The Dating Detox (14 page)

‘I can’t do that before I’ve even had a date. What else is there?’

‘Flirt,’ Bloomie and I say in unison.

‘But I’m not talking to them,’ says Kate.

Bloomie rolls her eyes. ‘It’s the pre-conversation flirt, darling.’

‘Huh?’ says Kate.

‘You know…’ I say. ‘Make eye contact once, twice if you want to be quite clear, then go to the bar within 15 minutes, and he will follow you if he fancies you. Guaranteed.’

‘It’s like a mating dance,’ nods Bloomie.

‘Really?’ Kate looks deeply confused. ‘Then what happens? He asks you out?’

‘No!’ we say in unison again.

‘Then you look around at the bar and can either ignore him completely—this works well if he’s very good-looking, as it’ll intrigue him—or, if he’s more normal-looking, smile at him—’

‘Lips closed! Make it a little smile! Not a big grin!’ interrupts Bloomie.

‘And turn back to the bar. Either way he’ll say something off-the-cuff, like comment on what you’re ordering, or how long it takes to get a drink…’

‘And you arch an eyebrow and smile and say something like—well, that depends on what he’s said. But you say something witty.’

‘Yeah, something witty.’

Kate shakes her head. ‘Did I ever know all this stuff?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘This took several years to perfect, and during that time you were shacked up in pre-marital bliss.’

‘I missed out on all that rejection and heartbreak and bastardos…’ says Kate sadly. ‘OK, I’ll try it. One day.’

‘Mkay,’ I say. ‘On that note, I’m off. That Rick thing was…too much.’

I kiss them both goodbye, pick up my lucky yellow clutch, and turn around to walk towards the street to hail a cab. I need
to go home and think about the Rick encounter, and the fact that I’m going to see Jake in less than three weeks. Actually, no I don’t. I’m on a Dating Sabbatical, I remind myself.

Two guys standing on the pavement are looking at me, and one raises his hand to wave me over. Moderately good-looking, very bad shirt.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I think. Why now? When I’m not dating? Where were they six months ago?

Shampoo, condition, brush teeth, scrub with exfoliating gloves and body wash, shave armpits and legs. It’s the morning after the Sophie’s Steakhouse night with Rick, and it’s sunny and almost warm. I’m still slightly flushed from my morning run, so I stand be-knickered in front of my wardrobe and wait for sartorial inspiration to strike.

Five entire minutes later, cursing this new sartorially-challenged side of myself, I pull on a white vest top, a little black pinafore dress and some flat black sandals. I decide to call it St Germain Schoolgirl and add a long, skinny, stripy cotton scarf. Hair: extreme side parting, low chignon. Make-up: yes please. Winehouse-lite eyeliner, pale pink blush. Brows being almost suspiciously obedient. I step back and survey the results. It took a little longer than I’d like, but Inner Self and Outer Self are linking arms and skipping happily down the street together.

Today is going to be pretty easy at work, but I’d like to get in early anyway. The chaos of yesterday, with the print/coffee fubar and evil Andy and then the pitch, was kind of exhausting, and I want some peace and quiet to tidy my desk and regroup.

The thought that Jake will be at Eddie’s the weekend after next floats into my head. I let it stay for a moment, then watch it float away again. Does he think I’m weird for running away that night at Montgomery Place? Why is it that I think of him every day, even though I haven’t seen him in three months?
Doesn’t matter. Can’t think about him, I’m on a Sabbatical. Lalalaaa. Hello calmness, my old friend.

Calmness is quickly kicked in the head by Rick, waiting impatiently in the wings. Running into him last night was deeply unsettling. I still can’t figure out how I feel about it. I felt disinterested when I was talking to him, I thought he looked kind of unattractive and I still loathe him for being such an utter bastardo cockmonkey. So why have I run over every second of seeing him so many times?

In fact, I may as well be totally honest with you. Lying in bed last night, I indulged in a very anti-Sabbatical fantasy whereby Rick turned up on my doorstep and told me I was the most beautiful, wonderful person he’d ever met, and that he’d made the biggest mistake of his short, stupid life. He added that he was a self-centred, arrogant pig. My reaction to this was not actually in the fantasy, though obviously I looked at him disdainfully as he was talking. And I was wearing something fabulous. I rewound and replayed said imaginary scenario more times than I’d like to admit. That probably wasn’t a very Sabbatical-compliant thing to do. And the Sabbatical isn’t over, despite everything Bloomie and Kate said. It really isn’t.

I look in the mirror, make an angry face and point at myself. Stop this Jake-Rick-Jake-Rick thing, and I mean now. Stop thinking about these bastardos, goddamnit. It is pathetic. You are still on a Dating Sabbatical. You are happier than you’ve ever been before. Get a grip.

I love telling myself off. Especially when I don’t talk back.

I skippy-bunny-hop down the stairs, noting on the way that Anna is AWOL again, which must be good for the relationship with Ron or Don or whatever his name is, not to mention good for me. I do love a flat empty of flatmates. It’s such a lovely day that I walk to work, through St James’s Park and the beautiful June sunshine. This clears and stills my busy mind, and I get to work feeling calm and centred. I have quite a bit to do for various
clients, so the morning passes relatively fast. I wonder when we’re going to hear from the Germans about yesterday’s pitch. Everyone else seems to think I must have the inside track, as they keep asking me what’s happening.

When Coop storms into the office at about 11 am, the entire office falls silent and snaps to attention, but he just marches straight over to his screened area with his mobile at his ear, barking ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.’ I sigh, and turn back to my computer.

It’s weird how depressing it is not to have the pressure of the pitch on, now that I’m used to it. And, annoyingly, there’s not much else to distract me from thinking about things I’m not meant to think about. Like seeing Rick last night and Jake next weekend. I’ve banned myself from online shopping till the end of the month, and it’s all quiet on emails, too. (At some point in my mid-20s my friends and I stopped sending emails every few minutes. So different from when we were in our first jobs. Sample email: ‘I’m hungry. What should I eat?’ I specifically remember having an I-spy game over email with people in offices in London Bridge, Liverpool Street, Mayfair and Park Royal—ie, the opposite sides of London.)

Coop calls me over mid-afternoon.

‘Wordgirl. German dinner at my house tonight,’ he says, shuffling through his utter tip of a desk. ‘Coming?’

‘Huh?’ I say.

He hates spelling things out. ‘The Germans. Are coming. To dinner. At my house. Tonight.’

‘Why?’

Cooper sighs. ‘It started as a one-on-one catch-up dinner with Stefan and I, but then we scheduled the rest of the pitch for yesterday, so I had to ask Felix, and then I couldn’t not ask Lukas, and so now we’ve also got Marlena and her sister and you.’ He pulls out his mobile and checks a text. ‘Wait, Marlena’s sister can’t come. She’s on an emergency yoga retreat. What a freaking
nutcase. Anyway, I’d like you to come. I hope they might tell us if we’ve won the account.’

After work I shoot home to shower quickly and change into client-courting-but-not-in-that-way clothes. I pull out an extremely demure spotted tea dress, like the one Vivian (mah name is Vivian) wears to the polo in
Pretty Woman.
Only it’s in navy, not brown. And, um, the dots are smaller. (OK, it’s nothing like it. But that was why I bought it originally. Shush.)

Red shoes, hair down and parted on one side and held back with a clip, trenchcoat—perfect. Workchic. My clothes powers are, perhaps, returning. I hop in a cab to the public transport no-man’s-land of Battersea (speak not to me of buses and mainline trains, I beg you, this is work-related and I can expense the fare, do I need any other excuse?), and am greeted at the door of Coop’s terrace by Marlena in an I-picked-this-up-in-Ibiza-years-ago white dress. She’s all long smooth arms and collarbones and cheekbones, and long shiny chocolate-brown hair.

‘Ah, Sass. Lovely to see you,’ she smiles. Perfect, perfect teeth. No make-up—which I knew would happen and therefore wore minimal make-up myself, or rather, wore quite a bit but only to give myself a very natural look.

I try not to be jealous of other women, I really do. It’s such a negative, pointless emotion. But I do love the effortless perfection of her, and wish I could be just a tiny bit like that. I feel like a child’s dress-up doll in comparison.

Sigh. Never mind. I am a dress-up doll.

We walk through to the living room, which has a high ceiling and long, plump white sofas. Coop’s in the corner, rearranging his choice of LPs for the evening.

‘Can I help you with dinner, Marlena?’ I ask, accepting a glass of champagne.

‘No.’ She waves a hand as she leaves the room. ‘I have bought some of those easy meals from M und S. I hate to cook. It’s not organic, but I thought, let’s be vild!’

‘Why not?’ I nod, wondering why Cooper suggested dinner in the first place.

‘I thought it would be a nice personal touch for them to come to my place,’ he says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I’m regretting it now, yes.’

‘What are those things?’ I say, looking over at his records. ‘Laser discs?’

‘Very funny,’ he says, without looking up.

‘Can I do anything to help? When are the Germans coming?’

‘No. Now.’

He’s nervous. I shrug, and start looking around the room. I glance over a few photos of the younger even more beautiful Marlena in bikinis, shots of the two of them on holiday, and then come to a few of Coop on his own, when he was in his band in the 80s. He has a serious feathered mullet in some, is wearing rather a lot of make-up in others—God bless New Wave—and in every photo is doing the textbook definition of making love to the camera with his eyes.

‘You were quite the little stud, weren’t you?’ I ask.

He glances up. ‘I was extremely successful with women, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘I imagine you were quite the bastardo to some of them.’

‘If I was, it’s because they were the wrong ones for me,’ he shrugs.

I’m not sure what to say to this. It goes against my whole some-men-are-bastardos-no-matter-what theory.

‘But that goes against my some-men-are-bastardos-no-matter-what theory,’ I say, taking a sip of my champagne. It always makes me feel quite heady straightaway. Woo.

‘You’re such a cliché,’ he grins, looking up at me.

‘Seriously. And the reason I’m on a Dating Sabbatical—not that you’d know since you haven’t asked me about it, though I’ve dropped loads of hints—is that I can’t tell the bastardos from the nice guys, and I kept getting dumped or making mistakes, and you know, all of that.’

Coop finally puts The Cure on and stands up. ‘It’s not meant to be that hard.’

I hate it when people say that. ‘Well, it is.’

He smiles at me and shakes his head. ‘You’ll meet someone you prefer to everyone else in the world. If he’s being a bastardo, you’ll just…call his bluff. And he’ll call yours when you’re playing up. You’ll love it. You’ll figure it all out when you’re a grown-up.’

When I’m a grown-up? Ouch. I’m starting to feel pretty damn immature lately, what with Bloomie talking about marriage when I can’t plan more than two weeks in advance. Then again, I’m nailing things at work. I’ve made the very grown-up decision to press the pause button on my lovelife. And I read the financial pages now. That’s mature of me, isn’t it? Fuck, yeah.

I’m about to ask more questions when the doorbell rings.

I hear happy German voices, and in a couple of minutes everyone comes into the living room and Cooper introduces them to Marlena. Stefan, the global director of marketing, is tall and blond and a bit intimidating, though he and Coop are pretty close, Felix the global CEO is slightly—OK, very—rotund and balding. Lukas, future managing director of the UK arm, is his usual chiselled, blue-eyed self, but there’s something different about him tonight. I stare at him for a second before realising: he’s shorn off his Euro-locks. The improvement is dramatic. He’s also wearing an exceptionally nice shirt and jacket, and some rather cool scruffy jeans.

Wow, the champagne has certainly kicked in.

‘Before we wait any longer, I would like to give a little speech,’ says Felix happily, as Coop hands around glasses of champagne.

‘After today’s meeting, it became very obvious what the next step was,’ he smiles. I glance over at Coop, who’s staring at his face like a man possessed. ‘We are very happy to announce that we would like to work with Cooper Advertising for our launch in the UK.’

Cooper lets out a cheer, and everyone starts talking at once. I clap my hands with delight, then notice myself doing it and put them down. I look over and see Lukas grinning at me.

We toast to the future of the company, and start discussing plans for the launch. Then Marlena interjects with some questions for Felix about Frankfurt, where they’re both from, and Lukas and I start chatting. He’s flathunting at the moment, and says he’s thinking about Marylebone or Belsize Park.

‘I hear rents have dropped, I should be able to get something quite nice,’ he adds.

‘That’s a great idea, they’re both really lovely areas,’ I say.

‘Maybe you could show me around, once I move here,’ he says.‘I’d love to get to know London better. Maybe go to Borough Market, walk in Hyde Park, explore the bars in Chelsea…’

I’m nodding amiably as he says all this, then…wait a minute. Does he mean we should go out…as a date? That’s Rule 1! Or would it be just as friends? But wait, that’s Rule 7! Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly notice Stefan and Felix laughing.

‘That’s a good idea. London has probably changed so much in the three years since you last lived here,’ says Stefan.

I turn to Lukas, shocked. ‘You lived here before?’

He doesn’t even look embarrassed, just grins at me. ‘Yes…but it never hurts to have a refresher course.’

I’m speechless, and the subject changes to the economy. Did he fib about not knowing London, just to ask me out? No, he’s just lonely. That must be it.

Felix starts telling a long story about a friend of his who has gone bankrupt in Germany. I’ve drunk two glasses of champagne and am feeling slightly tipsy, but follow as best I can, till the story is over.

‘Please excuse me whilst I pop outside for a cigarette?’ I say politely.

‘I’ll join you,’ says Lukas. Great.

We open the French doors leading to the garden and step
outside. Coop’s back garden is surprisingly big and pretty: it’s very green and quiet, and Marlena has planted lots of white wild flowers and put up fairy lights everywhere. I sit on a wooden table, resting my legs on one of the chairs.

Lukas lights my cigarette without speaking, and for a few seconds we sit in silence. I remember my job is to entertain the clients, and launch into my client-safe small talk.

‘Well! Isn’t that great news? I’m really excited about working on Blumenstrauße,’ I say. Mmm, I love saying that name.

He looks up at me quickly, and I notice again how very clear and blue his eyes are. ‘I am looking forward to working with you,’ he nods.

‘Yes, I think it’s a very…uh…interesting opportunity…’ I continue brightly, taking a sip of my champagne.

‘Look, I am sorry I pretended I’d never lived here before,’ says Lukas. ‘It was very bad of me.’

I look over at him and he’s making a face of such genuine, heartfelt contrition that I start to laugh. ‘Cheeky, perhaps, if not truly bad…How long did you live here for?’

‘Four years.’

‘Four years!’ I’m still laughing. ‘Haven’t you got better things to do now you’re back than hang around with me?’

‘Not really,’ he says, smiling. He’s very smooth. Smooth shaven, smooth jawed, smooth mover. We’re almost flirting now. (Rule 3, my old nemesis. We meet again.) Time to move the conversation back to small-talk territory.

‘Are you sad about leaving Berlin? I love Berlin. It’s such an incredible city.’