The Dating Detox (7 page)

‘Hmm.’ He looks over at the chart. ‘Well, I came prepared and I am ready to conquer.’

Fuck, I shouldn’t even need my mantra, goddamnit. You are on a Dating Sabbatical, missy. And remember Rule 3: no obvious flirting.

‘What do you have?’ I ask.

‘Passionfruit. Vodka. Pineapple juice. Ginger.’

‘How intriguing. Do you have a name yet?’

‘Let’s think of one as you help me make it.’ He looks over at me and grins. Fuck, I adore a bit of charming bossiness. No, really. I do.

‘OK.’

I busy myself chopping and scooping passionfruit into the blender, and he slices the rind off the ginger. Working side by side like this, we lapse into silence for a few seconds and I desperately try to think of something offhand and witty to say. All I can think about is how close he is to me and it’s making me feel all hot and tingly and flushed. Hey—stop that. I know what you’re thinking. Of course I won’t break the Dating Sabbatical Rules for the first guy I’m really, truly, seriously attracted to (in ages, by the way, like, years). Wait, why am I trying to think of something to say? Rule 3, damnit, remember Rule 3.

‘I need something,’ he says abruptly.

‘I’m sure we’ve got it. People bring every possible ingredient…I mean, someone even brought a puppy last time.’

‘A puppy? In a cocktail?’ he exclaims, turning to look at me straight on for the first time.

I nod up at him, trying to ignore the buckling feeling in my tummy. ‘It was tragique, but tasty. The mutt-tini.’ Is that obvious flirting?

‘Mutt-tini. Nice. I was going to say cockerspanieltail, but I can see I’ll have to improve on that.’ He grins at me and the buckling
doubles. I feel like I’m sweating. Am I sweating? Suddenly, he spies Bloomie’s pestle and mortar. ‘Fucking bingo!’

He grabs it, throws the chopped ginger in and starts smushing it into a pulpy juice.

‘Honey!’ I say.

‘Yes, sweetpea?’ he shoots back.

I giggle. Foolishly. (Is that obvious flirting? No. Just politeness.) ‘No, HONEY. You need honey in this. With ginger.’

‘Gosh, you’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?’ Jake says admiringly.

I make a dumb blonde face, bat my eyelashes and chew my little finger. (OK, OK. I admit. That was verging on obviously flirtatious. I straighten out my face and try to look serious.)

‘OK, honey…ginger…passionfruit…pineapple juice. I have a feeling it’s going to be too sweet…Shall we taste it and find out?’

‘Oh no. You can’t do that,’ I say sadly. ‘No tweaking. It means people have to really think about the ingredients before they arrive.’

‘How fascist.’

I giggle again. Shit, I’m acting silly. Oh hell, the tingly tingles…Good banter, good looks…and he doesn’t seem to be angling towards asking me out. He’s flirting, but in such a delightfully playful way. It’s so annoyingly attractive.

I need someone to intervene. There must be a hint of bastardo there somewhere. I’ll locate it soon, forget about him immediately, and continue to adhere to the Rules.

‘How about lemon juice? Or lime juice?’ I suggest.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

We chop and squeeze two lemons and two limes and add the juice to the mix in the blender. He glugs in about a third of a bottle of vodka, I add the ice, he slides on the lid rather dextrously—big hands, surprisingly strong-looking fingers, badly-bitten thumbnails, what the hot damn am I doing fantasising about
being manhandled like a blender lid—and presses blend. He smiles at me and I smile back. Mmm. (Argh! Sexual frisson extraordinaire. Arrêtez.)

‘The name!’ I gasp. ‘You have to name it before the blending is done!’

‘Hot Diggity! The Hottentot! Too Hot To Handle!’ Jake shouts, then hits himself in the forehead with his free hand. ‘NO! God, that film was diabolical.’

‘What?’ I laugh helplessly at the panicked look on his face. ‘Ummm…ummm…the Gingersour? The Throatwarmer? The Linda Lovelace?’

‘Filthy stream of consciousness…’ he replies disdainfully, switching off the blender. ‘Forget all that. I hereby christen this cocktail the Minx. I think it will be sweet, refreshingly zesty and rather hot.’

I’m trying to figure out if he kind of means me, and if so what the appropriate response might be, when Mitch appears bearing a tray of used double-shot glasses behind us. ‘Alright children, let Mummy through, washing up here…Thank God I bought three hundred of these fuckers.’ He dumps them all in the soapy washing-up water. I assemble some clean dry glasses, and Jake fills them, rings the bell and raises a toast to the Minx. It’s a very good cocktail: a mix of citrusy sweetness with a warm gingeriness.

‘Mmmm. Not bad for a beginner,’ says Mitch, pouring himself a second and going through a sniff-sip-ponder wine-tasting rigmarole.‘It must be in the genes, cuz. Shame you missed Mitch’s Marvellous Medicine. It was the best so far.’

I look over at Jake and shake my head, mouthing ‘No, it wasn’t’. He grins and, as Mitch looks quickly from him to me, trying to figure out what’s going on, Jake quickly starts talking to cover it up. ‘I had some excellent help,’ he says. ‘Jesus is in my heart and helps with everything I do.’

I snort with laughter. I try to think of something witty to
say back, and realise I really am, without a doubt, obviously flirting now, that he’s flirting back, that I’m planning on how to obviously flirt more, and wondering where he lives, what he does, what his neck smells like, how long it might take him to ask me out and what I might wear on our first date. In other words, I’m hellbent on breaking the Dating Sabbatical Rules and they’ve only existed for 48 hours.

I walk over to the fridge and get three bottles of Corona out to buy myself a second to think. I am almost breaking all the Rules for a tall handsome smartarse. The kind of guy I always get caught by, the bastardo kind who makes me laugh and then breaks my heart when he decides he doesn’t want me anymore. He’s like Rick. A better-looking, taller, funnier Rick. That’s all.

Right. Time to find Bloomie and get far, far away from this temptation. I hand over the beers, take a deep breath and say ‘Must dash, boys…’ to Mitch. I try not to look at Jake, but can’t resist sneaking a glance as I walk away. He’s smirking at me. See? Smartarse.

The party is really warming up now, with people spilling out of the living room into the back garden. Someone has won battle of the iPods (Marvin Gaye). I see Fraser talking to his flatmates in the middle of the living room and decide to say hi.

‘Here she is!’ exclaims Ant as I walk up. I snogged Ant once, when I first met him, under the influence of tequila and…uh, tequila. Regretted it instantly. He would be handsome if he wasn’t so sleazy. And mildly monobrowed. He now seems rather happy with himself. ‘The girl everyone’s talking about! She’s taken a vow of spinsterhood!’

‘You’re all talking about me?’ I say. Great. Looks like I’m a laughing stock, then. ‘How dull your lives must be.’

‘A serial dater like you, renouncing all men? I’m surprised it wasn’t in the
News of the World.
’ Ant laughs like a hyena, and the other flatmates, apart from Fraser, join in.

‘When did your Dating Sabbatical start, Ant? About eight years ago?’ says Fraser. I smile at him gratefully. Now that is a riposte.

‘We were just talking about the recession,’ says one of the flatmates earnestly, a rather sweet geek called Felix who I think has a thing for me. However, he laughed along with the rest of them so I’m not going to be nice to him.

‘How fascinating,’ I reply. He looks crushed and I feel bad. I shouldn’t pick on geeks. ‘I’m a bit clueless about it, I’m afraid, Felix,’ I add.

‘It’s bloody boring stuff,’ agrees Fraser.

‘You won’t be clueless soon, when you have to pay for your own meals every night,’ says Ant. ‘No more steak dinners à deux for you.’ I hate to say it, but he has a point. Dates have been a good source of meals for the past few years. Of course I always make an effort to pay, but they never let you. Certainly not on the first date. I wonder if Jake likes steak. I could cook it for us both at home. In my kitchen. Perhaps, if we all become really poor, we’ll have to share baked beans on toast. No, scratch that. Baked beans are not a date-friendly food. I could…oh, I could make an omelette. I wonder if he likes eggs.

I’m interrupted from my—utterly ridiculous and very non-Sabbatical-compliant—reverie by Mitch, who approaches the group with his arm thrown around the neck of the white jeans girl.

‘Don’t talk to Sass, darling. She’s a MAN HATER,’ he stage-whispers. The girl giggles, hiccups, and seems to throw up slightly in her mouth.

As everyone falls about laughing, I smile/grimace at Mitch and wait to see if I’ll think of something witty to say. I don’t. I wonder if Mitch told Jake about the Sabbatical already. Oh God, I shouldn’t care. Suddenly I feel very tired. I decide to avoid all men for the rest of the night, and walk over to talk to Tory, a girl Eddie worked with years ago. She’s nice enough, but she talks about sex almost constantly. It’s kind of weird. I think he invites her to parties because she’s guaranteed to score with someone. She’s party insurance. (Is that mean of me? Oh well.)

‘So, no dating for you, Sassy, yeh?’ she grins, after a bit of basic chitchat. ‘I heard all about it. I’m going to do it too!’

‘Really?’ I say. I hate being called Sassy. ‘Er, wow. That’s great.’

‘Yeh. Just sex, you know? The whole emotions-and-talking thing is just…such a waste of time,’ she says, taking a long swig of her drink and casing the room.

I nod, and excuse myself to go to find Bloomie. I manage to stop at only two groups as I walk around the party, and have a
moderately entertaining banter with them. However, my paranoia is now switched on and I’m convinced everyone is laughing at me. I can’t see Jake anywhere. Not that I’m looking for him, I meant because I’m trying to avoid him. I finally find Bloomie in the backyard with Kate—who I didn’t think was coming, so it’s a rather nice surprise—and Eugene.

‘Hello, princesses,’ I say, kissing Kate and Eugene. He’s not really a dork, obviously. He’s in his early 30s, works in finance with Bloomie—they met in a conference call, of all the romantic stories—and is half-French, though he grew up mostly in London and has no trace of an accent. He still has that skinny, sexy, floppy-haired French guy thing going on. He can wear big square scarves knotted around his neck and still look pretty hot, which is an incredible feat when you think about it.

‘What’s news here then? Everyone in the rest of the party is talking about me, apparently.’

Kate nods. ‘You or the economy. And you’re more fun.’

I sigh. ‘Sheesh. How you doin’, Eugene?’

‘Smashing,’ he grins, and looks at Bloomie. She giggles and grins back. What the sweet hell is that about? Other people’s relationships are mystifying.

‘Where’s Tray?’ I say, as though I suddenly noticed his absence and was upset by it.

‘Oh, he’s at home,’ says Kate, looking over to the house as if it was unexpectedly fascinating. ‘He’s…working. Do you have a cigarette, Sass?’

I glance over to exchange a quick look with Bloomie, but she’s still gazing at Eugene. Kate’s staring into space. I wonder what Jake is doing, and involuntarily look at the kitchen window. I only see Ant emptying a bottle of Diet Coke and a bottle of rum into the blender and pressing blend. Dickhead. I get out three cigarettes and light all of them, in my mouth, at once, then hand one each to Kate and Bloomie. An old trick from university. It’s so not cool that it’s almost cool.

‘Wow, you guys…you’re like the Pink Ladies,’ says Eugene.

Oh, for God’s sake. ‘Wrong thing to say, darling…’ says Bloomie, laughing. He looks perplexed. ‘I’ll explain later…’ she adds, and they smile at each other happily. I wait for them to talk more, but they seem to be communicating through the medium of loving gazes.

‘Young love, huh, Katie?’ I say, turning away from the happy couple.

‘Mmmm,’ Kate says absently.

Gosh, what a bunch of funsters.

Bloomie’s BlackBerry rings, and the expression on her face changes from happy to stern so fast it’s like she’s swapping those comic/tragic drama masks. She hands Eugene her drink without speaking, answers it and barks ‘Susan Bloomingdale…’ as she walks away.

‘It’s 11 pm on a Friday!’ says Eugene, half to himself.

‘It’s probably the States,’ I say. ‘She works with the San Fran office a lot, right? Don’t you do the same sort of job, anyway?’

He shrugs in his nonchalant Gallic way, and looks quizzically at us. Well, at me. Kate seems to have checked out for the time being, and is here in body only. ‘I’m an analyst,’ he says. ‘And I’m not obsessed with it.’

‘Neither is Bloomie,’ I say loyally, and slightly untruthfully. ‘She kind of gives everything 100%, that’s all.’

Eugene nods.‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the kitchen to get a drink. Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m all good,’ I say, glancing over at Kate, who’s still mute. ‘She’s all good, too.’

I stand in silence for about 30 seconds, waiting for Kate to speak.

‘Kate,’ I say, taking a drag on my cigarette. She doesn’t respond. ‘Kate, I’m pregnant.’

She’s in a trance. I sigh and look around the back garden. Everyone else is talking loudly or drinking messily. The noise
levels of the party seem to have doubled. The Killers are playing very loudly and I hear a whoop from the living room that probably means Mitch is doing The Worm across the carpet. The first houseparty of my Dating Sabbatical is suddenly turned up to eleven, and I’m completely unsure what to do with myself. I’m not even sure if I’m having fun anymore. Everything was fine till I met Jake.

‘Hello, trouble,’ says a voice behind me. I turn around. Oh, my God.

It’s Rugger Robbie. My ex-boyfriend. Break-Up No.2. Fucking hell, I haven’t seen him in years. I thought he moved to Brisbane to be with the girl he met in Thailand. The girl he left me for.

‘Robbie!’ I smile, kissing him hello. I can’t pretend to be upset about it all, five years later. Especially when I’m not.

‘You look fantastic!’ Rugger Robbie says, looking me up and down very obviously. ‘How are you?’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m great.’ He doesn’t look fantastic, so I can’t say it back. The fit rugby body has become a fat rugby body, and his face looks like someone has pumped it full of air from the cheekbones down.

‘So, Sass, what are you up to these days?’ he asks jovially, staring at my boobs. It’s most off-putting. ‘Still living in London?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Are you back here on holiday?’

‘From where—Brisvegas?’ he asks. God, people who say Brisvegas are irritating. ‘Nah, I came home about six months ago.’

‘Is Kerry with you?’ I ask politely. That was her name.

‘Oh, no,’ he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine. ‘We broke up. I’m living with Riggsy and Martin again, just off Fulham Palace Road. It’s just like old times!’

‘How fun,’ I smile. I wonder if he’s still pissing on curtains. ‘Well, nice to see you, I’d better see if Mitch needs any help with, uh, something.’ I glance at Kate, who still seems to be in some kind of waking coma. What the fuck is wrong with her?

‘Hey, uh, can I get your number?’ Rugger Robbie asks. ‘I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime. We should catch up.’

‘Should we?’ I snap, and then catch myself and smile sweetly at him. ‘Afraid I can’t, Robbie. Take care though. Come on, Katie.’ Before either of them can reply, I grab her hand and we stride towards the house purposefully.

‘Whoa, Thelma and Louise!’ exclaims a guy standing outside the door. He’s wearing a T-shirt with an absolutely huge Abercrombie & Fitch logo. ‘Serious faces, laydeeeez! It’s a party! Aren’t you having fun?’

We stop and look at him.

‘Make me laugh, then,’ I say.

‘Uh…’ he says, looking for inspiration to his friend next to him.

‘Too late,’ I say and we walk through.

‘Wow, that was a bit harsh,’ says Kate.

‘I’m just not in the mood right now,’ I say, leading Kate up to a small cabinet in the hallway. ‘It’s been a very, very long week, and I deserve a party, and I don’t think I’m going to be in the mood to party till…’—I lean down, slide open the door and pull out half a bottle of Jagermeister—‘I’m Jagerunk.’

Kate’s eyes light up. ‘That’s been there since the last party?!’ she exclaims. ‘Brilliant!’

We walk into the kitchen, grab a few clean double-shot glasses, and start pouring out Jagermeister. It’s pretty heaving with people, and in the corner I can see Fraser enthusiastically snogging Eddie’s henna-ed workmate Tory. It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it? He’s really putting his shoulders into it and everything. Ew.

Two guys are standing next to the fridge looking at us.

‘You know,’ says one very loudly, turning to the other, ‘my life really HASN’T changed that much since winning the lottery.’

I turn around and look at him and start cackling with laughter. ‘Dude…that’s the best line I’ve ever heard,’ is all I can manage
to say, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘For that, you have to do a shot.’

‘No problem!’ he grins. He’s kind of shiny, with lots of moles on his face. He and his friend step up to the kitchen counter next to Kate and I, and we all do a shot simultaneously.

‘Oh, that was probably a bad idea,’ sighs Kate.

Bloomie and Eugene appear, holding hands.

‘No more work calls all night! Ooh, shots? Without me? What do you think you’re playing at?’ asks Bloomie.

‘You’re up,’ I say, and in another minute, we’ve all done another.

‘Now, THAT one was a bad idea,’ I say to Kate.

Mitch lands with a massive thump at our feet after doing a triple roly-poly across the living room and into the kitchen, and pretends to do the breaststroke across the kitchen floor on his tummy. He looks up at Bloomie and I and smiles. ‘Gekko and Special Needs. My two favourite girls…That was the Triple Axel Extreme Roly-Poly…I always nail it.’

‘Bitch is into extreme sports,’ explains Bloomie to Eugene.

‘Why aren’t I one of your favourite girls?’ says Kate in an injured tone.

‘The Extreme Roly-Poly is nothing compared to the Extreme WORM!’ shouts Mitch from the floor.

‘So, do you come here often?’ I turn back around. It’s mole-faced lottery winner guy. From a great line to a shit line in sixty seconds.

I look him straight in the eye, and say in a tone that means ‘fuck off’: ‘No.’ He exchanges a glance with his friend and they walk away.

Bloomie picks up the bottle of Jager. ‘Another!’

Rugger Robbie charges into the kitchen.‘Hi, gang! Shots? YES!’ He comes over, putting a sweaty hand around my waist.

‘I’m out,’ I say, moving away from the group so Rugger Robbie’s hand falls away. My throat, stomach and indeed head all feel rather warm. Bloomie pours herself, Rugger Robbie, Eugene and Kate a shot, then leans over and pours another
shot in Mitch’s mouth. He gurgles appreciatively. Robbie offers me the dregs of his shot. I shake my head and try not to make eye contact.

Harry bounds into the kitchen. ‘My turn for cocktails! I’m making a Sticky Surprise.’

I exchange glances with Bloomie, and we head to the living room, followed by Eugene and Kate. The Irish guys have cleared all the furniture to one side, and are holding a rhythmic gymnastics competition cheered on by the whole crowd. At the moment, one guy is doing an absolutely beautiful routine with an invisible ribbon. He dips and jumps, swirls and turns, and it’s breathtaking, till Mitch runs in from the kitchen and rugby-tackles him to the side of the room.

The Jager has just hit my central nervous system, which is not an unpleasant feeling. Someone turns the music up, and Bloomie and Eugene climb onto a coffee table and start dancing. Kate takes out her phone, reads a text and heads towards the garden with a stressed look on her face. Hmm, something going on there.

Then I look up to see that Jake has just walked in from the garden and is looking at me. We make eye contact. I look away quickly.

Ignore him. No, that’s rude. Say hi. No, ignore him.

I look back at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and acknowledge him with a quick nod. He nods back. It’s so swift that it makes me smile.

As he starts to walk over to me, I evaluate my Jagerunkness. It’s certainly given me a kick, but that’s why I did them. I can handle it. Don’t I have a mantra for potentially indimitating situations? I mean…portently intimidating situations? I mean…what?