The Dating Detox (9 page)

Oh dear, she’s spiralling. I know that feeling. When you can’t find anything nice to think about, so you just think about everything that’s shit in your life and get more and more depressed.

‘Katiepoo, don’t spiral,’ I say.

‘Huh?’ says Kate.

‘I thought you said you were like a prostitute? Never out of work?’

‘I’ve been trying to tell myself that, too…’ She shakes her head in despair.

‘Wow, you guys have weird conversations…Katie, you can deal with work later,’ says Bloomie decisively.‘Deal with Tray now.’

‘Yeah, well, I mean, obviously, I need to end it and move out before I waste any more time…’ She starts crying again. ‘I feel fucking trapped, guys. I can’t stay with him, but I can’t bear the idea of hurting him either. And…where will I live?’

‘You don’t have to decide today,’ I say.

‘You can live with me!’ exclaims Bloomie. ‘Sara is moving out!’

‘Really? When does she move out? I could stay with my sis for a few weeks…’ says Kate, then checks herself. ‘No, no, wait. I can’t discuss this now. I can’t make a plan for what to do after I—if I—leave him. It feels so callous.’ She blows her nose about four
times. ‘I’m not going to think about it again today. Until I decide what to do there is no point. Right. What are we doing now?’

God, she’s controlled.

‘Are you sure? Are you sure you’re OK?’ I say.

‘I’m fine!’ she says, checking her reflection in the mirror next to the table.

‘Really? Do you want to talk about this some more?’ adds Bloomie.

‘No!’ Kate says briskly. ‘That’s enough. I’m sorry for burdening you with my shit. Let’s go shopping.’

She really does seem fine now. No trace of the tears from 30 seconds ago. Bloomie gives a barely perceptible shrug. She’ll talk more when she’s ready, I guess.

The restorative power of a good shop can never be underestimated. I know that sounds shallow, but it’s true. The next few hours pass in a lovely daze of walking, shopping, coffees, cigarettes, chocolate (for energy) and the trying on of lots and lots of clothes. By about 2 pm I’ve bought a short black dress (yes, I have four of them at home, what’s your point?), a weird but lovely boiled wool blazer, a white wifebeater vest with the perfect neckline (you know how hard they are to find) and a new pair of jeans. They’re super-super-skinny, which I thought I was over. It turns out I’m not. High-fives to me, and high-fives to awesome cheap fashion. I didn’t even spend all of my budget. All the more for black cabs and vodka, I think happily, moving the money around in the spreadsheet—OK, let’s be honest, it’s an abacus—in my head.

At 2.30 pm I get another text from Rugger Robbie:

Playing hard too get?

Ugh. Delete. How can he not know the difference between ‘to’ and ‘too’?

Kate seems fine, though kind of distracted. I’d bet she wishes she hadn’t talked to us at all; I think sharing emotions makes her embarrassed. How retro.

‘You alright, darling?’ I say, as we leave H&M in Knightsbridge.

‘Fine! Fine. Honestly. Fine.’

‘Your stiff upper lip is quivering,’ I say.

Kate laughs despite herself. ‘Well, thanks for, uh, talking.’

‘Anytime, you know that.’

Bloomie clears her throat. ‘And Sara moves out in three weeks…’ Kate nods and looks away. Bloomie changes the subject. ‘Well, I’m utterly shattered, darlings. I have to work for a few hours, then have a wee powernap before tonight. One of The Dork’s French cousins is having au revoir drinks in somewhere in Notting Hill. Want to join?’

‘I’m meeting Eddie and his sisters for dinner around there. I’ll text you afterwards…Katiepoo?’

‘I might drive up and see my parents, actually,’ says Kate. ‘I need to think. Come on, let’s get the tube.’

I decide to walk home. It’s one of those breezy strange March days in London, when the sun has decided to pretend it’s in the Côte d’Azur in mid-summer. I love unexpectedly sunshiney Saturdays in London. Everyone laughs more and talks louder and smiles at strangers more than usual.

Serene contentment, consumer’s euphoria and sunshine intoxication? Hot damn, this is the best I’ve felt in months.

In the past five days, I reflect, I’ve recovered from a break-up, had a great day at work, enjoyed a party where I didn’t pull (or find my boyfriend cheating on me, for that matter) and made some outstanding wardrobe additions. Jake floats into my head, and floats out again just as easily. He’s a bit handsome. But I’m not dating. So it just doesn’t matter.

And it’s all thanks to the Sabbatical.

Maybe my flatmate Anna really should do the Sabbatical. Maybe Kate should, after breaking up with Tray, obviously. In fact, maybe everyone should. Maybe I should launch it as a club. What would a strapline for the Dating Sabbatical be, I wonder happily to myself. Opting out is the new in? There’s no sex in this city?

I put on my iPod, start walking in time to the beat (Tom Petty, ‘American Girl’) and sing along out loud all the way down
Sloane Street. (No one can hear me. People don’t walk down Sloane Street. They just jump in and out of blacked-out Rolls-Royces to Chanel and Louis Vuitton and Chloe.) I can’t wait to get to work on Monday and work on the German job, I think to myself. Then I start laughing at the idea that I am actually looking forward to work.

Still singing, I take a short cut through Belgravia (Carl Douglas,‘Kung Fu Fighting’), avoiding the Pantechnicon Rooms, a wonderful pub where I used to go with Smart Henry and can therefore no longer visit, cut over Eaton Place (Beach Boys, ‘Don’t Worry Baby’) and walk down Elizabeth Street just as my favourite song of the moment comes on: Jay-Z, ‘99 Problems’. No one’s near enough to hear me, so I start singing along and nodding my head and moving my arms like I imagine Jay-Z would. If you don’t know the song, please Google it. The first line says it all.

At the precise moment I’m singing this line rather loudly, a tall man walks out of one of the posh bakeries on Elizabeth Street.

It’s Jake.

I do a textbook double-take, stop and say ‘Oh—hi! Hey. Hi,’ take out my earphones and start to giggle nervously.

‘Jay-Z,’ he says, and smiles.

My giggles trail off in a gurgle and I nod, feeling very hot suddenly. ‘Yup.’

How smiley his eyes are. ‘Fancy running into you here,’ he says. I am having trouble looking straight at him. I decide to put my sunglasses on. Then I wonder if that is rude, so I take them off. Then I drop my iPod. Dash it, compose yourself, woman. And stand up straight. (Posture is confidence.)

‘Indeed,’ I say. I can’t think what to add, so I just close my mouth and look at him. (And silence is poise.)

‘You ran away awfully fast last night,’ he says. I really do like his eyes. And his lips. Oh, there goes my tummy again. Breakdancing around my torso.

‘Oh, you know, it was like, almost curfew, and I thought I might get grounded.’

‘Wow, over-protective parents are like totally bogus, huh?’

‘Totally.’

I smile at him. He smiles back. After a couple of seconds of this happy silence, my stomach goes all calm. That’s new.

‘I love this bakery,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s outrageously expensive, but worth it. I couldn’t actually afford the deposit for the baguettes, but I’ve promised them my first-born child, so that should keep them happy…’

‘Good thinking,’ I reply. ‘They also take souls, if you’re ever down this way again.’ I peer into the bag. ‘Four baguettes? Are you sure you can afford to carbo-load like that?’

‘I know, a minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips…I’m doing my flatmate a favour. She’s having a dinner party tonight. I’m in charge of bread and wine.’

‘Yikes. Like a priest.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re right. I am just like a priest. In so many ways.’

‘Mmm…’ I smile at him. There’s a pause, but it’s a happy pause. I love this easy, silly conversation. Fuck, I forgot about Rule 3: No obvious flirting. Has it been obvious? Oh, I can’t tell.

‘Now, I was about to skive off from my priestly activities for half an hour and have a drink at the Thomas Cubitt. There’s an outside table that is calling me to sit on it. The little tart. Can I…interest you in joining me?’

I would love to. I would love love love to. Um. He smiles down at me. I like…everything about his face.

‘Come on, Minxy. Don’t be a silly woman. All that singing and walking…you deserve a drink.’

This is true. But what about Rule 6: No accidental dating? I can’t break the Dating Sabbatical now. Not when I’m doing so well.

‘I’d love to but…I can’t. I have to…I’m having dinner with some friends tonight and I have to go home now and then I have to…do that.’

‘Ah…’ he says lightly. ‘Well, that sounds fun. Anywhere special?’

‘Um, Notting Hill somewhere. Then joining Bloomie in a bar, I think. I don’t know. I have to call Eddie.’

‘I’d better get home anyway. Claudette is vibrating with stress at a level only dogs can hear.’

I nod and start backing away. ‘OK! Have a great night!’ Whoops, too much enthusiasm.

‘You too.’ He smiles at me and I smile back and then turn around and walk away.

I hope he’s not looking at my arse.

Actually, I hope he is. And that’s not against the Rules.

When I get home, I’m so energised by the Jake banter, I decide to do something I haven’t done in ages. I get out my laptop and start writing. It’s a silly short story, an urban fable of sorts, about a frog in a forest. I don’t know what I’m doing with it or where it’s going, but I write for an hour. I don’t even re-read it—I will just delete it if I do, I know—I just write and write, and when I’m done, I save it in a folder called ‘Ideas’ that I keep for similar little bits and pieces. I see that it’s the first thing that I’ve saved in it in over a year. Since I first started dating Rick, in fact.

When I first met Eddie’s twin sisters, they were nine and I was 18. Now I’m 28 (which doesn’t feel vastly different from 19, except I’ve got a better wardrobe and I get hangovers now), and they’ve gone through all the gazillion dramas of adolescence, and are grown-ups. It’s bizarre to think about, and makes me feel quite motherly.

We’re eating in the Churchill Arms pub on Kensington Church Street, just a tiny tipsy wander from the Windsor Castle, where Posh Mark is probably drinking right this second. With fat Annabel Pashmina Face. Eurgh. London is a minefield of ex-boyfriend-places. Thank God I’m on the Sabbatical or I’d end up moving to Crouch End just to get a drink.

I’ve taken a black cab, as (justification incoming) I’m late, and frankly I suffer with the tube day in day out, and weekends should be relaxing and fun, you know, oh, and of course, I’m wearing extremely high heels so walking is simply not on the agenda. (They’re pointed black stilettos, actually, with my new super-skinny jeans, a cream silk top, an old Lanvin-via-H&M fake black pearl and ribbon necklace topped off with a black trench, and I’ve blowdried my hair all big and glossy like Kim Basinger in
Batman.
Theme: ‘Vicki Vale’.)

I skippy-bunny-hop out of the taxi and stride into the pub, which is as kooky a place as an old man’s pub can be, decorated with a gazillion chamber pots and Churchill portraits. The place
is packed, as usual, with a combination of old men, American students and youngish people like us. I almost walk right past Eddie and the twins: in the two years since I last saw Emma and Elizabeth, they’ve grown up. And out. And out again. I can barely refrain from commenting on their 32DDs, and realise that I am just a few small sashays away from turning into a mad old bat.

‘Emma! Elizabeth! Oh my goodness! Look at you!’ Yep, mad old bat. We all kiss hello and I lean over to the bar and, seeing that everyone else has a fresh drink, order a vodka for myself. Yum.

‘Alright, darling?’ grins Eddie. He looks a little watery-eyed. The coconut cocktails last night must have worked. Or maybe someone tropical punched him.

‘What the sweet hell happened to your sisters?’ I smile at them. They’re all glossy brown hair and carefully applied eyeliner, and are sipping from their wine glasses just a tiny bit self-consciously.‘I only saw you two years ago, and you’ve grown up so much…’ They look politely bored. I change tack. ‘So tell me about your trip to Spain!’

They both start talking excitedly at once, and it’s easy to chatter back. They’re nearing the end of their gap year—both spent the past six months in Austria working as ‘chalet biatches’—and are planning an extra-long summer in Spain at the family holiday house before starting university in autumn. We move on to talk about their plans for university, and then to the fantastic parties that await them there. I tell Eddie about Mitch’s spectacular performance as I was leaving last night.

‘You’re so MEAN for not inviting Mitch tonight, Tedward,’ pouts Emma. ‘He’s so fit.’

I choke on my vodka. ‘You’re just his type, darling,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you’ll see him again soon.’

We have a couple more drinks and head to the Thai restaurant out the back of the pub, where we tuck into large servings of bog-standard but, at about £6 a person, extremely wallet-friendly,
Thai food. You might be wondering—well, maybe not, but I’ll tell you anyway—whether the whole Jake thing is popping into my head during all of this, and my answer is no.

I mean, mostly no.

I mean, no.

In fact, I’m mostly not thinking about him as I refuse dessert (the super-skinny jeans don’t really allow for it). Eddie grins.

‘I thought you would let yourself go, now you’ve sworn off men,’ he says.

‘You’ve sworn? Off MEN?’ says Emma, mouth agape. ‘Why?’

‘Um…’ They’re too young to understand. They’ll think I’m crazy.

‘Was your heart broken?’ says Elizabeth sympathetically.

‘Um, no, no…’ I say, playing with my table napkin. ‘It just got really…complicated. Going out with people. With boys—guys. Men. And I don’t seem to make the right decisions, ever. So I have decided to stop making any decisions at all by not going out with anyone. That way, I can’t get it wrong.’

The girls blink at me. This seems utterly incredible to them.

‘I’d LOVE to be asked on a date,’ says Emma. ‘It must be SO exciting. All we get are snogs at fucking parties.’

‘Hey,’ says Eddie warningly. At what—the swear word? We all frown at him and keep talking.

‘Yes…dates are exciting,’ I agree. ‘But there are a lot of real fucking bastardos out there.’

‘Hey!’ he says again. We frown at him again and continue.

‘How can you tell?’ says Elizabeth.

‘Um…bastardo traits…let’s see. Well, he might be aggressive, or he might be mean, or he might be selfish. Which can show in um, lots of ways that are surprisingly hard to spot and easy to ignore. Or he might not be a real bastardo, but he might just not like you that much, and you might like him more, and he’ll dump you, and it will hurt. Or you might get involved by mistake, and he might turn out to be a bit stupid, or weird, or
cheat on you, or be really boring, but by then you’ve become attached, and so you still always, always end up getting hurt. Every time.’

I’m waving my glass around as I spout all this tipsy wisdom. They’re nodding very seriously, eyes wide open. Suddenly I feel like I’m telling five-year-olds that there’s no Father Christmas.

‘I mean, not ALL men are awful, of course…’ I say quickly. ‘There are loads of really amazing guys out there, and they want to meet someone too…because that’s the whole point of everything, isn’t it? To fall in love. And have a first kiss every day, and lie in bed being silly and giggling.’

They both nod vigorously. I’m quite taken aback with how romantic and Pollyanna-ish I am being. Do I really think that stuff? What
is
with all this dating and worrying? I feel tired just thinking about all the guys I’ve met in the past ten years. What on earth have I been doing with my fucking time? And what would it be like to lie in bed being silly and giggling with someone lovely? I suddenly realise I’ve been gazing into space, thinking these thoughts, for several seconds and look back at the girls. They’re both staring at me with their mouths open. I smile and they smile back, but they have a slightly scared look on their faces. Yet again, mad old bat.

‘Christ, I’m bored with this conversation,’ says Eddie, trying to grab the attention of one of the harried Thai waitresses. ‘Let’s get the bill and go to a bar.’

Bloomie has texted suggesting we join their drinks at Montgomery Place, a cocktail bar that’s a short walk, or an even shorter cab ride away. Obviously we get a cab.

A large group of 30-something Kensington types, French and English, are already dominating the long, narrow bar, so we order our drinks and squeeze in. The twins start being chatted up by some French guys almost immediately, and Eddie starts talking to Eugene, which gives me a few minutes to tell Bloomie all about running into Jake this afternoon.

‘NO!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s a sign!’

‘A sign? Like, gag me with a spoon,’ I say.

‘God, you’re 90s. Are you Brenda or Donna, do you think?’ she asks. ‘You’re not Anthea.’

‘Oh God, no, not Anthea. I was always totally Kelly!’ I say. ‘Until she became, like, a boring bitch, in the later years. But now I’m probably Serena, ya know? In fact, you can start calling me van der Woodsen.’

‘It’s so nice to see you back to your old self, darling,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘After Rick I was…I was really worried. And Posh Mark…you really didn’t seem terribly happy with him, either.’

‘That’s the beauty of the Dating Sabbatical!’ I crow delightedly. ‘I am back to my old self! In fact, I’m better!’

We’re interrupted by a rather handsome French guy.

‘Excuse me, Bloomie,’ he says, pronouncing her name very carefully. (I won’t bother to spell things the way he pronounces them. You know what a French accent sounds like.) ‘May I meet your friend?’

‘Of course!’ grins Bloomie, and introduces us. He’s a family friend of Eugene’s. His name is Benoit.

‘Love your pullover, Benoit,’ I say. He’s wearing a red pullover draped over his shoulders and tied in a knot across his chest, with a white shirt and ironed jeans. I believe it’s known as ironic preppy chic. But he probably doesn’t intend it ironically.

‘Oh, thank you. I like your tranch,’ he replies. (OK, I had to explain how he pronounced that one. It’s funny.) He’s wearing cute little wireframe glasses. We talk about Paris—where he’s from, though he lives in London now—for awhile, and Bloomie gets pulled away by Eugene for some apparently life-and-death question (snogging, as far as I can tell). Benoit and I chat about where we work, where we live, and then I’m almost out of small talk, when he says:

‘One of my favourite French restaurants in London is close
to your house in Pimlico. La Poule au Pot. I would love to take you there for dinner.’

‘Oh! Oh, gosh…’ This is a statement, not a question. What do I say? (Just say no.)

‘Are you free on Wednesday? I will pick you up at your house.’

Thank God. I can respond to that.

‘I’m not free on Wednesday, Benoit…That sounds very nice, but—’

‘You have a boyfriend!’ he exclaims. ‘Of course.’

‘No, no boyfriend. I am not dating at the moment…I am not, uh, going to dinner. With anyone.’

Benoit regards me impassively for two or three seconds. ‘OK.’ He shrugs, turns around and starts talking to the person behind him.

Wow. I can’t help laughing. This Dating Sabbatical is making me the most unpopular person in London. And it also seems to bring out the bastardo side of men.

‘When you’re laughing by yourself, you look completely crazy,’ says a voice behind me. I turn around quickly. It’s Jake.

‘Stalking is a federal offence, you know,’ I say.

‘This isn’t America, Minxy. We don’t have federal offences.’

He leans over and kisses me on both cheeks. It’s the first time we’ve actually touched. Warm cheeks, freshly shaven, with a lemony warm smell. Mmm, lovely crinkly eyes. But what the sweet hell is he doing here? Didn’t he say he had a dinner party? I won’t ask. Is it hot in here? I’m taking off my trenchcoat.

‘Jake, darling! What a surprise! I thought you had a dinner party!’ exclaims Bloomie, charging over and kissing him.

‘I did,’ he grins. ‘We’ve eaten, and Claudette decided she didn’t want us to mess up the flat any more than we already have, so we decided to come out for a few drinks. I live just around the corner.’

‘How was the bread?’ I ask.

‘Exquisite,’ he says. ‘Can I get you a drink? And let me introduce everyone…’

The other survivors of what sounds like a rather hellish evening are standing at the bar, looking relieved. Jake introduces the two guys, Barry and Sam, two girls, Claire and Yvonne, and the very glamorous but uptight Claudette, who seems to be barely on speaking terms with any of them.

We all start drinking and talking. His friends are funny, he’s funny, I think I’m holding my own (with the help of Bloomie, who keeps feeding me openers for my best lines, not that I’m flirting, oh no), and I’m not letting myself think about the jumpy-yearny feeling in my stomach, or the fact that I’m in a perpetual cold sweat.

Pretty quickly, the French group and Jake’s group and Eddie’s group all start mingling and talking. Then, somehow, Jake and I are left alone at the bar together and, instead of feeling nervous or fluttery or hot, everything goes tranquil and quiet and happy inside me. Just like the calmness today outside the bakery, but even more so.

‘I like the trenchcoat. You look like Kim Basinger in
Batman
,’ he says.

‘That’s exactly what I was going for,’ I say, elated.

‘How’d you recover from your Jager-binge last night?’

‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘I think I’m allergic to it, you know. It makes me drunk. It’s weird.’

‘Yeah, that is weird,’ he agrees.

We sit in silence for a few seconds, smiling at each other. Mmmm.

‘Do you like Homer Simpson?’ he asks abruptly.

I think for a moment.

‘Well…yes. I must do. I quote him, not all the time, but reasonably often. Like when I say something is make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and Eskimos. Ooh, and I have a genuinely deep and abiding fear of sock puppets. So yes, when I think about it, I really do like Homer Simpson.’

‘Ah, Minxy,’ he says, shaking his head and looking into my
eyes. I don’t know what he means by this, or why he asked me about Homer Simpson, and I don’t care. I feel so at ease with him right now that it would be the most natural thing in the world to lean forward, rest my head on his chest and close my eyes. A thought pops into my head, so clearly and loudly, that I have to check for a second that I didn’t say it aloud.
I just adore you.

‘So tell me about your dinner,’ I ask. Yes. Small talk. Small talk to break the tension.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘The most interesting conversation was about Mo-vember. Do you know it? Guys are sponsored to grow moustaches for the whole of November and the proceeds go to a prostate cancer charity…’

‘Eddie and Mitch did it last year. Disaster for both of them,’ I nod. ‘I’m hoping to get a female-equivalent charity going. I want to call it Pit-tember.’

Jake laughs quite hard at this. I like making him laugh.

‘Tell me about the last time you had your heart broken,’ he says, taking a sip of his drink.

I arch an eyebrow. He likes the random questions, this guy. The random personal questions, too. But I shouldn’t show him my soft white emotional underbelly. He only gets to see the shiny protective funny tortoise shell. That’s how flirting works. (Not that I am flirting. Am I?) ‘Uh…it wasn’t really a heartbreak, it was nothing, really…about nine months ago I was seeing a guy, and he wasn’t very nice anyway, and we were at a party, and I was a librarian, and I caught him cheating on me with a Pink Lady.’

He looks confused.

‘You know, from
Grease.
’

He still looks confused.

‘The musical.’

‘Ahhh, from
GREASE
!’ he exclaims. ‘I thought you meant the Pink Lady apples, and then…it became very…weird in my head. Of course. Why were you a librarian?’