Is this for real? This is a bit out of left field. What stage are we at? We’re at the stage where I’m still remembering her first name, that and making a note not to fart in her presence. We’ve only just met for God’s sake. We’ve had a few glasses of wine and spent two hours in each other’s company. I’ll grant you, things went exceptionally well. But we’ve still only known each other for two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. This is not crunch point after months of dating, the point where we decide whether we’re going steady. I read the message for a third time. I laugh. It turns from a normal laugh, to one of disbelief, into a slightly psychotic one. My right eye begins to twitch, like Herbert Lom’s when Inspector Clouseau accidentally kicks him in the nuts. I thought she was so, normal.
I should have left it there and never written back, but I can’t help myself. I don’t want it to be true. Surely Amber’s not a BB as well. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the meaning has been lost in writing the text, perhaps her predictive text messed it up. God I’m starting to become like a girl, making excuses to account for the awful and obvious truth. Perhaps she works for the government and a rogue agent has intercepted her text messages, ruining her love life to get back at her for some deed done in the field. Bollocks, she’s stark raving mad and insecure, just like all the other’s I’ve dated before her.
I write back regardless;
Of course I’m single, otherwise I wouldn’t date u – don’t know y it would be an obvious or not obvious question – confused. What stage are we at – well we just met, we r getting 2 know each other. But I am looking forward 2 c u tomorrow night 4 dinner.
There was a ‘x’ at the end of that text too, for extra enthusiasm and comfort. Within seconds this arrives at my phone;
M, I’m not feeling interest from u. I don’t want 2 just wait & see w/o any idea what is going on. Makes me very uncomfortable not knowing where our relationship is going. It’s too ambiguous & bears a risk I am unwilling 2 take w/o reassurance from u.
What fucking relationship? I’m growing hysterical. I start to shout at my mobile, as if it can understand. Why did she have to ruin it? I plead with my mobile, looking for sympathy. Why did she have to ruin it and be like all the others? My tears of anguish, frustration and incomprehension are lost on the phone. Fuck, I have to see a shrink. At least Tom Hanks had an excuse for talking to that football with the smiley face. What was he called? Mr Wilson, that’s right.
‘Dude, that’s mental. What stage are we at? Relationship?’ Raj proved to be of greater comfort than my trusty mobile.
We have congregated at my flat after work for a beer and a rather formidable jalfrezi, from the Risaldar General down the road. Ed has joined us, himself fresh from a failed date with one of the girls from his gym.
‘Where did you say you met this girl?’ Ed chipped in.
Oh great, that’s the question I was hoping they wouldn’t ask.
‘Dating World,’ I disclose reluctantly. ‘It’s an online dating service,’ I feel the need to expand on the self-explanatory name.
Raj has clutched his stomach in what, at first, seems like pain induced by gorging on his peshwari naan, but it is clear to see that it is hilarity. ‘That’s fucking desperate!’ He claps his hand on my shoulder, he is filled to the brim with mirth.
‘Hey,’ I shout, ‘if you don’t pack it in I’ll go get an ear bud and we can relive your trip to the clinic.’
‘Alright, chill, no need to hit where it hurts, literally.’
15
Spent
But that night, I learned some girls try too hard
Some girls try too hard to impress with the way that they dress
With those things on their chests and the things they suggest to me
Now, I’d rather go dateless than stay here and hate this
Her volume of makeup, her fake tits were tasteless
So I said I’d call her, but never would bother
Until I got turned down by another girl at a party
The Blink 182 song rings out as we sit in Bar Local in Clapham. The irony seeps through my skin as I listen to the lyrics. We relax in our own company. The beers are going down smoothly. There are several attractive girls amidst small groups of revellers, warming up before venturing on for a night of cheese at somewhere like Infernos. They are the kind of girls that we would ordinarily go over and chat with, but we have lost all enthusiasm. Blink aren’t helping.
I’m staring at one girl in particular, she’s seated at the table across from us, with her back to the window. She has blonde hair tied back, and green eyes that display an eagerness as she chatters. Thoughts begin to run through my mind as I look at this attractive 20-something, although I’m not really focusing on her any more.
‘Guys, our position is futile. That’s the only thing that I have learnt from this past year.’ The stream of consciousness pours out of my mouth. ‘We have been deceived. We have been forced to accept the new woman in society, to respect the professional woman and all that she has achieved, to accept the fact that there is no difference between the lifestyles of the sexes and their respective ambitions.’
‘The cool, relaxed, independent and SINGLE woman does not exist,’ Ed adds.
‘No they’re all SINBADs,’ says Raj, as if it’s obvious.
‘Arabian pirates?’ says Ed.
‘No,’ he says, as if we’re being stupid, ‘S.I.N.B.A.D. – Single Income, No Boyfriend, Absolutely Desperate.’
There’s a moment of quiet as we mull it all over. Raj breaks our silent pondering.
‘I want a refund,’ he says.
Of course, there are some eligible, wonderful women out there, should you want to enter into a serious relationship. But for those of us who want something between friendship and serious commitment there’s nothing, zip, nada. Capisce? And yet this is supposed to be the norm in the fast-moving world of the City. Where is this self-confident professional woman who barely has time for a man in her life, the woman with the ‘go get ’em’ attitude. I have never met one let alone gone on a date with one.
Before I arrived in London, I had been led to believe that, put simply, there are three phases in the dating game that lead to marriage. The first are the young, naïve relationships that you have at school and college during your teenage years, which, thanks to the hormones pumping through your veins, are generally fuelled by an unquenchable thirst for sex. Driving around in your car, making out at college parties, getting to first base for a slice of warm apple pie and the most perfect of unions lasting an average of two weeks.
The last is the serious relationship, probably in the twilight of your twenties and in the dawn of your thirties, which progresses to cohabiting and finally marriage. You’ll know when you reach this stage because, if nothing else, you’ll find yourself spending long weekends away at golfing hotels in Harrogate with your other ‘couple friends.’
I am in the interim phase; looking for a little more than the high school romance and something short of the commitment that requires a trip to Hatton Gardens.
‘Perhaps the adage that the perfect relationship is either three weeks or a lifetime is true,’ Ed pipes up after a couple more minutes of us pensively sipping our Coronas.
There certainly seems to be nothing in between. Yet, shouldn’t your twenties be a time of fun and independence, a time to make mistakes. What will happen if we forgo the ‘training’ that comes with dating adults in your twenties. Perhaps people today are making the mistakes in their first marriage that ordinarily they would have resolved during the dating age.
‘It’s possible,’ says Ed. ‘Sometimes, I think that girls are bumbling along, dabbling in a necessary evil when all the time they just want to settle down. The amount of my female friends who have got married recently and admitted afterwards, “My God, I’m so glad I am out of the dating scene, all those difficult first dates, I couldn’t bear it”. The truth is they haven’t ever really dated. They’ve had random snog
s in clubs, woken up in the morning embarrassingly next to some guy they don’t remember and awkwardly left after breakfast.’
‘Guys,’ Raj starts, a little reticently, like he’s about to share some epiphany, with which we might not agree, ‘do you ever think that we talk about sex too much?’
‘Definitely,’ says Ed immediately. Raj looks surprised but thankful to be put at ease, once again.
‘That it is deliberated, cogitated and digested to the point of staleness,’ Raj continues, spurred on by our empathy. ‘It’s become something to be constricted by social convention and political movements. Sex is sex – it should be enjoyed as it was intended to be, something natural and simple, powerful and emotional. You cannot learn about it or understand it from some columnist in a super-opinionated glossy… “You can do this but it’s wrong to do that… we can only make love if you do this… it’s only right to have sex if you have promised this…”.’
I have become so exhausted by the conventions, rules and regulations; the do’s and don’ts that surround sex in relationships. It has robbed sex of that spark, the excitement from the union that I remember experiencing when I was 18. We think that the first time we have sex will be the worst but, the bumbling and embarrassing fumbling aside, it was pretty amazing. In fact, because of this regulatory approach to love making, I just can’t be arsed. Well, at least until I get so horny that I start humping the leg of the sofa.
I’m full of mixed emotions; anger, lust, disappointment, desperation, the need to be loved, the desire to be independent. This cocktail of opposites means that I’m not ready for a relationship. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s important that I can recognise this fact, and that I don’t allow myself to be immersed in coupledom, just because every other bugger is doing it.
The truth is that you can only perpetuate this life of a dating failure for so long. It drives you mad. I have become so frustrated and disappointed and drained. I am emotionally drained from all the dates. It takes tremendous effort to be nice. Selling yourself, whoever you are, is a difficult thing. You’re so worried that the other person is actually attracted to you. But the most draining thing of all is when the meetings with these women inevitably come to a swift conclusion and you have to move on to the next.
There comes a point where you have to recognise the fact that you are at odds with the other person. I had been ignorant when I came to London, but my experiences have given me the foresight that I was previously lacking. I can’t continue to blame my naivety for the consequences. I have to either accept the girls for who they are, for what they want, or leave them to it. At the same time, they have no right to demand the opposite from me. I will have to wait.
I feel disappointed because of the false picture that has been painted of the modern independent woman. The image that scorns the role of women of previous generations – all they were after was a husband.
‘And that’s not the case anymore boys!’ Isn’t it?
‘Guys, it’s like they have this ideal,’ I say, ‘that all roads lead to marriage and kids. This desire has laid dormant but then suddenly it’s activated upon graduation. “Congratulations Miss Smith, an upper second-class degree in Psychology with honours, now will you please bend over for your oestrogen boost”.’
‘I know what you mean,’ says Ed. ‘It’s as if a hormone is released, the “husband-seeking” hormone. They work back from date X, the date of the birth of their first child, which is around their 29th birthday. They have had this date stamped indelibly on their brain since birth. Before this date they need to have completed two years of marriage, a one year engagement to plan an inordinately massive wedding and select a rock the size of Montana, and had at least a two year courtship with the intended victim, a substantial period of which is spent living together. This five year period means they need to find the “one” around 23 or 24.’
‘You mean last year,’ Raj quips.
‘Precisely.’
People always talk about the biological clock, but it’s more than that. It’s about society and its demands. This pressure seems to come at women from all angles, it’s pretty tough really. The modern working woman in the City has such high expectations to meet; a pressure to gain respect from her peers, the perfect job, perfect love life, perfect figure and finally the perfect marriage with perfect house and perfect kids. Men don’t care, I’m not sure that we ever have. We never feel as if we have to be ambitious. If we find the perfect woman, then great.
I have my own ideals, my own terms. I don’t feel that I should renege on those terms; I also don’t feel that I should be able to force them on someone else. Accept me or don’t accept me. But don’t give me a hard time for sticking to my beliefs.
‘Guys, what has this, have we, come to?’ Ed vocalises what all of us have been thinking for some time. He puts his beer down.
‘Rikshaws. Toothbrushes.’
‘Clap clinics,’ Raj winces.
‘Wailing Brazilians,’ I laugh.
‘Blind dates and tweed jackets.’
There’s a pause as we all contemplate our miserable luck. Reliving each individual horror. How the past 12 months have been a test of our sanity and self-belief. We have gone from measured dating tactics to downright desperate ploys.
‘Guys,’ says Raj, suddenly, ‘we should be proud of ourselves!’
‘How do you mean?’ I ask, not understanding how we can possibly glean anything good from these dating experiences.
‘The only thing that we can say, is that we haven’t compromised our strongest sentiment.’
‘Eh?’ asks Ed, clearly equally bemused.
‘That having left one serious relationship, we didn’t get trapped in another, just for the sake of having a girl and for regular sex!’
Raj is right. Not only would it have been a huge deception to the woman, but an even greater deception to ourselves.
‘Don’t settle,’ Raj raises his beer. We clink bottles. ‘DON’T SETTLE.’
There is nothing more terrible than being in a serious monogamous relationship that is devoid of the prerequisite emotion. Love. Not even the sum of all our horrors over the past year could hold a candle to that entrapment and misery. It’s not a phobia of commitment. It’s the unacceptability of the restrictions created by a partner that you have no real feeling for, all for the sake of having a partner. And shags on tap.
It is time to throw in the dating towel. Call it a night, go to bed, and resume the starfish sleeping position. Well, look on the bright side, it’s back to seeing films that I want to watch at the cinema, guiltlessly catching the ten minutes Freeview of Channel X every night and stubble rash is something I will never have to think about again.
I hold aloft my bottle of Corona for a second time, ‘Well my friends. That’s it. We’ve come (or not), seen and been conquered.’
16
Succubae
It’s August. I step out of my apartment and am dazzled by the sun, bombarding me with vitamin B. Life is good. Complication free. Three months have passed since our chat, and no dates. Not a single one. The odd smile or wink from a cute girl on the underground, intent on breaking the strict code imposed by London Transport of no smiling, talking or flirting on any of its routes, has kept me going since that day. The capital is in its first hot spell of the year. That essential three week period that manifests just after Easter each year. It’s as hot as the height of summer and preludes a month and a half of downpour, without fail. London has imported its usual quota of stunning fair-weather women. You know the ones, they only come out when it’s sunny. They appear from nowhere. Perhaps the druids conjure them up at the summer solstice. I always knew those cards with their long beards, who get naked and whip each other with lavender, had something good to answer for. Strappy tops and short skirts, tottering on dainty shoes. Alluring smiles, inviting pins and bouncers to die for. Who knows whence they come, or to where they return on the vernal equinox.
I’m off to meet Ed for lunch
at Bluebird, Conran’s place just off the King’s Road. No flirtatious exchanges on the District line today. But Sloane Square is rammed, scores of heatwave honeys are infiltrating the crowds of regular shoppers, townies and peacock types, who strut their stuff in West London. Apparently Ed has some interesting news for me. I haven’t seen him for the last week or so, he’s got a new girlfriend and they’ve been going through that honeymoon period – where you don’t leave the bed that first weekend, save for gathering fresh croissants and the Sunday papers. I find her mildly annoying. They met at Blackfriars Crown Court, he was prosecuting her client for fraud. Ed had decided the dating scene was too much to take. He had succumbed to the philosophy of ‘if you can’t beat ’em, marry ’em.’ And he seems happy. But there are moments, usually when he is reminded of his previous single life, when you catch a glimpse in his eye or a wavering in his voice, and you notice the pangs of regret. This is usually when he explains that he is unable to meet us on a Friday evening for a drink. Because he is otherwise engaged, assisting in the consumption of a bottle of Lambrini and watching the omnibus episode of Hollyoaks, recorded the weekend before.
There he is, sitting in the window, checking his watch. Yes, I am a couple of minutes late, I chuckle to myself. Good old Ed. Mr Punctuality. I push my way past the yummy mummies, buying pastrami for their adulterous husbands, a gaggle of snotty children, kitted out in Burberrys, scream for the sort of attention they crave and never receive. Past the deli is the coffee shop.
‘Hey, loser!’ I yell, somewhat uncouthly from the door way.
Ed looks up, and his characteristic smile breaks across his stern face. He stands up and holds out his right hand. I grip his hand and he pulls me in for one of those manly hugs, that we’ve always done. Our group of friends have always hugged each other. Not sure why.
Single White Failure Page 21
