Confessions of a Serial Dater (4 page)

Yes, I am a coward.

Instead of staying home this morning to answer my phone messages from Mum, and possibly from Jonathan, I am hiding in a coffee bar on Portobello Road with best friend Carmen. Actually, I’m not technically hiding at all, because I always meet Carmen and Jess (who is always late) for coffee on Portobello Road on Saturdays. The fact that I’ve also left my cell phone at home was just—absentminded of me, that’s all…

Okay, so I left it at home on purpose. I just need to clear my head a bit. You know, to regain some sense of normality. But I’m beginning to wish that I hadn’t told Carmen about last night.

“You did
what?
” Carmen asks me, her lovely gypsy eyes widening to saucers as she leans back in her chair.

She is peering at me as if I have just announced that I have developed a sudden, passionate interest in poisonous arachnids, am leaving behind all that is near and dear to me, and am emigrating to Australia to better study my subject matter.

This shock, I suspect, is because we usually spend Saturday mornings rehashing her current drama with Paul from the night before, and what should she do, and I give her advice that she usually ignores, and then I tell her about my mother’s latest drama, and she gives me advice that I try to take but don’t quite manage. But the drama doesn’t usually revolve around me, personally.

“That’s just so—so
nonsensible
of you,” she says.

I pick up a teaspoon and carefully focus on stirring my coffee—unnecessary, since I don’t take sugar, but my face is flaming, and I’d rather not share my embarrassment with the whole coffee shop.

“I know,” I say to the tabletop. “I don’t know what came over me. I
hate
nonsensible.”

Carmen, not the kind to be shy about voicing her opinion, is unusually silent. But then, despite the fact that she has complained about Paul nonstop since the moment they met eighteen months ago, she’s totally besotted and would never cheat on him by kissing a complete stranger.

“Sooooo,” I say too brightly, in my bid to change the subject. “You and Paul smash any good plates last night?”

“Darling, just because Paul and I like to voice our opinions and discuss our personal issues in an adult, open forum, doesn’t mean that we fight
all
of the time, you know,” she
says, frowning as she twirls a handful of her long, red curls. “As a matter of fact, we had a nice, quiet evening with takeout Indian and a bottle of wine.”

“That sounds very, um, romantic,” I say but am instantly suspicious. As Carmen twirls her hair even more furiously, I wonder if everything is okay between them. You see, the hair-twirling thing means either (a) that she is worried about something, or (b) thinking deeply and meaningfully about something.

“Paul did a fourteen-hour shoot for
Free Your Food
magazine yesterday. He was just tired, okay? So don’t go reading anything into it, Miss Rational,” she says, abandoning her hair twirling.

“I wasn’t,” I tell her, a bit surprised by the vehemence of her tone.

“And don’t change the subject. No wonder you look like shit.” She shakes her head in wonder. This is not quite the response I was hoping for.

It’s a good job we’ve been friends since school, and therefore I know that when she says things like “You look like shit,” she is not being a bitch—she’s trying for empathic.

But after the night I spent tossing and not sleeping, I think I look relatively good. And at least I finally got around to alphabetizing my CD and DVD collection.

“Thanks for the brutal honesty,” I say, sipping my coffee. “You should have seen me this morning pre-emergency Clarins and eyedrop treatment. God, do I need this caffeine.”

“Darling, I really didn’t think you had it in you,” she says. And then utterly confuses me by grinning like a Cheshire cat. “This is
great.
This is
fabulous.
Totally un-fucking-believably
fantastic.
Although I may need years of therapy to recover from the shock.”

I don’t see what’s so fabulous about it and am about to say so when Jess comes dashing over to our table.

“Hello, hello, sorry I’m late,” Jess chirps to us, and Carmen and I pick up our cups before she places hers on the table. The table rocks, and her herbal tea sloshes into the saucer.

“Darling, we were beginning to think you’d been abducted by aliens again,” Carmen says, her eyes still on me.

Jess really does believe she was abducted by aliens once, briefly, in college. But Carmen and I are convinced it was a hallucination due to her roommates’ fondness for “herbal” cigarettes.

“My God, it is
madness
out there.” Jess rummages in one of her bags. “
Madness,
I tell you. Portobello Road on Saturday in December! What else can I expect? I know, I know, but look at these,” she says, her cheeks pink and flushed from the cold and excitement as she brandishes a pair of fuzzy, bright orange earmuffs.

“Bright orange earmuffs contrasted with bright pink hair and a bright purple sweatshirt. Interesting fashion statement,” Carmen says. “Today is just
full
of madness and surprises,” she adds, glancing slyly across at me. “Take our Rosie, here—she had a
very
surprisingly mad evening.”

“Oh, they’re not for me—they’re for Mummy.” Jess, who still hasn’t quite caught up with the conversation, shakes her head, and a curtain of pink hair falls around her sweet face. “To go with the orange sweater I made her for Christmas. I think they’re perfect.”

It’s hard to imagine Jess’s mother, Lady Etherington, wearing anything except Burberry, but I don’t tell Jess this because she is one of the most well-meaning people I know.

“The pink hair is adorable,” I tell her, because it is. Not many people can carry that off with aplomb.

“Stop changing the subject, again,” Carmen tells me.

“What? What? Did I miss something?” Jess pulls her chair up to the table, and Carmen and I grab for our coffees again, just in time to save them from getting sloshed. “Sorry, sorry.”
Jess holds up her hands as more of her herbal tea leaps over the rim of her cup. “Aster’s always telling me I’m a clumsy clogs.”

“You’re not clumsy,” Carmen says loyally, her lips pursing.

“No, not clumsy. Just always in a hurry,” I say, remembering that Jonathan called
me
clumsy, too.

Carmen doesn’t like Jess’s boyfriend, Aster, very much. I’m not terribly keen on him, either. His real name is Glen, but Aster, short for Asterisk, meaning
star,
apparently has more kudos when you’re a budding pop star on the verge of fame.

“I’m making him a black sweater with a white star on the front for Christmas. Do you think he’ll like it?” Jess asks, chewing on her lip.

“I’m, um, sure he will,” I lie. Not because the sweater won’t be great, but because Aster, although a poor, struggling artist on welfare, has developed fine tastes in designer grunge clothes. All purchased with Jess’s trust fund.

“He’ll love it,” Carmen says in a way that implies “I will strangle him with it if he doesn’t.”

“But anyway, anyway, what did you mean about Rosie’s evening? Not trouble with Horrible Boss again? Horrible, horrible man,” Jess says sorrowfully. “How did it go?” She leans across the table to give my arm a sympathetic pat.

“Well,” I take a deep breath.

“No, let me,” Carmen says, grinning. “Please—it would make my year. What would you say,” she leans into Jess, “if I told you that Rosie threw Sidney violently to the floor when he tried to snog her, broke his toe, made a grand exit minus Jonathan, got picked up by a handsome doctor, and passionately shared tongues with him in Piccadilly Circus? And then forgot to ask him for his name.” Carmen falls back in her chair laughing.

“No, no. You didn’t!” Jess puts a hand to her mouth.

“Well, it wasn’t quite like that,” I say, squirming in my seat. “I didn’t actually push Sidney…”

“But what about poor Jonathan?” Jess is highly invested in my relationship with Jonathan. She likes him and thinks he’s perfect for me. Also, there’s nothing she likes more than a good wedding. She spends a great deal of time fantasizing about them—especially her own.

“I know,” I sigh. “I’m seeing him tonight. What am I going to say?”

“It was only a kiss,” Carmen says. “Why say anything at all?”

“With tongues,” I point out. “We exchanged body fluids.”

“Darling, don’t get carried away by a bit of saliva.” Carmen starts the hair twirling again, and I think she’s about to get serious and meaningful.

“You know, Aster has to kiss a lot of girls in his business.” Jess frowns.

“
Does
he?” Carmen says, rather dangerously.

“I mean, the girls kiss him. They just get so overcome by him on stage, they can’t help themselves.”

“That’s…remarkable.” I just can’t see Aster’s appeal, myself. Despite his penchant for designer clothes, he is thin to the point of emaciation. But he does have an Iggy Pop thing going on.

“I think that your brief encounter with Dr. Love happened at a crisis point in your relationship with Jonathan,” Carmen says slowly.

“Well, I’d call Jonathan loving his boss more than me fairly crucial.”

“No, that’s not the point. You’re at that stage where you have to think about the future, and you’re getting ready to move to the next phase. Quite possibly,” Carmen tells me, thoughtfully, “you were looking for a way out of your relationship with Jonathan before things get too serious.”

“Exactly,” Jess jumps on the bandwagon. “You let a man get close to you, but once they start wanting more commitment, like living together or something, you find a reason to finish it.”

“But on the other hand,” Carmen adds, “Jonathan does have a blind spot with his boss’s attitude to you, which pisses me off greatly on your behalf. And while Jonathan is a great all-round kind of bloke, I suspect that he could do with more backbone. I think that you need some risk in your life.”

“But I hate risk.”

“The sexual excitement doesn’t last forever, you know,” Jess adds. “Although six months isn’t very long for things to get boring.”

“Jonathan’s not boring.”

“I mean, Aster and I have been together for seven months now, and our sex life is really hot. Maybe you just need to be—you know—more adventurous in bed.”

“Our sex life is exciting enough, thank you very much.” I blush a bit, but it’s true. Jonathan’s no slouch in that department.

“But you plan it. You even know what nights of the week you’re going to have sex. Maybe a bit more spontaneity would help things along.”

“What’s wrong with sex in bed?” I’ve just never seen the appeal of sex on the kitchen table. I mean, it’s just too uncomfortable.

“Let me finish.” Carmen holds up a hand as she takes a sip of coffee. “This isn’t about sex at all. It’s about emotional commitment. And you don’t hate risk, you’re just conditioned to take the safe option every time. So what you do is opt for Mr. Nice Guy, because he’s Mr. Safe Guy.”

“But that’s not—”
true.
Is it?

“I think you should, you know, talk it through with Jonathan,” Jess says patiently. “I mean, if all that’s wrong with
him is his need to please his boss overly much, then it’s hardly the end of the world. It’s not as if he’s, you know, secretly checking out pictures of naked grannies on the Internet.”

Jess does have a point…and I
am
very fond of Jonathan—most of the time, when all’s said and done.

“So—you’re saying I
should
stick it out with him?” I think I want to. And she’s right—I should give it more time. And it would be a bit of a relief to attend Christmas parties as a couple, rather than as a single…Besides, we’ve had a lot of good times together, and the Sidney thing is a minuscule part of our relationship.

“Just for a bit longer,” Jess smiles with relief. “Talk to him. You owe it to yourself to see where it’s going. Take that risk. Take your relationship to the next phase.”

I can see from her dreamy expression that she’s daydreaming about me in a puffy white dress, exchanging vows with Jonathan. I envy Jess a bit, truth be told.

You see, I don’t daydream. Not really. Not unless you can count daydreaming about winning the lottery—not a huge amount, just enough to ensure financial security. Or of a peaceful weekend where Mum doesn’t get panicked about something or other. Or I dream of finding the perfect person for the perfect job. Not the most exciting of things, but then
I’m
not that exciting, and besides, that’s what I do at work. But it’s not exactly boring, either…

Picture this: It’s a cold, rainy December day at work. The phone rings, and it’s, oh, some gorgeous, handsome actor. And he needs
me
to find him the perfect live-in assistant. He’s trusting me to find just the right person who, amongst other things, will…chop his broccoli for a late night snack after a busy evening treading the actorly boards of the West End…if he actually eats broccoli. Okay, so maybe my daydreams
are
a bit boring…

“Hell, I wasn’t talking about Jonathan,” Carmen grins, and
I don’t like her tone of voice. “I think Dr. Love is the most risky, exciting thing that’s happened to you in years,” she tells me. “I think you should track him down and sleep with him.”

I think I need to go home and lie down. My brain hurts…

Have you ever wondered at some of the squirrelly label warnings that manufacturers deem it necessary to include with consumer goods for the benefit of us poor, hapless customers?

I mean, we don’t really need to be alerted to the fact that our food products “will be hot after heating,” or that we really shouldn’t attempt to iron our clothes when they’re actually on our bodies, do we?

I kid you not, that’s exactly what the information pack that came with my iron warned me not to do. And let’s face it, if the company feels beholden to warn us of such antics, then at least one poor (although incredibly stupid) person must have tried it…the mind boggles.

It’s the Swedes I feel sorry for. Poor, uninformed sods. Who knew that they were so sorely in need of being admonished not to attempt to stop their chainsaw blades with their hands. Or with their genitals…euck.