The Dating Detox (23 page)

I think about actually changing my status from ‘unavailable indefinitely’ to ‘girlfriend’ and for a second, I think I’m going to throw up. It would all go badly badly wrong. I know that in my heart.

That’s not inside-out happiness. That’s outside-in chaos.

‘No fucking way…I mean, no. I’m just telling you I’m nervous.’

‘Well, at least you’ve properly admitted having a crush on him, after all that “Jake…is…interesting…” bullshit last night.’

‘Crush is the right word,’ I say. ‘I feel like an orange going through a juicing machine.’

‘OK…so wait, why did you call me?’

‘Can you distract me?’ I say in a whiny voice.

‘Poor baby,’ she says, giggling. ‘I’ll email Eddie asking exactly what we’re doing tonight. He’ll just think I’m being bossy. Then he’ll be prompted to send a group email and we can get some e-banter going. That should distract you and you can channel your nerves into that.’

‘Brilliant,’ I say.

True to her word, about half an hour later an email arrives from Eddie.

Subject: The Best Weekend You’ll Ever Have.

Hmm.

Most of the email is about how to get to his parents’ house. I don’t have to worry about that, since Kate’s driving. (I don’t know how to drive. I know, I need to sort that out, don’t nag me.) Then I see he’s added a PS.

PS: If you’re wondering about the plans this weekend, it’s something like this: Boys do a wine tasting, followed by a beer tasting, then a spirit tasting. Girls cook. Boys watch girls cooking. Boys eat. Girls clean up. Repeat for each meal of the weekend, interspersed with sleep. Hakuna matata, beeetchez.

Ha! I know he wrote that specifically to annoy us, and I am obviously not a particularly emotionally intelligent person, because it’s worked. I contemplate replying all and scan the email list. Bloomie, Eugene, Kate, Fraser, Ant (Ant? Oh, for fuck’s sake), Tory. So far, so predictable. And then I see it. [email protected]. His last name is Ryan? It must be him, he’s the only J I don’t know.

I look at the email for a few minutes, then decide to draft my reply.

(Yes, email replies really are this important.)

Edward. I’m so thrilled that you’re taking so much time to worry about the happiness of the women fortunate enough to be attending your party.

Nonono. Straight sarcasm won’t work. I’m just going to have to be sexist back.

Edward. The plans have been redrafted. The men will taste the wine, guzzle the beer, and ruin our spirits.

Pfft. It’s not that good. Sending a group email is like being a standup comic. You have to be pretty damn sure your material is not going to tank in front of your audience.

I delete both drafts and press ‘send and receive’ on my email to see if anyone else has replied all.

One from Bloomie:

Thrilled, Edward. I’ll be sure to pack my own rubber gloves, as you know how much I love to scrub. Then again, you’ve always loved scrubbers too, haven’t you?

Ha. Clearly his email irritated Bloomie too.

One from Mitch:

WTF? The girls are allowed to sleep?

Haha. Funny Mitch.

I press ‘send and receive’ again. Nothing. Jake must be busy. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he thinks funny reply-alls are stupid.

Stop thinking about it.

I decide to go and have a long lunch, and decide to lie in Golden Square with takeaway sushi from Kulu Kulu and a Diet Coke and listen to Aerosmith on my iPod.

Golden Square on a sunny day is exceptional for people-watching. I see a couple on a lunch date, flirting gently: the guy pretending nonchalance, his nervous date having trouble maintaining eye contact, a palpable air of excitement between them. Another couple are snoozing in the sun, and she’s using his tummy as a pillow as he enjoys the freedom to check out other women. Across the grass I see a girl on the phone, crying and smoking.

Ah, the three stages of dating. Flirty excitement, ill-judged happiness, lonely misery. Sigh. I look across the other side of Golden Square, and see two guys walking together through the centre of the square holding hands. I wonder what the gay dating scene is like, I think. I bet it’s more straightforward than the straight one. I peer closer. Oh my God. One of the holdy-hands guys is Clapham Brodie.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I duck down flat on the grass and stare at the two guys through my sunglasses. They’re too wrapped up in a bubble of happiness to even glance my way, oblivious to everyone around them, laughing and talking as they walk through Golden Square. He’s
wearing really nice jeans, I think irrationally. And his boyfriend is gorgeous.

They walk out of Golden Square, and I sit back up, looking about me in shock. Fucking hell. Clapham Brodie is gay. No wonder we watched so many DVDs, lying chastely side-by-side. Hang on. This means that in the last six weeks, I’ve seen every guy that I’ve ever dated for more than a month. Except Arty Jonathan. I’m not likely to see him. He probably took my £200 quid and moved into a squat in Brighton, or wherever it is talentless artists end up.

What is the universe trying to tell me? Is it reminding me that every past mistake is alive and well so that I adhere to the Dating Sabbatical? Or is it showing them to me so I can see that they’ve ended up fat, boring, evil, in love with someone called Belly or, well, gay? Or is it just saying that I need to explore new areas of London to hang out in?

I think I’ll have to have a little cigarette, which I wouldn’t ordinarily do without even the pretence of a phone call to make it ‘social smoking’. But honestly. Clapham Brodie is
gay.

When I get back to the office, my inbox is filled with reply-alls from just about everyone attending the weekend. I scan the list…Bloomie, Ant, Mitch, Eddie, Ant again, blahblahblah…Everyone seems to be offering to bring different things. (Starting with food, alcohol and blow-up mattresses, which then led to contribution offers of blow-up dolls, a blow-up sheep and the ability to tie a cherry stalk in a knot in one’s mouth. That last one was Tory.) I feel oddly tongue-tied. This is not like me. Then a reply-all arrives from Jake Ryan.

My contribution to the weekend is my ability to scale sheer mountain walls. I can also skipper a yacht and make a hot air balloon out of a paperclip and snot.

Heehee. I decide not to reply-all just yet, though. I’ll just wait and see what happens. Over the next hour, the email reply-alls become even giddier. Fraser offers to show us how to take apart
and put back together a rifle in less than a minute, Tory says she’ll do the splits, Mitch—predictably—says his contribution is a naked Extreme Worm tutorial. Then, at 4.52 pm, another email arrives from Jake.

He sent it to me. And only me. My heart jumps.

Taptaptap…Is this thing on? Tough crowd…

I wait for just under ten minutes—you have to, with this kind of email, or else you look too keen—and then reply:

I was waiting till someone said something funny.

He replies (almost eight minutes later):

You and your cocky silences.

I reply (nine minutes later):

Stop it. I’m blushing.

He replies (six minutes later):

Uh…that wasn’t a compliment. And I thought you knew the meaning of words n stuff.

Heh. I reply (eight minutes later):

So I hear you were talking to your cousin about me. Am sure you know he’s a congenital liar.

He replies (four minutes later):

Anyone who throws a glass of wine in someone’s face has to expect to be talked about.

Shit.

I think about what to reply and (nine minutes later) settle on:

That was bar theatre. You wouldn’t guess it, but everyone involved was an actor. Even the wine was acting.

He replies (six minutes later):

Wow, Oscar-worthy performance. Especially the guy playing the arrogant ex-boyfriend.

I reply (seven minutes later):

Yes, they nailed it when they cast him. Sadly, he hasn’t been booked for any repeat performances.

He replies (less than two minutes later):

No great loss to the illustrious world of bar theatre. He didn’t look like the type anyone would want to get the girl.

Oh, my gosh. I’m sweating slightly. This is fucking brilliant.

I look at my watch. It’s almost 4 pm.

I reply (six minutes later):

Well. This has been charming, but I have to go home now and pack. Toothbrush, pyjamas, paperclips, snot…the usual. Will you last the afternoon without me?

He replies (immediately):

Only time will tell, Minxy.

I feel euphoric, albeit clammy-palmed. I wonder if he’s coming tonight, or if he’s in the group arriving in the morning. I guess I’ll find out.

I stand up and pack up my desk, and grab my jacket and clutch. As I start walking towards the door, and see Andy get up from his desk, I pretend not to see him, open the front door and walk out.

‘Sass,’ he says, following me out and shutting the door behind him. Oh God, what now.

I turn around and look him straight in the eye. ‘Oh, Andy. I’m just on my way home…’

‘Can I have a quick word?’ he says.

‘I’m in a hurry. Can you make it very quick?’ I say, and see his eyebrows raise in surprise.

‘Shall we go into the conference room?’

‘Here is good,’ I say. Yes! Score one to me. I don’t care what nasty things he might say to me, I realise. Bring it on.

‘Uh, well, you may not know, but I’m leaving Cooper. I just wanted to say, I think you’ll be a great head creative in a few years. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, as they say.’

Not nasty. Just patronising.

‘Yes, I know you’re leaving,’ I reply, smiling broadly. ‘Cooper told me everything. Shame your ultimatum didn’t work. And
thanks, but I know I’ll be great, because I’m fucking brilliant at my job. Thanks for the chat, Andy. I’ll see you Monday.’

Andy stares at me, open-mouthed. He doesn’t say anything, so after a few seconds I smile at him again and turn around. I skippy-bunny-hop down the stairs and out into the evening sunshine. Self-high-fives all round.

I get to Kate and Bloomie’s house at 6.30 pm after a whirlwind dash home to change, and I’m now mentally, physically and sartorially ready to face Jake and whatever else the weekend throws at me. I’m dressed in perfect country weekend wear (Road Tripper theme: pale blue skinny jeans, Converses, dark grey top, Bloomie’s leather jacket). My hair is clean. My makeup is understated. My eyebrows are doing just what I asked them to. I have an overnight bag packed with a selection of comfortable, yet rather sexy clothes. If you think well-worn T-shirts are sexy. Which I do.

‘And where were you on the emails this afternoon?’ asks Bloomie as a greeting. She’s standing outside her house, leaning against Kate’s car. Kate’s inside getting her bag. ‘After all that fuss…’

‘Stage fright sucks,’ I shrug. I’ll tell her about the emails with Jake later.

‘Fag for the nerves, darling?’ asks Bloomie, fishing Marlboro Lights out of her bag. She’s wearing my white jeans. I think they look better on her. Damn.

‘I think my jeans look better on you,’ I say to her by way of response.

‘I think my jacket looks better on you,’ she nods, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to me.

‘Is The Dork coming up with us?’

‘He has a family thang,’ says Bloomie. ‘His cousin is here for the night after a school trip all week, so they’re going to a musical. I cried off on the grounds that musicals make me homicidal.’

‘Fair,’ I nod.

‘He’s coming up first thing in the morning. With that guy Benoit who chatted you up at Montgomery Place that night.’

I raise an eyebrow. Great.

‘Let’s hit the road,’ says Kate, coming out of the house. Bloomie and I immediately start arguing about who gets shotgun. I win. It’s nice being ‘the three of us’ again. Aside from being around more, Kate’s Tray-induced uptightness (not a word, never mind) is fading and she’s back to being fun and silly. She’ll always be a bit obsessive-compulsive, mind you. She spent an hour today plotting and printing the perfect driving route on viamichelin.com and Google Maps, and cross-referencing it with Bloomie’s roadmap.

As we drive through Notting Hill, I remember to ask Kate something I’ve been meaning to all week.

‘Any news from the hot Aussie, by the way?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? He texted me at 4 am on Saturday night—I mean Sunday morning, really—asking if I fancied a nightcap back at his place.’ She shakes her head. ‘As if.’

‘Shame. Le Rappel Du Booty, I believe that’s called.’

‘Silly man,’ says Bloomie. ‘He just got overexcited and blew a little early, so to speak…’ She pauses. ‘God! Sorry, that was filthy of me. Mitch must be rubbing off on me, so to speak…God! Sorry! There I go again!’

Kate and I start giggling.

‘I’ve been wondering if maybe I wasn’t flirting very well,’ says Kate. ‘Or flirting so obviously that he thought I’d be up for a 4 am sex-request. Can you watch me this weekend, see how I do?’

‘Of course,’ Bloomie and I reply. ‘Though I think you flirt very well indeed,’ I add.

Kate shrugs. ‘Perhaps he was just drunk. I’ve deleted his text and number, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ we agree in unison. We fall into silence and listen to the radio for awhile. Then I remember I haven’t told them my news.

‘I got a raise today. And a promotion. And I saw Clapham Brodie in Golden Square and he’s gay and has a really hot boyfriend.’

‘WHAT?’ Bloomie and Kate explode with excitement, and I tell them everything. After several minutes of excited questions, we fall silent.

‘Gosh, I wish they’d just tell me I’ve definitely got a job,’ says Kate. ‘I had lunch with my boss, though, and he talked to me about my six-month objectives and stuff. So that must be a good sign.’

‘I’m sure everything is fine,’ says Bloomie. She’s lying.

‘Me too,’ I agree. So am I.

‘What would you guys do if you lost your jobs?’ Kate asks.

‘I…wouldn’t think about it till it happens,’ I say.

‘I’d take some time off,’ says Bloomie. ‘I’d come back in six months, or a year, and see where things are.’

‘Can you afford to do that?’ I ask.

Bloomie shrugs. ‘I have savings.’

I always forget that everyone has savings except me.

Kate sighs fretfully and starts nibbling her cuticles—a first; her nails are usually pristine. I’d better change the subject to distract her.

‘Does anyone know if Jake is coming tonight or tomorrow?’ I blurt out. Nice distraction. Idiot.

‘Tonight, I think. Eddie said Mitch “and that lot” are driving down later…so that would include your LUVUH!’

They start teasing me like we’re ten years old. Bloomie clearly told Kate my ‘Jake…is…interesting’ speech when she got home last night, which is par for the course with the three of us.

‘So, do you love him?’

‘Do you want him to be your boyfriend?’

‘Would you kiss him?’

‘Would you touch his THING?!’

‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll be forced to smack you both. In the mouth. With my fist.’

‘She would! She would like sooo touch it.’

‘Ew, I KNOW.’

They’re giggling hysterically at themselves.

‘I was going to tell you about the emails today, but now I won’t,’ I say airily, looking out the window. How quickly London turns to green countryside. It’s kind of weird, because when you’re in the middle of it, it’s hard to imagine that the countryside even exists.

‘Tell us!’ They both shout at once. ‘TELL US. NOW.’

‘Tell us or I’ll pull over and you can walk to Eddie’s,’ says Kate.

‘OK, OK,’ I say. I tell them all about it. They giggle at his witty emails (Kate also comments on his rather polite and sensitive way of dealing with seeing the Botanist Incident, which I hadn’t even thought about) and get even more excited about me seeing him tonight.

‘He’s pretty slick, alright,’ I say, voicing a thought that’s been in my head since the emails. ‘It reminds me of Rick.’

Silence.

‘Jake is nothing like Rick,’ says Bloomie. ‘Jake is nice, for a start.’

‘Jake is much better looking,’ adds Kate.

‘Jake is a Boy Scout. And a prince,’ says Bloomie.

‘Jake is a prince,’ agrees Kate.

‘Jake is a pony. You should take him for a ride…’

Kate shrieks with laughter.

‘Jake is an ice cream. And she should lick his pointy end,’ adds Bloomie.

‘Ooh! Jake is a chocolate bar she’d like to melt in her mouth,’ says Kate.

‘Jake is a fish that she’d like to bone,’ says Bloomie.

They’re both laughing helplessly. They know wordplay is one of my favourite things, damn them.

‘Jake,’ I say, despite myself, ‘is a roast dinner. And I want to taste his meat and two veg.’

‘Jake is…a chutney and you’d like to scoff his pickle!’ screams Bloomie. Kate is laughing too hard to speak now.

‘Jake is…a builder, and I’d like to admire his marvellous erections.’

‘Jake is…a fry-up. And you’d like to nibble his sausage.’

‘Jake is…a Royal Mail depot, and I’d like to get my hands on his package.’

The drive to Eddie’s is meant to take an hour and a half, but what with the silliness, snack stops and Friday traffic, we don’t make it till past 9 pm. As we pull up the long driveway to the house, I feel a fizzle of nerves in my tummy and my heart starts pounding.

I wonder if he’s here yet. I wonder if he knows about the Dating Sabbatical. I’d be embarrassed if he did. It does kind of make me seem like a serial dater. And a basket case.

It’s a perfect May night, and the sky is not quite dark, and everything is still and clear. I love this house. It’s old, very big, and surprisingly cosy. The outside is all covered in greenyvineythings, and the inside is a divine mess of sprawling rooms and fireplaces and photos and sculptures, with over-spilling bookshelves absolutely everywhere. I take a deep breath as we walk in…

…and exhale as we enter the kitchen. Only Eddie and Ant are here.

They’re sitting at the long kitchen table drinking beer and talking loudly. They’re already rather pissed. Within a few minutes we’ve dropped our bags in our rooms upstairs, and are at the table opening a bottle of wine.

I feel like I’m home when I’m in this kitchen. Half of it is taken up with the table, which sits about 24, the other half with
a walk-in pantry, an Aga (but of course), an enormous fridge and a kitchen island for preparing food, and what seem to be dozens of cupboards over big country sinks. One entire wall is windows and big double doors looking out to the huge expanse of perfectly manicured garden and lovingly tended flower beds, leading down to tennis courts. The rest of the house is delightful, too, but this room—this is kitchen porn.

‘What have we missed, then?’ says Bloomie.

‘Nothing appropriate for pretty little ears like yours,’ grins Ant. ‘It was boys-only talk. We’ll have to clean it up now.’

I roll my eyes.

‘I’ve been made redundant, if you must know,’ says Ant.

‘Oh, gosh…how awful,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’ Bloomie and Kate chorus this.

‘Don’t be. I’ve been expecting it for months. Anyway, anyone who wants to work now is a chump. It’s the perfect time to go and hide on a desert island for two years. Then come back and take over the world.’

‘Can you afford to do that?’ asks Kate reasonably.

‘No, of course I can’t,’ he says. ‘But it’s a fucking brilliant idea.’

He’s such a prat. He’s not saying anything Bloomie didn’t say in the car, but it’s all in the delivery. I turn to Eddie.

‘What’s new, pussycat?’

‘I’m getting dry humped at work,’ he replies, leaning back in his seat and surreptitiously letting out a gentle beery belch. ‘Nothing new there.’

‘Actually, the term is “frotted”,’ says Kate with an angelic smile.

‘Speaking of dry humping, I would like to tell a story about a girl with a pet snake,’ says Eddie.

‘Oh, God,’ says Bloomie.

Eddie launches into a long and entertaining story I’ve heard several times before. It takes him 15 minutes to tell it. I’ll tell it to you in 15 seconds. A girl he knows had a pet snake, and it stopped eating and kept going all rigid for hours like a tree log.
And she took it to the vet and he said ‘Well, it goes rigid to measure itself against the length of you, and it’s stopped eating because it’s getting its appetite big enough to eat you. And it’s a good thing you came in because it has just dislocated its own jaw on purpose, which indicates it would have attempted to eat you within the next 12 hours.’ (Everyone always screams at this point.) Eddie swears this is a true story. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.

I hear a car pull up outside.

‘I need to use the…euphemism,’ I say, and dash upstairs.

As I’m washing my hands, I hear new voices in the front hallway. My heart starts pounding with fear slash excitement, and I peek over the stair banisters to see if it’s him. Nope, it’s just more of Eddie’s engineering friends, Neil and Harriet, who’ve arrived with Fraser and Tory. Fraser and Tory are back together, apparently, which is slightly worrying. Harriet is one of those heavily competitive women who thinks she knows everything about sport and tries to ensure guys pay her attention by talking to them about cricket. I find it very hard to warm to her. She spends most of her time telling Neil what to do. He is skinny and has never had a good haircut. He also has yet to reveal anything remarkable about himself and never contributes anything to the conversation, but Eddie seems to like him…Of course, he’s probably absolutely hilarious and brilliant and thinks I’m a total arsehole. He and Harriet are going out, I think.

Oh God, the waiting is killing me.

I go back into the bathroom and point at myself in the mirror. Calm the fuck down. He’s probably not even a good person and you are practically forcing yourself into a crush that would kill you. You can’t trust yourself. And he’s a slick, funny, charmingly bossy, ultra-confident alpha male and you know how it would end: tears, misery, disappointment. That is why you are on a Sabbatical. So take a fucking chill pill. (A chill pill? I think as I walk down the stairs. Sheesh, I am a dork.)

‘Hello everyone,’ I say, coming back into the kitchen.

‘Hello, treacle,’ calls Fraser. I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek as I walk past to my chair, and my eye is caught by Tory’s grubby little foot toeing his groin. I look over at her and we smile at each other. You need a pedicure, I think. And a muzzle, I add, as I sit down at the other end of the table and she launches into a loud story about her birthday last year. I’m not really paying attention—Bloomie and Kate are making fun of each other as roommates, which is quite diverting—until Tory says:

‘And I thought, you know what, I deserve a birthday bang.’ The entire table falls silent.‘Really, it’s what every girl deserves…Sadly, I didn’t know about young Fraser’s abilities, else I would have booked him for the night, yeh?’ I glance at Fraser, who is puce with embarrassment or possibly—though I hope not—delight. Tory continues: ‘So I spent a hilarious night phoning every single man I’ve ever been with, yeh? And every single one is now in a relationship and couldn’t oblige! Can you imagine? I must be some kind of graduate school for relationship-ready men…’

‘Graduate school? That’s the first time I’ve heard her call it that,’ says Bloomie under her breath to me.

‘Call what that?’ says Kate equally quietly.

‘Her hoohoo,’ murmurs Bloomie. Kate guffaws, spraying red wine all over the table. Everyone looks up at us.

‘Sorry! She has a drinking problem,’ says Bloomie, and we hurry to the sink to get sponges and towels, laughing hysterically. Suddenly, I feel far more relaxed.

By 10.30 pm, we’re a few more bottles of wine down, Bloomie, Kate and I are happily tucking into fags and the very good cheese and bread brought by Tory and Fraser. I keep intercepting very heavy glances from her to him. Fraser couldn’t give a heavy glance if his life depended on it, bless him, but he’s staring back as hard as he can.

Ant, Kate and Neil are talking at the other end of the table
about the room allocations for the weekend. Well, Ant and Kate are talking. He grabbed her hand after our last fag break and wouldn’t let go until she sat next to him. God, I hope she’s only practising her flirting.