The Dating Detox (10 page)

‘It was a “Come As Your Childhood Ambition” theme party. You know: vets, pilots, ballet dancers…I really did always want to be a librarian.’

‘You’re actually just a big dork, aren’t you?’ he says.

‘A big
sexy
dork,’ I correct him, taking a sip of my drink. ‘And that’s MISS Big Sexy Dork to you.’ (Oh, hush. I know it’s obvious flirting. It just came out.)

‘Cocky. So cocky,’ he says, shaking his head.

I’m not sure what to say to this. Cocky is certainly not how I’d describe myself.

‘See? You’re not even bothering to reply. Cocky. Fine, I’ll talk. Even though you haven’t asked me, I would have come as a dog. I thought I was a dog, actually, till I was five. I would only eat from a bowl on the floor next to our real dog, Scooby, and I wee-ed against trees whenever I could.’

‘Good boy,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘Lucky your parents didn’t have you neutered.’

‘Very lucky,’ he agrees.

There’s a slight pause and we smile at each other.

‘What is with you people and theme parties, anyway?’ he says. ‘Is it because you’ve run out of things to talk to each other about, or something?’

‘Yes, that’s entirely it. Sometimes we use cue cards for conversation topic prompts, too. It just saves so much effort.’

He grins. The last few minutes have been so warm, so easy, an odd combination of thrilling and comforting. I love this anxiety-free, satisfyingly silly conversation.

And then, like a slap, I’m hit by complete and utter fear.

It’s so obvious we’re going to kiss. Or he’s going to ask me out. Or both. And this is just the trap I don’t want to fall into. This is why I need a Dating Sabbatical and why I must strictly adhere to the Rules. He’s too funny, too confident, he’s got that sparkly charming handsome thing going on that definitely means that underneath it all is a bastardo and he’ll just
get tired of me and be mean and dump me and I have to go home.

‘I have to go home,’ I say.

He looks surprised for a second, then quickly assumes a look of nonchalance. ‘No problem, Minxy. I’ll come outside and get you a cab.’

‘No!’ I exclaim, a little too enthusiastically. ‘No, I’ll get Bloomie…I need to…to ask her something.’ I put my trench on quickly, pretending not to see him trying to help. ‘Well, I’ll see you around.’ I lean up and kiss him on both cheeks goodbye. He wasn’t ready for this, and starts slightly before composing himself.

‘Yep. See you.’

I walk away quickly, without looking back, grabbing Bloomie on the way out without pausing my stride.

‘Put me in a cab,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong, darling?’ says Bloomie. ‘You’re so pale!’

‘Jake—I can’t—the Sabbatical—but there’s something…’ I take a deep breath and shake my head. A black cab pulls up, and Mitch jumps out and envelops me in a huge hug. He’s pissed.

‘You don’t have to leave, now, darling, I’m here,’ he says. ‘The party can commence.’

I shake my head. ‘Bloomie, say goodbye to everyone for me. Bitch, stay away from Eddie’s sisters. I’ll text you when I’m home safe. Pimlico, please!’ I don’t even wait for a response from Bloomie, Mitch or the driver. I just get in the cab, slam the door, and look straight ahead as he drives off. All I can think is that I have to get away. Get far far away.

When I’m finally home, I have slight trouble putting my key in the door. There are scratch marks above and below the keyhole from the many times I’ve had similar trouble before. Which I find funny and yet pathetic.

I run up the stairs and into the kitchen, put my lucky yellow clutch down and lean over the sink.

Thoughts are tumbling through my head, one after another, so fast I can hardly even think each before the next lands. I wish I hadn’t met Jake. I wish I’d never met Rick either, or Posh Mark. I wish I hadn’t kept going on dates time after time after time in that kneejerk-reaction way. I wish the bright shiny way I used to approach everything wasn’t so dull and tarnished. I wish I didn’t have to go to work and see Andy on Monday. I wish I wasn’t so shit at everything. I wish none of this was happening. I wish I could block everything out.

Talk about spiralling. My breath is coming out in gasps, I feel all jumpy and weird and I can’t calm down. My heart is racing and I can hear the sound of nothing roaring in my ears. Is this a panic attack? Is it? Is it? Oh fuck me, is it?

Breathe. Breathe. Breeaaaaaaaaathe.

I focus on inhaling and exhaling slowly, and shut my eyes. This seems to do the trick. It’s not a panic attack. Fucking drama queen.

I fill up a pint glass with water and drink it slowly as I turn around to look at the kitchen. I’ve been living in this manky little flat for years and years, and my life hasn’t changed at all.

Everyone else’s life has moved on and up and I’m just here, treading vodka, doing the same things and making the same mistakes. Time after time after time. And you know, they’re not all mistakes really, or choices, they’re just passive reactions that keep me in this pathetic holding pattern. I can’t move forward, or sideways, or anywhere. I can’t imagine my future and I don’t even know what I would want it to be like if I could.

And you know what else? I really do think I started out normal. Then somewhere along the way I got lost. I look back on the Rick period—and afterwards—and feel desperately sorry for that girl. And I look back at the Posh Mark period and feel unsurprised that I held him at arm’s length. And let’s not even start on Jonathan and Robbie and Brodie and Henry. Each of them dumped me. And I never saw it coming. After all that, wouldn’t you feel the way
I do? I don’t know if I’m incapable of having a relationship, or if this is just really, really, really, really fucking bad luck, but I do know one thing. I’m not doing it all again. I just can’t.

I CAN’T.

I think this so loudly that I cause my fingers to involuntarily drop the glass and it shatters on the floor. How dramatic, I think, staring at it.

The Dating Sabbatical isn’t a drunken vow anymore. It’s serious. It’s the only thing that can protect me from this vicious circle of dating blunders, it’s the only thing that might help me save my sanity.

I’m going to obey all the Rules without fail. I am going to avoid going places or parties where I might see Jake. There’s something between us, and it is just confusing and would obviously be disastrous if anything ever did happen, so I should simply block him out entirely. I can’t trust myself not to fall into the same trap I always do. Instead, I will work my arse off, and nail this pitch. I will grab hold of the things I can control, figure out what I want, and make it happen.

I’m going to change my life.

I wake up at 6 am on the three-month anniversary of my Dating Sabbatical, stretch and sigh, and smile at the ceiling. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.

In fact, I think as I lace my trainers to go for my morning jog, I didn’t used to think it was possible to even be this happy. And it’s all thanks to the Dating Sabbatical.

And you know what else? My life isn’t that different: I’m in the same job and the same house and all that. But I’ve changed the way I live it. I’ve changed.

As I head out the door and start my favourite jogging route through Pimlico and over Chelsea Bridge to Battersea Park, I look up at the beautiful pinky-blue early morning sky and smile. Everything, to misquote
Sixteen Candles
, is platinum. Remember how I woke up on that first Saturday morning after Mitch’s party with that happy clearness that came, it seemed, more or less directly from not thinking about dating? Well, that was just the beginning.

Not only am I not heartbroken or obsessing over some idiot guy, but everything else is so easy. I’ve been working hard, and—bizarrely—loving it. The fortnightly meetings with the Germans have gone really well and I think we’re going to win the account. Coop is thrilled with me. Andy, the evil head designer, has more or less stayed out of my way. I’m not going out as much (partly as half the time I was only going out to
meet guys anyway, and partly because I’ve been working late quite a lot) so I’m drinking less and spending less, which makes using my brain-abacus much easier. When I do go out, I’ve had awesome nights that don’t end in pulling or tears. I’ve also spent a few really relaxing weekends at home with Mum and Dad, which is a first. I never used to go home on weekends in case I missed out on, you know, boys.

What else? Gosh, everything. I run a couple of mornings a week, as it’s easy to get up at 6 am when you haven’t had anything to drink the night before, and it’s a euphoric way to start the day. Other mornings I write for a couple of hours before work—nothing big, but little things that make me happy. I’ve read more books than I have in years, and I’ve even started to read the papers. You know, the boring, I mean the financial bits. (I often have to call Bloomie to get an explanation about something, but that’s OK. Baby steps, you know?) The Dating Sabbatical isn’t a magic recipe for success in every area of life—I tried to cook a roast one night for Bloomie, Eugene and Mitch, and the resulting charred mess led Mitch to loudly beg me to adopt a Cooking Sabbatical. But on the whole, it seems like all I had to do was obey the Rules and my life seemed to sort itself out. I’m pure, cleansed, totally detoxed from dating.

In other words, I’m a lean, mean, date-free machine.

I’d say I feel like myself again—like myself from pre-Rick and every other break-up—but really, I’m better than the old myself. I’m the best myself I’ve ever been. I fucking love it.

I can’t actually believe it took me six break-ups to think of it. I’ve been so smug about the Sabbatical, actually, and so convinced I’ve discovered the secret to a satisfying, productive, stress-free life, that a few weeks ago, I rang my mother to tell her about it. Her reaction makes me laugh even now, prompting some other joggers going past me over Chelsea Bridge to give me funny looks. I poke my tongue out at them.

‘Oh…darling,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I wondered
why you’d spent so much time with us recently. You’ve become cynical…just like that nasty redhead with the bad table manners in
Sex on the City.
’

‘
Sex AND the City
, Mother. And I have not. And I only spent two weekends with you! Like, seriously…’

‘You should be out having fun at your age! That Mark sounded so nice. If you don’t want to go with him, then why can’t you just be like me and my friends when we were young? Play the field, baby. Play. The. Field.’

‘I know it’s not really a viable long-term plan, Maman,’ I said, wondering at the same time if I really do think that, given how well it seems to be working out for me at the moment. ‘It’s just something I’m doing for now.’

‘For how long?’

‘For the moment. Can I please talk to Dad?’

My father, of course, could not be more thrilled that his only child, his little girl is not dating men.

‘I think it’s a wonderful game plan, Sassy Sausage,’ he said. ‘It gives you time to consider your options and reformulate your strategy. There’s no rush. No rush at all.’

Please don’t tell anyone he calls me Sassy Sausage.

My friends are also accustomed to the idea of the Dating Sabbatical. At Fraser’s birthday party a few weeks ago, no one even bothered to tease me. (Ant, actually, ignored me for most of the night, which was wonderful.) Bloomie, who is still dating The Dork and glowing with happiness despite work-induced exhaustion, has been telling people in her office about it, and two of her colleagues claim to have started Dating Sabbaticals (results pending). Anna, my flatmate, tried it, but then got back together with was-married-now-officially-separated Don three weeks later. (So perhaps it worked.) Mitch loudly announced his own Dating Sabbatical in a bar one night, largely as he thought it would attract women who’d see him as a challenge, but after six attempted pick-ups in a row ended with the girl walking away
as soon as he mentioned the damn thing, he pronounced it a ‘ridiculous fucking idea’ and gave it up.

Funny, as it has the opposite effect on men. And I’m not advertising the fact that I’m on a Dating Sabbatical, either, because as Rule 5 tells us, that would be seen as a challenge and just intrigue them. But I must be giving off some come-hither-fuck-off aura that men find irresistible, as I keep being asked out. It’s bizarre. When it happened three times in the first four days of the Dating Sabbatical, I put it down to coincidence. But after three months, it’s absurd.

I’ve been chatted up and asked out on each of the few nights I’ve been out (one guy followed me to the bathroom to ask for my number, for Pete’s sake), in the tube (a hotbed of sexual tension, have you ever noticed?), in my morning coffee place (which is annoying, as I’ve since seen the same dude in there twice, so I’ve started having coffee at home instead, and you know how I feel about that coffee place—that is how far I’ll go to maintain Dating Sabbatical integrity) and even in Pimlico Sainsbury’s (over the banana stand, which according to Bloomie is ‘always the way’). It’s actually kind of annoying.

And you know, I haven’t got any better looking (dash it). And I’m not any funnier than I used to be (double dash it).

So I can only conclude that the reason I’m being asked out like this is that somehow, they can tell I’m not interested, and want what they can’t have. The less I want men, the more they want me. It’s playing hard to get on a whole new level.

But God, life is so much easier than before. Being on a Dating Sabbatical isn’t just second nature now, it’s my only nature. And also, I can’t lie. I don’t want to date any of them. None of them interest me even slightly. There’s been the odd cute one—like that American, the first night, or even Lukas, the hot German at work, or smartarsey Jake—but I don’t have to think, like I used to, ‘Habla bastardo?’, as it’s a non-issue.

Sometimes I wonder if I would break the Dating Sabbatical
if I met someone I really, really liked. Then I remember that it would have ended the same anyway. It would have gone sour, he’d be mean, something bad would have happened and then I really would be one step closer to being the cynical redhead with the bad table manners on
Sex and the City.

I know what you’re about to ask. I haven’t seen Jake. I thought I saw him, once, in a restaurant when I was having a Sunday lunch with my mum and dad, but it was just the back of another tall guy with nice big shoulders. And another time, I thought I saw him at the far end of the tube carriage I was in. But he got off before I could see properly. And I don’t think he’s been around much anyway. No one has really mentioned him. And I haven’t asked.

Not that it matters anyway.

And now, it’s Wednesday, and exactly three months since Posh Mark dumped me and the Dating Sabbatical was born. It’s an important day, too. We’re meeting the German clients at 11 am for the final presentation—we’re unveiling our final choice for the name and strapline, and the logo and how we want to position them in the market. (Oops, there I go. Talking about work again.) I can’t wait.

And tonight I’m meeting Bloomie and Kate for dinner. I’ve been working so hard that I haven’t seen them properly in over a week, in fact, since the weekend before last when we had a reunion of all our university girlfriends. (Great night: we went to a club night called Guilty Pleasures where they play the best worst songs of the past 20 years; naturally the night included much drunken debauched behaviour. I was debauchery-free, by the way: I simply demonstrated my best 80s dance moves, showed off that I know all the words to Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’, rejected three would-be suitors and was tucked up alone in bed by a perfectly decent 3 am.)

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you about Kate. She left Tray, you probably won’t be particularly surprised to hear, just a few weeks
after our shopping trip. She moved in with Bloomie, and has been almost unbelievably fine about it all. (Another reason I’ve been going out a bit less, actually—there’ve been a few quiet catch-up dinners over at their place instead.) I haven’t seen Kate this happy in years. She thinks she mourned the demise of the relationship before it had stopped ticking, as she’d been crying and worrying constantly for months. She says she’s only cried once since she moved out—when she had to go back to the house they shared to pick up her things—but calmed herself by repeating ‘Just because we’re nice people doesn’t mean we have to be together. I don’t want him. This is the right decision. This had to happen.’ Talk about stable. At least, she seems stable, but then again, she’s a controlled, private sort of person. She could be a basket case and we wouldn’t have a clue about it unless she wanted us to.

I spend most of my jog thinking about the day ahead of me, get home at 7.15 am and head upstairs to shower and change. God, I love the almost-summertime of early June. It’s better than real summer, when you’re always a bit panicked about not making the most of every moment of sunshine as it’s probably going to disappear for six months at any moment.

Thinking about work pushes all sartorial planning out of my head, as it keeps doing recently, and I find myself—post the usual shampoo/scrub/shave routine—standing in front of my wardrobe, utterly unable to think of an outfit. Fucking hell, I can’t believe this keeps happening to me. Me, of all people. It’s like a Casanova becoming impotent, I muse. Right. What do I want to wear today?

Nothing distracting, nothing fussy, nothing silly. Something practical.

Wow, did I just think that? What the hell is wrong with me? Get inspired, damn it! Practicality is the enemy of all that is good and decent in the world.

Fine. Katharine Hepburn Having Lunch. A pair of navy
high-waisted wide-legged trousers and a pale buttery yellow short-sleeved sweater, tucked in. Hair back in a low chignon. Red ballet flats for a bit of pop. Make-up minimal, with some good ol’ MAC Satin Taupe eyeshadow just for shits and giggles. Eyebrows are—I smile at them and resist the urge to blow a kiss—adorably perfect. OK, now I’m ready.

I glance over at my clock radio. It’s 7.18 am, which is pretty damn early, but I’d like to get to work as soon as possible so that I can run over everything before everyone else gets in. I need to check the boardroom, double-check the presentation and go through who’s saying what. We’re having a practice run-through at 9.30 am, so there’s time to fix anything that needs fixing before the Germans arrive at 11. As well as managing the creative work, I’m pretty much running these meetings when it comes to presenting the creative side of things. Cooper said he wants to sell the agency as a place full of creative leaders, not just an ad factory that lives and dies by him. Shit! I also have to make sure that Amanda The Office Manager makes tea and coffee. I flip open the little notepad I’ve been carrying around the past few weeks and write this down, which I know is anal and Kate-esque of me, but the second time I forgot something important for work I could really have killed myself, so getting a little notepad seemed easier than you know, buying a gun. Ooh, and I’ll pick up some decent biscuits on the way, too. Leaving biscuits up to Amanda The Office Manager backfired two weeks ago, and I’m not making that mistake again. Rich fucking Tea indeed.

I look at myself in the mirror again quickly. Yep, enough preening. Let’s go.

I look around for my lucky yellow clutch. It clashes with the buttery yellow top, I fear—the clutch is a bright yellow—but I can’t not wear it today. Call me superstitious, but after a year of really not being lucky at all, this clutch is finally living up to its appellation.

As I stride out the front door—there’s nothing like striding in high-waisted trousers, have you ever noticed?—I do a skippy-bunny-hop and smile up at the sky. Wish me luck today.