By 9 pm we’re standing at the bar at Beach Blanket Babylon. It’s a great Notting Hill bar: good cocktails and quirky-opulent decor, sort of like Italian medieval royalty or something.
The problem tonight is that it’s crowded. Aggressively, oppressively crowded. Kate and I finished our first drink 20 minutes ago, and the bartenders may well not see my hopefully outstretched hand and ‘Serve Me Please’ face for another 20 minutes at least. And while I’m trying to get served, I can’t really talk to Kate, as if I take my eyes off the bartender nearest me for longer than two seconds, you can bet that’s the two seconds he’ll choose to flick his face in my direction and serve one of the other thirsty people near me.
I mean, this shit is stressful. And it’s no wonder we used to bar-hop in threes, so while one of us is at the bar, the other two can at least talk to each other. Bloomie’s having dinner with Eugene. Ah, the inevitable absence of a friend in love.
The bartender nearest me glances up at me and the four other expectant faces halo-ing my head.
‘Next?’
‘I’m next!’ shouts an aggressive girl next to me. (She so wasn’t.) ‘Two mojitos, a margarita and a passion martini.’ She turns to me and smiles triumphantly. She pronounced the ‘J’ in ‘mojito’. I think she’s a New Zealander. I smile sweetly back and turn my head towards Kate.
‘Katie,’ I say. ‘Can we just, like, blow this off, and go somewhere else?’
‘Totally,’ she says, and we head for the door. ‘I thought you’d tell her that’s not how you pronounce mojito, at least,’ says Kate as we walk down Ledbury Road.
‘I think it’s meaner to let her go on pronouncing it like that for the rest of her life, don’t you?’ I say.
I’ve borrowed more of Bloomie’s clothes, by the way. She came home from work before heading out to dinner with Eugene, and we had a very girly trying-on-clothes session. (Oh, OK, since you asked, I’m wearing a short white dress with super-high brown ankleboots and an old, battered, brown leather jacket. I’ve christened myself Toasted Marshmallow. Kate is in her new favourite pink heels, an LBD and the white wrappy thing I wore to meet Rick last night. She wouldn’t let me christen her outfit.)
‘I love weekends away,’ I say thoughtfully, as we walk towards Westbourne Grove. I haven’t been home to Pimlico for over 24 hours. ‘The weather up here in Notting Hill is fantastic. And the local people are so friendly.’
Kate giggles.
‘Alright, darling, if we’re going bar-hopping, we need a game plan,’ I say. ‘You want to…what? Talk to men? Get chatted up?’
‘I’m happy talking to you all night, but it might be nice to, like, test my street value, I guess…’ muses Kate thoughtfully. ‘I want someone to ask me out, even if I don’t fancy him.’
‘OK, I’m your wingwoman,’ I say. ‘Let’s try Westbourne House first.’
As we get to Westbourne House, I quickly case the outside and inside, as I did at BBB, to check for tall dark-haired Jake-types. A few false alarms and needless tummy-flips before I realise he’s not here. (I wonder if it was him outside the Botanist? Never mind. Just cross your fingers we don’t run into him.)
We get drinks pretty quickly and head over to near a pillar to pretend to chat to each other and actually case the joint.
‘Anyone here?’ I ask, out of the side of my mouth.
‘Hmm…’ Kate scans the room. ‘No, no, maybe, no…maybe, no…yes. Oh yes…over there, in the black shirt…Your two o’clock. Maybe quarter past.’
I look towards my quarter-past-two-o’clock and see a good-looking guy in a black shirt standing with a few friends. I don’t see anyone who looks like she might be his girlfriend. This is good.
‘OK, now wait a minute or so, make eye contact with him, finish your drink and then go to the bar, like we talked about. You’ll pass him on the way to the bar, so be really bold and flick your eyes up to make eye contact again as you walk past him. He’ll definitely be looking at you.’
Kate nods obediently, and a few minutes later does just as I say. I see him staring at her as she passes him. He then quickly finishes his drink and walks up to stand next to her at the bar.
What an excellent student.
‘Hey,’ says a voice, and I look up. It’s a blond guy in a deep V-necked T-shirt. I can see a smattering of really wispy blond chest hair. God, deep V-necked T-shirts are a ghastly trend for men.
‘Hey,’ I say back, in the least-friendly-without-being-rude way I can.
‘I’m heading to the bar, can I buy you an island?’
I can’t help but laugh at that. ‘No, I’m all good. Thanks.’
‘How about a drink, then?’ He’s got dimples when he smiles. I bet his mummy told him he was the most handsome boy in the world when he was little. I wonder if that’s why he thinks he can still get away with lines like that.
‘No, my friend is getting me one,’ I say, looking away. Eye contact is all the encouragement some men need.
‘Come on…’ he says, trying out what must be his most charming smile. ‘How about a shot? Have you ever had a flaming orgasm? I’d love to give you one.’
I sigh disappointedly, and look at him. ‘Please go away.’
He’s too stunned to say anything back, and shuffles away just as Kate races over. She’s got a panicked look on her face. ‘Outside. Now.’
We hurry outside and light cigarettes.
‘It was going really well, I thought,’ whispers Kate. ‘Then you know, he asked what brought me out tonight, and I said it was my first night of being bar-hopping as a single woman, and then I felt so comfortable talking to him so I told him all about Tray, and how hard it is…’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I say.
‘What?’ exclaims Kate. ‘That was bad?’
‘Never do that. Never mention exs. Or anything that’s stressing you out. Now he thinks you’re recently single and looking for a new boyfriend.’
‘He does? Is that bad?’ she says anxiously. ‘It must be bad. He just said “well, have a good night”, and walked away.’
‘His loss,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s finish our drinks and go somewhere else. This place sucks.’ As I finish my drink, I think back to Jake asking me about when my heart was last broken. Why did I tell him the truth? That’s so unlike me.
Twenty minutes later we’re striding through the happy crowds standing around the Walmer Castle. We duck in to order two vodkas at the bar and head outside with them. The crowd at the Walmer is always fun: a mix of boozed-up types who went for lunch somewhere and accidentally kept going all day; loud, excited groups starting their Big Night Out and—last but not least—long-term Notting Hill eccentrics stubbornly sticking to their local pub come hell or high fashion.
We lean against the outside wall of the Walmer Castle and light two cigarettes.
‘OK, how should I act, then? When a guy is chatting me up?’ asks Kate.
‘Assuming you want him to chat you up…? Well, the most
important thing, of course, is be yourself. But be happy. Be engaging. Be a tiny bit sarcastic and a little bit remote. Smile but don’t laugh too much. Be warm, but not gushy. Don’t share too much. Don’t rush to fill a silence: let him think of something to say. Don’t ever touch him or your hair/lips/neck: they’re false flirting must-dos, and come under the heading of Being Too Obvious.’ I’m listing everything on my fingers without really thinking about it, then it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t have to do this stuff anymore. Thank fuck for that. ‘When he finally asks you out, or asks for your number, don’t look too thrilled. Just say “sure” and act like it’s happened eight times that night. And most of all, don’t waste your time. If he doesn’t make enough effort, churn and burn.’
‘I’m committing everything to memory using a mnemonic,’ she nods. Typical. ‘God, you’re brutal. Churn and burn? How do you know this stuff?’
I think. ‘Years of practice, I guess? I’ve been dumped six times but I must have had about 70 first dates by now, and many of them became second dates.’ I think for a second. ‘Very few got to three.’
‘I’ve had like, two first dates, ever,’ says Kate. ‘I didn’t know you had to play such a game.’
‘A game?’ It never occurred to me to think of it as a game. If it is, then I’m the biggest loser at it of all time. So Kate really shouldn’t be making up mnemonics.
‘What if someone does ask me out tonight? I’ve only been single a few weeks, is it too early to start a relationship?’ she asks, her forehead creasing in stress.
‘A lady waits at least a menstrual cycle before starting a new relationship,’ I say. I’m joking about that, but Kate doesn’t realise.
‘This is so depressing! And stressful! And how will I know if he’s a bastardo?’ she asks. She looks very distressed. ‘I know the obvious ones…like if they’re rude to waiters or act bored when they’re talking to you. What else is there?’
I sigh. ‘Really, if I had a clue, I wouldn’t be on a Dating Sabbatical.’
I stub out my cigarette, just as we’re accosted by a young, good-looking guy.
‘Ladies,’ he says politely. He’s Australian. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to be careful over the next few minutes, as we are holding Notting Hill’s inaugural speedskating competition. You don’t want to get in the way. It’s highly dangerous.’ Hoighly daingerous.
‘Gosh,’ I say.
‘What a privilege!’ adds Kate, perking up considerably.
The Aussie guy peers closely at her. He’s wearing long khaki shorts, a tight yellow T-shirt, Havaiana flipflops and reflective Oakley sunglasses perched on his head, so probably belongs in the drinking-since-lunch camp. But then again, he’s an Australian man, and when in London Aussie men—even guys like this, who aren’t 19-year-old backpackers, but are about 27 and probably work in the City—will take any excuse to dress in shorts and flipflops and show off their muscled legs. Not that I’m complaining.
‘I speak sarcasm fluently, you should know,’ the Australian guy says to Kate. ‘It’s like a second language to me. Or even…a first language.’ I detect a very slight sway that means he’s definitely an all-day-drinker.
‘Rod!’ shouts one of his friends. We all look over. There are about seven Aussie guys standing around and sitting on the nearest outside table looking at us, with two competitive-looking blondes in cool, pointless trilby hats watching protectively over them.
‘Leave the chicks alone,’ says another of his friends, a very tall and again, rather attractive Australian. ‘You’ll scare them off. This is a professional championship. We need hot spectators.’
‘He thinks we’re hot!’ giggles Kate to me quietly.
I don’t have time to answer, as two of the Australian men have suddenly lurched forward in perfect unison. Each is poised,
perfectly still, and as one of the ‘chicks’ pretends to fire the starting pistol, they start swishing back and forward as if imaginary speedskating.
Now, if only I could draw a diagram for you…OK, picture this: lunge forward on your right leg. Stretch your left leg behind your right leg at a 45-degree angle. Your right arm is straight out behind you, your left arm is curled towards your body. Slowly swish your stretched left leg to the side and shift your weight on it, using your arms to balance you…
I’m confusing myself. Google ‘speedskate’ and watch it on YouTube or something. You’ll know what I mean.
The Aussies are miming speedskating perfectly, swishing backward and forward over one or two metres of the pavement and glancing at each other competitively, as if neck-and-neck. Another of their friends is the commentator. Everyone around is cheering.
‘This beats the shit out of imaginary rhythmic gymnastics,’ I say to Kate.
The competition is in a dead heat now. Both men are skating faster and faster, faking extreme exhaustion, wiping pretend sweat off their brows and panting profusely. It’s very exciting.
‘Andnowwe’rereachingthefinalstretchandit’sneckandneckforthesetwolongtimefriendsfirsttimecompetitorswhatwilltheresultbe?’ drones the pretend commentator. The two pretend speedskaters lurch forward with one final push to win, but one starts lagging half a metre behind, looking at his winning friend in anguish and fear. The cheering gets louder, and a few seconds later the commentator decides it’s all over, and raises his voice to announce the finish: ‘Andit’srosieladiesandgentlemenrosiehaswonagainitlookslikethisguywasborntowinbetterlucknexttimesmithy.’
Rosie stands up and pretends to be exhausted, but thrilled with his victory, shaking both arms in the air in triumph. Smithy, the loser, is showing signs of being disappointed, but is putting a brave face on. He glances over at Kate and I, still cheering and
clapping madly. ‘I’m always the underdog, you’d think I’d catch a break one of these days,’ he says sadly.
‘Better luck next time!’ I say.
Kate turns to me worriedly. ‘They must decide beforehand who is going to win. Surely?’ She looks extremely confused.
‘Yes, I think so…’ I say. ‘Since it’s not actually a real competition. And there’s no, like, ice rink.’
Smithy walks over, flashing a perfect Tom Cruise smile at us. He looks sporty in the way Australian men tend to, as though he played cricket and rugby in the sun every single day of his childhood. He probably did. ‘Don’t worry, ladies, Rosie has been king of this hill for years, but I’ll knock him off eventually. It’s the Winter Olympic dream.’
‘Do you train very hard?’ asks Kate sincerely.
‘Is she for real?’ he asks me.
‘I’m going to the bar,’ I say. ‘Drink, Katie, and…Smithy, is it?’
‘Yes please,’ says Kate.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says, flashing his Tom Cruise smile at me. ‘I’ll look after Kadey.’
I leave her outside to test her street value on Smithy. They’re all pretty cute, though I haven’t really been looking. The Dating Sabbatical lives on.
By the time I get back she’s been pulled to sit at the outside table and is sitting happily between Smithy and Rosie. I stand at the end and light a cigarette as they chat. They’re explaining the history of imaginary speedskating, which seems extremely long and convoluted.
‘There was also imaginary luge, but we had to outlaw it. Too dangerous,’ explains Smithy.
‘People died,’ adds Rosie.
‘Wow,’ says Kate, who seems to have the hang of this imaginary winter-sports thing now, and is being delightfully happy/engaging/ sarcastic/warm, as per my dating instructions. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re wearing protective gear.’