Love by the Book (5 page)

I tried to look demure. “I was just feeling the music.”

We squeezed our way to the bar and he clicked his fingers at an annoyed-looking bartender and ordered two vodka tonics. He hadn't asked what I wanted, but as it was free, I accepted without complaint.

I was acutely aware of the fact that I had only a few minutes with him before the
Rules
pulled me back into the room to mingle. I had to work fast if I wanted to see those arms in more detail. We exchanged names. Let's call him Popeye (post-spinach, of course). Drinks procured, he looked at me politely but expectantly, as though waiting for a surprise to pop out of me like a jack-in-the-box. I remained staunchly silent for a few minutes before finally cracking under the pressure.

“How are you enjoying the museum?” I asked. “First time here?” Argh. What kind of a
Rules
girl was I if I couldn't go five minutes without asking a question? I put my most uninterested face on as penance.

“No, I'm an old museum pro. I brought my nephew a few weeks ago.”

“Aw, that's sweet.”

“Yeah, he's four. He loved it. Couldn't get enough of the Launchpad bit, and I had to drag him out of the planetarium. He just wanted to look up at the stars for ages.”

“Yeah, that's always a little-boy pleaser. So, are you having fun tonight?”

“It's great. Though I've got to say, it's a bit of a different vibe tonight than when I was here with my nephew.”

“Yes, more drunken.” I concentrated on looking aloof.

“My father is one of the museum's patrons, so I've spent a lot of time here. What brought you here tonight?”

“Your father pays my salary. I'm one of the events coordinators here.”

“So this is your event? I'm impressed! It's fantastic.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. But thanks.” I pulled my eyes away from his and settled on his left bicep. Surely that counted as avoiding eye contact? God, he was hot. I wondered what he looked like without a shirt. Maybe doing some carpentry.

I could sense I was getting into dangerous territory. My
Rules
fairy godmothers pulled me away. “Anyway, I should get back. Circulate or whatever. It was really nice to meet you, though, and thanks for the drink.”

For a second, he looked surprised—he obviously wasn't used to being rebuffed—but his chivalric side recovered quickly. “Of course. Here, let me get the door for you.”

I walked through, trying to look elegant and graceful. “You are a creature unlike any other,” I thought to myself. “A creature unlike any other.”

The mingling began anew, with me bouncing from wall to wall like a well-played game of Pong. I danced to a couple more songs but, despite
DMX
's best efforts, my heart wasn't in it. When it reached midnight, I decided to call it a night. Being out and surrounded by attractive men but unable to do anything other than look aloof and dance by myself was boring, and my shoes were officially two hours past the bearable mark. It was time to turn back into a pumpkin.

I grabbed my coat from the office, slipped my blistered feet into my flats, checked that no one had broken any important science equipment, said goodnight to Cathryn at the door and set off down the front steps.

Halfway down the street, I heard footsteps approaching rapidly behind me and then a hand grabbed my shoulder.

“Fuck you, fucker! I have mace!” I yelled as I spun around, grabbing a tiny bottle of hairspray from my bag. I tried to remember if I was supposed to head-butt a rapist in the nose or knee him in the balls first.

It was Popeye.

“Oh,” I said, slipping the hairspray back into my bag. “Sorry about that. I thought you were a rapist.”

He looked mortified. “God, no. I'm sorry I startled you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine, and don't be sorry. I'm very relieved you're not a rapist.”

“I saw you go and just had to run after you. I was watching you all night and I just think you're . . . I don't know . . . rather extraordinary. I'd like to see you again. Could I take you to dinner?”

“Oh, um. God. Sure.”

“Great. I know a wonderful little place. My treat, of course.”

“Sounds good.”
Look demure look demure look demure
, I chanted to myself.

“Lovely. Could I take your number?”

He took out a gleaming iPhone and I tapped my number in.

“I'll give you a call during the week,” he said. “Now, let me put you in a cab. I don't want you to have another fright tonight.”

This guy was unbelievable. I was sure that one of the
Rules
authors had put him on to me to convince me of the merits of their ways. I glanced at his arms and decided I didn't give a shit.

And so it happened that I had my first glimpse of
Rules
success. He hailed a taxi, kissed me on the cheek and stared longingly after the car as it sped away (I know this because I watched him in the reflection of my phone). I was sure he would call.

Regardless, it was out of my control, which actually felt kind of good.

“So let me get this right: a gorgeous man reaches into his pocket with these apparently amazing arms of his and buys you a drink, and you leave him after five minutes in order to wander around a room by yourself. He then runs down the street after you and tells you you're amazing.”

“Yep,” I said, spreading peanut butter onto a cracker as I lay on the couch in my bathrobe. Lucy and I were enjoying our Sunday-morning debriefing over instant coffee and nail polishing. “That's what happened. Can you pass me that raspberry-colored one?”

She slid the little bottle across the table. “And he's already rung you this morning?”

I nodded. “We're going out on Wednesday. He actually wanted to see me tonight but the book forbids me from accepting a date less than two days in advance.”

“So
The Rules
works?”

I painted a single stripe down my thumbnail and watched as it immediately bled into my cuticle. I looked up at Lucy. “I mean, I wouldn't go that far. That banker friend of Michael's didn't exactly fall at my feet. But, yeah, it seems to have worked on this guy, at least for now.”

“Why do you sound gutted? Shouldn't you be pleased to have cracked the secret?”

I squinted as I tackled my pinky nail. “I don't really want to go around acting like some feminine zombie for the next sixty years, so I'm kind of rooting for it to fail.”

“Well, I think it sounds brilliant. I might need to give it a try after all. Max has gone quiet on me again and I have zero prospects on the horizon.”

“No!” I cried. “You have to have a normal life and bring me back stories from the real world! Speaking of which, how was your night?”

Lucy let out a long sigh and took a sip of her coffee. “Hayley and I went to the Electricity Showrooms for the eighties night, which was decent, but full of bridge and tunnel types. So of course we ended up in the Horse and Groom until three in the morning.”

My eyes widened. “I am so jealous. How was it in there? Man, I miss that place.”

“Same as always. I was harassed for an hour by a man called Boomer who was wearing a woolen hat and kept talking about his ex-wife's dog. He was a good kisser, though. Asked for my number at the end of the night so I gave him Amy's.”

Amy was the evangelical, teetotal former roommate of Lucy's who was an obsessive tidier of shelves and alphabetizer of spices. Lucy had never forgiven her for dumping her rum and had taken to giving out her number to Shoreditch's weirder male inhabitants. Lesson learned: don't mess with a girl's liquor.

“See? That's so much more fun than being all demure and elusive and shit. I circled a room like a neutered piranha for hours while you were out enjoying your youth and making out with crazies. Science sucks.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Um, excuse me? You were told you were amazing by some incredible mystery man with great arms who is now probably going to buy you dinner. So fuck off.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, taking a sip of now-tepid coffee. “But if Popeye turns out to be a psychopath and cuts me up into pieces and stores me in a meat locker, you won't think I've got it so good.”

“Oh! I forgot!” Lucy suddenly jumped up from the couch and ran into the kitchen. She returned holding a postcard covered in tiny sailboats. “This came for you.”

I flipped it over.

“You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore”—Christopher Columbus

Good luck on your scientific adventure—just make sure you don't capsize!

Love, Meg

I smiled and tucked it into the pages of my journal. She always knew just what to say to make me feel brave.

The first date with Popeye was a resounding success, and I didn't end up in a meat locker at the end of it. I had to work late that night so we blew off dinner and went to the pub instead for a drink.

He chose a cozy little pub in St. James's that dated back to the seventeenth century. I'm a sucker for that kind of thing, and when I asked him about it, he shrugged and said he was a traditionalist.

He really wasn't kidding about that. It seemed like he was on a one-man mission to bring back the Arthurian age.

I walked in and he stood up immediately, took my coat, hung it up, pulled my chair out for me and went to the bar to buy me a drink. It was like being in the eye of a chivalry tornado.

He was polite, considerate, attentive. He asked questions, he complimented me, he bought drinks without awkwardness or hesitation. I don't know where this guy had come from but I definitely wasn't complaining.

After his allotted two hours were up, I sweetly told him that I had a big day ahead of me (a slightly more probable excuse on a Wednesday night) and said goodnight. Polite kiss on the cheek and one last yearning look at his truly excellent ass as he walked away, and I was back home to gush to Lucy about how eerily perfect he seemed.

This was confirmed when he called the next day to ask me to dinner on Saturday. Annoyingly,
Rules
girls aren't allowed to accept weekend dates past Wednesday because we are just Too Damn Busy and our time, like everything else about us, is precious. So we made a date for the following Saturday, which gave me an extra week to fantasize about him picking me up and tossing me around in exciting sexual positions.

I had prepared notes ahead of tonight's date with Popeye:

Name: Popeye

Age:
26
(A younger guy! In your face, gender stereotypes!)

Occupation: Consultant (A fake job if there ever was one, but never mind)

Nationality: English

Description: Really, really hot. Have I mentioned the arms?

Method:
The Rules

We arranged to meet at a little Italian place in Soho, so after an action-packed day of exercising, painting my nails and eating cheese and crackers while watching a Food Network
Cake Wars
marathon, I made my way to the West End. I found the place pretty quickly, so I hid around the corner and smoked cigarettes until I was five minutes late. I'm a modern woman and very happy to sit on my own in a bar most days (maybe that just makes me a modern alcoholic?) but I hate being the first person to turn up on a date. I want the guy to be early, preferably with a drink waiting for me.

I walked into the dimly lit restaurant. There was Popeye, lifting some kind of manly, brown-colored drink to his lips with a massive forearm. He was definitely an alpha male: the type who not only had a firm handshake but who also did that thing where he put his hand on top of yours, just to emphasize his genetic dominance. This was a man with Darwin on his side. In spite of myself, I found this kind of thing hot. My stomach did a very, very small flip.

Once again, he stood up immediately when he saw me, kissed me on the cheek, slipped off my jacket, pulled out my chair and pushed me into the table in one fluid movement. It was like being mugged by gentlemanliness.

He sat down and pushed a cocktail across the table to me. “I've ordered this for you. I hope you like it—house specialty. How are you? You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” I took a sip of my drink, which was shocking pink and sickeningly sweet. Not my kind of thing at all, but I necked it nonetheless and tried my best to look demure while doing so. “Great place. I've never been here before.”

“It's one of my old favorites. Went to school with the owner.”

At that moment, a well-dressed man with impressively slick hair magically appeared holding several dishes of delicious-looking Italian tapas. Normally I hate tapas as it involves sharing, but I could make an exception for this.

“Hello, old chap! Always a pleasure to have you in my humble establishment, especially when you bring a gorgeous creature like this with you.” The slick-haired man smiled and kissed my hand.

Popeye made the introductions. “Joff, this is Lauren. Lauren, this is my dear friend Joff. He's as much of a wizard in the kitchen as he was on the rugby field!”

“I was nothing compared to our man here. He used to eat up the turf like nothing else. Still got that cauliflower ear of yours, you ugly bugger, you?” Joff enveloped Popeye in a bear hug from behind. It was still the most macho thing I'd seen since the log-rolling competition at the Maine state fair.

Popeye shrugged him off. “You're one to talk, mate! You lost about eight teeth in the scrum.”

“All in the name of glory. Anyway, I do apologize: I'm keeping your guest waiting.” He turned toward me. “Would you like some champagne? Of course you would. A woman like you should be bathing in champagne. I'll send the waiter straight over.” With that, he evaporated in a puff of smoke.

“Great bloke, Joff,” Popeye said. “And he obviously has great taste.” He reached across the table and touched my hand.