The Dating Detox (32 page)

‘Thought as much,’ he says, gazing at it from the kitchen window and chomping a croissant like a peeled banana. ‘I’ll call Murray and he’ll have it right by the time my folks get home.’

‘Murray?’ I say.

‘Mum’s gardener,’ he replies. ‘She pretends to do it all herself, but it’s a total lie. He’ll fix it up and she’ll never even notice.’

‘I’ll help pay for it,’ I say, and everyone else pipes up that they’ll help too.

Ant slinks into the kitchen, ignoring the catcalls about him and Harriet, as there’s the thunderous sound of heavy footsteps down the stairs. The front door slams.

‘Harriet’s going home,’ Ant mumbles.

Mitch and Tara come into the kitchen, holding hands and looking smugly happy, until they discover that Jake and Perry have both left with the cars they were supposed to be going home in. Mitch calls Jake immediately.

‘What the bollocks do you think you’re doing, cuz? Leaving me stranded here in far north England…’

‘It’s fucking Oxfordshire,’ says Eddie, rolling his eyes.

Mitch is listening now. I wonder if Jake is saying anything about me. Mitch’s eyes flick up to me and then flick away.

‘Alright mate, uh, talk later.’

‘You can both get a lift with me,’ says Eddie.

Benoit wanders in and sits down silently at the kitchen table.
Odd, I would have thought he’d have left with Eugene this morning. He’s wearing very dark sunglasses and seems to have a nuclear hangover.

‘Do you want breakfast?’ I ask. ‘Le petit dejeuner? Oui?’

He moves his head towards me slowly and says ‘un café, s’il te plaît’, then slowly turns back to look at the garden.

Kate, Laura, Eddie and I spend the next hour eating and tidying. Sam is still under the table, making loud requests for more toast or coffee now and again. Benoit doesn’t speak or move. No one else asks me about Jake, so I just try to let the hangover banter distract me.

Oh for goodness’ sake, stop wondering if he’s OK.

Tory and Conor come in together, and immediately take seats at opposite ends of the table. Conor looks mildly embarrassed. Tory looks euphoric. I busy myself frying up bacon and eggs and making toast for everyone. Busybusybusy.

Spud comes in from the garden.

‘Thanks, team,’ he says. ‘I just woke up in the rhodo-fucking-dendrons.’

We all fall about laughing at this. I’m a bit worried about Bloomie, but I pop upstairs at one point to knock on her door, and all I get is a shout of ‘I’m fine! Down soon!’ so I leave it. Neil pops in to drop off the whiskey, and leaves at the same time as Tory, Conor and Spud. Then, at about midday, Bloomie and Eugene come downstairs together, hand in hand, both flushed with happiness, post-sex exhilaration, and—sorry, but it’s so obviously true—love.

I smile at them both. ‘I owe you,’ whispers Bloomie as they pass me. I guess Bloomie apologised. It turns out that Benoit refused to let Eugene drive when they woke up this morning, saying he was still drunk.

‘I said he should stay and sort it out,’ nods Benoit. Bloomie and Eugene start kissing again.

Bloomie, Kate and I decide to head home at about 2 pm and
offer Sam a lift. Eugene is driving with Benoit, as they have to stop off and see Benoit’s aunt on the way. Eugene and Bloomie spend about ten minutes kissing goodbye and saying ‘I love you…I love you…’ It’s pretty disgusting.

‘Is that the “French” kissing I keep hearing so much about?’ shouts Sam from the backseat of Kate’s car. ‘Can you please do it in slow motion so I can take notes?’

Eugene keeps kissing Bloomie, extending one arm to give Sam the finger.

‘Le oiseau,’ says Sam to Kate and I. ‘That’s the bird, ladies. Il a flippe le oiseau.’

Sam has progressed to a very loud, silly, still-a-bit-pissed type hangover. Kate’s in an equally silly mood, though hers is from first-pull-after-a-break-up elation, and they sit in the back together giggling.

‘I can’t believe you snogged that child last night,’ he says.

‘He’s all man, I’ll have you know,’ she retorts.

‘Seriously. Did he feel your breasts and say “Mummy”?’

We all shout with laughter.

‘You know, he’s only going out with you so you can teach him how to drive. And shave.’

‘I’m not going out with him,’ says Kate. ‘I snogged him in the living room for about 20 minutes and then he passed out and I slept in my bed, alone. I don’t want to date him. He’s too young and pretty.’

‘Good, you can go out with me then.’

‘But you’re too old and…not pretty.’

‘That really hurts my feelings…Want to kiss them better?’

‘Oh, would you two stop flirting,’ says Bloomie.

‘Well, she broke my heart. When she went off with that child, she broke my heart.’

The drive to London continues like this, and by the time we get to Notting Hill they’ve decided to go to the Walmer Castle to start drinking.

‘I love these lazy Fridays!’ says Sam excitedly.

‘It’s Sunday,’ says Kate seriously.

‘My sweet, sweet darling…we’re going to have to let me be the funny guy, and you can be the straight guy, OK?’

Sam then texts Mitch, who’s driving with Tara, and they agree to it too, as do Eugene, Benoit, Laura, Fraser and Eddie. Sam also says he’ll text Jake. He doesn’t say what the reply is.

‘Do you want to come to the pub, darling?’ says Bloomie as we pull up to her house.

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I have an urgent date with a hot bath and bed.’

When I’m finally home alone, the silence is ringing in my ears. My insides are aching. It’s probably just the hangover.

Oh fuck. I have lost him.

And that’s what I want. I chose myself over Jake. I chose my new life and stability over inevitable heartbreak and disappointment.

On the way upstairs, I hear soft murmurs from the living room. I walk in and see Anna curled up on the settee with a man who—I think—must be Don. He’s late 30s, got a lovely big smile, and seems to be reading her an article about Jennifer Aniston from
Look
magazine. She’s giggling and smiling from ear to ear. There’s several chocolate wrappers strewn around them. They look very cosy and happy.

‘Hello!’ I say, trying to sound as happy as I’m sure they undoubtably will.

‘Hi, honey!’ says Anna, and introduces me to Don. ‘I was hoping we’d see you!’

‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ says Don, standing up to shake my hand. ‘The famous Dating Sabbaticaller.’

‘Oh…that stupid thing,’ I say, a bit pointlessly.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ asks Don. ‘I’m just making one for Anna.’

‘Um, I’d love one,’ I say.

He hops up, tucks Anna back in with the duvet, and walks through to the kitchen, calling on his way, ‘Peppermint OK?’

‘Yep, fine,’ I say, and turn to smile at Anna. She grins and puts her finger to her lips, beckoning me to come and sit down.

‘Everything is perfect,’ she whispers. ‘He called me on Thursday and told me he had just needed a few days to sort his head out…like his own Dating Sabbatical. And that it’s me he loves, and he wants me to move in with him! I’m so happy! Don’t worry, I won’t move out for a few months yet!’

I barely have time to process all this, and make the appropriate ‘oohs’ and ‘wonderfuls’ before Don is back with our tea.

‘Something to nibble?’ he says, offering me a biscuit. ‘I am trying to feed this one up. She’s too thin.’

Anna smiles at him ecstatically. I really could not have imagined seeing her this happy.

‘I’d love to,’ I say, standing up, ‘but I had a very late one last night…I’m dying for a bath and bed…thank you for the tea. I’ll take it up with me.’

‘Anytime,’ says Don. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

I smile at them both as they rearrange themselves together on the couch, and head upstairs. As I get to my room, I look at my watch. It’s almost 6 pm. I’m exhausted. I have a very hot bath, get into bed, and start reading
Pride and Prejudice
for comfort.

It doesn’t work.

‘Damn it, Austen,’ I say aloud at one point, as I try for the ninth time to start a paragraph. I keep thinking about last night. I keep thinking about the talking and the kissing. And the dinner. And the pub. And the kissing again. And all the lovely, kind, funny things that Jake did and said.

Except, of course, when he called me a bastardo and an idiot and pathetic and a jackass. That was not lovely at all.

I pull my pillow over my head and let out a wail. It feels nice and dramatic. Then the irritating little voice inside my head starts talking.

I have damn good reasons for not seeing Jake again. Shall we go over them?

No, no. I know the drill, I do.

Good. Repeat after me.

I choose to not see Jake again.

I choose to not have my heart broken.

I choose stability over uncertainty. And safety over risk.

I choose the Dating Sabbatical. I don’t want Jake. I choose the Dating Sabbatical. I don’t want Jake.

Chanting this in my head, I fall asleep.

On Monday morning, I wake up, feel fine—in fact, pretty great since I’ve just had a marathon sleep—remember everything that happened, and feel my insides turn to stone.

I open my eyes and look around. My room is a mess. I still haven’t unpacked from the weekend yet. In more ways than one: my overnight bag is a mess of floury, rain-sodden, mud-encrusted clothes, and my head is an equally revolting mess of Jake memories and thoughts. Get out, damned Jake.

It was the right decision. It is what I want. It’s over.

I don’t even have to attempt my happy starfish stretch and yawn to know it won’t be happening today, so I just get out of bed, unpack and put some washing on, then shower (yada yada yada) and dress as quickly as I can, which isn’t that quickly.

You know what’s the cherry on this morning’s fucking cake? I’ve lost my clothes mojo completely. In the end I dress like a farmer in a checked blue shirt, high-waisted flares, brown belt, and christen it Yee-ha. I don’t think I could actually say Yee-ha aloud today if my life depended on it.

Then I grab my lucky yellow clutch (note to self: investigate alternative handbags, this fucker isn’t lucky at all) and head out the door to work.

It’s drizzling today, and colder than it should be for summer. Stupid London’s stupid weather. I stomp up to Victoria angrily, realising halfway there that I forgot my iPod. Bugger. Then Victoria
is shut because of overcrowding on the platform. As per fucking usual. Stupid Victoria line. I wait outside the gate, finally get downstairs, and discover that the Victoria line is suspended.

Of course.

I walk back up the stairs, getting bumped by every other pissed-off commuter on the way, and finally get on the 38 bus, but when we get stuck in traffic on that big road leading up to Hyde Park, I start feeling like I’m hyperventilating. Is this the universe telling me I’m heading in the wrong direction?

What a stupid thing to say.

I squeeze my way up the end of the bus and beg the driver to let me off. The hysteria in my voice must tell him I’m serious, and he decides to use the little power he has in life benevolently and flicks open the door without looking at me. Cockmonkey.

I walk the rest of the way to work frantically trying to peptalk myself into a mood of happiness and serenity. I am happy, I love being single, I love the Dating Sabbatical. It’s the reason that my life is brilliant right now, why work has been so great and I’m in control of everything. I made a choice to be single, and it was the right choice for me, and I am happy. Ergo, I will always be happy being single. Suck that self-fulfilling prophecy, Jake.

Don’t think about Jake.

I walk through scuzzy little Soho looking at everyone scurrying to work. My coffee is perfect. The rain has stopped and the clouds are trying their very best to clear the sky. I feel good. Yes, I do. I feel good from not thinking about Jake.

How, how, how am I going to not think about him today, this week, this month, forever? I’m already utterly exhausted from not thinking about him and it’s only 9.15 am.

When I get to work, I have two surprises that distract me from my crisis. The first is that Andy isn’t in, and will never be in again. He chose not to work his notice period, on the grounds that dealing with me is so far beneath him, I expect. Everyone is oddly giggly about it, especially Laura, who also gives me a
little secret shy smile when I ask her about Eddie. ‘We’re going out tonight,’ she whispers.

To distract everyone, and make Andy’s absence less felt, I decide to rearrange the office. I’m tired of being smushed over against the wall; I want to be more involved with what’s going on and create a real team atmosphere. I get everyone involved, and when Cooper gets back at lunchtime, we’re all happily sitting in our new places: we’re all a bit closer together, but no one can see over our shoulders so there’s some privacy, too. All of a sudden, I feel like we’re a real team.

And the second surprise is that Kate has been made redundant.

She emails Bloomie and I at 10.04 am.

It just happened! Redundant! So is my boss! My whole team! We’re all out! Talking terms now! Call you later!

Oh, shit. I’ve never seen her use so many exclamation marks. Sign of hysteria, definitely. Bloomie and I both email her straight back telling her to call us when she can, and then Bloomie emails me.

Well, the fit’s going to hit the shan now. I cannot imagine anyone that being made redundant suits less.

I reply:

Maybe there’s a silver lining. She could get a massive payout.

Bloomie replies:

Three months at the most.

Three months’ salary is pretty fucking awesome to most people, I think. Instead I reply:

Poor Katie…How was the Walmer?

Bloomie replies:

Pretty funny. Sam was hilarious. Everyone just pissed and silly. And The Dork and I are all better. In fact, we’re perfect. Thank you darling. You were right.

I smile. I’m so glad she’s happy.

Then I get a second email from her.

PS: I suppose now isn’t the right time to do you the return favour, and suggest you ring Jake?

Ring him and say what, I think. I can’t stop thinking about you but I still think I did the right thing? I don’t reply to her email. I get rebriefed on the boiler job that caused the ruckus with Andy, and spend the rest of the day working with Laura and Danny on that.

In the afternoon, Kate sends a text saying she’s fine, and inviting me over to her and Bloomie’s place tonight. She sounds quite calm, surprisingly. Perhaps it’s for the best. Perhaps everything is for the best.

The little clouds have completely disappeared by the time I leave work. It’s so sunny that I decide to walk to Notting Hill through Mayfair and Hyde Park. Despite my best efforts on the way, my brain—inevitably—starts thinking more about Jake and the weekend. Hell, what a mess.

I hope he got home safe. I hope he understands my reasons. It’s not him, it’s not me, it’s the Dating Sabbatical.

Why would he understand your reasons, you fool?

Self, please shut the fuck up.

I walk through Berkeley Square. The last time I was here was that night at Nobu. That was only ten days ago, but it seems like an age. Sweet ol’ Lukas, I think. He’s coming back from Germany on Thursday. I feel fine about seeing him. It was a kiss, and a mistake, but there are worse mistakes to make.

Yes, there certainly are.

Out of nowhere, Cooper’s words from that same night with the Germans pop into my head. They are played on some kind of irritating loop for several minutes.

Cooper said: ‘You’ll meet someone you prefer to everyone else in the world. If he’s being a bastardo, you’ll just…call his bluff. And he’ll call yours when you’re playing up. You’ll love it.’

I wonder if Jake called my bluff.

No, he did not. Of course he didn’t. I am right. I know I am
right. I don’t regret it. If something had happened with him, it would have ended anyway. It always does. I am completely sure of that. I’d feel unsure about him, and that would make me act insecure and be unable to relax, and he’d decide it wasn’t worth the effort and would end things anyway. Or some variation on that.

Thinking this, I walk quite happily for at least 30 seconds. I choose to be alone. I don’t want Jake.

Maybe I could write all this down and just reread it every few minutes to save time. Or tattoo it on my arm.

Snippets of our five-hour soul-baring perfect-kissing conversation keep sneaking into my head. We talked about everything, absolutely everything. And the kissing. Hell, the kissing was good.

I haven’t talked to someone like that—let alone someone new and male—in years. And unlike every other time I’ve met someone I was even slightly interested in, I didn’t spend the night just hoping he’d ask me out. I simply enjoyed talking to him…I enjoyed him being near me, and the tingles I got when I met his eyes, and the kissing and soul-baring conversations…

Thanks to the fucking alcohol! I remind myself immediately. I’d drunk enough wine—and shots—to make anyone seem funny and interesting! And don’t forget, young lady, that he woke up, assumed he already had me in the palm of his hand—because he is arrogant! And then we had a horrible fight and he called me names! The big roosterprick!

Yep, exclamation marks equal hysteria alright.

I am going to have to stop thinking about myself, immediately. Kate’s been made redundant, and there are bigger problems in the world.

When I get to Kate and Bloomie’s, they’re knee-deep in cigarettes, red wine and a bag of pistachio nuts all bought from the off-licence around the corner.

‘A £2.99 Merlot?’ I ask.

‘Desperate times, darling,’ says Bloomie, lighting a cigarette. We only smoke inside during genuine emergencies. This is definitely one of those.

Kate looks almost impossibly calm. I lean over to give her a big hug.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m great!’

She tells us all about how it happened, and that she will probably get a three-month payoff. She spent the afternoon with Immie, talking about her options. It sounds like Immie has been pressing a few psychotherapy buttons, as Kate is being more introspective than I’ve ever seen her.

‘I think it’s time for me to reassess my life,’ she says. ‘I don’t like being an accountant in a bank. I like the routine, but I don’t know if it’s good for me. I think it makes me more…controlling.’

I glance at the table in front of her and realise she’s arranged the pistachio nut shells belly up in order of size.

‘I think I’m going to try to get a contract job for a few months—I don’t care where, anywhere that will pay me enough to stay living here—and then go travelling,’ says Kate. ‘Actually, I might do a teacher training course. Or yoga teaching. Or I might become a florist. I love flowers.’

I glance at Bloomie. Kate’s calm exterior is a total front, clearly. Inside, she’s spinning with shock. Bloomie shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know what to say either’ face.

‘Well, darling, you don’t have to decide now,’ I say.

‘I know,’ Kate says cheerfully. ‘That’s the funniest thing of all. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t even have to get out of bed tomorrow.’ Suddenly Kate looks tearful. ‘I don’t know what to do with myself.’

‘This is a whole new start for you, Katiepoo,’ I say, pouring her more wine.

‘It’s not a start. It’s an ending,’ she says, wiping a tear away from her eye. ‘Another ending. First Tray, and now this.’

‘Think of it as the start of something new!’ I say, with slightly overcharged optimism. ‘The last ten years of our lives have been all about university and getting jobs and surviving our 20s…Now we’re almost 30 and it’s time to find what we really need to make us happy.’

Bloomie and Kate are both looking at me oddly. Nothing this philosophical has ever come out of my mouth before.

I realise, as I’m saying it, that I really do think that. It’s time for something new for all of us. For Kate to stop being a control freak and simply enjoy life, for Bloomie to focus on something—or rather, someone—other than her job, and for me…for me to not date men, ever again, so that the other areas of my life can work.

Sheesh, my something new sucks.

Kate drains her wine glass, which was almost full. ‘It certainly is something new for me. I don’t have a job.’ She flops down on the floor and starts laughing and chanting, ‘I have no job! I have no job!’

Bloomie and I look at each other in mild alarm. Oh well, at least she’s getting it out of her system. We light a cigarette and pour more wine.

Kate suddenly sits up. ‘Holy shit, my corporate Amex card. I’ve got enough points on it to fly just about anywhere. I have to use them before they take it away.’

‘Oh my God,’ says Bloomie. ‘You really do. They’ll never let you keep them.’

Kate stares at us. ‘Where should I go? In fact…’ She jumps up, runs to her room, and runs back with an envelope. ‘I’ve got a free companion ticket. I could go somewhere, and one of you could come with me, for free. Let’s go to Sri Lanka and lie on a beach for two weeks. No! Let’s go to Croatia and hop around bankers’ yachts.’

‘Bankers don’t have yachts anymore…And I can’t take a holiday right now,’ I say regretfully. Goddamnit, I haven’t had a holiday all year.

‘Let’s go to New York for the weekend,’ says Bloomie. I look over at her. What a wonderful idea. New York. New fucking York. It would get Jake out of my system, it would help distract Katie…it’s perfect.

‘When?’ I ask.

‘This weekend,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect timing for your birthday! We’ll go Friday lunchtime and leave Sunday night and be back for work on Monday morning!’

Oh God, my birthday. It’s on Sunday. Turning 29 is the last thing I feel like dealing with right now. I hate birthdays.

‘But there’s only one companion ticket,’ I say. ‘And I can never repay the favour.’

‘I don’t care!’ exclaims Kate. ‘Take it!’

Bloomie shakes her head. ‘I’ve got airmiles to use up, too. I can get my own free flight!’

We all start shrieking in a pathetic girly way. New York! Bars and shopping and skyscrapers and Central Park and…

‘I can’t afford a hotel,’ I say suddenly. ‘I mean really, guys, we can’t do this. I don’t have any savings and Kate has no salary. And the exchange rate isn’t what it used to be. Even I used to be able to shop up a storm in New York, but not now…’

‘I’m getting a three-month payout, I can find enough money for two nights in a hotel,’ says Kate. ‘And so can you, you’ve just had a raise. And we don’t have to shop, we can just enjoy being there, all together…Please, darling? It’s a last hurrah for us…’

Bloomie holds a finger up to silence us, and disappears into her room for a few minutes. She comes back with her laptop open.

‘My company gets special corporate rates at half the five-star hotels in New York…’ she says, typing furiously. After 30 seconds, she looks at us in triumph. ‘£84 a night. Split between three, we’ll get a roller bed in…’

We all start shrieking again, and I’ll spare you the scene.