The Dating Detox (35 page)

‘You know what’s funny?’ I say thoughtfully, nibbling at the icing. ‘I’ve seen all of them in the past three months. All the ex-boyfriends. And none of them were really bastardo cockmonkeys. They were just figuring themselves out.’

‘Except for Rick,’ says Bloomie, biting her cupcake like an apple.

‘Except him,’ I agree. ‘And Jonathan, really, he is a cockmonkey too. But none of the others were worth crying over. They just weren’t right for me.’

‘They really weren’t,’ agrees Kate, using a knife and fork to eat her cupcake.

‘And I don’t feel angry at myself for dating them anymore, either,’ I say. ‘They were simply part of what had to happen to get me to the Dating Sabbatical and all the good things that have come from it.’

‘Why are you so fucking philosophical lately?’ demands Bloomie.

I think for a minute. ‘Because I’m happy with my life, I guess.’ Except for the Jake thing, I add silently.

‘Are you going to try to get in touch with Jake?’ asks Kate gently, reading my mind.

‘The Sabbatical is officially over,’ chimes in Bloomie.

‘No,’ I say honestly. ‘I’m scared.’

Bloomie and Kate look at each other and start laughing. ‘If there’s one thing you’re not, ever, anymore, it’s scared,’ says Kate finally.

We sit and eat in silence for a few more minutes.

Bloomie looks at her watch. ‘Shit, it’s nearly time for the last surprise I booked…A woman in my office works here half the month and swears by a hair salon near the hotel…I’ve booked us all for a blowout at 4 pm.’

It’s the perfect end to the afternoon. We get to relax in peaceful silence without wasting a second of our time in New York. After all, we could not get a proper New York blowout anywhere else
but here. Obviously. Half an hour later, we’re all sitting in a row in the salon, wet hair hanging around our faces, looking up hopefully at the stylists behind us.

‘So, straight but with body at the roots? Glossy?’ they ask.

‘Yes,’ we say.

The hairdryers are switched on, and Bloomie and Kate pick up
Us Weekly
and
People
magazines and start reading. I look straight ahead at myself in the mirror and sigh. The confrontation euphoria has disappeared. I’m alone with my thoughts.

What am I going to do?

Usually, I can’t bear to look at myself in hairdressing mirrors, as the lighting is awful. Today I face myself and start talking.

What’s wrong with you?

What?

Everything you said to Jake was wrong.

So?

You just don’t want to think about it. You were wrong. He was right. You were a bastardo cockmonkey. He wasn’t. And you don’t want the Dating Sabbatical anymore. You want him.

Shut up. I’m scared. I’ve been dumped six times in a row. I’m battle-scarred. I can’t trust men.

I am so sick of hearing about those battle scars. You admit none of them were worth the agony. It’s not men you can’t trust. It’s you.

What?

It’s YOU that you don’t trust. Don’t be scared. Take a risk. Trust yourself. That’s all you have to do.

Holy. Fuck.

I feel like a thousand lightbulbs have switched on in my head. Is that all that ending the Dating Sabbatical comes down to? Trusting myself?

It is, I realise. It really is. Because I didn’t trust myself before. I’d let myself down too many times, with the wrong decisions and the wrong men…But that’s all changed. I trust myself to
do anything I want to do. All I have to do is decide I want it, and I can make it happen.

I trust myself to find Jake and tell him how I feel about him.

And I need to do it right now.

I turn to Bloomie and Kate. Our heads are all being pushed and pulled by our stylists and huge hairdryers are blasting noisily in our ears. Kate’s reading a magazine and biting her cuticles, and Bloomie, judging from the faraway smile and furiously texting fingers, is getting a little textual healing from Eugene.

‘I NEED TO FIND JAKE!’ I shout above the racket of hairdryers and music.

‘WHAT?’ shouts Bloomie. Kate is still reading, completely oblivious.

‘I NEED TO FIND HIM AND TELL HIM I WAS WRONG!’ I shout. My stylist looks at me quizzically.

‘WHAT?’ she shouts again. Kate looks around the salon, frowning vaguely.

‘I NEED TO FIND JAKE AND TELL HIM I LOVE HIM!’ I scream as loud as I can, at the exact second that all of our stylists turn off the hairdryers. Whoa, I love him? Where did that come from?

Bloomie and Kate, the stylists, and all the other women lined up at the mirrors are staring at me in shock. Even the receptionist is looking over. There’s total silence. My screaming voice is ringing in my ears. (And probably everyone else’s.)

‘I’m going to text Mitch and get his number,’ I say quietly.

I get my phone out and text Mitch immediately. It’s late Saturday night back in London, but he’ll be up. I think about explaining, then realise he doesn’t need, or probably want, any details:

Dude. Can you please forward me your cousin’s mobile no?

I stare at the phone for a few seconds. No reply. I look over at Bloomie and Kate anxiously. They’re still staring at me as the
stylists flip and flop their hair around. My stylist is flipping and flopping my hair very gingerly, as though I might bite him at any second.

‘Done!’ he exclaims brightly. ‘Beautiful! Amazing!’ he adds quickly and scurries away.

I look in the mirror. I am not exaggerating: my hair has never looked this good in my whole entire life. I look over at Kate and Bloomie. They look incredible, too. Suddenly, all of us have full-bodied, perfectly shiny hair. We’re glossy.

We stand up to go. I’m in a daze, staring obsessively at my phone every few minutes. Nothing. Nothing. What the hell? Mitch is a phone addict. He always has the damn thing on, always, he even puts it on the table when we’re in a restaurant.

We pay, leaving tips for the stylists—I leave mine extra for the emotional trauma I must have caused him by screaming under the hairdryer—and jump in a cab.

‘What the fuck was that about?’ exclaims Bloomie, the moment Kate closes the cab door.

‘I trust myself!’ I say.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I need to find Jake and tell him how I feel about him. It’s the only way to make up for being a fucking bastardo and prove that I trust him and that I trust myself and the Dating Sabbatical is over!’ I gabble.

Bloomie and Kate look at each other. ‘You’re hysterical,’ says Kate.

‘No, I’m not, I’m fine for the first time in weeks!’ I exclaim.

‘Calm, darling. Breathe,’ says Bloomie.

I turn to look at them both, take a deep breath, and talk as slowly as I can. ‘I know I made a mistake. I know he’s the guy I want to be with. And I can have everything, I can have my new happiness and Jake, I just have to trust myself to make it happen and I will.’

‘OK…’ says Kate.

‘I was a fucking bastardo to him. What if he’s here getting back with his ex-girlfriend right now because I was a cockmonkey? Every second counts!’

‘Well…shit,’ says Bloomie. ‘Let’s find Jake, then.’

We get back to the hotel and race through the ground-floor lobby to the lifts. ‘I’m going to find him tonight and tell him how I feel,’ I say confidently. ‘Even if he was with another girl last night. Even if he’s not in New York anymore. I’m going to do it. Where the fuck is fucking Mitch?’

‘I’ll text him,’ says Bloomie. ‘Maybe yours didn’t get through.’

‘I’ll text Sam!’ says Kate.

‘Why do you have Sam’s number?’ say Bloomie and I in unison, after a second’s pause.

Kate grins. ‘He asked me for it last Sunday at the Walmer Castle. We’ve been texting and…we’re going out next week.’

‘Oh my God,’ I exclaim. ‘That’s so great!’

‘That’s fantastic!’ says Bloomie.

She grins. ‘Yeah, well, it’s nothing, it’s just dinner. I like him.’

The lift stops at our floor and we race to our door.

‘Why are we running?’ I say.

‘I don’t know,’ says Bloomie. ‘It seems like an emergency.’

I’m in love with someone I told to fuck off six days ago. And now I have to get him back.

It is an emergency.

We get into the room, hearts pounding from the unnecessary running, and look at each other. There’s really nothing we can do except wait for Mitch or Sam to text back with Jake’s number. There was no reason to run.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asks Kate.

‘All I’ve done is talk about it for days,’ I say. ‘To myself, at least. I’m sick of talking about it. I just want to fix it.’

‘High-five to that,’ says Bloomie cheerfully. ‘I’m breaking out the minibar.’

An hour—and several mini bottles of vodka—later, we’re slowly getting ready for the evening ahead. The boys haven’t texted yet, infuriatingly. We’ve all showered (it’s the first time in my life I’ve seen the point of a shower cap. When your hair looks this good, you want to nurture and protect it, like a baby) and are halfway through make-upping, and anxiously checking our phones every few minutes.

‘It’s almost midnight in London!’ I exclaim. ‘Where the fuck is Mitch? He’s clearly in a bar somewhere with no phone reception, the fucking drunk.’

‘That’s it,’ says Bloomie. ‘I’m calling him.’

She rings, but it goes straight to voicemail.

‘ARGHH!’ she screams, and then looks up at me with a smile. ‘This is fun.’

‘We could get the concierge to call other Manhattan hotels asking for a Jake Ryan,’ says Kate helpfully.

‘There are hundreds of hotels in New York,’ says Bloomie.

‘What if he’s staying with his ex-girlfriend and that was her last night?’ gasps Kate, then claps her hand to her mouth at saying something so unsupportive.

I look at her and reach for a mini bottle of Wild Turkey. I need a little kick to help me deal with this much tension.

We’ve all agreed that the best thing for us tonight is some potent drinks. Kate booked a chic little restaurant in Nolita called Public, but Bloomie suggests a place in Gramercy called ¡Vamos¡ for the excellent reason that it has margaritas. I think Kate was hoping for a slightly more sophisticated evening, but she says she appreciates the importance of tequila-based cocktails at a time like this.

‘You’ll love it,’ Bloomie says cheerfully.‘It’s good, dirty fun. Eugene recommended it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to call him…’

She steps outside into the corridor, so she can mew sweet nothings to him in private.

‘What are you wearing?’ says Kate, looking into her suitcase anxiously. Hers is still perfectly packed. Bloomie and I have basically thrown all of our clothes around the room. Some landed on hangers. Most did not.

‘Um…’ I say. I’m wrapped in a towel, and have just finished my make-up. ‘Something short and slutty, I guess. Are we going to meet Rob later for his friend’s party?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Kate. ‘I want to meet American men. I hear the dating scene here is brutal and I am ready. ’She pauses. ‘Unless you’d rather, I don’t know, comb Manhattan for Jake?’

‘I’ll get his number and find him, or I won’t,’ I say calmly. ‘Either way, we
will
have fun. And that means you meeting American men.’

Kate whoops and opens a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Unexpectedly, Kate ends up in my short and slutty black mini dress. I’m in a classy knee-length, vaguely Grecian gold one-shouldered dress of Bloomie’s. Bloomie is in a demure white shift dress of Kate’s but she’s much taller and with high red shoes, it somehow looks kind of sexy on her. It’s so warm tonight that we won’t need jackets.

‘I’m not sure what to christen this…’ I muse.

‘Huh?’ says Kate.

Bloomie looks me up and down. ‘Lovely. You don’t need to christen it anything. You can borrow my Loobs, too.’

‘OK,’ I say. I’m in floppy-dolly mode suddenly. I’ll do anything I’m told. (Being told to wear skyscraper gold Christian Louboutins isn’t that bad, obviously.) God, I really have decided I’m in love with someone I told to fuck off six days ago. And now I have to get him back, possibly wrestling him away from another woman in the process. My stomach contracts in a ball of terror.

‘Shut up,’ I tell it. ‘You’re just going to have to ride this one out with me. I am in control and I know what’s best.’

My stomach immediately relaxes.

That’s better.

Bloomie hands me her four-inch-high gold Christian Louboutins. They’re—there is no other way to say it—fucking gorgeous.They’re matchy-matchy with the gold dress, but I don’t care.

‘And for fuck’s sake, don’t wear that yellow clutch.’

‘But it’s lucky!’ I protest half-heartedly.

‘It’s clearly fucking not, darling,’ she replies. ‘Katie, did you bring your red evening bag?’

Kate snaps to attention. ‘Yes! I did! The tiny black clutch? Do you need it? Here you go! Don’t forget to pack passports, girls! They won’t let you drink in bars without one!’

I transfer everything from my (un)lucky yellow clutch into Kate’s tiny black clutch. ‘I feel like you,’ she comments, looking in the mirror at herself in my little black dress and black shoeboots.

‘Fabulous, you mean?’ I ask, squishing in lip gloss, credit cards,
passport, cash, room key, cigarettes and chewing gum. The only thing I leave out of the clutch is the old, tattered piece of paper with the Dating Sabbatical Rules on; the ones Bloomie and I made up on that drunken night at Sophie’s Steakhouse all those months ago. I won’t be needing them tonight, I think. I rip the paper in two, then fold the halves together and rip again, and then one more time for luck. Goodbye, Dating Sabbatical, I think. I don’t need you anymore.

Kate and Bloomie are staring at me curiously. I shrug. ‘Everyone ready?’ I ask, glancing at my phone. Where is Mitch’s text with Jake’s number, goddamnit?

‘We could call Eddie,’ says Kate helpfully. ‘He might know where Mitch is. Then we could track him down and get the number.’

I look at my phone again. ‘No. I can wait. I’ll do something next week when he’s back from New York.’ I’m not sure what. But I’ll figure it out.

‘If he’s coming back,’ comments Kate thoughtfully.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Um…nothing,’ she says. ‘It was just something Sam said last weekend…I wasn’t going to bother to tell you…Sam said Jake was thinking about leaving London. I didn’t even think about it, but now that I do, I wonder if he meant for New York.’

‘Shit!’ I say. ‘What if he’s already decided and he’s here looking at places to live and that’s why he’s thinking about getting back with his ex?’

We all look at each other, aghast.

‘Don’t overthink it. Let’s go and get a margarita,’ says Bloomie.

We get to ¡Vamos¡ and get a little table to the three of us, near a large and extremely noisy group of New Yorkers our age who seem to have been here for several hours. We quickly take advantage of the last 15 minutes of happy hour and order two-for-one margaritas: The Classico for Bloomie, Lemon Basil for Kate and Frozen for me.

‘Fuck me,’ gasps Bloomie after she takes her first sip.

‘Fuck me,’ echo Kate and I as we take ours.

‘I can actually feel it careering through the meridian lines of my body,’ adds Kate. ‘Like heroin.’

How does she know what heroin feels like?

Halfway through my drink, I relax and look around. The large group is ordering more drinks. One guy is shouting ‘I cannot have another frozen one. I have an ice cream headache. Don’t you people care?’ He’s the Mitch of the group, I decide. Up the end are three girls snickering together about a private joke. That’s me, Bloomie and Kate. And down the other end of the table is a tall, good-looking guy who seems to be eyeing up one of the Bloomie, Kate or me girls. That is Jake. Or maybe it’s Rick. It’s hard to tell.

I sigh deeply, and take another slug of my frozen margarita.

Bloomie looks up. ‘Darling, for God’s sake. You’re in New York. Cheer up.’

‘I am cheered up!’ I say, stirring my margarita thoughtfully. ‘I’m just pensive.’

‘About Jake?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘About me. I thought being dumped six times in a row made me hate dating and you know, the whole thing. But that wasn’t it. I lost trust in myself. Somewhere among every smashed hope and fucked-up choice, I lost the only thing I needed to be really happy: trust in myself.’

Bloomie and Kate start applauding.

‘Good speech!’ says Bloomie. ‘I love new philosophical you!’

‘Oh shut up,’ I say, laughing.

‘I thought the Dating Sabbatical was just about not being dumped,’ says Kate.

‘Well, it was. I didn’t want to be dumped, in fact I didn’t want to try anything in case I failed, because I always, always failed…and then, on the Sabbatical, the reverse happened. Everything I tried, I succeeded at. You just have to decide what you want in life, and trust that you can make it happen.’

‘I completely agree,’ says Bloomie. ‘Create a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

I smile to myself. That’s what Jake would say.

‘OK!’ I hold my hands up. ‘That’s enough navel-gazing…thank you for this trip, you guys. Here’s to you.’

We clink and drink.

‘And here’s to the end of the Dating Sabbatical,’ I add.

We clink and drink again.

‘Here’s to me being made redundant,’ says Kate. ‘If I hadn’t been, we would never be here.’

We clink and drink yet again.

‘Here’s to me showing Eugene he’s more important to me than work,’ adds Bloomie.

We clink and drink.

‘Here’s to Tray. May he find happiness and love,’ says Kate. That was nice of her.

‘Here’s to Arty Jonathan. May he remain poor and unsuccessful,’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

‘Here’s to Facebook guy. May he forget his login details,’ says Bloomie.

‘Here’s to Rugger Robbie. May he never sleep-piss again,’ I say.

‘Here’s to The Hairy Back. May he discover the joys of waxing,’ says Bloomie.

‘Here’s to Clapham Brodie. May he come out of the closet earlier next time,’ I say.

‘Here’s to Fuckface. May he…stop being a fuckface,’ says Bloomie. She shrugs, and whispers, ‘I can’t remember why we broke up.’

‘Here’s to Smart Henry. May he find deep joy in being truly shallow,’ I say.

‘Here’s to the Missing Link. May he evolve,’ says Kate.

‘And here’s to dear Posh Mark. May he find everlasting happiness with Belly,’ I say.

‘Here’s to Rick,’ starts Kate gaily, and then we all pause. There
is nothing good to say about Rick. ‘May he rot in hell?’ she says tentatively, and we all start laughing.

Then I raise a tiny silent private toast. To Jake. May you forgive me for being a cockmonkey bastardo.

Another half a jug of margarita later, and the world seems a much happier place. Love lovely New York. Love Kate and Bloomie. Love fajitas and fish tacos and quesadillas, even though I genuinely don’t know which is which when they’re placed in front of us. In the middle of ordering our next round of drinks—we decide to make it easy for them, and go for a pitcher of frozen margarita—I get a text from Rob.

Hey kitty! Party at tenjune! Text me when you’re here!

I read it out loud to the girls.

‘
Kitty
?’ says Bloomie.

‘Tenjune is a nightclub,’ says Kate. ‘It’s near the hotel.’

‘Are you sure the Meatpacking District won’t be like Covent Garden on a Saturday night?’ I ask.

‘Leave your London snobberies at home,’ says Kate. I text him back that we’ll be there by 10 pm.

‘Ooh, Katie, tell us about Sam,’ I say to her. ‘Come on. Don’t be shy.’

‘Well…you weren’t at the Walmer last Sunday,’ says Kate. ‘It all got a bit silly and drunken and I told them about the pretend speedskating. And so then Sam had a speedskating competition with Mitch. And before the competition, he said to me, if I win this competition, you have to give me your number and go out on a date with me.’

‘No!’

‘Yes! And then he won! So obviously I, um, had to give him my number.’

Bloomie and I crack up.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ says Kate. ‘I do know it wasn’t a real competition, you guys. I do know that. But I thought he should be rewarded for trying and…and for ingenuity.’

‘So true,’ smiles Bloomie. ‘That was such a fun day…I miss Eugene.’ She pouts slightly.

‘Aw…darling. Next time we come, let’s bring him too,’ I suggest.

‘Great idea,’ she grins. ‘Actually,’ she clears her throat. ‘Kate, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before but I couldn’t tell one of you without the other and, um, well…I’m moving in with him.’

Kate and I both squeal in delight and immediately stifle our squeals (so not cool) and start whispering excited congratulations. It turns out Eugene asked her to move in with him last Sunday after the night at the Walmer, and they’ve been discussing it all week.

‘I decided yes,’ she says. ‘I love him with all my heart. Almost losing him last weekend…was the worst thing that ever happened to me.’

‘Daring, I’m so happy for you,’ I say.

‘Me too,’ says Kate, though I can see she’s also thinking about something else.

‘Don’t worry about the flat, Katie, or about a new flatmate or anything,’ says Bloomie quickly. ‘Take as much time as you want to figure out what you’re doing next and we can take it from there.’

Kate immediately looks relieved. ‘Actually, I have figured out what’s next, I was just waiting for the right time to tell you guys about it,’ says Kate. ‘I’m going to go back to university and get a Masters in fine arts and museum management. And then I’m going to try to work in fundraising or financial management or something, for an art gallery or a museum…I don’t know. I haven’t planned that far.’

‘Oh, my God,’ says Bloomie. ‘What a brilliant idea.’

‘That’s perfect for you,’ I agree.

‘I know!’ she says happily. ‘Anyway, I’ve worked it all out, and I can just afford to keep living at Bloomie’s place, just. And I’d hate to move out. I’m so happy living there. I’ve saved some
money, and I may have to get a part-time job, and it’ll be a tough year, but that’s OK,’ she shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’m so glad you want to stay!’ exclaims Bloomie. Suddenly she and Kate both turn to look at me.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Isn’t it obvious? Will you move in with me? Please?!’ says Kate.

I’m surprised. I’ve been living with Anna for years. It’s cheap, and convenient—and it’s time for a change.