After a class at the gym, which I tried to do two or three times a week, typically I’d come home, say a quick hello to Audrey, my seventy-seven-year-old next-door neighbour, to check she was okay, make dinner and then curl up with a good book or a film.
I loved retreating to my bedroom. When I’d finally saved up enough money to buy this place six years ago and started decorating, I’d wanted to give it a nice French country boudoir theme. It had lovely sky-blue walls, a white wooden bedframe complete with a large headboard and matching tables on either side, a baroque-style white mirror, dark wooden flooring, a mini chandelier, and lots of white and blue cushions spread across the white duvet to ensure I was nice and comfy.
When choosing what to read or watch, there were two key conditions: firstly, an element of romance, and secondly, a happy ending. Always. Not so much because I was a hopeless romantic. More because I needed to escape.
Every day, I had to spend eight and a half painful hours selling exhibition space at a job I no longer enjoyed, endure a horrible commute on two packed, sweaty, smelly tubes from my house in Tooting, South London, to Holborn in West London, plus drive myself crazy trying to figure out a) why a guy hadn’t replied to my messages or, if he had, b) what his message meant.
Romcoms allowed me to forget about reality. For a couple of hours, I wouldn’t have to think about my shitty job and disastrous love life and could just be transported to a world where the woman always finds the perfect guy. It was my way of staying positive and trying to convince myself that maybe one day, I might find my soul mate.
Silly, really. I knew happily-ever-afters only existed in the films and weren’t something that would ever happen to me. I’d have liked to be positive about it and have more faith, but I had to face facts. I just didn’t have a good track record with men.
I’d spent much of my twenties in one disappointing short relationship after another. I’d hoped it would get better in my thirties and that by then, guys would be more interested in settling down, but now that I was thirty-four, it was no different. All they wanted me for was sex.
Of course, as Stacey had alluded yesterday morning, I knew that sleeping with a guy so soon after meeting him wasn’t the best idea, so I couldn’t blame them entirely. It’s just that if we’d got to the point of having a date and were getting on well, going to bed with them seemed like the next logical step. Like the fourth course on the menu. You know: starters, dinner, dessert, then sex.
It was what I’d always done. What I thought was expected. Maybe it was because of my upbringing and my mum’s views on the subject. Who knows?
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t sleep with them completely out of obligation. I enjoyed it. The flirting and build-up during the date. The first kiss, and the suggestion that they come back to mine for ‘coffee’. The excitement and frenzied undressing when they ended up in my bedroom, getting down to business, and of course the climax. And not that I’d given them all satisfaction surveys before they left or anything, but I always seemed to receive positive feedback. They’d compliment me on my kissing skills, say that my blow jobs were ‘amazing’, and they’d always come with gusto.
Sex was one of the few things I was good at. It was the one thing I could offer that would generally keep a guy coming back at least a couple of times. Well, before they inevitably traded me in for a better model, anyway…
Actually, maybe that was the problem. Did my skills need updating? Perhaps if I learnt some new bedroom techniques, they’d like me more?
Oh God.
See! This was exactly why I needed my evening film fix. Just thinking about relationships, or rather the lack thereof, was soul destroying. It always made me feel so shitty.
Enough feeling sorry for myself. Time to get a dose of happiness.
Just as I was about to scan my Netflix list to select tonight’s film, my phone pinged, making Cuddles jump off the bed and head to the living room.
It was a message from Stacey.
* * *
Stacey
Check your bag.
* * *
Me
My bag?
* * *
Stacey
Yes! Check it!
* * *
I climbed out of bed, pulled my black leather tote out from behind the door and unzipped it. Everything looked the same as usual. Keys, make-up bag, tissues, hand sanitiser…
Wait. The front pocket looked bigger than usual, and I didn’t normally keep anything in there. I popped it open and saw a cardboard Amazon envelope. I took it out, ripped the seal and looked inside.
She didn’t!
My phone pinged again.
* * *
Stacey
Well? Did you find it?
* * *
I quickly typed out a reply.
Me
I cannot believe you bought me that stupid book!
* * *
I threw the book onto the bed, climbed back under the warm duvet, then glanced at the screen as Stacey typed out her next message.
* * *
Stacey
It’s not stupid! I knew you wouldn’t bother to read it unless I bought it for you.
* * *
She’s got that right! But I didn’t want to sound ungrateful…
* * *
Me
Thank you for being so kind, but I just don’t think it’s for me.
* * *
Stacey
How do you know if you don’t try? At least read it first and then decide.
* * *
Gosh. She was like a dog with a bone. What Stacey wasn’t taking into account was that I knew myself and I knew how guys were towards me. They didn’t see me as relationship material or someone they’d like to stick with long-term. It wouldn’t work, so why bother?
If a man couldn’t even stay with me for a few weeks when I was giving them sex, what hope did I have of getting them to hang around for six months without it? If sex was off the table, why would they wait when they could just log onto Tinder and hook up with someone else in minutes? The whole concept of this book was flawed.
I didn’t want to dampen Stacey’s enthusiasm and positivity, though. So I typed out a reply, hoping that I could be forgiven for telling a little white lie.
* * *
Me
I’ll try my best.
* * *
Stacey
Great! You won’t regret it, Alex. See you tomorrow! x
* * *
Me
See you tomorrow. x
* * *
I glanced at the bright red cover. Six Months to Love: Seven Sure-Fire Steps to Finding the One, by Laurie Love.
Seriously? Laurie Love? What a convenient surname for a dating expert. Actually, it sounded like the name of a porn star. Ha! And she was practically guaranteeing that I could find the one in seven steps? One of which I already knew included not having sex for six months, which, for reasons I’ve just explained, would just not work.
Ridiculous.
I flicked through the pages. There was an introduction, then a chapter for each of the steps, and then—oh, that is so corny! A whole section towards the end with glossy photos of impossibly happy-looking couples. Some smug wedding-day snaps, other cheesy shots of them looking all loved up, either gazing into each other’s eyes or kissing. I was sure if I looked carefully, there’d be one of two lovers skipping off into the sunset. Purlease!
And of course, all of them looked perfect. As if. She probably paid models to pose for the book, or bought a bunch of photos from a stock image site. Pff!
Does this woman think we’re stupid?
Aha, I thought as I glanced over the text on the inside back page. So she does seminars, does she? I bet this is part of her scheme targeting vulnerable single women. This Laurie Love woman gets you to read the book, and then, when it doesn’t work, she probably recommends that you sign up to attend some weekend-long presentation at a fancy hotel that costs thousands of pounds, where
she promises she’ll teach you how to find the one, except you leave significantly poorer, having learnt sweet FA.
Well, I’m not falling for it. Stacey was just lucky. Her husband was probably the only guy she met that was prepared to wait, and because she didn’t want to stay single, she just gave up and thought he’ll do. Part of me didn’t blame her. I knew better than anyone that finding someone special was hard. But why waste my time with this nonsense? Who was to say there was even someone out there for me? And even if there was, which I doubted, I wasn’t going to find him reading this. A bloody book couldn’t teach you how to find love.
I tossed it onto my bedside table. Tomorrow, I’d add it to the bottom shelf of my bookcase in the living room, which is where I stored all of my did not finish/take to the charity shop items. I had no use for it.
I knew Stacey meant well, but that was enough fruitless distractions for tonight. Time to get back to finding a film.
Right on cue, Cuddles jumped back onto the bed.
‘Hello again, sweetheart,’ I said, snuggling up to her and grabbing the remote control. ‘Now, where were we?’
Chapter Four
Today was sure to go down as the slowest, most mind-numbingly boring afternoon in history. Well, since yesterday afternoon, anyway.
As part of my role as event sales manager, I’d been trying to sell space for the last few stands at the upcoming Beauty & Wellbeing Show, but no one was biting. ‘We just don’t have the budget for exhibitions anymore, Alexandra,’ they’d say, or ‘We’ve allocated our marketing spend elsewhere this year.’
Because the company I worked for, M&E UK Media Group, produced trade magazines for the health and beauty, property and construction sectors, they relied on those publications to promote their exhibitions. Exhibition space and print advertising were the only options we offered our clients to market their businesses. But as I had tried explaining to Steve a million times, that was no longer enough. Even though the company had been around for over fifty years, in order to stay relevant, they needed to move with the times. Invest in their online presence and give clients the option of digital and social media packages. Did he listen? Of course not. Instead he just rattled off a load of clichés, telling me I needed more ‘blue-sky thinking’ and should ‘think outside the box’.
When I pointed out that expanding their online reach was thinking outside of the box, he told me I needed to ‘spend more time making phone calls and not excuses’. Ignorant fool. Sometimes I wondered if he was forty-five or eighty-five. He hadn’t got a clue, and his antiquated views were driving the company into the ground.
On the plus side, he wasn’t in this afternoon, so I didn’t have him breathing down my neck, and there were now less than twenty-five minutes left until I could officially clock off for the day.
I leant back in my chair and thought of all the things I could do to kill time.
Going to the toilet was out of the question. I’d already done that twenty minutes ago, even though I hadn’t needed to, and about half an hour before that. If I went again, then people would definitely think I had a problem.
I could go and see Shirley in accounts to check if all of my clients had settled their invoices. If I took the stairs, that would take at least ten minutes there and back. Then again, everyone knew nothing got past Shirley. If there was a problem with missed payments, she’d be the one to call us.
I’d checked Instagram, Facebook and Twitter three times this afternoon too. Karen, my long-lost best friend who’d moved to LA three months ago to pursue her dream of becoming an actress, had posted more photos of palm trees and blue skies, which I’d liked across all platforms and commented on. And there were no new messages on the dating apps, so I was all out of distractions.
Sod it. Looks like I’ll need to actually do some work. See if there’s anyone on our database that I can add to my call list for tomorrow. Chocolate will make it more bearable. I must have an emergency Snickers bar buried in my drawer somewhere…
Damn. Nothing there. Must have eaten it yesterday to get me through the second most boring afternoon in history.
Just as I gazed upwards, hoping the ceiling would open up and start raining M&Ms or transport me to a job I enjoyed, I spotted a ray of sunshine through the glass office walls.
Well, hello.
Who was that?
Standing at reception was a very tall, very fit man, dressed in a smart grey suit. His brown hair was neatly slicked back. He looked ‘expensive’. You know when a man really takes care of himself? The confident type that get manicures and facials and doesn’t give a shit whether their mates give them stick for it? Very polished. I had no idea why he was here, but he’d already made my dull afternoon significantly more exciting…
I could see Kandi, our receptionist, blushing and playing with her headset as she spoke to him. Don’t blame her. He was a sight to behold.
Holy crap! She’d opened the office door for him, and he was coming this way.
‘Stacey!’ I said, scrambling around in my drawer for my powder compact. I needed a mirror to check I didn’t have anything stuck in my teeth, just in case. ‘Stacey!’ I repeated, trying to get her attention as she stared intently at her screen. I could tell she was concentrating on something important, but it wasn’t often we got hot men dropping into our building, so I was sure, like me, she’d be grateful for the distraction.
‘Hmmm?’ she said, her eyes still fixated on whatever she was reading.
‘Hot guy alert!’ I whispered. ‘Check out the hottie headed our way!’ I shut my compact and shoved it back in the drawer.
As Stacey looked up, her eyes bulged out of her head. Clearly she was just as impressed as I was. But then she jumped out of her chair.
‘Whoa! Calm down, love!’ I said, shocked that she didn’t even try to hide the fact that she was into him. ‘I know he’s gorgeous, but at least play it a little bit cool. You are a married woman, after all!’
Completely ignoring my advice, Stacey pushed her chair out of the way to clear her path, rushed towards him sporting a smile that was bigger than the Joker’s in Batman, then walked squarely up to Mr Hot Stuff and planted a kiss firmly on his lips.
Huh?
He wrapped his arms around her waist as they kissed for a few seconds, then held hands and approached my desk.
WTF?
‘Alex, I’d like you to meet Bobby,’ she gushed. ‘My husband.’
Fuck. That’s her husband?
I knew this was bad, but I’d always assumed that he would be…well, you know? How could I put this politely? No oil painting. Stacey was amazing. Smart, funny and beautiful, but it was this whole challenge thing she’d done. I’d just thought she’d settled for someone that had trouble attracting ladies. Surely no good-looking guy, who was likely to have women throwing themselves at him left, right and centre, would wait six months for sex? Then again, I was being shallow and just making assumptions based on his looks. Maybe he had an awful personality.
No, that couldn’t be true either, as whenever Stacey spoke about him, he sounded really nice. A gentleman.
Shit. I just realised that my mouth was wide open and I was gawping. It was embarrassing enough that I had just been perving over her husband in front of her, and now I was standing here with my tongue hanging out.
‘Nice to meet you, Bobby,’ I said, pulling myself together and shaking his hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise…’ I stuttered, wishing the ground would swallow me up. ‘Stacey has never shown me any pictures of you.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me!’ he chuckled. ‘My darling wife is not one for taking photos on her phone.’
‘It’s not the same!’ said Stacey. ‘The quality on my real camera trumps anything I could ever take on my mobile. I have been meaning to print off a wedding photo for my desk, but just haven’t got round to it yet. And anyway, I get to see the real thing every day, which is much better than a billion photographs,’ she gushed again.
‘Oh, you sweethea
rt!’ he said as he kissed her on the lips once more and gazed into her eyes like she was the most perfect person that had ever graced the earth.
‘Ugh! Get a room!’ shouted Garth from the desk behind us. ‘You’re lucky Steve isn’t in today. There’s no way he’d put up with public displays of porn in the office.’
‘Oh, be quiet!’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m not sure what porn you watch, Garth, but if all they do is peck on the lips, I’d ask for my money back.’
‘Whatever,’ he hissed.
‘Maybe I should have waited in reception?’ said Bobby cautiously. ‘It’s just that I finished work early, so thought I’d surprise you and take you out for dinner. The receptionist said it would be okay to come to your desk, so…’
‘Oh, wow! Dinner!’ shrieked Stacey. ‘That’ll be lovely. Thank you!’ This time she kissed him on the cheek, probably worried that Garth would tell Steve. Knowing our idiot boss, he’d try and make kissing her husband in the office grounds for Stacey to fail her probationary period. Arsehole.
‘I’ve booked us a table at the OXO Tower,’ said Bobby. ‘I know it’s one of your favourite places, and the views of the Thames will be beautiful tonight.’
‘You’re amazing, you know that?’ replied Stacey, stroking his ridiculously smooth, clean-shaven skin.
‘Ah stop…you’re making me blush,’ he said as he now started stroking her face. ‘Nothing’s too much for my honey pie.’
Only When It's Love: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Holding Out For Mr Right Page 2
