There’s something ‘bread and butter’ about Ed. He earns a good packet, but to him, materialism is frivolity. I’m forever being slated about the amount of clothes I buy. Occasionally, he’ll splash out on something big, like his precious SLK. God knows what that is, I only know one car from the next by what colour it is. Ed’s collectables are his family and friends. Traditionally, he’s the sort of chap who’d settle down with the first girl he really likes, and he would have a more successful marriage than the rest of us lumped together. But fate had a different role for him – Lady London wasn’t about to let him get away that easy.
‘Ed’s right,’ Raj confirms. ‘And now, for the first time, we are all single together’.
I hadn’t thought about it like that. I wanted to feel like something good might come out of this rotten day, and I couldn’t help but smile as Raj said this. It has to be a good thing, being single together. It should herald the beginning of a new age. God knows, I needed to believe it.
Women form the centre of most men’s lives. I know they do mine. We are on a perpetual quest to find a mate, from our early adolescence to the day we get hitched, sometimes even beyond then. For you and me, it’s a journey, a voyage of discovery. It’s not easy understanding these creatures of riddles, although we all try. Our free time is spent on the hunt, be it partying at the weekends or while holidaying in the Balearics. The sole aim is to find a woman.
‘For the first time in our lives we will be actually dating,’ Raj points out.
Raj is right, I’ve never actually dated before. It sounds silly, at my age, not to have dated. I met my first girlfriend at school. And I was introduced to Jessica by a friend at university. It was all pretty organic. But I had never actively gone out with the single purpose of chatting up girls in the hope that one might lead to a first date, and from there to subsequent dates and finally ending up with a new girlfriend. I was shit scared.
‘We’ll be dating woman who are looking for the same thing as us,’ Raj continued, ‘London women; smart, attractive, successful, and… independent.’
‘What about love?’ Ed asks.
Raj looks at Ed and frowns, he almost rebukes him. ‘Well, that can come later. We don’t all need to be in search of love right now. London is to be enjoyed, love is for after London.’
I think back to when I was younger. ‘Guys I’m so out of practice, it was easy before, now how am I ever going to convince one of these professional-type women to go out with me.’
When you’re in your teens, relationships are terribly serious, innocent affairs. They have a thoroughly attractive, simplistic air about them. You know you love the other person, you spend every day in and out of each other’s pockets. I know I loved my first girlfriend very much and she still means a lot to me, even though we were never right for one another. The weekends would be spent together, as part of a big group of friends, drinking crap super-strength cider around camp fires on the beach and philosophising on life. The summers were long, the winters were cosy. You think that this state of bliss is never going to end. Then one day you go off to university, and it does. For no other reason than you grow up and the inevitable happens – you become totally different people.
University had been a blast, it was a three year social event with a £10,000 cover charge. Many of my friends who met at college did go on to marry one another but most of us just wanted to party, after all a relationship only overcomplicated an easy life. You realise now how love was free flowing and easy going back then. And yes, to a certain extent, sex plays a big part of student life. Halls of residence with thin walls and roomies at it like Duracell bunnies. Drunken nights that led to you pulling some swamp donkey in a dingy club as you dance away to Chesney Hawkes. But let’s not pretend that was dating.
In the back of our minds, we knew for the most part that we were destined for London. Bright lights, big city, bounty of women. We used to think that London would be our time; a cosmopolitan city full of gorgeous girls from around the globe.
‘He’s right,’ says Ed, ‘women don’t need us, apart from sex, they don’t need a man anymore.’
‘Even that can be bought in various sizes from Ann Summers,’ Raj chips in. ‘We have time enough to settle down, everyone in this town is working hard and outside of work hours they just want to have a good time. It’s as simple as that.’
As adolescent guys we had seen older family friends and male relatives make the journey to London. We saw them lead the man-about-town life and we wanted to buy into that lifestyle. We also heard our friends’ older sisters brag of their decadent lives – it was right out of the Marquis de Sade. It was everywhere you turned, our generation were liberated and we wanted to be on the receiving end of it. After all, what is the point of slogging your guts out in the office if you can’t enjoy the fruits of your labour? Buying the sportscar, having the swish pad, going to the great clubs, romancing the pretty girls. Being the would-be playboy is every young guy’s dream. For a man, his mid-twenties is one of the pinnacles of his life, independence with means and, in our case, in one of the world’s most exciting cities. And now we could enjoy this together, as young single men.
‘Guys this is our time. We’re in a liberated London, with independent women.’
‘What’s your point Raj?’ I don’t get it, I still feel like I’ll be forever in love-Siberia. This isn’t the time to be thinking about approaching random women in bars.
‘London women have everything they want. They’re like us; ambitious, carefree and independent. We’re different to other generations, they’re be looking for the same things in a relationship as us. It’ll be somewhere between a one-night stand and a serious monogamous relationship.’
‘Really?’ Will it be that simple?’ I wasn’t convinced.
‘It’s dating on our terms, on mutual terms,’ Ed sums up.
Was Ed right? I had never given it a moment’s thought before. Why should I; I had lived within the security blanket of a loving relationship, albeit the love felt like it was flowing in one direction only. I had never before given a thought to the city’s thriving singleton community.
‘Of course Ed’s right,’ Raj booms.
Raj is certain about everything, there’s never a grey area. He’s as charming as Ed but they’re as different as you can get. Raj charms through his sheer cheek and humour. You simply can’t help but like the guy, even with his Huggy Bear wardrobe.
Raj’s parents had moved over to England from Kashmir in the 60s. They can’t be faulted for the way in which they have brought up their family. They have nurtured a respectful family, and Raj is typical of a first generation Brit – culturally aware, progressive in his thinking, but Mummy Khan still retains the power to put the kibosh on any of his major decisions, particularly those involving potential daughters-in-law – ‘Yasmin, what are you talking about, have you seen the size of her mother, what about Reena?’
There’s no doubt in my mind, that one day, he will be a successful and wealthy entrepreneur. At the moment he is excelling in his job as an advertising agent at Saatchi’s. Champagne binges and vacuous models, that’s an average day for Raj. He plays along with it, for the sake of his career, but it’s not really his scene. He is a threat to no one and gets on with people of all walks and all ages. Everybody wants to know Raj.
He was the only one of us to have had a serious relationship during our university days. But after an amicable separation and with oodles of cash Raj was already looking forward to investing some considerable wedge in the London Muffdaq.
‘Yeah you’re right. There’s nothing for me to be worried about.’
I guess that the idea of dating for the first time in three years would have most people reaching for their poison of choice. It had been years since I had had to approach a girl and sell myself – in the marketing way, I mean.
‘Sure, we can understand that,’ Raj carries on, ‘but you gotta pick yourself up, brush yourself down and give it a go.’ I suppose he has a po
int.
‘I think that what Raj is trying to say,’ Ed wades in, Raj rolls his eyes, ‘is that there’s nothing to fear. We’re in London now. Everyone’s an equal. You only have to watch TV shows, read magazines or modern literature.’
‘He means chicklit, like Bridget Jones or the Sex in the City girls,’ Raj pipes up helpfully, as if I didn’t understand.
‘Yes, yes, I know that.’
‘You’re a newly single guy,’ he ignores me and carries on, ‘some women out there will be looking for a PH.’ Ed and I look blank. ‘A Potential Husband,’ Raj sighs like a primary school teacher at the end of their patience. ‘But the majority of women in this city don’t have the time or the inclination. We get in the way of their busy lives, like they do in ours. That’s just how London is. There will be plenty of girls out there looking for a very casual relationship, even no strings attached sex, if that’s what you’re up for.’
He has a point. It is what we are led to believe. Kate Moss, Bridget, Carrie, Samantha. These are the types of women that guys of our generation see as the role models for the women of our generation. What reason did we have to disbelieve this image of the newly reborn swinging London. Where sex has become something to be enjoyed for its own sake. Where men can use women and women can use men. And what about that promise of the playboy lifestyle?
We are the freshers in this hedonistic European capital, envied by all countries of the world; even the Americans are rediscovering its awesome electrifying presence. Wasn’t it Samuel Johnson who said that once you were tired of London you were tired of life itself?
Raj was right, this couldn’t be a more exciting time to be single. There is no need to fear the dating world, of becoming a citizen of Singleton. We are all constantly teetering on the edge of an abyss and each time you meet someone you like, you have to make that leap of faith. What the hell else can you do, never date again? I suppose the main difference back then was that we were more positive, less cynical, excited and naive. A terrible combination.
3
The prick teaser
I was blissfully unaware of my own naivety when, for the first time in my life as an adult, I re-entered the dating scene. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have turned on my heels and run for the nearest monastery. Raj and Ed and me. Three single guys in London. Three silly buggers – ready to go over the top.
A couple of weeks have passed since I severed myself from the person whom I thought was my soulmate. I have been lost during the evenings. To stop myself moping about I have been out on the beers with the guys most nights. At no point have I questioned my decision, but it still feels like a part of me is missing.
A few weeks ago I moved into my new apartment in Angel, near Islington. It’s convenient because it’s slap bang in the centre of the City. On my walk into work I get to savour all those great things that make London the city it is; red double-deckers, fresh coffee from the Italian deli under my flat, cheap posters advertising bands you’ve never heard of slapped over the entire façade of dilapidated shops, and small grocers selling vegetables from around the world, the names of which you can’t pronounce (the shops or the produce).
It’s a Saturday morning, I have just been out to secure my daily intake of coffee from said Italian bistro. They always see me looking in a state. Thankfully, this morning, I don’t have the remnants of a spicy Americano pizza in my hair, which on a good day looks slightly unkempt. I pay a fortune for that look; a slightly ruffled, chopped brown mess. My hairdresser assures me it looks great, everyone else seems to think I’ve just been dragged through the proverbial hawthorn backwards. Are there hawthorns in London? Ed actually winced when I first told him that I paid forty-five quid for the pleasure.
Today it looks particularly untidy. Frankly, I couldn’t be arsed. I usually go through this ritual every morning, ruffling with the help of a large blob of moulding mud. This morning I am the survivor of a particularly messy evening the night before. It was my flat-warming. I gathered as many of my friends as I could muster at the last minute. Ed and Raj were there, of course. It was my first party without Jessica. It seemed strange, people were asking after her, and hadn’t realised that we weren’t together any more. They all said it was for the best, once I had put them on the right track. I’m not sure if they meant it, or if they were just trying to make me feel better. Isn’t it funny how people always want to know who finished it?
One of the people who made it to the party was Pippa. I knew her from university as well, although she had been on a different course. She had packed in her office job to promote nightclubs in the West End. She’s a great girl, a social butterfly of the wildest colours. This girl organises the best parties, and most importantly they are wall to wall with prime totty. She was thrilled to find out I was single again. Not like that. I could never sleep with Pippa, it wouldn’t seem normal. She is a very attractive girl, but I have known her far too long. It would be like sleeping with your sister. Any opportunity she gets she loves to play matchmaker. Last night she told me about a party she is throwing next weekend to launch a new nightclub. Apparently there will be photos in some society magazine the following week (the type that no one buys), there will be cocktails and nibbles, and one of those annoying goodie bags at the end of the night for those that stay to the bitter end – the type that looks like an expensive carrier bag from a boutique but which contains only useless trinkets produced by famous brands. A Gucci lollipop or a Mont Blanc tin opener.
‘Don’t worry Max, there will be lots of lovely single girls, all around our age and professionals,’ she smiles mischievously, ‘attractive, intelligent and you’ll have your pick, I’ll see to that darling. Besides have I ever let you down before?’
So this will be my first chance to have a bite at the adult dating cherry. And she’s right, she has a flawless track record in this department. Pippa has organised some awesome parties in the past and she had always come up trumps with the goods. Only then I had been attached. It had always been a case of look but don’t touch. But now, as Stiffler would say, “the lock is off the cock, man.”
I had told the boys about it immediately. We all agreed that this would be a perfect opportunity to score.
Ed can hardly contain his excitement, ‘Guys, picking up at this kind of party is always easier than in a club because you have an implied authentication stamped on your forehead, you’re a friend of my friend, you must be ok.’
‘Poor girls, they won’t know what’s hit them. I can smell it already,’ Raj says.
‘Smell what?’ I enquire.
‘Ass!’ Raj explains, as if the answer was obvious all along.
‘You really are an idiot sometimes,’ Ed laughs.
If these girls are anything like Pippa, this is going to be a belter of a party. Why should I have any reason to think that things would be different now. Oh, how naive I am.
The party has a masquerade theme and is taking place in a vaulted cellar off Sloane Square. Whilst Raj had been at work for the launch of some expensive French fragrance or other, Ed and I have spent the day searching for a mask that I could wear. In true Ed fashion he already had his mask organised. Of course, he had. Naturally, Ed owns a genuine Venetian mask, decorated in gold leaf that his parents had brought back from Venice, as a souvenir.
‘What did you say it was called again?’ I ask looking at the birdlike mask with its colossal ‘beak’.
‘Il Dottore.’
‘Jesus, it’s got a bloody big nose, is that to overcompensate for something else?’
He ignores me.
I couldn’t find anything as impressive. Most of the things we came across were covered in feathers and were pink, not quite the image I had in mind. Eventually we found a plain white mask in a toy shop in Covent Garden. Perfect. It was a Friday the 13th type thing that covers the whole of the face. I hit upon the ingenious idea of painting the mask, so I grabbed a children’s pack of poster paints as well. Later that day I painted it in blues and reds to r
esemble a Maori tribal mask. Not only did it look a semi-professional effort, I thought it would give off a good vibe to the girls; original, manly and yet creative. With the rest of me top to toe in black, I now look like a cross between the Milk Tray man and a serial killer.
We arrive at the club, brimming with high expectations. My hair has reassumed its carefully ruffled appearance. I have to admit that Ed’s mask does look like the dogs you-know-whats. Ed’s large frame suits the cloak that he has opted to wear with his black trousers and shirt. He’s gone the whole hog with the Venetian theme. With his hair slicked down though, I can’t help but think he reminds me of the Phantom of the Opera.
We are the first there. Trying to act chilled, we prop ourselves up at the bar and start on the G&Ts. After all we’ll need to loosen up a little by the time the droves of stunners arrive. If the women are as good as Pippa has made out, we’ll have to be talking the talk with the best of them. God, I haven’t done this in so long. I am seriously out of practice, I haven’t actually chatted a girl up in years, literally.
There’s some movement by the entrance to the bar. It looks like a couple of girls have arrived; no man would be wearing a mask like that. Or rather no straight man would be wearing a mask like that – not even Raj.
‘Darling, I’m so glad you’ve come.’
It’s Pippa. She is looking as lovely as always, tonight in a black cocktail dress and resplendent in an ostrich feather bower. Like Ed, she has opted for an authentic Venetian mask, rather than the Bob Ross paint-by-numbers job. Ed tells me that her mask is known as a Principessa, apparently because it is inspired by Cinderella.
Single White Failure Page 2
