The Dating Detox (21 page)

‘Havaianas are officially sanctioned by the Winter Olympics Committee,’ nods Rosie.

Rod comes over and puts his arm around me. He’s a bit shorter than me in these heels, so I have no problem glancing around and down at him.

‘Why, hello,’ I say, vaguely disapprovingly. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want his arm around me, either.

‘How you doing, sunshine?’ he asks, leaning into me. He’s slightly drunker now, and slurring.

Smithy looks up. ‘Leave her alone, hot Rod.’

‘She’s alright! We’re alright, aren’t we?’ he says to me.

I shoot Help Me eyes at Kate. She bounces out of her seat. ‘Must dash! We have…um, friends to meet,’ she says. Rod drops me and ambles happily over to the seat she just vacated.

Smithy hops out of his seat and comes to the end of the table to talk to us as we finish our drinks. ‘Um, can I get your number, Kate? We’re heading out to a club later, if you guys fancy it, or maybe we could, um…have a drink sometime?’

‘Sure!’ she says, looking utterly thrilled and then quickly assuming a look of nonchalance. He gets his phone out and she types in her number.

‘Thanks,’ he smiles.

‘OK…well bye!’ she says. We put our empty glasses on the table and walk off in the direction of Portobello Road.

‘Street value…high. Very high,’ I grin at her as soon as we’re out of earshot of the pub. ‘That was excellent.’

‘That was so exciting!’ she says excitedly. ‘But God, what if he calls? What if we go out? What if it gets serious? I mean, he’s going to want to go back to Australia eventually, right? Could I live in Australia? Oh, my God…’

‘Maybe you should just not think about anything further than, like, having a drink with him,’ I suggest.

‘Yeah…yeah, you’re right,’ she says, nodding earnestly. Funny how when you’re just out of a long-term relationship, you think
you’re probably going to get back into one straightaway. The truth is very different.

‘None of them were in the least interested in me, by the way,’ I say. ‘Perhaps my Dating Sabbatical mojo has gone.’

‘No! Let’s test it again. Montgomery Place? The bar at E&O? Ooh!’ Kate says, looking excitedly at the bar we’re approaching. ‘Let’s go in here!’

‘The Lonsdale? Good idea,’ I say. We step up onto the little wooden balcony area and into the Lonsdale, which is a très stylish bar, all 60s futuristic chic and clever, sexy lighting. It’s packed with people our age drinking exuberantly.

As we push through the crowd to the bar, I do my casing-the-joint-for-Jake routine (we’re safe), then we get our drinks pretty easily and stand at the edge of the bar, talking about the Australians.

‘He’s so funny and good looking,’ says Kate happily. ‘I hope he calls. You don’t think he’s a bastardo and would dump me, do you?’

‘No, no,’ I say, though I have no idea.

‘Let’s say I start dating him. How will I know if he’s going to dump me?’ asks Kate. ‘It’s been so long since I was single…I can’t remember any of this stuff.’

This, I can answer. ‘Well, you know, if he starts acting cold for no reason.’

‘Like, doesn’t reply to texts?’ suggests Kate.

‘Yes, but really, you shouldn’t ever text him first anyway. You should only ever be texting him back. And never text him a question.’

‘Why?’

I can’t think why. It’s just one of the things I do. I mean, don’t do.

‘And look for signs. Like if he starts cancelling things at the last minute, or takes phone calls in private. Or spends all his time with you texting other people. And if he’s vague about his plans,
or the future. Though you should never ask him about plans or his future, anyway. Or how he feels. Ever.’

Kate frowns at me. ‘This is a Rick thing, isn’t it?’

Yes.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Yes, it is. This is all Rick. You trained yourself to not ask this stuff. That’s why Posh Mark thought you were too reserved.’

‘No,’ I scoff.

‘Yes, it is,’ she says affectionately. ‘You’re a psychopath. I’m going to the bathroom. I want you to think about being a psychopath while I’m gone.’

Instead of thinking about being a psychopath, which is too depressing, I check my phone. There’s a text from Bloomie.‘Fight with Eugene. Where are you guys?’

Shit. ‘Lonsdale. Come meet us. You OK?’ I text back.

She replies. ‘Roosterprick.’

Eek. Kate gets back and we get another drink, and I show her Bloomie’s text.

‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘I guess you have to have your first fight sometime…’

Hmm. I can’t remember having a first fight with anyone. Every relationship I’ve had just chugged along till the whole thing went up in a fireball of rejection and misery. Surely, you should avoid arguments at all costs, as they mean something isn’t right, right? It’s dawning on me that this, on top of every other stupid and psychopathic dating rule/guideline/thought I have, may be the most stupid and psychopathic thing of all, when a guy walks up to us and says. ‘Excuse me, but I believe there’s a rule in this bar. You can’t come in if you’re not interested in dating.’

I look at him in disbelief. It’s Mr America from Harlem bar. The cute, almost-certainly-a-cockmonkey American to whom I lost my Dating Sabbatical virginity. He’s smiling so politely that I start laughing.

‘Hi…’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, I never caught your name?’

‘Rob,’ he grins.

Kate and I introduce ourselves.

‘So, you’re stalking me now?’ I sigh. ‘Was I
that
funny and hot that night at Harlem?’

I’m feeling a bit pissed now, and wouldn’t you know it, good old Rule 3 is going out the window. Hey ho.

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘I live on Hereford Road. This is my local.’

‘How ghastly for you,’ I say, though it’s not ghastly at all. You know, sometimes I just open my mouth and things come out that don’t actually mean anything.

‘It is, it is,’ he grins. ‘May I introduce you to my friends?’

His friends are a few metres away down the other end of the bar, and come over immediately. Pete and Nick. Both American jock-types, quite slick and very confident. Nick has a magnificent head of hair.

‘You look like a Kennedy,’ I say to him.

‘Wow…uh, thanks,’ he says, laughing. Kate is chatting happily away to Rob. It turns out the guys are all from New York and have been living in London for about a year.

‘I love it here,’ says Pete. ‘But the bar measures are like, so small. That’s my only problem. And the weather is shit. Apart from that, perfect city.’

I nod. ‘Then again, the first time I went to New York, I had two vodkas and tried to start a conga line through Gramercy Tavern. So it goes both ways.’

‘In some bars in Manhattan, two vodkas is about a gallon of vodka,’ he grins proudly.

‘You should print warnings on the glasses for unsuspecting Brits,’ I suggest.

‘Let’s have a shot!’ exclaims Nick excitedly, and buys everyone a tequila. The bar hits that 11 pm packed noisiness and we’re all getting along very well. They’re classic American expats: super-confident and polite, with, as previously noted, just enough American charm and attitude to somehow get away with saying
things like ‘Lookin’ awesome, by the way, ladies. Love the outfits.’ Aaaah-some. Rob’s not as aggressive as I thought on the first night I met him, either. He’s kind of sweet. Perhaps not a cockmonkey after all.

‘Sorry about that thing, by the way,’ he says to me. Kate’s in a passionate conversation with Pete and Nick about the global cultural importance of
Saved By The Bell.

‘What thing?’ I say.

‘I was a bit of a dick outside Harlem that night,’ he says, taking a sip of his beer and casing the bar. ‘I didn’t mean to be…I have rejection issues.’ I think he’s joking.

‘Wow, how fun for you,’ I say. ‘I have dating issues.’ He glances at me and starts laughing.

‘Well, honey, they have drugs for that now,’ he says.

‘Yeah, I believe it’s called Rohypnol,’ I say. He cracks up and looks over to his buddies.

‘Guys, did you hear that?’ They all look up and over at us, just as Bloomie bursts into the group. She’s been crying, I can tell, though she still looks pretty damn good.

‘Bloomingdale!’ I say, as Kate hands her the vodka we had waiting for her.

‘Thanks,’ she says, composing herself and looking around at the guys. ‘Uh, hello. I’m Bloomie. Sorry for barging in…I’ve just had a fight with my boyfriend. A big one.’

‘No way,’ says Rob. ‘What, is he, like, an asshole?’

She starts laughing. ‘No! I mean, yes…I mean, no. He thinks I work too hard. That work means more to me than, you know, he does.’ She must be a bit drunk to be immediately confessing all to strangers like this.

‘You in finance?’ asks Rob. What kind of a question is that?

Bloomie nods.

‘Fucken’ nightmare right now,’ nods Rob.

‘Exactly, right?’ says Bloomie. ‘You’d think he’d fucking well understand. He said he can’t be second best.’

‘Oh, man. So, did you just like, run out?’ asks Rob. Is it just me, or is Rob being awfully sensitive? I can’t figure out if he cares, if he’s hitting on her, or if it’s just the way he is.

‘Uh huh.’ She takes a massive slug of vodka. ‘We were only halfway through dessert.’

‘I’m sure no one else saw,’ says Kate supportively.

‘Everyone saw. We were at Ziani’s.’

‘Oh, I love that place,’ says Nick.

‘Dude. Inappropriate,’ says Rob, and looks at me with an ‘Excuse My Friend’ expression.

‘Let’s go outside for a cigarette,’ I say to Kate and Bloomie. We leave the guys at the bar and head to the wooden smoking deck area out the front, and sit down next to the bouncer’s snoozing dog.

‘It’ll be fine…he just wouldn’t back down! And I wouldn’t back down!’ says Bloomie. She must be drunk to be repeating herself. ‘What does that say about the future of our relationship…? He needs to be on my side! I have a job! What is so bad about that?’

‘Please don’t shout, we have neighbours,’ says the bouncer. Sure, because when you buy a house opposite a bar in one of London’s most popular going-out areas, the last thing you expect is a little noise on a Saturday night.

‘He just wants to see you more…That’s a good thing,’ Kate whispers.

‘What does he want me to do, sit at home and knit?’ she exclaims. ‘I have a job!’

‘He knows that!’ I say. ‘You can see his point of view, though, can’t you…?’

‘I don’t know…’ she says and looks weepy again. ‘He said he needed to know that I wouldn’t always put work first, and I refused to say it, and said how dare he tell me what to do. And he said he wasn’t telling, he was asking…And I just got up and walked out. And he hasn’t even texted me.’

‘Do you want to go home, honey?’ says Kate.

‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘Yes please. I’m going to call him. I’ve really fucked up.’

I pop back inside to get our coats and say goodbye to the Americans. They’ve already started chatting up some other women at the bar, and don’t seem particularly devastated by our absence.

‘I know there’s no point in asking for your number,’ says Rob with a grin. ‘So I’ll just say…see you around.’

‘Yeah, see you around,’ I smile back. How nice he is, really. Perhaps not a bastardo after all. I head back outside, where a cab is waiting.

‘Want to stay at ours again?’ says Kate. ‘You’re more than welcome. I’m spending tomorrow with Immie, but you can hang out for as long as you want.’

‘I should go home,’ I say. ‘My bedroom has forgotten what I look like.’

They put me in the cab and hail another behind it.

When I get home, I’m exhausted. I shuffle around my room, cleaning my face and teeth and putting on an old dark blue T-shirt and boxer shorts, the music from the Lonsdale still ringing lightly in my ears. As I get into bed, I sigh deeply. I didn’t break any Rules. I bent the flirting rule, but only a little bit. And at least, I reflect, as I float off into sleep, I didn’t run into Jake.

Sunday is all, all mine. And frankly, it’s perfect. The first few weekends of the Sabbatical, I was a bit lost on Sundays, and contracted serious Sunday Blues (The Fear, The Demons, Meltdown Madness, call it what you will). But today I’m happy in my own company, and don’t feel the need to fill my time with distractions. I don’t feel like thinking about the Sabbatical, or Jake, or the ins and outs of dating. I don’t even—gasp—feel like shopping.

It’s sunny, so I put on my ancient, much-loved cutoff jeans shorts and Ol’ Grey and walk to the local Italian café for a latte and a Parma ham ciabatta, and then pop in at the corner shop to get the papers. Just as I get home, it starts raining heavily. Hurrah. Now I can get back into bed without feeling guilty.

I decide to read both papers front to back—even the car and home bits, just to see if I can do it—and eat my breakfast in bed. Looks like Kate’s company is in serious trouble. And Bloomie’s is still going through some pretty massive changes. At about 11 am, I give her a quick call.

‘Mushi mushi…’

‘You OK, Bloomlaut darling?’

‘Yes…’ Bloomie says in a muffled tone. ‘Hang on, darling, I’m just in bed…’ After a few seconds later and a few door-closing sounds, she continues: ‘I rang him when I got home, and asked him to come over, and we talked about it, and sort of…made up.’

‘Great!’ I say. That sounds positive.

‘Mmm…’ I can tell she’s rubbing her eyes. It’s something she does when she’s stressed.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask. I’m not sure what to say. I can see Eugene’s point of view about her putting work first, which is kind of weird. Whenever any of us has had a fight with a boyfriend before, we’ve universally called him a cockmonkey and despised him.

‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘I…It will be fine. I told him I love him, and that this is me, and he has to accept me as I am, and then he shook his head and smiled and we had sex…’ She says all this in her usual ballsy way, then adds in a smaller voice, ‘Do you think that was good?’

‘Um,’ I say. That really doesn’t sound good at all. ‘Well, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to make him feel, um, like he’s worth you changing your life for a bit…’

‘I have changed my life for him. I’m in bed on a Sunday at practically midday when I should be at work.’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ I say flatly. ‘It’s Sunday. You should be in bed with your boyfriend.’

‘Mmm…’ she says. ‘We have a really big thing on this week and I have so much to do, though…’

‘Well, if it’s really important, I’m sure he’ll understand…’ I say.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘We’re going to talk over breakfast today. I thought guys hated talking about this stuff, Christ, we seem to do it a lot…Anyway. Love you, darling. You OK?’

‘Yeah, aces. Love you too,’ I say. Nice to have the ‘I love yous’ after yesterday’s kitchen-slanging-match.

The next few hours pass in a happy, lazy haze. It’s raining outside, and I have absolutely no desire to go out. So I spend a delicious day with just myself for company. I don’t think I’ve ever done this before: even when I was single in the past, I’d meet my friends for a late lunch or afternoon drinks (usually
somewhere lots of single men would be), or watch DVDs at someone’s house, or you know, something.

Instead, I clean my room and do so many loads of washing that I find clothes at the bottom of the laundry basket that I realise have been there since I broke up with Rick. I read the weekend newspaper magazines and
Vanity Fair
in the bath for about an hour till my periodic refills of hot water run out. I finally open my bank statements (It’s so easy! And no nasty surprises; my abacus isn’t that far off) and start a new filing system—OK, start my first ever filing system. I research the best savings account to start putting money into (looks like they’re all pretty bad). I play both my OK Go albums, back to back, very loudly, and sing along. I eat Tunnock’s Tea Cakes in bed, looking at the ceiling, and think happily that isn’t it lucky that (a) I have extremely nice feet and (b) it’s nearly warm enough to ride my bike to work. I write a letter to my Romanian World Vision child (who is a girl but who I thought was a boy for months as she had a pudding-bowl haircut), and long, chirpy emails to our uni friends living in Hong Kong and Sydney. I call my parents and have a lovely long chat (with no I-told-you-so from Mother about the much-edited description of the Rick incident on Friday). I lie on the floor and stretch with some yoga poses I remember from back when I tried to be a yoga person and failed miserably. I write my Asking For A Raise checklist, and decide to call Kate later to see what she thinks. I read over the little urban fairytale things I’ve been writing on and off for the past few weeks, and change little bits here and there. I like my fairytales, I think happily. Then I write about my feet. Because I really do like them too.

I don’t think about work, or Jake, or Lukas, or dating, or not dating. I just think about simple things that make me happy. At the end of the day, I am thoroughly cheerful and content from the inside out. It’s such an utterly lovely feeling. The outside-in happiness from a successful clothes-shopping trip or a really
good first kiss is, I reflect, also lovely and I’d never deny that, but this calm, inside-out cheering is just…bliss. And it’s not just from not being unhappy about men and dating, but really, deep-down, just from me.

Inside-out happiness.

How lovely.

At about 9 pm I glance at my phone and see that I received a text message half an hour before. I must have been deep in thought not to have heard it.

It’s from Mitch.

What the devil does ‘minx’ mean?

Ooh, fuck! I jump to attention. He must be with Jake. Jake must have referred to me as a minx! Is that good? I think that’s good. I reply:

It means brilliant, intelligent, hilarious, natty dresser, surprisingly good at DIY, naturally stunning, etc.

Heh.

Five minutes later I get a reply from Mitch:

I’m sticking up for you here. Some people think you’re a bit cocky.

Oooh. Jake is definitely talking about me to Mitch. He called me cocky that night at Montgomery Place. Which is probably a flirtatious way of calling me arrogant. (Moi?)

I reply, raising an eyebrow archly at my mobile phone, as if they can see me:

Thank goodness you know my true humble, charitable self and can correct their misinterpretation.

He replies:

Actually, I just told said people how much you used to blush. No one cocky could blush that often.

Damn! I feel the blood rush to my face again. Why would I blush when no one is even around, damn it? I thought I started to control that shit at university. I wonder what else Mitch is telling him. Please shut up Mitch, I think. I hope he’s not telling Jake about the Dating Sabbatical. I hope Jake’s not telling Mitch
about seeing me outside the Botanist. I wonder where they are. Perhaps I could arrange for some kind of fire alarm to go off, so they have to stop talking and leave the building.

I feel exposed. I feel anxious. I feel nauseous. (Oh, no, I’m just a bit hungry. But I do feel exposed and anxious.) What do I reply?

There’s a ball of nervous tension in my stomach, which is most unwelcome after my calm, content day of happy alone time. See? I think to myself. Even thinking about men interrupts my happiness. The wisdom of the Dating Sabbatical strikes again.

So I reply, as a way to end the conversation:

Well, you kids go have fun. See you next weekend.

Mitch replies:

With whips, chains and bells on, sweetheart.

Well, at least I know that is definitely Mitch, not Jake. It’s one of his favourite sayings.