Majnoon has been trying to make Chloe look bad to their boss for over a month, since a redundancy notice was issued. Every week there’s a new horror story of him sabotaging her work. This week he started planting typos (as Chloe is now explaining to Mags),
“He was showing the Project Director some drawings I’d prepared. The last page was titled ‘indexes’, spelt with an ‘x’, and he yells out, ‘Oh Chloe darh-ling, that’s not how you spell indices!’ He made me look like such an idiot, and worse I was stunned into silence because I was so confused. I always spell check before sending work through. Anyway, after the meeting I went back to my desk and checked the presentation I’d sent him, and lo fucking behold, indices was spelt correctly when I sent it to him to review. The bastard set me up, he put the typo in.”
“No?” Mags gasps (I already heard the story earlier so I continue to drink my wine unphased).
“Yep. Such a twat. I think I’ll have to kill him,” our ruby haired menace concludes.
We each launch into our news from the past week. Chloe is having a bad time at work (as usual), Mags is trying to save the planet (as usual) and I’m having a bad time with men (you get the drift). Every week my news is the same, in that it’s one dating disaster after another. This week it was the guy who stole my tip. That’s right, he stole the tip I left for the waiters when he thought I wasn’t looking. The week before was the guy who analysed my appearance and told me that I needed collagen in my upper lip (“because your upper lip disappears when you smile”), then said I’d also benefit from a boob job and maybe some fillers around my eyes (“because your eyes crinkle when you smile”). I should’ve smacked him.
The week before him had been the struggling actor looking for a sugar mamma. And the week before that? The guy who had kept demanding that I entertain him (“Tell me something entertaining,” “Do something entertaining” “Entertain me”). In the end I had snapped, “I’m not your fucking monkey” and had stormed out of the restaurant.
Anyway, every time I catch up with the girls I always have another doozy of a date story to add to the collection. I attract assholes like a pile of shit attracts flies.
The drinks keep flowing as the room gets stuffier and more cramped. I guess the other Gribblettes had a similar idea to me – instead of socialising with lame work dudes, bring your friends. The more jammed it gets the closer our circle tightens, and eventually Chloe gets bumped by some guy. Of course, half his beer ends up on my sleeve instead of hers but I wipe it off good naturedly (I’m clumsy and accident prone, so no biggie). The guy, who I’ve seen before (I think he’s in International Arbitration) turns around,
“Shit, sorry about that.” He smiles at Chloe. They always smile at Chloe.
“That’s okay,” She replies.
“I like your outfit. It makes you look like a Bulgarian wrestler, but you pull it off.”
The smile vanishes from Chloe’s face. She lifts one eyebrow in an expression that can only mean ‘god you’re a loser’ and turns her back to him. Mags and I also shoot him unimpressed looks. I mouth, “oh my god” to my friends while the hapless lad turns back to his arbitration team, looking confused.
I guess men don’t realise that many women have read their pulling bible, The Game (also known as a collection of inane advice for hopeless losers who will always struggle). I mean.... What a fucking stupid book. I’m sorry but it is! I’ve read it, lots of girls have, and I can assure all the men out there that the nimrods will never have their selection of supermodels to choose from, no matter what technique they use. And negging only makes things worse. The Game links insults with sexual success and there is no correlation between the two, none whatsoever. Why did you do it, Neil Strauss, whyyyyy? Insulting a girl straight off the bat is the verbal equivalent of a herpes infection. Plus, if a monster tries to pick me up, he has just as much chance using backhand compliments as if he didn’t. I.e. he has no chance at all. Zero. Nada. No book, and no amount of negging, will ever change the rules of the Dating Market.
As potential breeding material we are all rated on a scale of 0 to 10. 0s are the wolves of society. Unfortunate looking, malicious, uncaring, dumb, cheap, no job, no prospects, nothing-to-offer-society types. I haven’t actually met any 0s. There was one guy who used to push trolleys around back in Melbourne called Toothless Pete. He was close, being the sexist, smelly, overweight, potty-mouthed, rude asshole that he was. But hey, he still had a job (pushing trolleys), so he didn’t qualify as a complete zero. Maybe a 0.2
10s are top dating material, the cream of the crop. Gorgeous, intelligent, rich, sweet, generous, polite, funny, interesting, sociable, blah blah blah. I haven’t met any 10.0s either, because everyone has at least one flaw. I met an Armani model once who was the most physically incredible being I’ve ever encountered (he’s the only man ever who has literally taken my breath away. And when I say ‘literal’ I mean it in its purest sense. I stopped breathing for ten seconds). But Mr Armani was an arrogant butt smear once I got to know him, so he was definitely not a 10. He was dumb as dog shit too. So all in all I reckon he came in at a 4, a 5 at best.
We’re all somewhere between 0 and 10. Chloe’s looks are probably a 9 (she’s a knock out, tall and slim with the face of an angel), and she’s smart and talented, but because she can be a wee bit anti-social (she doesn’t look it but she has the heart of an emo), as a complete package I’d rate her as an 8.
Mags (who is currently chatting away to Chloe and sort of ignoring me because I’m in my own little world) isn’t as hot as Chloe if I’m being honest, but she’s got such a beautiful personality, and is very low maintenance. That’d bump her up to a 7.
I’ve analysed myself and I’d say I’m a 7 too. Tall, kinda on the skinny side but still with curves (albeit small ones), smart (sort of), high earning potential (eventually I’ll make Partner, even if it’s at sixty), not as nice as Mags but nice enough, not as hot as Chloe but hot enough, not as fun as my outgoing sister but fun enough. I do have a temper though... Maybe that’d bump me down to a 6.5
In real life, you usually see 8s dating other 8s, 5s dating other 5s, 2s dating other 2s. Sometimes you’ll see a 4 dating a 5 or an 8 dating a 9. It’s technically feasible to date someone one or even two levels above yours. So if I get ridiculously lucky (I mean winning-the-lottery kinda lucky) I might pull a 9. Conversely, I will settle for nothing lower than a 5. For example, say I reach the tender age of forty and (god forbid) develop that scary uterus disease known as ‘I must construct a fetus NOW, my life won’t be complete without progeny!’ Should that doomsday ever occur, I would consider settling for a 5 or a 6, just to provide that other gamete I need. Or I’d go to a sperm bank, whichever has fewer side effects.
But back to my original point, as a 7 my dating range is between 5 and 9. Or for those who like statistics, the standard deviation is two. I’ll likely date people who are 7s or around there, but I might be able to jump a few digits (also known as punching), or scrape the bottom of the barrel towards the 5s, also known as settling.
But you see, everyone from the monster 0 to the average 5 to the fit 8 want a 10. And the 10s know it, which makes all those hotter than lava 9-point-something men act like spoilt, entitled boobs.
Our sixth or seventh drinks round has arrived (I’ve lost count in my daydreaming). I snap out of my reverie and give the waitress an appreciative smile as I take my wine from her tray. She rolls her eyes and walks back in the direction of the bar. Yeeks, someone’s being a bit of a grumpybum tonight, aren’t they?
In my daydreaming I’ve also failed to notice Chloe’s disappeared to the restroom. I turn my attention back to Mags and we start scouting the room for cute guys, more for her benefit than mine. I wouldn’t touch any of my colleagues with a ten foot flag pole. That age old adage – don’t shit where you eat – is a good rule to live by. When I was a graduate in Melbourne I kissed another Grad in front of a small group of work people one night when we were out drinking at our local. The whole offic
e was abuzz the next morning with ‘the scandal’. I was more annoyed than ashamed. I mean, if they considered a kiss between two young, single people worthy of months of intense gossip, than to me that was quintessential pathetic-ness. How utterly mundane must their lives be to think that a kiss was interesting?
Then I started to get to know lawyers a little more and realised that yes, these beings did live lives so boring, so empty, so soul-destroyingly dull that a kiss could have caused such outrage. Pretty sad, huh?
Mags is still scouting the room. I’ve lost interest and instead am trying to see where Surly Waitress went, because my wine glass is empty again and it’s time to get myself liquored up, TGIF-styles.
“Hey Penny, what do you think of that one?” Mags whispers as she nudges my arm.
I look at where her gaze has settled.
Oh no…
“You like that one?” I say, aghast.
“Yes? Whatever’s the matter?” Mags looks at me as if I’m an utter loon and turns back in the direction of Stalker Sam
I see she’s caught his eye because he’s now looking at us, goofily grinning away. I swivel around, my back facing him. Mags has always had awful taste in men (don’t we all?) so I shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, Stalker Sam would be an improvement on some of the guys she’s dated. Let’s not forget Kebab the Silent, Rob the Knob, or Nick the Dick.
Mags looks up at me with her big green eyes, large as saucers. Such a sweetheart, should I tell her he’s a numpty? Yes. She’s one of my best friends. Almost a sister, really.
“Mags,” I whisper, “That guy, he’s not exactly…”
But I’m interrupted by a loud,
“Hey gangstas, what’s crack-a-lakin?”
No! How did he manage to cross the room so quickly? I give a weak smile as I turn to face Stalker. Mags is gazing at him with a look so sweet it’d melt sherbet.
“Oh. Hey.” I mumble.
My tone holds as much enthusiasm as if I was about to undergo a full rectal examination.
“You ladies having a good night?”
I don’t reply. Mags nods enthusiastically. He turns away from me and smiles at my unsuspecting friend,
“And who might this be?”
“I’m Mags.” She says, reaching out her hand to shake his.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Magdalena.”
He kisses her hand. Oh my god, give me a break. But Mags clearly doesn’t share my perspective because she squeals,
“How did you know my full name?”
“Oh, I may have visited Eastern Europe a few times in my intrepid adventures of the continent. But I dare say you don’t look it, with that beautiful hair.”
Oh brother… Give me a fucking bucket so I can hurl what little amount of respect for this guy I once had.
And why does he keep switching from speaking Gangster to Eton-posh?
Mag’s isn’t really receiving my don’t-go-there vibes because she blushes over the spattering of freckles on her cheeks,
“I’m half Scottish, half Ukrainian, but I grew up in Bristol.”
“Word. Another drink, dog?”
And we’re back to Gangster. He takes Mags’ elbow and leads her in the direction of the bar. She gives me an apologetic but very cheeky smile, and walks off with him.
Perfect, that’s just perfect. I’ve been left alone (with an empty wine glass to boot) by my good mate who is about to notch up another entry into her ‘Losers I’ve Picked Up’ list. Chloe is still in the bathroom.
I sip the dregs of my wine and turn to face the band. They’re actually not too bad. For the first time in living memory the Gribbles Social Club has forked out on some solid live music. It’s a three piece jazz ensemble. I’ve never seen this type of set up before, there’s a double base, a trumpet and a guy on drums. They sound fantastic.
Chloe taps me on the shoulder,
“They sound lush don’t they?” She says, mirroring my thoughts.
Surly Waitress walks past and grunts that it’s last orders. Chloe and I yell at the same time,
“Four vodka Red Bulls!” Chloe.
“Four glasses of Prosecco!” Me.
Surly glowers and storms off without repeating the order.
“Bitch,” Chloe smiles at me and we start giggling.
A million years later Surly returns with our drinks and with even deeper scowl lines etched into those sharp features. She sets the tray down on the table and storms off. To our delight there are eight drinks sitting there. Chloe and I grin at each other and grab a sparkling wine each. We ching our glasses and take a long, long sip.
I look at my empty glass. Where did the bubbly go? I couldn’t have drained the whole thing, could I? Chloe is looking similarly confused because hers has magically disappeared as well.
“Must’ve been a half glass,” I say.
Chloe shrugs and picks up a second glass, but before we can chug it down in one again we see Mags. She is hurriedly making her away towards us, pushing past the hordes, a huge smile plastered on her round face.
“Hi ladies! Oh my gosh, how cute is Sam?”
I don’t think as I blurt out,
“You mean Stalker?”
“Huh?” She asks, but I don’t have to reply. Chloe’s at her bold best.
“What are you doing with that guy Mags? Just look at him, he’s a total player and you know it.”
Chloe nods disapprovingly in the direction of Stalker, who Mags has left chatting with a bunch of solicitors from Intellectual Property.
“Oh I don’t think so, he seems nice.”
Ah, the words so often spoken about a man, only to be eaten with a dose of humble pie, washed down with a jug of tears. Chloe and Mags continue to debate while I consider adding orange juice to my Prosecco. Mimosas are such a winning mix, I’m surprised so few Brits choose the combination. Technically, they’re Mimosas and not Bucks Fizz because they’re mostly champagne with only a dash of OJ. I learnt that in Vegas. And the Germans taught me to mix beer and Coke, and the Spanish taught me to mix white wine and lemonade. And they say travel is a waste of money, a virtual cyber-world could never have taught me such wonderful things.
Speaking of Spain, I wonder what my little Spanish crush is up to tonight, the man known to me and my friends as ‘the Stranger’? We met years ago, through my sister Emma’s flatmate, a lovely Barcelonan named Arianna. She is ridiculously good looking, with a group of ridiculously good looking friends. And lucky for me and Emma, they’re almost all male. Hanging out with them is like living in a Kylie Minogue video clip. Everyone is tall, tanned, muscled and smooth. Might I add, these guys are the polar opposites of the Spaniards in Melbourne, who are short, fat and hairy. Emma and I can never quite believe our luck when we’re out with Arianna and her crew. Surrounded by such beauty… it’s a privileged life, it really is.
“I just don’t know why you’d judge someone straight away like that,” Mags is saying to Chloe.
While they’re distracted I’ll give you some more details on the Stranger. Maybe you’ll be able to help me out with him, he’s quite the conundrum. Two Fridays ago it was Emma’s birthday. We hit her favourite bar in Clapham (you know, it might be a little out of the way but I’m rather partial to heading south of the river for a night out. It’s a place with an edge, and I like that). It’s a pity Chloe and Mags weren’t there, Emma hadn’t invited them. They’re not exactly getting along at the moment, and by ‘they’ I mean Emma and Chloe. But more on that later, back to the Beautiful People and my studly crush.
I was one of the first to arrive, along with Emma’s socially awkward massage therapist who always smells like asparagus dip, and Arianna. While Emma entertained the smelly masseuse (I honestly don’t know how my sister does it, she has the capacity to talk to anyone. I’ve never had the social skills to interact successfully with my peers or society in general, besides a handful of friends and dogs. And they have to be friendly dogs, not those nasty yappy ones). What was I saying? Oh yeah, w
hile Emma entertained Smelly, Arianna and I began chatting about nothing in particular when suddenly... they landed. The Beautiful People walked through the door and I froze midsentence. I’d never seen them after work before. They looked like a bunch of tall, tanned Latin American footballers in suits.
I closed my eyes and started praying, God, please make me seem sexy and appealing tonight, and make sure I don’t say anything too embarrassing.
“Hello.”
I opened my eyes and there stood the Stranger, the hottest one of the group, leaning down to greet me with a kiss on each of my rapidly reddening cheeks. He had looked and smelled amazing. I so desperately wanted to sound seductive and sensual. I so badly wanted him to start thinking of me as someone other than that annoying Polish-Australian lawyer (Polish mum, Aussie dad). I racked my brain for something to say but the only thing I could think of was,
“Yo, bro!”
Cringe! I still shudder when I think of that moment. I cannot believe I said that! Way to go Penny, as if the fact you’re not good looking enough for him isn’t sufficient enough a deal breaker, you’re also sprouting lame-ass lines from the 90s. Miraculously, he had smiled and given me a third kiss on the cheek, this one lasting just a little too long to be considered friendly.
Hours later and we were at the bar, ordering Jägerbombs. It always seems like such a good idea at the time, doesn’t it? You have a few drinks and you feel so damn fine that you think you need more booze, more shots, more of everything.
Here’s one for the kids - Kids, shots are never a good idea. But you see, the Stranger had been so attentive all evening, hadn’t left my side, and when he suggested Jäger I jumped at the chance. Anything to have this chisel-jawed dreamboat by my side.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 2
