‘Of course I will,’ I say. ‘I would love to.’
We all clink margaritas again and start discussing moving plans immediately.
After getting the bill (check), we slip outside for a cigarette and hail a cab. We text Rob we’re on the way, and find Tenjune pretty fast. As I get out of the cab, I notice there’s a big queue of people lining up to get in, and a very small queue on the other side that seems to be a guestlist. What’s more, everyone in the guestlist queue is in a costume.
I turn to Bloomie and Kate. ‘I think the shorter VIP queue is for the party. And I think it’s a costume party. I can’t believe we’re not dressed up for this.’
Bloomie nods.‘What’s the theme? Something to do with music. I definitely saw a Michael Jackson and a Dolly Parton.’
‘Perhaps it’s a plastic surgery theme,’ I suggest.
‘Goddammit!’ says Kate. ‘I can’t believe we’re going to be the girls at the dress-up party who look hot, but not funny! That is completely not us!’
This sounds so un-Katelike, and so conceited, that Bloomie and I crack up.
Rob appears at the doorway next to the bouncer, and points at us. The bouncer nods. Feeling kind of special, dorky though it is, we skip past both queues and walk into the club. Rob’s wearing normal clothes, with just John Lennon glasses on. Shit effort. He is good looking, though.
‘Thanks again for the invite, Rob…but how about a heads-up about the theme, dude?’ I say, after we’ve all kissed hello.
‘It’s Real American Idols…Nah, you wouldn’t have dressed up, would you?’ he says. ‘You look way better in normal clothes! Love the outfits! So London!’
We thought we looked so New York.
Tenjune is small, rammed and noisy with the happy sound of drinking and fun. We turn left and walk up a step to a slightly separated area, and I nearly bump into a guy dressed as Vanilla Ice talking to another guy improbably dressed as early Diana Ross.
‘I had to get the haircut, but dude, it was so worth it,’ says Ice.
‘Where the fuck are my Supremes?’ says Diana.
I am going to enjoy this party.
We get a drink and Rob starts introducing us to people. Underneath the costumes, I can tell that we are surrounded by rather good-looking, clean-cut types. They’re all excruciatingly charming and polite. And as soon as we’ve made a few minutes of small talk, they’re funny as hell.
Around us I can see Axl Rose, Jim Morrison, Michael Bolton, Prince, Marilyn Manson, Barbra Streisand, Joni Mitchell, several Britneys, a Madonna from every era (except, unsurprisingly, the baffling ‘American Pie’ period), and three Elvises. I’m chatting to a bowler-hatted-and-waistcoated Debbie Gibson, as Bloomie and Kate are laughing at Jim Morrison and Axl Rose arguing over which of them has had a greater influence on rock music. ‘“Paradise City”, man! Did you not HEAR the subtext in my lyrics? Come on!’ says Axl.
These New Yorkers know how to throw a dress-up party.
Every now and again, Rob pops over to say hi, though he’s spending most of his time chatting up a Nancy Sinatra. (I can’t be absolutely sure, but the beehive and the white go-go boots kind of give it away.) He’s a very good host. We’re clearly only invited here as the ratio of guys to girls is about three to one, but that suits us just fine.
He also introduces us to the party boy, who insists we call him Birthday Paulie. It turns out he’s English and has lived here for about six years. He’s dressed as Kurt Cobain, in a blond wig and blue-and-white-striped top, and keeps buying everyone shots, especially Kate.
I catch up with the girls, mid-mingle.
‘I can’t BELIEVE we didn’t dress up for this,’ I say.
‘I know. It’s almost ruining my night,’ replies Bloomie.
‘I like Birthday Paulie,’ says Kate thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how we’d make a long-distance relationship work, though?’
I find myself, at midnight, dancing to ‘9 to 5’ with Kate, Bloomie, Cyndi Lauper and MC Hammer. The DJ is amazing, playing new music and old music and rap and everything, all at once. I love this party, I think happily. I bet Jake would love it, too. I’ll have to tell him about it one day.
‘Anyone for another shot?’ shouts Birthday Paulie.
‘I want shots, I want beer, I want champagne, I want the whole thing. I want the fairytale,’ says MC Hammer. Bloomie and I laugh so hard at this that I drop my little black clutch.
And then, as I pick it up, out of the corner of my eye, I see Slash standing at the bar. But it’s not Slash.
It’s Jake. A frizzy black wig covers half his face, so I can only see his mouth, but I know it’s Jake. And he’s looking right at me.
As well as the wig, he’s wearing mirrored sunglasses and a top hat, with a sleeveless black T-shirt and black leather trousers. He also has a guitar strapped around his chest, which is a nice touch.
I turn to Bloomie and Kate. ‘Thank you again for bringing me to New York,’ I say quickly.
I walk over to him. Neither of us can speak for a second.
‘You own black leather trousers?’ I finally say. No response. He just looks at me, slightly stunned, with his mouth open. It adds to the Slash impression, actually. Very impressive.
‘What are you doing here?’ he finally asks, taking off his sunglasses and wig.
‘Um—I kind of know that guy over there. Rob,’ I say, pointing. ‘I’m here with Bloomie and Kate for the weekend—’ I turn the other way to point them out and see they’re clutching each other by the arm and staring at us. ‘Why are…why are you here?’
‘I’m spending the weekend with my sister. She lives in Brooklyn,’ he says, and I look behind him and see the girl he was walking with last night. She’s dressed as Jon Bon Jovi, which I really have to respect, and talking to Billy Ray Cyrus. She’s not his girlfriend. Thank God.
‘I shared a flat with Paul when I lived here. I worked with half these guys,’ he continues, clearly trying to make small talk.
‘Nice,’ I say.
Jake finally meets my eye. ‘I decided that another weekend away was a really good idea. So I booked it on Monday and flew over yesterday.’ He’s being dry, or wry, or something. I can’t tell.
‘About last weekend,’ I say. This is it, time to do it. Am I ready? I haven’t even thought about what I am going to say. I should have made notes. Kate would have made notes.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says quickly, looking at his drink. ‘I’m really sorry I…called you all those things. I…I totally misinterpreted the situation. I wish I could take it all back.’
‘No! No…’ I say. ‘I was wrong. I was totally wrong.’
I take a deep breath.
‘I was a jackass and, um, and a bastardo. And I know that. And it wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I didn’t trust myself to know what was really right for me,’ I say. ‘But I do now. And I’m…I’m crazy about you,’ I falter, and then clear my throat. He’s staring at me, his lovely crinkly eyes locked on my face. I try to ignore a tear escaping down my left cheek. ‘I didn’t mean those things I said, and I regret it so much…I want to fix it, if you’ll let me…’
I’m starting to babble, and am trailing off when Jake gives me that huge smile and says, ‘I’m crazy about you too.’
‘Really?’ I say, quickly wiping away the tear.
‘Yes, Minxy, I am. And I don’t think you’re really a jackass,’ he replies. ‘So really, no more Dating Sabbatical?’
‘It’s over,’ I say honestly, and then look at his watch. ‘It’s past midnight. It’s my birthday.’
‘Happy birthday,’ he says, smiling at me.
I decide that’s enough talking.
‘You should kiss me now,’ I say.
‘So bossy…’ he sighs happily and, smiling, leans in to kiss me.
After a few seconds I pull away from him, take a deep breath, and jump off the cliff that I almost jumped off that morning after Eddie’s houseparty.
‘I love you.’
I don’t think I would have the cojones to say that if I hadn’t just had the best kiss of my life, if we weren’t in New York, if I wasn’t sure—absolutely sure beyond any modicum of doubt—that I love him with all my heart and that telling him is the most important thing I could ever do.
‘I love you, too,’ Jake says.
And then we kiss again.
We kiss and kiss and kiss. I can hear Bloomie and Kate cheering in the background, and we kiss some more. I’m sorry to be romantic, but there have never been any other kisses like this, ever. This is outside-in happiness and inside-out happiness all mixed up together in a blissfully, impossibly happy explosion.
PSYCH! Like I’d leave it there.
It’s eight months later, and Jake and I are, um, yes very in love. I feel bashful when I say that. I’m tracing little circles in the ground with my big toe. The rest of the weekend in New York was amazing. I had the best birthday of my entire life. Jake and I got our own hotel room at The Standard and smashed Rule 9 to smithereens and then, on Sunday, took the ripped-up Dating Sabbatical Rules and threw them into the Hudson. Inside a coffin of the (un)lucky yellow clutch.
I’ve never been so happy in my life. I can’t believe I could ever have come close to mistaking the feelings I had for previous boyfriends for this…He’s just—perfect for me.
As to what’s in store for us next…well, I couldn’t possibly say. But let’s just say I understand calculus now and we discuss it all the time.
OK, stop retching. Sheesh. You’ve come this far with me. I thought you’d like to know how it worked out.
Everything else is kind of brilliant, too. I’ve been promoted, officially, to deputy creative director. I’m still taptapping away at my own stuff. It’s terribly easy to write when you’re happy. At least, it is for me. I haven’t finished anything worth talking about yet, but I’ll get there eventually.
Now, about everyone else: Kate is studying fine art and working part time for a small art gallery in Mayfair. She’s not sure what
she’ll do next, and doesn’t seem to mind that much. She’s also dating Sam, whom she finds funny and baffling in equal measure. He absolutely adores her. Bloomie is living with Eugene. She’s still working hard, but has thrown away her BlackBerry entirely. So I guess that’s a small, but significant, change.
Eddie and Laura went out for a few months before she decided to go travelling for a year, which he tried not to take personally. He seems to be enjoying the single life. Mitch and Tara just moved in together. Fraser is internet dating and having the time of his life. Cooper and Marlena are having a baby. Lukas is in love with a girl called Alexa. Tory is still single. Rick, I heard a few weeks ago, was made redundant from his job. And everyone else I know is in different states of love, lust, misery, happiness, hope and chaos, trying to figure out what they want and how to make it happen. It’s fantastic.
There are hundreds of dating guides out there. This one is different.
You see, I’m not about to tell you how to act, what to wear, what to talk about and where to go. If I did, your date wouldn’t be dating you. They’d be dating me. And not even the real me, but the imaginary me. (Much better than the real me, who would probably get drunker than she intended and knock over her wine glass laughing at her own jokes.)
This also isn’t a guide to meeting someone and/or getting asked out on a date. That’s a whole different guide. I shall write it one day. (I shall call it ‘Why You’ll Never Meet A Man At A Salsa Class’.) One quick thing about getting asked out, though: lots of girls complain they ‘never meet any single men’. These are usually the same girls who refuse to go out on Saturday night because ‘I’m just really tired’ and when they are finally out at a party or something, will grab their two best friends and sit in the corner laughing at private jokes all night, not even looking up to see if any men are in the room. Think of it this way: if you needed a taxi cab, you wouldn’t simply stand there, hope one would read your mind and stop for you. You’d go to the road and put your hand out to stop one. It’s the same with men. Just make eye contact, make him laugh, and make him feel funny. He will ask you out.
Anyway, back to the point. So, think of this dating guide as a
magical catalyst to help you be the best possible version of yourself. The well-dressed, funny, impressive, intelligent, flirtatious, warm, attractive, kissable, self-assured, memorable Super-You. Primped and primed to get out there and date like you’ve never dated before. Like performance-enhancing steroids…for lurve.
And even more importantly, this guide will give you a few tools to help you enjoy dating. Because—and this is what people forget—it’s fun. You get dressed up, drink and eat good things and talk to someone who’s never heard your best lines before. What’s not to like?
Now that I’ve completely oversold everything I’m about to write, let’s get started.
Men like red. Men hate red. Get the puppies out. Cover the puppies up. Blah blah blah. Yawn yawn yawn. If I had a pound for every time I’ve read some rubbish article about the psychology of dressing for dates, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be on the Med, making eyes at the boatboy over my whiskey sour.
Dude, wear whatever you want. Something that makes you feel taller and thinner is good. Keep non-boob bulges to a minimum. Don’t wear those bras with the see-through straps. (They look cheap.) Make sure you can walk in your shoes. Check for peanut butter on your top. You might have peanut butter on your top because of my next tip: eat peanut butter on toast, or similar, before you leave the house. Two vodkas + nervous excitement + no dinner yet = drunky. And nothing makes a date more unlikely to succeed than getting drunk and falling over. I can back that statement up with statistics. Where was I? Yes. Wear whatever the sweet baby jane you like to wear. If you like it, you probably look pretty damn ace in it. Have a trying-on session the night before, preferably to music so you can make your own chick flickesque montage.
Anyway, ask the average guy what he likes women to wear,
and he’ll respond ‘as little as possible’. He’ll think he’s funny and original for saying it, too. As long as your outfit is girl-shaped and not too out-there or mumsy, you can’t really go wrong. A failsafe date outfit: a black pencil skirt, a black top and extremely high shoes in a bright colour. When conversation runs out, you can say ‘I was hoping you’d wear canary yellow peep-toes, too. Then at least we’d have something to talk about’.