Love by the Book (17 page)

I went into the kitchen to find Sleepy Eyes smoking a cigarette out of the window. “So,” he said. “Wanna fuck?”

 • • • 

Sleepy Eyes wandered out around ten the next morning, tossing a “later” over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

I slunk over to the couch once he'd left and pulled out my notebook and pen.

It's hard to tell if this book was effective, as I suspect that Sleepy Eyes succumbed to my charms not because of my elaborate plotting but because I happened to be directly in front of him at the time. Still, I wouldn't have met him if I hadn't been forced to make conversation with so many strangers. That's the real point of the book: behind all of the Jedi mind tricks and alpha-male stuff, it's about getting you out of your comfort zone and into circulation. It's mainly a numbers game, but playing the numbers can be effective.

I can also see why this works so well on women, because this sort of approach has worked on me so many times. Confident, slightly dickish men who are the center of attention are annoyingly attractive. Maybe it's some sort of evolutionary thing, like how the biggest, strongest lion in the pride is the one who does all the impregnating? And I've got to say, it was weirdly empowering being the biggest dick in the room for a month. Even though I found all the mantras and enforced socializing mortifying, I could feel its influence eventually sink in. The more I approached men, and the more I told myself that those men were lucky to be talking to me, the more I started to believe it. A clever confidence trick indeed.

Works best on . . .

Men with robust self-esteem and a high tolerance level. Also, guys who might be reluctant to make the first move—this takes all the work out of their hands.

To be used by . . .

Women who've always wondered what it would be like to wear the pants in a relationship . . . and who don't mind inflicting often-public humiliation on themselves.

July 28 Continued

I was still wrapped up in my robe when Lucy walked in the door at noon.

“Hello, babe! Bit late for you to still be in your bathrobe isn't it?”

“Mmpf,” I replied. “It's still before the
Come Dine with Me
marathon.”

“How was Mr. Talkative after we left? Any progress?”

The memory of him pushing me against a wall and sliding his hand up my dress washed over me. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Great! So did the plan work? Did you make your move over the washing-up?”

I glanced into the kitchen and saw a pile of dirty dishes stacked perilously on the countertop.

“Not exactly.”

“Did you do one of those magic tricks from the book? The hand reading? The horoscope question?”

I was impressed with how much knowledge Lucy had absorbed over the month. If she and Tristan ever broke up, she was primed and ready to be an alpha gamer.

“No, it didn't come to that in the end . . .”

She sat down on the edge of the couch and gave me a hard look. “Out with it. What happened?”

“Well, after you guys left, he sort of just said, ‘Wanna fuck?' So we did.”

“That's it?”

“Yup.”

“So you didn't need to do any of your fancy closing techniques?”

“Nope.”

“. . . which means you needn't have bothered with the whole dinner party.”

“Probably not.”

We were silent for a moment while Lucy considered this.

“That is so hot.”

I sat bolt upright. “I know, right? It was sort of shocking how easy it was.”

“Details, please.”

“Well, my theory about drummers being preternaturally gifted in the sack was right.”

“I knew it!” Lucy cried. “It's the rhythm, right?”

“And the strong forearms. Surprisingly useful.”

“Lucky girl.”

“There was one thing, though . . .”

Lucy propped her chin on her hands, her enormous blue eyes looking at me intently. “Go on.”

“Well, he sort of . . . tried to sneak through the back door.”

“Do you mean he left early this morning?”

“No, that's not what I mean.” I raised a significant eyebrow. “I
mean
he tried to sneak
it
through the back door . . .”

Lucy gasped. “You mean he wanted to . . . he tried to . . .” She looked increasingly distressed. “Up the
bum
? On the first night?”

I nodded. “Without so much as a warning! He just decided to stoop and conquer.”

“What did you do?”

“I redirected him.”

“And what did he do?”

“Gave it another shot. I redirected him again, and he finally got the message. Or at least gave up.”

“Do you think he may have just . . . got lost?”

I considered this for a moment. He wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, that's for sure, but I suspected he was pretty well versed in the female anatomy—he was a hot drummer, after all. “I don't think so. I think he was just pushing his luck.”

“What a bugger!” Lucy flushed. “No pun intended. Did he say anything afterward?”

“Nope, he just rolled over and went to sleep. I'm not exactly a prude, but to try to stroll through the back passage the first time we're in bed together feels like a bold move.”

“Agreed. Are you going to see him again?”

“Who knows. Anyway, did you have fun last night? Tristan's great, by the way. A total silver fox. Was he really weirded out by the whole Cathryn thing?”

She shook her head. “He didn't seem to be. Didn't even mention it on the way home.”

“Well, that's good. I mean, he's so obviously nuts about you that I can't imagine any amount of weirdness would put him off. It's like you have some sort of voodoo power over him.”

Lucy shifted slightly in her seat. “I don't know if I'd say that.”

“Seriously, Luce—he was hanging off your every word. I'm pretty sure that if you had told him to sit on the balcony in his underwear last night, he would have.”

She looked slightly chagrined. “He's a doll. Anyway, enough about Tristan: more details about the drummer, please!”

“Only if you get me more coffee.”

Eventually, after I'd given Lucy a complete blow-by-blow (in some instances, literally) account of my night with Sleepy Eyes, I poured myself into the shower and cleaned myself up. It was gray and misty out, so I wrapped up in my old college sweatshirt and settled into my next guide a little earlier than scheduled.

The Art o
f
Dating
by Evelyn Millis Duvall was written in
1958
as a guide to teenagers and college students just venturing out into the treacherous world of dating and, as a result, the book is pleasingly innocent. There are definitely sections that don't apply to me—I haven't had to ask my parents' permission to borrow the car since, well, the Christmas before last—but there's plenty of wisdom there.

The book describes dating as “grown-up, romantic and full of promise.” Thirteen years of personal experience have taught me otherwise, but it's entirely possible I've been doing it wrong the whole time. I read on.

The basics were simple: be sociable, join lots of clubs (the author suggests church groups and the
4
H, so I'll have to do some judicious substituting) and be nice. After months of being told to behave like a total asshole, it was refreshing to see kindness being encouraged.

Here are the book's three pillars of popularity:

1. Be careful of your appearance.
   
2. Be courteous to others.
   
3. Be fun to be with.
   

These qualities went completely against everything I'd learned about popularity in high school (unless being careful of your appearance involved owning stock in Abercrombie & Fitch and premium sportswear), but I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Flicking through the pages, I couldn't help but hope that the book would bring me back to a simpler time. A time before YouPorn and sexting and Craigslist. Sure, the
1950
s were fucked up in their own unique way—McCarthyism wasn't great, and people were taking a lot of Vicodin—but chances were you didn't have to worry about running into your bisexual ex-boyfriend's new boyfriend.

I was eager to get started.

Cathryn and I had just sat back down at our desks after a client meeting when my phone bleeped with a text message. It was Sleepy Eyes.

“That's a surprise,” I muttered as I slid the button on my iPhone.

Got a gig in Australia. Back in three months. Laters, sexy.

Yeah, that felt about right. He'd fit right in in the land down under.

Cathryn looked over at me. “Who was that, then? Mr. Chatty?”

“Yep. Gone to Australia apparently.”

She looked momentarily confused. “What, for a visit?”

“For a gig. I think he's officially flown the coop.”

“Well, I can't say I'm terribly disappointed. He was a bit odd, don't you think? He obviously had some sort of drug problem, and he said all those weird things about me meeting someone who was like-minded.”

I cringed. “Yeah . . . that was definitely the drugs talking, I'm sure.”

In order to get into the
1950
s spirit, I needed to do some research. Thankfully, this weekend was the Goodwood Vintage Festival and I'd managed to convince Lucy to accompany me with the promise of lots of frilly dresses, pin curls and Victoria sponge cake.

I woke up to the sound of rain. The
BBC
had promised occasional bouts of sunshine for the day, but a year in this country had taught me that the
BBC
forecasters lie often and lie well, probably because if they told the truth about the weather, they would be run out of town like a pack of rabid dogs.

I went for a quick run in the morning to make room for all the Bakewell tarts I planned on eating. I got in, soaked, just as Lucy was emerging from her bedroom.

“Hey, love,” she said sleepily. “You're dripping.”

“I know. It's raining like hell out there. Coffee?”

“Yes please.”

We sloped into the kitchen and I flicked on the kettle while she spooned coffee crystals into two mugs.

“Is Tristan still in bed?”

“He's not here.”

This was weird. Since they'd met, Lucy and Tristan had spent every possible moment together, and definitely every weekend. His absence couldn't be a good thing.

“Everything okay?”

She shrugged. “We had a bit of an argument.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“It was nothing, really. Just a silly little fight about this party we're meant to go to in a few weeks' time.”

“What, some work thing of his?”

“Not exactly. Look, let's not talk about it. It's dull.”

“If you need me, you know I'm here.”

Lucy nodded and patted my hand. “I know. Thanks, lovely. Anyway, let's just focus on having fun today. What are you going to wear?”

“Well, the rain isn't helping that decision. I wanted to wear my peep-toe heels and that little playsuit I have, but a giant poncho is looking more likely.”

She waved me away. “It always pisses it down at festivals—it's tradition! You shouldn't let that stop you from wearing the playsuit, though the peep toes might be a problem. Anyway, you'll get the real English experience this way! Do you have wellies?”

“No, I didn't bring them with me from Maine. I thought my climbing-around-in-mud days were behind me.”

“Silly cow. Come on, I've got a spare pair.”

Lucy charged off into her room and I heard the sound of her closet being disemboweled. She returned with a pair of electric pink rubber boots that were dotted with white polka dots.

“I know they're not your style,” she said as she handed them to me, “but they'll keep your feet dry.”

Dressed and be-wellied (Lucy looked amazing in a royal blue sailor-style dress with a cinched waist, though the look was slightly marred by her rainbow-colored wellies), we jumped on the first train to Chichester. By the time we arrived at the festival gates, the rain had cleared up and the sun was shining brightly on the mud. It was a festival miracle.

Inside, the field was lined with tents overflowing with gorgeous vintage dresses, dainty little tea sets from the
1940
s and
1950
s and more Battenberg cakes than you could shake a stick at. In the middle of the green, dozens of gleaming roadsters and hot rods were parked, their owners standing proudly next to them. The crowd was full of women with perfect beehives and cherry-red lips and men wearing immaculate three-piece suits. It was like stepping onto the set of an Audrey Hepburn film.

Lucy spotted a retro makeover tent and pulled me toward it, squealing with excitement. Forty-five minutes later, we both emerged in full vintage splendor, her with a head of shiny blond pin curls and a full red pout, and me with a Veronica Lake wave and ridiculously long fake eyelashes. Every time I blinked, they stuck together slightly. I was hoping it made me look sultry, but I suspected I looked like I was struggling to stay awake.

We wandered through the tents, Lucy buying a few vintage corsets (her interest in lingerie has skyrocketed since meeting Tristan) and me buying an amazing pair of Perspex cat's-eye sunglasses, which I immediately donned in the hope of hiding my increasingly gluey eyelashes.

After three hours and six Pimm's cocktails served in jam jars, I made a beeline for the portable toilets.

The queue was, of course, endless. I was eyeing a promising-looking bush when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Cunningham?”

Of course. It made total sense that he would turn up right now. “Adrian. What a surprise.” He was wearing trousers, a button-down, suspenders and a bowler hat. And pulling it off, much to my annoyance.

“Having a nice day out?” He looked me up and down, taking in the playsuit and sunglasses. “You're looking very
La Dolce Vita
today.”

I tried to flutter my eyelashes behind the glasses, but the left one stuck. “Thanks.”

“It suits you. Though the boots jar a bit.”

I looked down at my be-wellied feet and shrugged. “You can't have it all, I guess. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“What all these other beautiful young things are doing: feigning interest in a load of old crap while plotting who they'd like to fuck.”

“Such a romantic.”

“What about you? I didn't think you'd be into festivals.”

“I'm here with Lucy. We've just been learning how to knit.”

Adrian raised his eyebrows. “Is that right? You never struck me as the fifties-housewife type, Cunningham.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“Well, you can darn my socks anytime, my dear.”

“You're a true gentleman.” I'd finally reached the front of the line and was about to push open the porto-door when I blurted out, “Want to get a drink with me and Lucy? I can guarantee it will come in a jam jar.” I was a glutton for punishment.

“How could I refuse?”

“Hang on a second while I pee.”

“Not quite a lady yet, I see.”

When I'd finished facing the horror of a festival toilet, I grabbed Adrian and pulled him over to Lucy, who was sitting at a picnic table trying to master purling. “Sorry I took so long. I ran into an old friend. You remember Adrian?”

Adrian emerged from behind me, grinning like an old goat. “Hello, darling! You're looking lovely as ever.”

Lucy put down the enormous sleeve she'd knitted and smiled coldly. “Hello, Adrian. Full of shit as ever, I see.”