him an email about it when he’s out at lunch. I just can’t face him today.

I’m meeting up with Kate for dinner. She’s the third in our trifecta from university, but is slightly more absent from our social lives over the last year or so as she’s in a ridiculously stable long-term relationship. We meet near her work in Mayfair at The Only Running Footman, a pseudo-rustic pub. It’s packed with finance-type people drinking away their worries but we find a seat in the restaurant bit downstairs. I notice quite a few very good-looking men here. Shame I’m on a Dating Sabbatical and not looking, I remind myself.

Over burgers and beers I explain the theory of the Dating Sabbatical to Kate. She nods very seriously and poses relevant and poignant questions, all of which I answer with what’s becoming rather slick aplomb, till—

‘Alright, Sass. This all seems like a very you thing to do. But what if you meet someone you actually want to go out with?’

I pause, chip in the air.

‘How do you mean?’

‘What if you…you know, you meet someone you really, really fancy and want to go out with?’

‘A guy? That I fancy? And want to go out with?’

I’m flummoxed. This idea hadn’t even occurred to me. I haven’t met someone I really wanted to date in years. I just sort of do it as it seems like something to do. And if they’ve gone to the trouble of asking, unless I find them ugly or sleazy or loserish or I’m positive they’re a bastardo, then I think I should say yes, and then just see what happens. (Though this approach, as history shows, hasn’t really worked out.) But I can’t exactly tell Kate that. It sounds stupid.

‘Hmm…well…I guess I never want to go out with anyone till he asks me out. I might think someone across the bar is hot, or whatever, but I just don’t think about it much more than that till he’s made the first move. Why waste the energy?’

‘That seems kind of…reactive,’ says Kate carefully, dunking a chip in the huge dollop of English mustard at the side of her plate. It’s really weird how much she likes English mustard.

A little more about Kate: very pretty, very short and thus kind of adorable. Probably my sweetest friend. She and Bloomie and I have been close friends since about day one of university, when we met in halls, got hammered together on cider and discovered a shared love of Jeff Buckley (yep, such clichés). She grew up in a little town in Cambridgeshire, going to Brownies and riding horses, and still has that milk-fed prettiness such girls always get. Boys always loved her. Men love short women, have you ever noticed? I’m on the tall side, by the way. And I’ve never had a boyfriend tall enough to wear three-inch heels with. (Does my dating agony ever end, I ask you?) Sorry, back to Kate. She’s an accountant, though I don’t really know why, as she read Italian and French at university. She even spent a year in Florence. She’s always been a bit of a control freak, the person who makes plans weeks in advance and panics when things change unexpectedly. Perhaps that’s what accountants are like.

Kate lives with her boyfriend, a guy called Tray. Bloomie and I referred to him as Tray Nice when we first met him, then Tray Serious. Now it’s Tray Boring. He’s perfectly nice, but brings nothing to the conversational table. It’s not that I don’t like talking to him, exactly. It’s just that I like talking to everybody else a lot more. I guess they must have some crazy connection to make Kate stay with him for three years. As my dad always says, no one sees the game like the players. (He is a bottomless well of sporting/relationship analogies.) She seems pretty happy these days—a bit quieter and less prone to silliness than she used to be, and we don’t see her as much as we used to, but happy.

‘Did you like Tray before he asked you out?’

Kate squints in thought. ‘I don’t know…I just thought he seemed very intelligent and sort of…kind. Kind and interesting to talk to. And I’d decided I wanted that in my next boyfriend. Yeah, I guess I did like him first.’

‘And sexual chemistry?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, all that too,’ says Kate quickly. ‘And you know, I really was intent on having someone kind. I’d met so many, uh…bastardos. Remember Dick the Prick? And The Missing Link?’

I start laughing. Dick the Prick was a guy she met when she first moved to London, but he cheated on her and she dumped him. The Missing Link wasn’t awful, but he wasn’t particularly nice either. He was thick and pretty.

‘So after all your bastardos you decided to proactively find a clever non-bastardo?’

‘Uh…yes.’

‘That’s just like me and…’ I pause for a second to remember his name ‘…Posh Mark! He was kind!’

And thick, I add silently. Fuck me, I’m callous.

‘Yes, but I’m not sure how well suited you and Posh Mark ever were. Tray and I have a lot in common. I enjoy his company. He’s very intelligent,’ she adds. Again.

Hmm. She sounds a little Stepford Wife-y and she’s not meeting my eye, but I decide to agree with her.

‘You’re right. Lucky you, darling. So important to have someone kind and intelligent.’

There might be something wrong here, but I’m not going to push it. Kate doesn’t talk about her feelings unless she wants to. She has that nice reserved thing going on; not in a cold way—she’d do anything for any of us. I think it’s shyness. You never know if she’s really great or utterly miserable until she wants you to. I wish I wasn’t such an open book. My mother can read my mood by how many rings it takes me to answer the phone.

‘How are you feeling about Posh Mark, anyway, Sass?’ says Kate. I rang her on Tuesday night and bawled, embarrassingly.

‘Oh, fine,’ I say truthfully. ‘He was, you know, a life raft. Better than drowning in a sea of self-pity and vodka.’

‘Nicely put,’ grins Kate. ‘So where’s off the list now?’

‘Eight Over Eight, because that was our first date place,’ I say, taking a thoughtful bite of my burger. ‘And Julie’s, because we used to go there for brunch when we stayed at his place.’

‘Are there any brunch places near your place that aren’t tainted by ex-boyfriends by now?’ Kate says, laughing. She professes to not understand why I refuse to go back somewhere that reminds me of someone who dumped me. Especially as the list is getting slightly ridiculous.

‘None,’ I reply honestly. ‘Pimlico is one big no-go zone for me these days. I may have to move.’

We move on to gossiping about people we know, and talk about the party at Mitch’s place tomorrow night. The guestlist seems to be snowballing, with lots of people I haven’t seen in ages. Yay. I siphon off the back part of my brain and leave it to go through my wardrobe and plan an outfit. We finish our burgers, pay the bill and decide to go outside to finish our beers with a fag.

‘God, I miss smoking,’ sighs Kate.

‘Mwhy mdya qvit?’ I say, talking with my cigarette in my mouth as I light hers. So classy.

She takes a drag and exhales happily. ‘Tray hates it, and he IS right. It does kill you.’

‘Yes, he is right. It does.’

There seems nothing more to say. See? Even saying his name halts conversation.

‘How’s the world of accounting?’ I ask.

‘Scintillating,’ says Kate crisply. ‘At least I’ll never be out of a job, no matter what happens to the economy.’

‘Why?’

‘Accountants are always needed. We’re like prostitutes. One of the world’s oldest professions.’

This, from Kate, is outrageous. She’s in a funny mood tonight. Funny odd, not funny haha.

‘Oh well, that’s good,’ I say, starting to laugh. ‘What are you doing on Sunday? I’ve probably got the flat to myself all weekend as usual, so we could have an all-day movie fest. We’ll start with Sixteen Candles, then Overboard’—did I mention I have a thing for Goldie Hawn? I totally do—‘then Dirty Dancing, then Pretty Woman, then 13 Going On 30. Holy shit, that film makes me cry.’

‘13 Going on 30 makes you CRY?’

‘Yes. Whenever Jennifer Garner cries I lose it. I don’t know what it is. I saw her cry on Alias once, and I had only just flicked over from another channel, so I had no idea what was going on, and I cried my arse off…though we could sub in Old School and end on a high. Marvellous film.’

‘Marvellous,’ agrees Kate happily. ‘Don’t you feel, though, that chick flicks are all the same?’

I splutter in mock outrage.

‘The SAME?’

‘Yah, you know…the same. They all kind of suck.’

‘So? Christmas kind of sucks and is always the same, too. Do you hate Christmas?’

Kate starts to laugh. ‘No…’

‘Actually, chick flicks DON’T suck. In fact, Katiepoo, the chick flick is a formula designed to satisfy, but always with small subtle variations. The girl is somehow identifiable. The guy is somehow unattainable.’ I start to warm to my argument. ‘There is fashion. There is a dancing scene. There is some kind of klutzy friend, though sometimes the heroine is a klutz too. Then somewhere along the line, there is a fear that he’s messed up forever and has to prove himself to her to win her love.’

Kate nods. ‘Yah. I picked the plot up. When I was six.’

‘In fact, forget Christmas. Chick flicks are like all my favourite things in life—burgers! Really high heels! Weekends in New York! Sexual encounters! Every single one is different, but has the same essential components and is—hopefully—equally pleasing!’

We both laugh. OK, we cackle. The two-beer buzz is delightful.

‘Uh…ladies. May I trouble you for a lighter?’

Deep voice. American. Male. Late 20s. I glance at Kate’s face, but she’s staring at Mr America behind me. I turn around, getting out my lighter at the same time.

‘Sure,’ I hand it over and he grins and lights his cigarette. Extremely cute, in a jock kind of way. Baggy pale blue jeans, Ralph Lauren Polo T-shirt, short floppy American-banker haircut. He must be fresh off the boat. American men wear very bad jeans till they realise every other man in London wears his jeans darker and tighter. Then they all buy Diesel jeans. (They never change their hair.)

‘Thanks,’ he leans back and exhales, a small smirk on his face. ‘So you like chick flicks as much as sex, seriously?’

‘It’s awfully rude to eavesdrop.’

Kate’s phone rings. ‘It’s Tray—back in a sec…’

Hmm, I have to wait for Kate and talk to Mr America. I could wait inside, if I was going to be really strict about this not dating men thing…But he’s so cute. Preppy, Ivy League and cute. Damn it, come on Sass, I chide myself. I should not be noticing this shit. I decide to finish my fag and put the Dating Sabbatical to the test. I run over my mantra in my head, more out of habit than need. After all, I’m not able to date him, so there’s no need to feel nervous. But he is kind of good looking.

‘Personally, I can get behind any John Hughes movie, so I’m with you on Sixteen Candles. But I’m not sure about Overboard.’

I look back at him like I’m surprised he’s still there. (Am I breaking Rule 3? Obvious flirting? Nah, this isn’t obvious yet.)

‘I heart Goldie Hawn. She’s brilliant.’

‘Sure, but give me Private Benjamin any day.’

‘Oh, I love that film! “Go check out the bathroom, it’s FABULOUS!”’

Mr America laughs. ‘Yeah, I can see that you’d like that line.’

I grin, and our eyes meet. He’s very confident. Sexual frisson, bonjour.

‘So…I loved your little speech there.’

‘The chick flick speech? I was just being silly…’

‘I like silly.’

Why can American men say lines like that and get away with it? It must be the accent. This one’s particularly cocky. It’s terribly attractive. However, I never know what to say back when someone’s coming on to me so openly, so I just smile and take a drag of my cigarette.

‘Could I get your number…perhaps we could have dinner sometime?’

I pause and smile. Shit. Time to put the Dating Sabbatical into action.

‘I know a lot of movies. I could quote ’em to you all night.’ He grins. Perfect teeth. Another attractive American trait.

‘I’d love to, but I’m not dating right now.’ (There, that was easy. Rule 1: no accepting dates, and Rule 5: talking about the Sabbatical is permitted in response to being asked out on a date.)

‘I don’t get it. You’ve got a boyfriend?’

‘No, I don’t. I’m just—I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘Did someone just break your heart?’

I laugh. ‘No! I’ve just…I’m…I’m not dating right now. I’m taking a break from uh, seeing guys.’

‘You’re gay?’ His tone is disbelieving.

‘No.’

‘You’re just…not dating.’

‘Yup.’

‘For how long?’

‘Three months,’ I say airily. ‘Possibly, probably, longer.’ I don’t want him to think he can line up a date for three months’ time. Especially since I’d probably say yes. Saying no to this date is hard enough as it is. (See? Dating IS an addiction. Thank betsy I’m detoxing. Every time I say no, it will get easier. Just say no.)

‘That’s, like, pathetic. Some guy must have really done a number on you.’

This riles me. ‘Oh, please. I’m just not dating right now.’

‘Hey! I’m not going to fight with ya about it!’ He stubs out his cigarette and throws two finger guns at me. ‘Your loss.’

He storms back into the bar just as Kate comes back. ‘That was Tray…I’ve gotta go home. What the hell happened there?’

‘Rejection,’ I say happily. ‘My first Dating Sabbatical rejection in action. His response was “YOUR LOSS”.’ I imitate the finger guns, adding a ‘peeyong’ shooting sound for good measure. Kate and I collapse with laughter and head down towards the tube.