‘Mistress of the Minx cocktail,’ he smiles. ‘Having fun?’
‘I…yes. Yes, yes, I am.’ Where the fuck is my mantra?
‘You’re a very silly girl for drinking Jager like that, did you know that?’
He was watching me doing Jager shots?
‘It’s been a bad week. And don’t call me a silly girl. I am a silly WOMAN.’
‘A very silly woman.’
‘Mmmmmm,’ I say. He has very nice eyes. And I really do like his shoulders. At least I don’t have that buckling tummy feeling anymore. I don’t feel much of anything, actually. Bzzzzzjagerbuzz. ‘I think I ought to go home.’ I do? Do I think that?
‘Probably,’ he agrees. ‘I believe you just did two enormous shots of a 70-proof drink in less than three minutes. Where’s your partner in crime?’
‘She’s there,’ I say, pointing at the coffee table, and look up to see Bloomie, but she and Eugene have disappeared. Outside for a snog and a cigarette, I expect.
‘Shall we go sit outside and have a little chat while you sober up a bit?’ asks Jake.
I look up at him and frown.
‘No. Nooooo. Nonono.’
‘Sheesh, don’t overreact. It’s not like I’m asking you on…a date.’
This sobers me slightly. I look him straight in the eye. My powers of deduction are drunk. He doesn’t seem to be making fun of me, but his eyes are laughing.
‘Your eyes are laughing,’ I say.
‘What?’ he says, and starts laughing out loud.
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything at all, but smile at him. Shit, I shouldn’t be smiling, that’s like flirting. I try to scowl instead and end up making what I fear is a very odd face.
‘I feel glazed,’ I say. Where did that come from?
‘You look glazed,’ he nods, then leans in towards me slightly. ‘But you—’
At that exact second, Kate walks up to us quickly. ‘I’ve got to go home, sweetie, I’ve got a cab outside…’
Thank God. I can’t remember the Dating Sabbatical Rules right now, and I probably couldn’t even read them if I got the damn sheet out of my clutch, but I’m pretty sure I’m close to breaking them. I look over and see Robbie in the kitchen screaming ‘BEER BONG!’ I’ve got to get out of here.
‘Can I come?’
‘Of course! But, like, I’m really leaving now. No long goodbyes.’
‘I’m ready. I’ll text Bloomie goodbye,’ I nod. I look up at Jake. His eyes aren’t smirking anymore. ‘Uh…bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
We carefully step around an Irishman doing an impressive routine with an invisible hoop, over Mitch, who’s passionately snogging the white jeans girl, and head out the door.
For the first time in what must, realistically, be years, I’m not waking up the day after a party thinking about the guy who asked me out last night, the guy who dumped me, or the guy next to me. I’m not nursing a sad heart, hoping for a text, or waiting for a kiss. I’m not planning what to wear if he—whoever he might be—asks me out, or dealing with someone else’s hangover.
I’m just lying here, all by myself, in the middle of the bed, arms and legs reaching to each corner like a starfish, stretching and sighing happily.
I weigh up the benefits of getting tea and toast to bring back to bed versus the effort required, and decide it’s worth it. I only have minor desert-floor mouth and, in fact, don’t feel too bad at all. Sleeping for eight hours can cure anything, seriously. I’m back in bed, starfishing and munching, within a few minutes.
This is great.
Of course, I can’t lie. After a few minutes of happy contented-ness, I am kind of thinking about Jake. I’m kind of thinking about the fluttering in my stomach when I was standing next to him in the kitchen.
You know, here’s all it comes down to: he is possibly the sexiest man I’ve ever met. I mean, really. And perhaps it’s all Kate’s fault for talking about fancying someone, because I haven’t been attracted to someone like that in years. Maybe ever. I normally
evaluate the attractiveness of a guy in a sort of detached way, ie, nice hair, bad shoulders, good teeth, etc. But last night was different. I reacted to Jake like a chemical thing exposed to another, um, chemical thing. (Fill in the blank. I can’t.) I had a genuine tingly feeling every time I was near him. I have a mild tingly feeling just thinking about him now.
My phone beeps.
Breakfast, the usual place, at 11 am?
From Bloomie. Yay, she’s taking Saturday off work, for a change. I reply.
See you there.
I wonder whether he was teasing me at the end of the night about my Dating Sabbatical.
But—and here’s the best part—I don’t wonder if he’ll call. He can’t, since he doesn’t have my number. I don’t want him to, since, after all, I know very well it’d go wrong in the end and I’d be dumped and miserable, again. I can’t break the Dating Sabbatical, especially not for a guy like him. He’s too arrogant to be really nice and too smartarsey to not be a bastardo. When I remember all that, Jake flits out of my mind as easily as he flitted in, and I feel at ease and in control again. I smile smugly. I have outwitted the first stumbling block to the Dating Sabbatical. High-fives to me.
My thoughts turn to the weekend stretching ahead. I’ve got a stellar Saturday planned: coffee with Kate and Bloomie and a tour of the vintage stuff on Portobello Road, followed by a walk across Hyde Park with coffees and an intense inspection of H&M and Zara in Knightsbridge. That should do us for a few hours. (Never attempt Topshop on a Saturday: only the Oxford Circus one is any good, really, and it’s colonised by gangs of petrifying teenage girls.)
Shower, soap, shave, scrub, dry, moisturise…I’m feeling kind of smug and pleased with myself, and so decide to take tranquil inspiration from Manhattan Mommies. I wear caramel
quilted ballet slippers, white jeans, a gold belt, a white vest and a caramel cardigan. (Isn’t it strange how everything I wore on Wednesday felt perfect, but would be so wrong today?) I tie the silky (polyester) scarf through a little loop on my lucky yellow clutch for a bit of flair. Hair is clean and straight. My eyebrows do exactly what I tell them to. Outer and Inner Selves are serene and content, walking hand in hand down Madison Avenue.
On the way to Notting Hill I get a text from Mitch.
Did you get the number of the bus that hit me last night?
I reply:
Don’t call her a bus, darling, she seemed lovely.
Mitch texts:
Harhar. Joe wants your number. I know from last time you fucking crucified me that I’m meant to ask you first so I am. Reply asap I’m not your sexretary
I reply:
No. I’m not dating at the moment.
I think for a second, and then text again:
PS Which one was Joe anyway?
Mitch texts:
A&Fitch tshirt
I reply:
Oh God no. No no. Talk later dude. Thanks for last night.
Hmm, how odd. I wasn’t nice to that guy and yet I made enough of a good impression for him to pursue asking me out? Weird. My phone beeps again.
Hey trouble. Ant here. Wld U like to go 4 a drink 2moro night? :-)
Ugh, txt spk is almost as creepy as monobrowed Ant. What the hell? I think for a few minutes and then reply:
Hello Ant. I’m flattered, but unable to, due to aforementioned Dating Sabbatical commitment.
Ant texts:
Come on. A drink isn’t a date.
I reply:
I’m sorry. I can’t. I took a sacred vow.
My phone rings. It’s Ant. I hate it when people ring just after texting you. I’m not sure why it’s so rude, but it is. I turn it to silent and jump off the No. 52 bus. I am so excited about today. I’ve got £150 in my purse, earmarked to burn on clothes. That’s quite a lot when you’re shopping at H&M and Zara, you know. (Do not speak to me of credit cards. I got into several thousand pounds of debt at 23—£4,893 to be exact—and, after a huge and nasty kerfuffle with my bank and my parents, it took years to pay off. Even thinking about that makes me feel sick. So I prefer to just not think about the whole money thing. That’s why I never open bank statements.)
Kate’s already in our favourite booth in our favourite little Westbourne Grove café when I finally get there at a few minutes past 11 am, and so is my large latte-with-less-milk-slash-macchiato-with-extra-milk. A triple espresso is waiting for Bloomie, who turns up 30 seconds after me. Hot damn, Kate is a planner.
‘You look natty!’ exclaims Bloomie. She is looking extremely pretty this morning: very pink of cheek and bright of eye. Lots of sex, I expect. (Mmm. Sex. I’ll think about that more later. I’m going to miss it. Why was I so phenomenally attracted to Jake? Is it my body just being annoying, as it knows it can’t have any action at the moment? It’s quite unlike me. Hmm.)
‘Thanks sweeeedie,’ I say, sliding into the booth and pulling my coffee towards me. ‘How did we all pull up today?’
‘Smashing, actually,’ grins Bloomie. ‘I had to make it up to Eugene for the work call last night.’ She stretches and yawns. ‘I can comfortably say I excelled myself.’
‘Ew,’ I say.
‘Fine,’ says Kate, scanning the menu.
‘I don’t know why you’re reading that, Kate, my girl,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously going to have a BLT with a pint of English mustard on the side.’
‘And you’re obviously going to have a plain ciabatta with your utterly minging Parma ham,’ she retorts, folding it with a flourish. ‘Oooh, that reminds me.’ She flips open a diary to the ‘notes’ section (does anyone actually use that section?) and writes down ‘ciabatta’ on a multi-columned list.
‘What’s that?’
‘Supermarket shopping list.’
‘Is that in order of aisle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Can we order, darlings? Dying here,’ interrupts Bloomie.
We order. Bloomie fills us in on what happened at the party after we left—all hell broke loose; apparently that Irish crowd are chaos merchants when it comes to houseparties—and I tell them quickly about talking to Jake last night, skipping over the tingly attraction part and making sure to add that I am definitely not interested due to the wonderful, wonderful Sabbatical, and about waking up this morning and feeling so happy to be in bed by myself. I also tell them about the texts today. On cue, my phone beeps.
From a mystery number:
Robbie here! Hope you don’t mind but Mitch gave me your number! Would you like to go for a drink on Tuesday! We should catch up! I’ve missed you’re laugh!
Ugh. Fucking Mitch giving my number to ex-fucking-boyfriends. And his grammar is appalling. I show them and delete it without replying, and then show them Ant’s text.
‘I barely spoke to him,’ I say, mystified. ‘I think he’s a dick.’
I tap a quick text to Mitch:
I said don’t give out my number! The curtain pisser is stalking me!
From Mitch:
He’s with me now. Took your no. without asking me. And he just read that text harhar.
Kate and Bloomie collapse with giggles.
‘Screw him,’ I say. ‘He dumped me five years ago.’
‘Right on, sister,’ says Bloomie supportively. ‘But you were so obviously just killing time with him…’
‘I was?’ I say. I don’t remember that.
‘You never answered his calls when you were out with us, remember…? Maybe I’m wrong, I just didn’t think you were that smitten.’
‘Hmm,’ I say. That’s interesting, I don’t remember that. Nonetheless, he did dump me via text. And he’s nowhere near as cute as he used to be. And I’m on a Dating Sabbatical and not interested. ‘Why the hell is sleazy Ant trying to ask me out, though? And some Billy guy wanted my number…’
‘Simple economics,’ says Kate, the accountant. ‘It’s supply and demand. You are not available, so demand for you is high.’
‘No, no. It’s her pheromones. She is giving off some crazy look-but-don’t-touch, hey-big-boy aura. That’s what it is,’ says Bloomie.
‘Are you still drunk?’ I ask her.
‘Probably,’ she nods, sipping her espresso. ‘I adore Jake, by the way. He’s just the kind of man I can see you with.’
I’ll ignore that. She’s a bit too direct sometimes. ‘How come you know him and I don’t?’ I ask.
Bloomie thinks. ‘Skiing that March when you had to work, I guess. And he was at that party at Fraser’s that you didn’t go to—the one just after you and Rick broke up, when you couldn’t get out of bed.’
I’ll ignore that, too.
‘He moved here like a month ago or so.’
‘Where from?’
‘Edinburgh, maybe? I don’t know.’
‘He doesn’t have a Scottish accent, though,’ I muse. I catch Bloomie throwing Kate a knowing look.
‘Why don’t you ask him all these questions? Mitch could arrange a set-up,’ she smiles.
‘Well, unfortunately I’m on a Dating Sabbatical and therefore not interested,’ I say airily.
‘Very unfortunate!’ agrees Bloomie with a grin, which turns into a yawn. ‘I’m fuuuuh-king shattered.’ This is an imitation of Posh Mark. Bloomie loved his accent so much. ‘Saahriouslaah.’
‘You cannot imitate my ex-boyfriends when I am on a Dating Sabbatical,’ I say firmly.
‘It’s not in the Rules,’ says Bloomie. ‘Tragic’lah.’
Kate dunks the whole of the end of her BLT in the English mustard, and says quietly, ‘I have something to tell you guys.’
‘I swear to God, darlings, I can’t sleep with The Dork next to me. He’s so fuuuuuh-king sexy, I want to attack him all night. And now I’m so tired and I have to go to work later—’
‘Shut
up
, Bloomie!’ I mutter, seeing that Kate has started to cry.
‘I’m thinking about leaving…I’m thinking about…leaving…’
‘Leaving Tray?’ I say.
Kate nods. Great big tears start running down her face. I scrabble for some tissues. Stupid lucky clutch, nothing useful is inside.
‘I just can’t bear it, and I have been feeling so…trapped, and then after dinner the other night talking to you, I don’t know, I think when I met Tray I just did what you’re doing, but instead of opting out of dating I just chose the safest, most boring route possible…and now I’m so safe…and so…bored…and I’m living with him…’
This is all a bit convoluted, and hard to hear through the sobs. I haven’t seen Kate cry in years and years, it’s kind of scary.
‘How long have you been feeling this way?’ asks Bloomie. We are both suddenly patting and stroking Kate as though she is a dog.
‘Months.’ Kate takes a deep shaky breath. ‘Months. But there was Christmas, and then his birthday, and then we had a holiday booked…’
‘You can’t stay in a relationship just because you have holidays booked,’ says Bloomie.
‘And then I went home and suddenly it was all I could think about, and I talked to Mum and she said that it wasn’t bad to feel this way…’
‘It’s not!’ we chorus.
‘And then I have days where I think, he is so kind and so smart, and I could do worse, and every other man in the world would just break my heart the way all those arseholes did before. And so what if I don’t fancy him and he doesn’t like to talk and doesn’t enjoy the things I enjoy? I need to grow up and start realising that life isn’t all excitement and fun.’
It’s not? I think to myself.
‘He doesn’t like to talk?’ says Bloomie.
‘Oh, no, he does…I mean he just doesn’t like, um, talking as much as I do. He likes to come home from work and…not talk. And I know he’s stressed about his job and all that, but God! He doesn’t TALK. At ALL. All NIGHT. And his idea of a good holiday is hiking and he never fucking laughs.’
It’s very unlike Kate to swear, and she’s almost only talking to herself now. ‘But like, that’s OK! I’m such a bitch for judging him!’
‘Oh, darling, you are not a bitch,’ says Bloomie. ‘Of course you want to be with a guy who is, you know, a real partner. And someone to laugh with, someone who likes at least some of the things that you like, someone who just accepts you and adores you.’
Kate nods and sighs. I look at Bloomie incredulously. Acceptance and adoration? That sounds amazing. I’ve never had that. Ever. I can’t imagine having it. I wonder if Bloomie has that with Eugene. I wonder if I’m even capable of it. I shake myself quickly. This is not the time to think about my stupid dating inadequacies. Kate needs us.
‘Katie…’ I say. ‘Have you spoken to Tray about any of this?’
‘Are you kidding?’ she says. ‘I’d break his heart. And when it comes down to it, I know there’s only one answer. I have to leave him…I don’t want to marry him. And I don’t think he really wants to marry me, as he never mentions it either. Fucking hell, even the idea of it makes me feel like I’m drowning…so what were we thinking moving in together?’
Bloomie and I are nodding in unison.
‘And, oh, guys, this is such bad timing. My company is imploding and everyone is walking around scared stiff of being made redundant. It’s so awful. If I cared more, I’d hate it, but I don’t. I feel completely detached from everything. Completely. I feel like I got this life by accident…’