Crazygirl Falls in Love (3 page)

I’ve analysed myself and I’d say I’m a 7 too. Tall, kinda on
the skinny side but still with curves (albeit small ones), smart
(sort of), high earning potential (eventually I’ll make Partner,
even if it’s at sixty), not as nice as Mags but nice enough, not as
hot as Chloe but hot enough, not as fun as my outgoing sister but
fun enough. I do have a temper though... Maybe that’d bump me down
to a 6.5

In real life, you usually see 8s dating
other 8s, 5s dating other 5s, 2s dating other 2s. Sometimes you’ll
see a 4 dating a 5 or an 8 dating a 9. It’s technically feasible to
date someone one or even two levels above yours. So if I get
ridiculously lucky (I mean winning-the-lottery kinda lucky) I might
pull a 9. Conversely, I will settle for nothing lower than a 5. For
example, say I reach the tender age of forty and (god forbid)
develop that scary uterus disease known as ‘I must construct a
fetus
NOW
, my life
won’t be complete without progeny!’ Should that doomsday ever
occur, I would consider settling for a 5 or a 6, just to provide
that other gamete I need. Or I’d go to a sperm bank, whichever has
fewer side effects.

But back to my original point, as a 7 my dating range is
between 5 and 9. Or for those who like statistics, the standard
deviation is two. I’ll likely date people who are 7s or around
there, but I might be able to jump a few digits (also known as
punching), or scrape the bottom of the barrel towards the 5s, also
known as settling.

But you see, everyone from the monster 0 to the average 5 to
the fit 8 want a 10. And the 10s know it, which makes all those
hotter than lava 9-point-something men act like spoilt, entitled
boobs.

Our sixth or seventh drinks round has
arrived (I’ve lost count in my daydreaming). I snap out of my
reverie and give the waitress an appreciative smile as I take my
wine from her tray. She rolls her eyes and walks back in the
direction of the bar.
Yeeks, someone’s
being a bit of a grumpybum tonight, aren’t they?

In my daydreaming I’ve also failed to notice
Chloe’s disappeared to the restroom. I turn my attention back to
Mags and we start scouting the room for cute guys, more for her
benefit than mine. I wouldn’t touch any of my colleagues with a ten
foot flag pole. That age old adage – don’t shit where you eat – is
a good rule to live by. When I was a graduate in Melbourne I kissed
another Grad in front of a small group of work people one night
when we were out drinking at our local. The whole office was abuzz
the next morning with ‘the scandal’. I was more annoyed than
ashamed. I mean, if they considered a
kiss
between two young, single people
worthy of months of intense gossip, than to me that was
quintessential pathetic-ness. How utterly mundane must their lives
be to think that a
kiss
was interesting?

Then I started to get to know lawyers a little more and
realised that yes, these beings did live lives so boring, so empty,
so soul-destroyingly dull that a kiss could have caused such
outrage. Pretty sad, huh?

Mags is still scouting the room. I’ve lost interest and
instead am trying to see where Surly Waitress went, because my wine
glass is empty again and it’s time to get myself liquored up,
TGIF-styles.

“Hey Penny, what do you think of that one?” Mags whispers as
she nudges my arm.

I look at where her gaze has settled.

Oh no…

“You like
that
one?” I say,
aghast.

“Yes? Whatever’s the matter?” Mags looks at me as if I’m an
utter loon and turns back in the direction of Stalker
Sam

I see she’s caught his eye because he’s now looking at us,
goofily grinning away. I swivel around, my back facing him. Mags
has always had awful taste in men (don’t we all?) so I shouldn’t be
surprised. In fact, Stalker Sam would be an improvement on some of
the guys she’s dated. Let’s not forget Kebab the Silent, Rob the
Knob, or Nick the Dick.

Mags looks up at me with her big green eyes, large as saucers.
Such a sweetheart, should I tell her he’s a numpty? Yes. She’s one
of my best friends. Almost a sister, really.

“Mags,” I whisper, “That guy, he’s not exactly…”

But I’m interrupted by a loud,

“Hey gangstas, what’s crack-a-lakin?”

No! How did he manage to cross the room so
quickly?
I give a weak smile as I turn to
face Stalker. Mags is gazing at him with a look so sweet it’d melt
sherbet.

“Oh. Hey.” I mumble.

My tone holds as much enthusiasm as if I was about to undergo
a full rectal examination.

“You ladies having a good night?”

I don’t reply. Mags nods enthusiastically. He turns away from
me and smiles at my unsuspecting friend,

“And who might this be?”

“I’m Mags.” She says, reaching out her hand to shake
his.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Magdalena.”

He kisses her hand.
Oh my god, give me a break.
But Mags
clearly doesn’t share my perspective because she
squeals,

“How did you know my full name?”

“Oh, I may have visited Eastern Europe a few times in my
intrepid adventures of the continent. But I dare say you don’t look
it, with that beautiful hair.”

Oh brother… Give me a fucking bucket so I can hurl what
little amount of respect for this guy I once had.

And why does he keep switching from speaking Gangster to
Eton-posh?

Mag’s isn’t really receiving my don’t-go-there vibes because
she blushes over the spattering of freckles on her
cheeks,

“I’m half Scottish, half Ukrainian, but I grew up in
Bristol.”

“Word. Another drink, dog?”

And we’re back to
Gangster
. He takes Mags’ elbow and leads
her in the direction of the bar. She gives me an apologetic but
very cheeky smile, and walks off with him.

Perfect, that’s just perfect.
I’ve been left alone (with an empty wine glass to
boot) by my good mate who is about to notch up another entry into
her ‘Losers I’ve Picked Up’ list. Chloe is still in the
bathroom.

I sip the dregs of my wine and turn to face the band. They’re
actually not too bad. For the first time in living memory the
Gribbles Social Club has forked out on some solid live music. It’s
a three piece jazz ensemble. I’ve never seen this type of set up
before, there’s a double base, a trumpet and a guy on drums. They
sound fantastic.

Chloe taps me on the shoulder,

“They sound lush don’t they?” She says, mirroring my
thoughts.

Surly Waitress walks past and grunts that it’s last orders.
Chloe and I yell at the same time,

“Four vodka Red Bulls!” Chloe.

“Four glasses of Prosecco!” Me.

Surly glowers and storms off without repeating the
order.

“Bitch,” Chloe smiles at me and we start giggling.

A million years later Surly returns with our drinks and with
even deeper scowl lines etched into those sharp features. She sets
the tray down on the table and storms off. To our delight there are
eight drinks sitting there. Chloe and I grin at each other and grab
a sparkling wine each. We ching our glasses and take a long, long
sip.

I look at my empty glass. Where did the bubbly go? I couldn’t
have drained the whole thing, could I? Chloe is looking similarly
confused because hers has magically disappeared as well.

“Must’ve been a half glass,” I say.

Chloe shrugs and picks up a second glass, but before we can
chug it down in one again we see Mags. She is hurriedly making her
away towards us, pushing past the hordes, a huge smile plastered on
her round face.

“Hi ladies! Oh my gosh, how cute is Sam?”

I don’t think as I blurt out,

“You mean Stalker?”

“Huh?” She asks, but I don’t have to reply. Chloe’s at her
bold best.

“What are you doing with that guy Mags? Just look at him, he’s
a total player and you know it.”

Chloe nods disapprovingly in the direction of Stalker, who
Mags has left chatting with a bunch of solicitors from Intellectual
Property.

“Oh I don’t think so, he seems nice.”

Ah, the words so often spoken about a man,
only to be eaten with a dose of humble pie, washed down with a jug
of tears
. Chloe and Mags continue to debate
while I consider adding orange juice to my Prosecco. Mimosas
are
such
a winning
mix, I’m surprised so few Brits choose the combination.
Technically, they’re Mimosas and not Bucks Fizz because they’re
mostly champagne with only a dash of OJ. I learnt that in Vegas.
And the Germans taught me to mix beer and Coke, and the Spanish
taught me to mix white wine and lemonade. And they say travel is a
waste of money, a virtual cyber-world could
never
have taught me such wonderful
things.

Speaking of Spain, I wonder what my little Spanish crush is up
to tonight, the man known to me and my friends as ‘the Stranger’?
We met years ago, through my sister Emma’s flatmate, a lovely
Barcelonan named Arianna. She is ridiculously good looking, with a
group of ridiculously good looking friends. And lucky for me and
Emma, they’re almost all male. Hanging out with them is like living
in a Kylie Minogue video clip. Everyone is tall, tanned, muscled
and smooth. Might I add, these guys are the polar opposites of the
Spaniards in Melbourne, who are short, fat and hairy. Emma and I
can never quite believe our luck when we’re out with Arianna and
her crew. Surrounded by such beauty… it’s a privileged life, it
really is.

“I just don’t know why you’d judge someone straight away like
that,” Mags is saying to Chloe.

While they’re distracted I’ll give you some more details on
the Stranger. Maybe you’ll be able to help me out with him, he’s
quite the conundrum. Two Fridays ago it was Emma’s birthday. We hit
her favourite bar in Clapham (you know, it might be a little out of
the way but I’m rather partial to heading south of the river for a
night out. It’s a place with an edge, and I like that). It’s a pity
Chloe and Mags weren’t there, Emma hadn’t invited them. They’re not
exactly getting along at the moment, and by ‘they’ I mean Emma and
Chloe. But more on that later, back to the Beautiful People and my
studly crush.

I was one of the first to arrive, along with
Emma’s socially awkward massage therapist who always smells like
asparagus dip, and Arianna. While Emma entertained the smelly
masseuse (I honestly don’t know how my sister does it, she has the
capacity to talk to
anyone
. I’ve never had the social
skills to interact successfully with my peers or society in
general, besides a handful of friends and dogs. And they have to be
friendly dogs, not those nasty yappy ones). What was I saying? Oh
yeah, while Emma entertained Smelly, Arianna and I began chatting
about nothing in particular when suddenly... they landed. The
Beautiful People walked through the door and I froze midsentence.
I’d never seen them after work before. They looked like a bunch of
tall, tanned Latin American footballers in suits.

I closed my eyes and started praying,
God, please make me seem sexy and appealing
tonight, and make sure I don’t say anything too
embarrassing
.

“Hello.”

I opened my eyes and there stood the Stranger, the hottest one
of the group, leaning down to greet me with a kiss on each of my
rapidly reddening cheeks. He had looked and smelled amazing. I so
desperately wanted to sound seductive and sensual. I so badly
wanted him to start thinking of me as someone other than that
annoying Polish-Australian lawyer (Polish mum, Aussie dad). I
racked my brain for something to say but the only thing I could
think of was,

“Yo, bro!”

Cringe! I still shudder when I think of that
moment. I cannot
believe
I said that!
Way to go
Penny, as if the fact you’re not good looking enough for him isn’t
sufficient enough a deal breaker, you’re also sprouting lame-ass
lines from the 90s
. Miraculously, he had
smiled and given me a third kiss on the cheek, this one lasting
just a little too long to be considered friendly.