The Dating Detox (19 page)

‘Don’t start with me,’ says Kate, turning off her hairdryer and holding up a hand. ‘I don’t like running out of things.’

‘Can I use your make-up, darling?’ I say.

‘If you do mine, you can,’ she says. Ah, the ancient ritual of grooming one’s friends. ‘Give me the full Dolly, please,’ she adds, sitting on the bed, face perfectly still and looking up to the ceiling.

I start dabbing on concealer and highlighter. ‘It could look pretty if…no. Prettier your way…’ I say. I love that quote from
Dirty Dancing.
Does the sister even know what a bitch she’s being when she says that?

Ten minutes later, we both look fresh and radiant and ready to hit Portobello.

I’m the same size shoe as Bloomie (jolly big) so throw on one of her many pairs of beaten-up Converses from the little cupboard next to the front door on our way out. Just as we’re closing the front door, I hear a yell from the direction of the bedrooms. A second later, Eugene shuffles out in socks, boxers and a work shirt.

‘
Risky Business
!’ I say.

‘Huh?’ he says. ‘Where’s Bloomie, guys?’

‘She went to work,’ says Kate. ‘She didn’t want to wake y—’

‘She went to fucking work?!’ he exclaims, then gets control of himself. ‘OK, thanks. I’ll…get going myself.’

‘OK…’ chorus Kate and I in unison.

Eugene turns away and walks back to the bedroom. I see him shake his head slightly as he closes the door.

‘The other night I heard them talking,’ says Kate as we step
onto the road. ‘He was saying something about work to live, don’t live to work…’

‘Oh, dear. That’s not good,’ I say.

‘Mmm,’ says Kate. ‘But they do seem to get on so well, you know…?’ We walk in silence for a few seconds.

‘As my dad says, no one sees the game like the players…Who won poker last night, anyway?’ I ask.

‘Eddie,’ Kate says. ‘He was in an unusually good mood.’

‘Is Maeve coming over from Geneva for his houseparty next weekend?’ I ask.

‘He said she has to work,’ shrugs Kate.

It’s so sunny and lovely this morning that I suddenly feel joyously happy, so I grab Kate’s hand and make her skip with me towards Portobello Road. No one on the street even looks at us; they’re all nonchalant, groovy Notting Hill types more interested in heading to Portobello market, home from Portobello, or just getting away from the touristy nightmare that Saturdays on Portobello have become.

‘Immie’s meeting us in the Electric,’ says Kate.

The Electric Brasserie is on my no-go list. I went there with Rick quite a lot. I suddenly realise that I don’t give a shit. If I see him, perhaps I’ll throw another drink on him. Ha. I can’t believe I saw him last night. I am such a cockmonkey sometimes. I could seriously have jeopardised my Dating Sabbatical happiness. Never again.

When we get into the Electric, Immie is already there. Tom, who has just turned one, is laughing at her from his Buggetyboo prammy thing (I forget the name but you know what I mean) (hey, I’m not a mother).

She jumps up as we come over and we all kiss hello. I love Immie. She got married three years ago, to a lovely guy called Michael. They live in Maida Vale, where apparently you have a decent chance of making new best friends every day just by taking your baby for a walk (roll?), as there are loads of other young mummies taking their babies for walks (rolls?), too.

‘How are you, sweetie?’ Immie asks, leaning over to touch Katie’s hand. She looks just like Katie, all perky brunette prettiness, only about a foot taller. ‘You sleeping OK?’

‘Well, I had company last night,’ Kate says meaningfully, arching an eyebrow.

‘You little hussy,’ says Immie, grinning excitedly. ‘Tell me everything.’

Kate looks over at me. Immie follows her glance with a confused look.

‘It was me,’ I say. ‘I’m a drunk,’ I add, by way of explanation.

Immie laughs. ‘Did Katie take advantage of you again?’

‘Yes, it was ghastly…Oh, Immie, can I please hold him?’ I love babies. (Hey. I said I’m not a mother. I didn’t say I’m not motherly.) He’s all milky and warm and soft and pudgy, with a
huge naughty gummy smile like a little elf. ‘Mmmm. Baby love.’ I look up at Immie and grin. ‘He’s perfect. My ovaries are yearning.’

She smiles. ‘Yeah, he’s pretty cool. But you know I read this thing in
Eat
,
Pray
, Love—have you read it? You totally should, it’s by Elizabeth Gilbert—that having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You have to be pretty damn sure it’s what you want, because there’s no going back.’

We all laugh. Tom squeals delightedly and piercingly into my ear, carried away with the excitement of having three women around gazing at him adoringly. Future bastardo in the making, doubtless.

My ears are ringing. ‘Ouch…I need more coffee, I think. And food.’

‘Sausage sandwich,’ says Kate.

‘I’ll have poached eggs,’ says Immie.

‘Um…just toast for me, I think,’ I say. ‘And, ooh, and bacon.’

After ordering our food and coffees (I’m tempted to order two coffees for myself, right now, just to save time), we start talking about Kate and Tray. Kate stayed with her the week between breaking up with Tray and moving in with Bloomie, so Immie is well versed in all the details, but we discuss it all anyway, and how it was the right decision.

‘I knew something was not right between you guys at Christmas,’ says Immie. ‘I knew it, but I couldn’t say anything. And Michael knew, too.’

‘Did Michael like Tray?’ asks Kate suddenly.

‘Uh, yes, of course he did,’ says Immie, about half a beat too late. ‘I mean, he didn’t really know him, Katie. He was…hard to get to know.’

‘Mmm…’ Kate says, and frowns into the distance for a few seconds. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

‘Want me to put my psychologist’s hat on?’ asks Immie. That was her job before she had Tom. She says she’ll go back to it in a
few years. Michael works in the City, doing something mysterious and deeply stressful involving words like equity and capital.

‘Not for me…Baby, please!’ says Katie, taking Tom and covering his face in kisses.

‘You can analyse me, if you want,’ I say. ‘I’m a mess right now.’

‘Faaaabulous,’ says Immie. ‘Let me just pretend to smoke as I analyse you—I always find it helps…Just like the good ol’ days…’ She purses her lips and flicks up her wrist, holding a pretend cigarette between two fingers like a
Vogue
model in the 50s.

‘Fab prop,’ I say. ‘OK, so basically…I keep making the wrong decisions about, um, guys. They ask me out, I say yes, and then we’re dating, and then I get dumped.’

‘I pointed out that she’s reactive!’ says Kate proudly.‘I thought of you when I said it, Immie. Oh Tom, stop that…’ The baby is starting to pull her hair and wail. (And voilà, my ovarian baby-yearn is gone.)

‘Just put him down if you want to, darling. He’s tired,’ says Immie, then turns to me sharply and flicks her wrist up again. ‘What kind of men have you been going for, then?’

‘Uh…The ones that ask me out?’

‘Mmmhmm…Anything else?’

‘Um, OK, well, seriously…I think I tend to go out with guys who are perfect in one way. Like they’re either funny, or smart, or kind, or get on with my friends…They never had everything and I never felt that connection with them. And they kept dumping me, every single time.’

Through all this, Immie is nodding and making ‘mmm’ sounds through her pursed lips.

‘And then there was a particularly nasty guy called Rick. I was mad about him, mad being the operative word. Though I’d say I’m definitely over him now…’

Kate grins broadly.

‘Right, right…’ says Immie thoughtfully, in a deep therapy-speak
voice. ‘Lost your head over a bastard. Well, let’s start with the need for external validation…’

I look over at her in alarm. I hope she’s not actually going to analyse me.

She winks at me. Phew, she’s not. She takes a deep breath and continues in her deep therapy voice, waving her imaginary cigarette around to emphasise her points.

‘Now, in schema-focused therapy, we learn that if one has certain core beliefs surrounding one’s worth and ability to maintain relationships, commitment-phobic scoundrels will appeal and that we should try to resist them because they are simply triggering old-but-comfy dysfunctional beliefs.’

‘Wow,’ says Kate. ‘You’re saying she likes bastards because she secretly thinks she deserves them?’

Immie pretends to ash her cigarette. ‘Let’s ask her, shall we?’

They both turn to me.

‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I deserve them, I don’t have low self-esteem…OK, I did after Rick a bit, but lately I feel kind of happy with myself again. I do think I deserve someone, um, amazing. But I don’t think I’d know how to recognise an amazing guy if I tripped over him in the street. Maybe I just like scoundrels because they’re wittier and more exciting…’

‘Yeah, there’s the rub, bastards are usually funnier than nice guys,’ Immie nods. ‘Can’t deny it.’

‘I’m not even sure they were all bastardos, you know, not all of them,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘They just didn’t want to go out with me. Should that be enough to brand a guy a bastardo for life?’

We sit in silence for a few seconds, thinking. It’s the first time that idea has ever occurred to me.

Immie clears her throat. ‘Well, maybe you should get to know them better before you date them anyway. So, bastard or not, you know there’s a something real underneath the banter.’

‘Actually, I’ve put myself on a Dating Sabbatical, Ims. No more
dates. I can’t trust myself to make the right decisions. So I’m not making any at all.’

Immie starts to laugh. ‘A Dating Sabbatical? Try having a baby, there’s a Dating Sabbatical…God, I’d love to go back to the days of dating and going out every weekend…it was so much fun, looking back. So easy.’

‘Easy!’ says Kate.

‘Yes, Katie, easy…’ Immie says. ‘Look, I’m not being a know-it-all but…you guys should just, you know, enjoy yourselves and stop worrying. Because it won’t last forever. I wish I’d enjoyed it more…I love being a mother, I do, but there’s no going back.’

‘Promise?’ I say.

She shakes her head and laughs again. Our food arrives, and we stop talking for a few minutes and focus on eating. Then Immie heads off to meet Michael and Kate announces that she wants to find a coat, so we spend a few hours wandering the stalls along Portobello. I don’t buy anything, though I am sorely tempted by an old army coat from the vintage military stall.

‘You are too old to get away with that,’ says Kate firmly.

‘But…but it’s so cool! It’s German! It’s East German!’

‘You are too old to get away with a holey, shapeless, musty-smelling vintage East German army coat.’

I pout and put the coat back, and we move on.

‘I guess you’re right. We are pretty old,’ I say thoughtfully.

‘It’s only two weeks till your birthday!’ exclaims Kate. ‘I’d forgotten. Do you want to have a party?’

‘Nooo,’ I say. ‘No. Not this year.’

We walk in silence for a few seconds.

‘How are you feeling about Tray, Katiepoo?’ I ask, to change the subject.

‘Fine, fine,’ says Kate dismissively. The privacy shutters are up. ‘Let’s not talk about him, darling. There’s no point.’

We keep walking, looking in shop windows, and get a cupcake each to munch as we walk.

‘I think my company is going to give me the sack,’ says Kate, apropos nothing.

‘I’m sure they won’t,’ I reply, though I’m sure of no such thing.

‘I wonder how much they’d pay me. I’ve been there for…six years. So that’s…’ Kate starts calculating in her head. I take a quick look at my brain-abacus. Nope, I have no idea.

‘Oh, never mind,’ she sighs. ‘It’s not worth worrying about.’

‘It’s really not,’ I agree. ‘It probably won’t happen, and focusing on potential negative outcomes never helps.’

Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘Says you. On the Dating Sabbatical. Because you focus exclusively on negative outcomes.’

I think I’ll ignore that. ‘Have you had a pay rise in the past few years?’ I ask her.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Of course I have. Once I got through my accountancy exams, and then at most performance reviews…and I get a bonus, though I didn’t last year…why?’

‘I’ve never had one,’ I say. ‘Never. I’ve been on the same salary since I left university.’

‘That’s a joke,’ says Kate. We walk in silence for a few seconds, and she adds, ‘I’m not kidding. That’s terrible. You have to do something about that.’

‘I know,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been thinking about it since the pitch. I mean, they wouldn’t have won that without me. They really wouldn’t have…I’m being paid like a graduate copywriter and treated like a senior creative.’

‘So talk to Cooper. Make a list of points that demonstrate how you’ve proved your worth, and do some research to find out how much you could be paid at other agencies,’ says Kate. She’s in her element now, listing my must-dos on her fingers. ‘Try to think of what he’ll say, and have an answer for each point. And have a number in mind. Frankly, since you’ve never had a pay rise at all, I’d ask for a lot.’

‘Alright,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask for 40%…I just have to figure out what 40% of my salary is.’ I pretend to count on my fingers and we both start giggling.

‘Let’s go home and veg out,’ says Kate, and we meander back to Chepstow Villas. I should go home to Pimlico, but it’s hard to muster the energy to get a tube or bus all the way to Pimlico and then walk all the way to my house and all the way up my stairs for no real reason. So we walk slowly back through Notting Hill to Kate’s house. It’s a typical London day in May: sunnyish, and just windy enough to be annoying.

Back at Kate and Bloomie’s, we stretch out across the couch and watch
Mad Men
on DVD with popcorn and Smarties.

‘I adore this show,’ says Kate. ‘I wish it was 1960.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘We’d be married and have drinking problems by now. And children.’

‘That would be so awesome.’

‘I know.’

I feel very relaxed, but also have the vague feeling that surely, I should have something better to do with my Saturday afternoons than watch boxsets of DVDs. That I’ve seen before. Twice.

By about 6 pm we both have the twitchy-energised feeling you get from an afternoon of doing nothing. I fix us both a coffee and take mine out to the balcony with a cigarette.

‘What shall we do now?’ calls Kate, picking popcorn crumbs off her top and eating them one by one.

‘You look like a monkey…I don’t know.’

‘The boys have been texting,’ she says.

‘I know. I bet they just send us exactly the same texts,’ I say. ‘Did you get that last one from Mitch? Read it out…’

Kate picks up her phone. ‘It says…“Chicks”,’ she reads disdainfully. ‘“Fulham. Now. Rugby party. Dress nice.”’

‘Ha, just the same as me. Did he finish “Flaunt the legs”?’

‘No, “Flaunt the boys”,’ she reads. ‘What does that mean? Flaunt what boys? I’ve been wondering…’ I raise an eyebrow at her
and smirk, and comprehension slowly dawns on her face. ‘Oh my God! He is such an arse.’

‘I know. I can’t face a rugby party, can you?’ I say.

‘My cousin is going out in Shoreditch,’ says Kate, reading a text.

‘Too many wankers,’ I say.

‘There are wankers everywhere,’ says Kate.

‘Yeah, but the ones in Shoreditch are really bad,’ I say, thinking about Arty Jonathan and his mates.

‘Fraser texted that he’s going out in Soho if we’d like to join.’

‘Soho? On a Saturday? Why would he do that?’

‘Mona Horsearse is having birthday drinks in Clapham,’ says Kate. That’s a girl from university. With an arse like a horse.

‘Clapham? Mona Horsearse? Are you on crack?’

‘I know, I know. Can we go bar-hopping around here?’

‘Oh, Katiepoo…do we have to go out?’ With my luck, we’ll run into Rick. Or worse, Jake. Since the night at Montgomery Place, I’ve avoided going out in Notting Hill in case I ran into him again. And I can’t bear the idea of seeing him after he witnessed last night’s public display of disaffection outside the Botanist.

‘You promised!’ she exclaimed.‘Please? Please. Please. PLEASE.’ She jumps off the couch, skips over to the balcony and takes a drag of my cigarette whilst batting her eyelashes at me. ‘I need to get out there. And I don’t even know what “there” is.’

‘Oh, OK…But only ’cos you slept with me last night and I’m hoping I might get into your bed again tonight. Shall I open a bottle of wine?’