The Dating Detox (16 page)

I wish, I wish it had been Jake. Why am I meeting Rick? What do I have to prove? Why can’t I just walk away? Argh. I smack myself in the forehead, getting a strange look from Stefan in the process, and quickly pretend I’m fixing my hair.

After much ‘no, you first’ protestations, Felix and Stefan get the first cab, and Marlena turns to me, Cooper and Lukas.

‘Let’s go to MAHIKI!’ she shouts, and makes a ‘rock out’ gesture with her hands. Wow, she’s hammered.

‘I’d love to,’ says Lukas.

‘I’ll come too,’ I say, almost without thinking.

‘No, we’re going home,’ says Cooper firmly, putting his arm around Marlena’s waist and manoeuvring her towards the next cab.

Lukas turns to me.

‘Looks like it’s you and me,’ he says.

‘Looks like it,’ I nod. Whoops. Shit. I’m breaking Rule 6: Accidental dating! I’m too tipsy to think of how to get out of it. Oh, well. As we start walking towards Mahiki, Lukas automatically moves around me to walk on the outside edge of the pavement. Very nice manners.

‘Have you been before?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘It’s not really my bag. I’m a drinker and a talker. I’m not so much of a dancer.’

‘It’s good for drinking and talking too,’ he says and, ten minutes later, we’re inside Mahiki, and I’m sitting on some kind of large bamboo-y Tiki-type chair, with an enormous drink in my hand.

‘What am I drinking?’ I shout, over the music.

‘A Honolulu Honey,’ Lukas shouts back. It sounds so funny in his accent that I find myself laughing. He leans in towards me, pulling his chair right forward so we can talk closer.

‘Will you go for dinner with me, when I move here?’ he asks. ‘I’m not tricking you. I’m just asking you.’

‘Umm…’ I say. Oh God. I look Lukas right in his perfectly blue eyes, and decide to just tell him the truth. It is permitted in Rule 5, after all. ‘Look, I’m on a Dating Sabbatical,’ I say, and he nods and leans closer.

‘OK. Tell me more.’

So with his ear so close to my face that I can smell his aftershave, I explain the whole Dating Sabbatical premise. He takes it all in, nodding seriously. After a minute or so, when I’m starting to gabble: ‘I’m not…cynical, or um, damaged, I just don’t want anything romantic in my life for awhile, um…’

‘So when is it over?’ he asks, leaning back. ‘Your Dating Sabbatical. When is it over?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe never. It’s awfully easy.’

‘I think,’ he says, leaning in to me again, ‘that it should be over when you meet someone you want to talk to much more. Someone interesting. Someone who is not…a fucking bastardo.’

I laugh. ‘Probably.’

‘That is me. I am a nice guy. And I think you are amazing.’

What?

‘What?’ I say.

He leans right in to me, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my ear. ‘I think you are lovely. Confident…strong…easy to talk to…I want to spend more time with you.’

He does? I am? He doesn’t know me. I’m only confident in select areas of life and I’m definitely not strong, I can barely get out of bed most mornings. Actually, that’s not entirely true anymore.

‘You make me smile, I think you are lovely, we get along well…It is not a big deal. Your Dating Sabbatical can finish…’

It does seem very, very straightforward when he puts it like that. He is easy to talk to. We do get along well. He’s probably not a bastardo, given his ex-girlfriend sounds like one. And he asked me out, so why not say yes?

Because that’s what I always do, I fancy people because they fancy me. And I can’t break the Dating Sabbatical. Not when I’m so in control of everything in my life, for the first time ever.

I’m pondering these thoughts, and feeling the temptation recede, when he suddenly shifts his head two inches and we’re kissing. I’m so surprised that I don’t even kiss him back for a few moments, and then instinct kicks in and for about 30 seconds I just enjoy the sensation of kissing someone after three long months of no kisses at all. They’re slow, thoughtful kisses: his lips are a little colder than I would have expected, and his tongue is a little more aggressive than I’d like, but well, unless there’s a
serious technique failure, kissing is almost always fun. Don’t you think?

Then suddenly, Jake pops into my head. Not the Sabbatical, though I’m breaking Rule 8 with wanton abandon, not the fact that Lukas is the MD of the company who just hired my advertising agency. Just Jake. And I pull back so fast that Lukas hangs in the air for a moment with his eyes closed and his lips puckered.

I search desperately for an excuse. The Dating Sabbatical isn’t going to cut it a second time, I fear. ‘You’re our new client. It’s totally unethical.’ Jackpot.

‘Pfft…that means nothing,’ says Lukas. ‘Everyone meets at work.’

I shake my head. ‘No. No, it’s not a good idea. I’m going to…go home now.’

As we stand up, Lukas reaches out to take my hand, and I deliberately fiddle with my lucky yellow clutch so as to avoid it. What a bad idea. Oh fuck, I kissed a client. I’m so preoccupied with these thoughts that I barely talk as we exit Mahiki, and I see a black cab outside. That little yellow light that shows it’s free is the best sight sometimes.

‘Thanks for a great night, Lukas,’ I say.

‘I hope…you are OK?’ he says. ‘I’m going back to Germany tomorrow, so I won’t see you for a fortnight…I hope you won’t be angry with me?’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Can I have your number?’

I pretend not to hear, and lean forward to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. As I get in the cab, Lukas tries to give me a special look. I pretend not to see it and close the door. ‘Pimlico, please.’

If I’d met Lukas at any point in the past eight years, I’d have jumped at the chance to go out with him. I’d be snogging him furiously in Mahiki right now, and being as flirty and funny as
I could, with no thought for the consequences. The Dating Sabbatical really has changed me. I’ve decided to ignore the fact that it was Jake I thought of, not the Sabbatical. The point is, I stopped kissing him.

I feel proud of myself for a second, till I remember about the drink with Rick tomorrow night. Oh doublefuck, the drink with Rick.

Twenty-five minutes later I’m showered, pyjama-ed and in bed. The room is rocking ever so slightly.

How can I have added another ball to my endless thought-juggle? I wonder as my head hits the pillow. Lukas-Rick-Jake. Jake-Rick-Lukas.

Suddenly, it hits me that I can just cancel the drink with Rick tomorrow night. And I will have the upper hand, because he asked me out and I said no. Yes. I will cancel it. No Lukas. No Rick. Easy.

You know that you’re probably doing something naughty, even if you’re pretending you’re not, when you keep it from your best friends. I don’t tell them that I agreed to go on a date with Rick.

For a drink, I mean. It doesn’t matter, I reason, since I’m going to cancel. Yep. Cancel. I send him an email mid-morning on Friday:

Rick. I’m so sorry, I can’t make it tonight after all. I’ll explain another time.

Abrupt, distant, vague, polite. Perfect.

I get an out-of-office response back 20 minutes later. He’s not at work all day, with no access to email. He’s the only lawyer I know who doesn’t carry a BlackBerry.

I text him instead:

Can’t make tonight—something has come up. Sorry.

No reply. Good, there’s that dealt with then. I mentally high-five myself, and look around the office quickly. It’s very quiet again this morning, everyone is catching up on work we put on hold during the pitch, but there’s a happy, slightly euphoric buzz about the place. Cooper hasn’t come in, and texted me at 9 am to tell me to round up the troops and tell everyone the good news. My God, it felt good doing that. I singled everyone out and thanked them for their individual contributions. Everyone worked so hard, and they deserve the praise and recognition. (Andy spent the whole time sending, or pretending to send, texts.)

I haven’t heard anything from Lukas, by the way. A minute after waking up this morning I remembered kissing him, and immediately had a stomach-lurch of nausea which was, I swear, more cringe than matsuhisa martini. Apart from that, he’s barely crossed my mind. I’m quite good at ignoring things I don’t want to think about, you won’t be surprised to hear. He’s gone for two weeks now, anyway.

So now I’m writing pseudo-70s e-card copy for a boiler company, which is traditionally something people only buy when the old one carks it—ie, a ‘distress purchase’. The idea is that if the e-card is funny enough, people will send it on to their friends, thus helping our client reach more potential customers. The 70s thing is so that people realise how out-of-date their boiler is. Supposedly.

We’ve got some amusing photos of Burt Reynolds-alikes in camel-coloured Dacron flared suits staring lovingly at the camera, so all I have to do is come up with the line, and leave a space for people to type the name of the person they’re sending it to.

[name], you remind me of a shag carpet. Soft, warm and hairy in all the right places.

[name], would you like to come out for a drink with me? Just sit quietly in my car and I’ll be out when the pub shuts.

Hmm, moderately funny. I’m really not sure how well this whole strategy is going to work. I didn’t come up with it originally. It was Andy and Danny, when I was working on the German stuff, so it’s the first time I’ve really seen the brief.

Cooper and Andy are out all afternoon seeing another client, so I write an email about my concerns to them both. I choose my words carefully: I don’t want to sound rude, but I want to be quite clear and confident. Gosh, it’s quite satisfying being more involved in this sort of thing. A few months ago, I’d have shut up and just written the lines.

Suddenly, my phone beeps. A reply from Rick.

Don’t be silly—push your other thing back. It’s only half an hour.

How irritating. There is a difference between being bossed around charmingly, which I love, and just being told what to fucking do, which I hate.

I can’t. Sorry.

He replies.

Please—I need to talk to you.

Annoyingly intriguing, and he did say please…maybe he really IS in love with me. That would be interesting. Not that I love him back. At all. I’m not even interested.

But it would be lovely for me to be the one to reject him. Maybe he is not a bad person deep down underneath it all. No, he’s not, I mean, yes he is, he’s a bastardo and he wasn’t even nice to me when we were dating, before Pink Ladygate. God, my head is exhausting me.

You know what, I’ll just meet him and leave halfway through the drink. That’s totally fine. It hardly even counts.

An email in my inbox from an unfamiliar name distracts me from my self-centred reverie. From Eugene Durand, sent to me and Katie. Who the—oh. The Dork.

Hey there…Sorry to bother you…Just wondering if you know if Bloomie is OK…I haven’t heard from her since Wednesday night…Thanks…Eugene.

I think for a second. That was the Sophie’s Steakhouse night. I haven’t heard from her either. I take out my mobile and call Bloomie’s work line and then her mobile. It rings out both times. An email from Kate arrives, just for me.

Have you heard from B? She’s not replying to my emails or texts, and if she slept at home last night, I didn’t see or hear her. What should we do? The Dork is worried.

Gosh, perhaps Bloomie is having an affair. But she said she was going to marry The Dork, so that can’t be right. I ring her
work number again, this time hiding my mobile phone number—stalkerphone!—and at the sixth ring, she answers.

‘Susan Bloomingdale.’

‘Blooms, it’s me…’

‘What’s up?’

‘We were just wondering if you’re OK, we haven’t heard from you, Eugene is worried, Kate says you didn’t come home last night…’

‘I’m working. I have a job, in case you haven’t noticed.’

She hangs up. Fucking hell, she’s a cranky bitch sometimes.

I ring Kate.

‘I stalkerphoned her, she says she’s just working.’

‘I’ve never seen anyone work like she does. Apart from seeing us on Wednesday, and Eugene on Sunday, she’s worked at least 17 hours a day, every day for the last two weeks.’

‘Fucking hell. That’s ridiculous.’

‘At least she has work to do,’ says Kate in a whisper. ‘I’ve got almost nothing to do. I was about to suggest a game of i-spy over email.’

‘Ha. I have to go, Katiepoo. I’ll email The Dork.’

I hang up from Kate and compose a quick mail to Eugene.

She’s just working! Try dropping her an email…

Eugene:

After the three I’ve already sent?…Oh well, I’m glad she’s not dead. Thanks.

Wow, that’s awfully dark humour there. He’s obviously rather pissed off. Bloomie has always been a work-focused little bunny, but it has taken on a new level of madness in the last year. She’s so focused on it, I realise, that it’s starting to throw everything else out of kilter. Like me and dating, in the olden days. Maybe she needs a Work Sabbatical.

My thoughts turn back to tonight. Fuck, Rick. I’ll just have two sips of my drink, hear what he has to say, and leave. Perfect.

On the way home after work, I get a text from Bloomie. She apologises for being rude on the phone earlier and says she and Kate are having a pizza and poker night at their house with Eugene and Eddie. I reply that I’ll be along a bit later. It would be too hard to explain now why I am going for one sip of a drink with Rick tonight.

In fact, I won’t imbibe at all. I’ll just wave the drink near my face, hear what he has to say and leave.

Quick shower, yada yada, washed hair this morning so I just tease it into a bouffant chignon thing, deodorant, perfume. No perfume. Oh, go on, perfume. Does that send the wrong impression? No. It just shows standards. Oh, it’s Le Dix by Balenciaga, since you ask, and it took me years and years to discover it. Each previous perfume, predictably, reminds me of a boyfriend or period of time. My mum gives me a new perfume every birthday, and you know, it always seems to coincide with a life change. Anaïs Anaïs is school, Lou Lou is most of university. Arty Jonathan is Gucci Rush. Rugger Robbie is Chanel No. 19. Clapham Brodie is Allure. Smart Henry is L’Instant de Guerlain. Rick is Shalimar, and I don’t know what I was thinking wearing that at all. When I smell it now, I feel sick. I suppose Le Dix should remind me of Posh Mark but I’m afraid it just reminds me of me now, not him. Now, where was I?

Ah yes…what the sweet hell to wear. I want to look kind of hot, obviously, but not like I’ve made an effort, ie, I shall be fully-but-sexily covered up. And tall, since he is not that tall. Ha. Three-inch tan platform heels. White kickflare jeans that more than cover my heels so I look like a giant. White vest top. Red belt. Another white vest top over the top because they’re cheap and cheap things look better layered, I think/hope. White wrappy jacket thing. Hair down. Yes. I christen thee Virginal Jetsetter. I glance at my watch. It’s 6.05 pm. We’re not meeting for another two hours. Sigh. I want to get this over and done with.

I re-examine my make-up and add some winged eyeliner and taupe eyeshadow. Mew.

I am not good at killing time. And living in a city like in London, I don’t usually have to. I just whirl from one spot to the next. I contemplate writing something—my little stories are coming along rather nicely—but I can’t right now. So instead, I tidy my room, try on three pairs of alternate shoes, and head down to the kitchen. On the way, I run into Anna, who is heading towards the front door with a huge overnight bag slung across her back.

‘Anna!’ I say. ‘Hello.’

‘Oh, oh, hi,’ she says, turning back into the hallway and dropping the bag slightly dramatically. I look closely at her and see that her eyes are badly swollen and pink. Newborn puppy syndrome.

‘Um…off anywhere nice?’ I ask. Which was obviously a stupid thing to say, but so is ‘are you alright?’ to someone whose face looks like a cyst.

‘I’m going to Edinburgh, home to Mum,’ she says, searching her cardigan sleeves for a tissue. About seven fall out onto the floor. ‘Don left me. Again.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry…’ I say. I try to remember the last time we ran into each other, when she was happy. Last week? ‘Well, I’m sure his marriage is…you know, very, um…complicated and that’s kind of understandable…’

‘He’s not back with her!’ she exclaims. ‘SHE left HIM for someone else. I didn’t know, because he never told me any details. When I thought he was back with her I was wrong…he’d told me he needed space, so it was a pretty natural assumption. Space!’ she adds, spitting out the word like a chewed cuticle.

‘Fucking bastardo,’ I say.

‘I know! I thought the Dating Sabbatical was the trick, to get him back, you know? I really thought it was.’ She looks at me, slightly wild-eyed. ‘I didn’t return his calls, didn’t read his emails, and then he turned up at work one night, and then everything was so good for a whole month!’ She pauses dramatically.
‘And then I asked him about his divorce and where we were going as a couple, and he left me again.’ She starts crying hysterically. ‘I make the wrong decision every time! I’m like a water-stick thing for the wrong decision!’

‘Divining rod?’ I suggest. Her sobs get louder.‘Oh, Anna, don’t, um, upset yourself…’ I add, a bit pointlessly. ‘Just have some perspective, things will be OK…’

‘I have to go home,’ she says, her voice rising into a slight wail. ‘I can’t take my life anymore. I just cannot take it.’ She leans over to pick up her overnight bag. ‘The only good thing about all of this is that I’ve lost a stone.’ She stands up and smiles at me triumphantly. ‘How great is that!?’

‘Great!’ I say.

‘OK, well, see ya!’ She slams the door after her.

Wow. I think this last dumping may have made Anna actually insane. That would have happened to me. That could still happen to me. It’s so easy to think you’re making the right choices, when you’re doing everything wrong…Oh God, oh God, I think I’m doing everything wrong.

I open the fridge and think about eating something to calm me down. I spent quite possibly my entire teenage years standing in front of the fridge when I was bored, thinking about eating something and hoping that at any moment some cold, chewy brownies or leftover sticky honey chicken drumsticks would magically appear. Because my mother was in charge of that fridge, such magical things sometimes really did happen.

As always, however, my shelf in this fridge is filled with Laughing Cow Extra Light, organic peanut butter, and a bottle of Japanese rice vinegar from a rather unsuccessful sushi-making dinner party I had last year. There’s bread in the freezer (no point in buying a fresh loaf when you only eat a few pieces a week), but I can’t be bothered to toast it. I don’t even own any milk to make myself a coffee.

This is not a grown-up’s fridge, I think to myself. At some point in my life, I’d like to have real food in a real fridge.

I close the fridge door and stare out the kitchen window for awhile. Behind our house is a lovely little cobblestone mews. All the little mews houses are different pastel colours, like sugared almonds in a row, with Porsches and Range Rovers lined up outside.

Sometimes, very very early in the morning, I see the husbands that live in the mews houses leaving for work. At 9 am the nannies take the toddlers for a walk. At about 10 am the wives’ personal trainers arrive. And then at about 1 pm the now immaculately-dressed-and-coiffed wives head out for lunch, sometimes with immaculately-dressed-and-coiffed toddlers in tow, sometimes not.

And these people aren’t even the real rich in London, you know, yet it’s still a life I just can’t imagine ever having—and it’s not like I’m a pauper by normal standards, either. It’s just London. There is so much money in London that to compare yourself to it becomes simply ridiculous. I’ll never earn enough to buy a house in London. Some of my friends will buy houses, and some like Bloomie already have, but I’ll probably be renting forever. My mortgage would be two-thirds of my monthly salary, not including bills and furniture and all the rest. I did the maths (well, Kate did it for me), and it gave me financial nausea. No wonder I haven’t grown up. The economy won’t allow me to.

Do you know, I haven’t had a pay rise in all the time I’ve worked for Coop? I’ve never asked for one, and one’s never been offered. I’m going to have to do something about that.

God, this shit is depressing.

I turn around and, almost without intending to do it, take a tumbler out of the cupboard above the sink, throw in some ice and add three fingers of vodka. I would add a mixer, but we don’t have any. I look around the kitchen to see if we have any lemons, but we don’t have them either. Just a stack of my unopened bank statements on the breadbin, as usual.