The Dating Detox (13 page)

Jake is coming. Jake is coming.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Kate is handing me—what the?—pre-moistened scented tissues.

‘You carry wipes in your bag?’ I croak.

‘Now is not the time to make fun of me,’ she says, and starts wiping my hands and face. A bartender comes over to dry the table. Bloomie orders us three more drinks.

‘Do you want to talk about Jake?’ she asks with a sly smile.

‘Nooo, nono,’ I say, clearing the last of the vodka from my neck and patting the dribble on my thighs. ‘That fluttery tummy thing I got when I met Jake was just a perverse subconscious reaction to my Sabbatical. And also, my body was thinking—erroneously!—that it could not do without sex and therefore felt desirous of the nearest man with the appropriate pheromones. It was lust, pure and simple.’ I’m going to see Jake. Finally. But—oh shit, maybe I shouldn’t go to Eddie’s weekend party. But Eddie is my friend, damn it. Jake is just stupid Mitch’s stupid cousin. I have invitational precedence. And I can handle it. It’s been three whole months since I saw him. I’ll be fine. I haven’t broken any of the Dating Sabbatical Rules. I’m not about to start now. Get a grip, Sass, I tell myself.

‘Let’s order, then, shall we?’ I say brightly.

As Bloomie turns around to get the attention of someone to order, I check my phone quickly. I’ve got a text from Laura.

Well done today! Everyone talking about it!

Oh, how lovely. I text back quickly.

Team effort—well done to everyone!

She replies:

I mean Andy! So glad someone took him on!

Oh my gosh. I’ve never got a text like that before. Well, nothing like today has ever happened to me before either, so that’s no big surprise. And it’s all because of the Dating Sabbatical. God bless it.

Three burgers later, the night is going well. The thought that I’ll be seeing Jake next week is bouncing around my mind like an ADD child pre-Ritalin, so I’ve sat it on a naughty chair in the back of my brain. So far, it’s stayed there pretty obediently, and let me get on with my evening. We’re now talking animatedly about the joys of singledom (me and Kate) versus the delights of new love (Bloomie).

‘Middle of the bed sleeping.’ That’s me.

‘Perfect spooning all night.’ That’s Bloomie.

‘Waking up and knowing no one is going to fart unless it’s you,’ says Kate, and Bloomie and I laugh. Especially at the way she lowers her voice daintily around the word ‘fart’.

‘Getting a kiss before you open your eyes.’

Blecch. Kate and I roll our eyes at each other.

I raise my finger. ‘Not having to pack your bag twice a week to sleep at his place.’

Bloomie grins wickedly. ‘Knowing he’ll always, always stay at yours.’

Kate replies: ‘Dressing up every day because you never know who you might meet.’

Bloomie raises an eyebrow. ‘Dressing up every day to impress him…and getting compliments every time.’

I throw a chip at her.

‘Reading in bed till whatever time you want,’ I say. It’s not a
great one, but I’ve never had a boyfriend who liked to read as much as I do.

‘Lying in bed talking and laughing for hours.’

Bugger. Is there any way to beat lying in bed talking and laughing for hours?

‘Going to bed coated in a facemask, hairmask and fake tan, and knowing no one will see you,’ I say. Kate leans over and high-fives me.

‘Sex.’ Bloomie throws her trump card down. ‘Crazy all-night sex, wake up with your face blistering from stubble-rash and going at it again sex, tapping him on the shoulder at 4-am because you can’t sleep sex. Sex.’

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Again, the subject of sex rears its ugly, erm, head. What is there about being single that can possibly beat that?

‘Knowing you’re not about to get dumped,’ I say. ‘Not having that sick feeling waiting for him to ring. Not analysing every text and email. Not worrying that you’ve made the wrong judgement call on the wrong guy. Not becoming a crazy person over a cockmonkey.’

Kate and Bloomie are staring at me with slightly overwhelmed looks on their faces. I did deliver that speech with a little more vehemence than is called for, it’s true. Bloomie is about to say something, when Kate gasps and hisses. ‘Rick. Rick. Rick. Behind you. Behind you.’

I start, and the first thing I think is ‘I can’t see Rick now. I look like shit.’ I haven’t even bothered to check my make-up since the vodka-splutter-choke-fiasco. Bloomie is even faster than me: she’s thrown her utterly enormous make-up bag in my lap and snaps: ‘Bathroom. Now. Go. Go.’ I get up from the table, without straightening my legs or raising my head, and scurry off to the bathroom, make-up bag nestled securely under my arm. Oh my God, Rick.

I know what you’re thinking. And let me state, hand on heart,
that of course I don’t want him back, or like him, or have any secret feelings for him. I’m on a Dating Sabbatical, for a start, remember? And anyway, I promise I wouldn’t take him even if he did want me back. If he ever crosses my mind these days—and he barely does—I just feel a genuine self-righteous anger that he could dare to treat me as badly as he did. I think about my poor little self being manipulated by him, and my clueless hope that things would get better and how the spotlight of his adoration would flick on and then off again, and feel like it happened to a different person. She didn’t deserve to get treated like that. And she did not deserve to say I love you and not hear it back, or walk into a room to see him screwing a Pink Lady. I feel flushed with self-righteous anger.

But do I want to look as good as possible the first time I see him, post all that trauma? Holy motherfucking hell yes.

Bless the person who gave this bathroom decent lighting, and bless Bloomie for her alpha-high-maintenance tendencies: her make-up kit is comprehensive. Three minutes of brushing, blending, powdering, pencilling and glossing, and gazing back at me is me, but better. What would we do without make-up? I mean, seriously.

I point at myself in the mirror. Be confident. Be cold. Remember he is a bastard. Don’t let him think he’s had any effect on you. And remember you’re on a Dating Sabbatical and far, far superior to all that rubbish.

I walk up the stairs to the restaurant to see that Rick is talking to Bloomie and Kate. He’s wearing a rather nice dark blue suit. He wore a lot of dark blue when we were dating. He once told me it was because it brought out the hazel in his eyes, which struck me even at the time as an oddly vain thing for a man to say.

Oh holy fuck, it’s really him.

Adieu, self-righteous anger. Bonjour, pure fear. Holy shit. I can’t believe I’m about to talk to Rick.

The last time he spoke to me, I was not calm or in control. And the last thing he said to me was ‘I don’t love you and I don’t want you.’ After shagging, SHAGGING, a Pink Lady in front of me. Bastardocockmonkeyroosterprick. I hate him for doing that to me.

But I’m not going to make a scene. I am better than that. I am calm. Mantra, engage.

I reach our table. My heart is racing and I think my hands might be shaking, so I hold the make-up bag firmly behind my back. What will I say to him? I want to appear polite and remote and dignified. Yes. I am in control. Mantra, engage.

‘Sass,’ he says, eyes flicking up at me. ‘I was just talking about you. How are you?’

I don’t reply, but just smile. I hope my smile is not as watery as my insides. He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. His face is very warm. My hands are still shaking, and I think my smile is twitching on one side.

‘I thought you were talking about you?’ says Bloomie sweetly. I try to take a deep breath, to calm myself down as surreptitiously as possible.

‘Was I?’ he says, but I don’t think he heard her. He’s gazing at me with a curious look on his face. ‘You look great, Sass,’ he says, running his eyes over me. Somehow, through my yogic breathing, I find the courage to look back and appraise him properly for the first time in almost a year.

He’s not that tall, certainly not tall enough for me to wear three-inch heels with, medium-brown hair, with the aforementioned hazel eyes. His eyelashes are too straight, too pale and kind of droopy. I can see nose-hairs escaping his flaring nostrils. His skin looks dry. He should use a better moisturiser.

I find myself smiling at him. This is interesting. I don’t find him attractive. At all.

‘How are you?’ I say.

‘I’m fantastic. But you knew that,’ he raises an eyebrow at me
and curls his lip in what is probably intended to be a sexy snarl. He has a long, long eyebrow hair that is curling over his eye.

I can’t handle this, I need to get away. I turn to Bloomie and Kate. ‘Can I get anyone a drink? I’m going to the bar.’

They both raise their hand like they’re eight years old and trying to be picked for a sports team.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Rick. Shit. ‘Or we could wait here for table service. You know how much I prefer people doing things for me.’ He grins, clearly expecting us to fall about laughing. Was that the kind of thing I used to giggle helplessly at, or did he used to be funnier? And why is he acting like we’re friends or something? Does he not remember the I-don’t-love-you? The Pink Lady?

‘Yuh, but the bar is quicker,’ I nod.

‘Alright then,’ he says. We walk to the bar. How the hell did this happen? Why am I alone with him?

‘You really look fantastic,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ I say. Maybe he really doesn’t remember the Pink Lady night. He grins. Quite an attractive grin, it’s true. He doesn’t seem to want to ask me anything, so—dignified, polite moi—I say ‘How are you?’ and he starts talking.

I am half-listening and half-panicking, but I know when to laugh at what he’s saying and when to say ‘Really?!’ in an amazed / impressed voice. I concentrate on stopping my hands from shaking and meeting his eyes without flinching.

When I finally pay for our drinks (he never was very generous, I must say, though he earns about five times my salary), he says, ‘I think I’ll come and sit with you girls for a bit. I’m meeting Skipper here’—I have no idea who Skipper is, but he either thinks I do or doesn’t care that I don’t—‘but it’s really great to chew the fat like this.’

I turn around and look him straight in the eye. I can’t take him coming over and sitting with us. Pulling together all the determination and strength that my Dating Sabbatical has given
me, I take a deep breath and smile at him. ‘That would be lovely, Rick,’ I say. ‘But we’re kind of on a no-men night.’

He looks taken aback. Oh hell, he probably thinks I’m—hang on, why am I wondering what he thinks? Take charge! ‘I hope I don’t sound terribly rude. You understand. Really nice to see you, though, Rick.’ I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Take care.’

He doesn’t say a word as I pick up our drinks and walk back to the table. I am so fucking calm and in control. High-fives to me!

‘What happened there?!’ hisses Bloomie. ‘The stupid fuckwit is still staring at you. I’ve never seen him look like that. He is speechless. He is without speech.’

‘What a cockmonkey…’ I say, half to myself. I look up and see Bloomie and Kate gazing at me. ‘Did you actually ever like him when I was dating him?’ I ask quietly. My heart is still pounding. Not from love, I am sure. Just from the shock of seeing him. ‘I mean, I know you don’t now, but before he…you know. Pink Ladied.’

Bloomie and Kate make a hummmmm sound and look at each other.

‘Well, let’s see,’ says Bloomie. ‘He’s a real alpha, and I think when he turned the attention away from himself and focused on you, it was hugely…um, seductive. But, no. He’s a dick.’

I nod.

‘It helped that he never came out with us, so I never had to really see him…’ She looks at me and sighs. ‘He wasn’t even that nice to you. Even before the Pink Lady night. What more do you want to hear, darling? After the I-love-you thing, and after that party…I wanted to kill him for hurting you.’

I nod. I hate hearing this, as it makes me feel like such a damn fool, but it’s probably good for me. And it’s nothing I couldn’t have guessed from things she’s said about him in the past. I look over to Kate for her verdict.

‘Obviously, I hate his guts for what he did, too…But he can be very charming,’ says Kate carefully. ‘And I think you had a very…humanising effect on him.’

We all start to laugh. Humanising? At that exact second, Rick walks past to greet the guy who must be Skipper, completely ignoring our table. We laugh harder. He flinches slightly. Is it bad to say that makes me feel kind of happy?

‘Did you like Posh Mark?’ I ask. I’m not particularly interested in the answer, but I do kind of wonder. Bloomie pretends to fall asleep and starts snoring loudly and Kate gets the giggles again. ‘Fine, he was a bit boring,’ I say. ‘But his body…’

Thank goodness for my Dating Sabbatical, I think, as I see Rick calling the waitress over to order. I never have to go through something like that again. Calm down, jumpy insides. I turn to the girls, but find myself unable to think of anything else to say whilst Rick is in the same room. I have to get out of here.

‘Well, stick a fork in me,’ I say. ‘It’s 10 o’clock. I’m done.’

‘Quick fag?’ says Kate, who’s been embracing smoking extremely enthusiastically lately.

We get the bill and, ignoring Skipper and Rick completely, head outside with our drinks. I can’t believe he wanted to come and sit with us. Cheating, horrible prat.

‘Two guys, only two tonight,’ says Bloomie, taking out her cigarettes and handing us each one.

‘Huh?’ I say.

‘Only two guys in the bar were looking at you. It’s usually more, recently. Only about one in seven actually comes over to talk to you, mind you.’

I grin as Bloomie lights my cigarette. ‘Really? I didn’t even notice any guys in there. Apart from fuckfeatures, of course.’

‘Actually, I was the one who noticed Rick,’ says Kate.‘You never would have.’

I exhale thoughtfully. It’s true. I could not tell you if there
were any men in the bar tonight: good-looking, ugly, young, old, short, fat…I just wasn’t aware of them. At all.

‘You, of all people, not noticing the guys…’ Bloomie shakes her head. ‘And I’ve never seen you get so much attention.’

‘They must have a sixth sense for what they can’t have.’ Realising this sounds arrogant when I really don’t mean it to, I quickly add: ‘Anyway, if I did notice one of them, the best case scenario is that he’d date me and then dump me. That was proved six times in a row. I’m not on a Dating Sabbatical as a social experiment. It’s genuine self-preservation.’ I exhale and make a half-arsed attempt at smoke rings.

‘What would you say if someone asked you out?’ says Kate. ‘Nice smoke rings.’

‘Thanks. Actually, I try to deflect any chat-ups now before they get to the being-asked-out stage as it’s so, you know, tedious…’ Bloomie is frowning quizzically at me. I wonder if she can tell how shaken I am about seeing Rick. I don’t want her to know; after everything they’ve said about him, they’ll think I’m cuckoo. As I probably am. Time to deflect. ‘Do you want to hear the standard reactions to me mentioning the Dating Sabbatical?’

‘Yes please,’ says Kate.

I start listing them on my fingers in a monosyllabic voice. ‘Are you gay. Did some guy really burn you. How arrogant you must be to think you need a Sabbatical to not be asked out. A drink is not a date. How about just sex then.’

Bloomie and Kate are laughing now.

‘Dudes, it’s so boring. And I’m never even tempted.’

Kate is toying with her straw. ‘Was anyone looking at me in there?’ she says, making a sad pouty face which is probably only half in jest.

‘I’m sure they were…’ says Bloomie. ‘But it’s different. You probably still have an “I’m-taken” vibe going on.’

‘No! How do I get rid of that?’ Kate pauses, and flinches. ‘Oh God, a Tray-related guilt feeling…it’s gone now.’

‘Try a Sabbatical,’ I suggest. ‘It’s like catnip, apparently.’