Dessert arrived and I made sure to have food or drink in my mouth at all times. His parents were lovely people on the whole, once they stopped concerning themselves with tabloid gossip, but I thought maybe Jason and I rushed the whole meeting the parents thing. I didn’t even know we were really together until last night.
Jason helped me with my jacket and put his arm around my waist as he led me to the door, then held it open for his mother and me. My heart warmed. Who doesn’t love a Southern gentleman and who could blame him for wanting to show me off? I should be flattered, right? The several glasses of wine I’d had made everything have a lovely haze over it. I smiled politely as Jason waved down a taxi. I assumed his parents were staying at his place and this was the end of the evening.
“What’s next, kids?” asked Jason’s mom as we climbed into the taxi.
She’d obviously had too much wine. There was no way we were going to a club with his parents, on a Tuesday.
“Well, I do know of this party at Boujis,” Jason offered, just as enthusiastic as his mom.
“It is kinda late and I have to go to work tomorrow … ” I looked to his dad for support of my side of the argument. It was in vain.
“Yeah, why don’t you two young’uns show us old folk how it’s done?”
It must have been pretty obvious I was exhausted because suddenly his dad added, “But don’t you worry, Princess Paige, we’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.” He winked at me and I forced a smile, something I seemed to be doing a lot lately.
We arrived at Boujis and I could see the paparazzi waiting at the entrance. It was the last thing I wanted to do and I was so annoyed at Jason for putting me in this situation. We got out of the taxi and Jason stood back.
“Mom, Dad, watch Paige work her magic,” he said expectantly, like I was supposed to walk to the front of the line and convince one of the hottest nightclubs in London to let Jason and I in along with his retiree parents, totally skipping the line. It was of no consequence to him that his parents would be the oldest people in there, with a possible exception of the elderly Arab diamond dealer outside smoking surrounded by sixteen-year-old hookers.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I can get us in. There is kind of a big line and I don’t really know these guys. There are a few lounges down Walton Street nearby that would be easier to get into.” And were slightly more age-appropriate because there aren’t so many stairs.
“Oh come on, Paige, don’t be modest. I know you can do it. All these people know who you are. We won’t stay long, I promise,” Jason pleaded, obviously very concerned I would disappoint his parents by not turning out to be the huge celebrity they were led to believe I was.
“Jason, why don’t you come with me?” I took his hand and turned to his parents. “Is it ok if you wait here for a minute?”
I could see the paparazzi had spotted me and a few started to move towards us. I grabbed Jason and tried to get lost in the crowd.
“What is your problem, Paige?”
“My problem? Why are you whoring me out like that? I thought you didn’t tell your parents anything about me?”
“I didn’t tell them anything about us. Come on, what is the point of having a famous girlfriend if she can’t get you in anywhere?”
I couldn’t believe that just came out of his mouth. Apparently, I was the equivalent of some fancy car for him to drive around and show off. Was that all he wanted from me?
The photographers moved closer and I could see flashes out of the corner of my eyes. Why were there so many here on a Tuesday night? Why were we here on a Tuesday night? My mind was busy making connections about this whole ordeal. The photos at dinner, Paris … even Lucinda didn’t know my last name until it was in the tabloids.
There was only one person who could have known everything.
“It was you. Holy shit, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure out. You gave my name to the papers. You told them where I lived.” Tears were welling up in my eyes. “Why?”
Jason’s eyes went wide. “Paige, I didn’t mean for it to—it’s just that—”
“Just what? All the other girls in London already knew you were an asshole so you thought you could create your own trophy with some redneck from Canada who didn’t know any better? I don’t have time for this. I’m done.” There was so much adrenaline racing through my body I thought I would pass out. Cheating I could have dealt with. But this? Actively ruining my life so he could have something to brag about? It was more than betrayal, it was sadistic.
Jason’s face hardened and his voice took on a quietly aggressive tone.
“You’re done? You don’t have time for this? I have been busting my ass for you. I got you that bag, took you to Paris. Do you have any idea how much that hotel suite was? I made you, Paige.” He was starting to raise his voice. “You wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”
Despite my heart crumbling in my chest, I was conscious I had to take control of the situation to make sure he didn’t make a scene.
“You honestly think you’ve done me a favor? You’ve ruined my life. I didn’t need to be famous, and I definitely didn’t need you.” I was holding back tears of anger and frustration.
“I could have any girl I want, Paige. I can’t believe I didn’t even cheat.” He shook his head like he had just learned a valuable lesson.
“Congratulations. I did have a special plaque made up to commemorate your achievement, but they spelled Douche Bag wrong, so I sent it back.”
My stomach turned and tears escaped as I ran towards the road to hail a cab. I couldn’t believe how appalling my judgment of character was. How did anyone let me leave Canada?
If this was what having a relationship in London was like, I’d rather be single.
Newly single, I decided that from now on I was going to say yes to everything and commit to nothing. Andre the Giant who works at Prêt a Manger asks me out? Yes! Geeky guy in a suit? Sure, why not? Hot eighteen-year-old at the bus stop? Once I checked his ID, of course!
After being publicly humiliated by Alex and then blindly ignoring the warning signs with Jason, I thought the best thing would be to get to know as many people as possible, practice my conversation skills across a wide variety of situations, and try new restaurants for free. The only way to feasibly do that was to go on a bazillion dates, but the key was to not commit to any one guy for six months. That way I could really focus on work, friends, and London, the main reasons I came here.
The first, ahem, experiment came when Lucinda and I went to a bar in Clapham on an otherwise uneventful Saturday. I wanted to meet someone who was different, who wasn’t in a suit and trying to impress people all the time.
We walked into CrowBar and immediately the smell was overwhelming. It was like the place hadn’t ever been cleaned, but instead someone poured bleach on the countertops once a week. That, mixed with the cheap cologne the men were wearing, made my eyes water.
A very cute bartender asked us what we wanted, on him.
“I wouldn’t mind being on him,” growled Lucinda a little too loudly.
I held up two fingers. “Vodka soda and lime, please. Two.” The guy at the bar next to me was so drunk his mouth hung open involuntarily and I’m sure he thought I was a Siamese triplet. Nobody in this place wore a suit, that was for sure.
Several drinks later, the stench disappeared and Lucinda and I were dancing like nobody else was there, along with everyone else in the bar. I took a break and stumbled in the direction I thought the bathrooms would be. The ladies’ line was ridiculous. How bars haven’t learned that they should have twice as many women’s toilets as men, I’ll never know. Since I was sufficiently drunk, I wasn’t about to wait in an unreasonable line up.
The guys in the men’s room didn’t have anything I hadn’t seen before and none of them used the stalls anyway. So, I walked into their bathroom. There were four standing at the urinals when I barged in but nobody told me to leave so I went into a stall, which
was a hundred times cleaner than the stalls in the women’s, did my business, and left without incident. But try not to do this unless it’s an emergency. If all the girls figured this out, they’d make up some sort of stupid rule where girls can’t go into the guys’ bathrooms under any circumstances.
On my way back down to the dance floor, I came across one of the guys who had been staring at me in the bathroom. He was standing next to what I thought might be a glory hole. I only knew what a glory hole was because Carlos had wanted to show me how lax the Internet filters were at Fashionista. My phone had tighter restrictions. Anyway, the general idea is men stick their bits through the hole in hopes that someone might play with them. Apparently, it was common in porn and public toilets.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He had bright blue eyes, a crooked smile, and an American accent.
“No thanks,” I said, clearly forgetting my own new rules the first time out. His accent made me think of Jason and I didn’t want to end up dating another jerk.
“What is going on? None of the women in this bar will talk to me.”
“Could have something to do with the glory hole you’re standing next to.”
Glory Hole spit out some of the beer in his mouth as his eyes opened wide. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been standing next to a glory hole all night and didn’t notice.”
“Come on, one drink. You don’t even have to talk to me.”
“Fine, one drink.”
I did speak to him and learned he was just transferred here for work at a hedge fund. Evidently bankers hid in plain clothes too, but I promised I would try not to hold the whole finance thing against him. I was in the middle of explaining the series of events that led to me being crucified by the papers when the waitress came by and dropped a couple of empty bottles in the glory hole.
“Ohhhhhhh,” we both said simultaneously, understanding that the mysterious glory hole was actually the garbage.
“Come on, Paige, what do you think? Can I take you out for dinner next week?”
“Sure,” I slurred.
And that’s how Glory Hole became my first “why the heck not” date.
Monday rolled around and I totally forgot about Saturday. I was still working on the fanny pack article that was due in a few weeks. I had re-written it at least fifteen times and it still needed to be submitted to Gisele, who would inevitably come back with more changes.
In the meantime, Carlos was trying to set me up with any guy he had ever met, trying to force me to break my “say yes to everything” rule.
“Carlos, you can’t just go fishing in your phone for every straight guy you have saved in your contacts and set them up on a date with me.”
“Why not? And who said they were straight?”
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to set me up with gay men?”
“Not gay … but some of them might be a bit undecided,” Carlos mused.
“Well, I’m not desperate. I’m sure people will ask me out on their own accord.”
An email came up on my Outlook from mysinglefriend.com. Apparently, a “friend” named Carlos had signed me up for an Internet dating service where your I’m-sick-of-listening-to-your-bullshit-and-not-getting-any-sexual-gratification-for-it friends write about how awesome you are in the hopes that someone might want to go out with you. That didn’t scream cat lady in her late forties at all.
“Seriously?” I sighed.
“What? I thought it would be fun.”
“For who?”
“Me.” Carlos chuckled and turned back to his computer.
The email asked me to approve what he’d written, which consisted mainly of an excerpt from the original retraction article in The Sun.
“Remember your rule. Yes to everything … ” Carlos was practically singing.
“Fine. I’ll show you that I can say yes to everything, but this will be a huge waste of time.” I clicked approve.
Later that afternoon I got a text message from someone I had saved in my phone as Glory Hole asking me if I was free for dinner tomorrow. Everything about Saturday night came rushing back. Well, almost everything. His name was apparently permanently erased. I showed Carlos the message and then made him watch me send the reply.
“Told you I would say yes to everyone.”
“Hun, I’m going to need an “I’m ok” text tomorrow. Even I wouldn’t go out with someone I saved in my phone as Glory Hole.”
***
Glory Hole was picking me up from my place at eight so I had time to stop by Lucinda’s after work for a pre-getting-ready drink and to combine our brains to see if we could remember what his name was.
“I can’t believe you are going out with someone and you don’t even know their name.”
“I did know his name, but funny me thought that Glory Hole would be more memorable, which it was. I knew exactly who it was when I got the text.”
“This is going to be hilarious.” Lucinda wasn’t being much help.
Wearing a pair of black leather skinnies, a cream sheer blouse, and leopard print shoes, I was ready for the date, yet still couldn’t remember the guy’s name. I was so frustrated with myself. From now on, I would only save people in my phone with their actual names, or at the very least put it as a note next to the nickname.
Glory picked me up in a fancy black car. I saw him through the window and came out to meet him before he had a chance to get out and come anywhere near my house. He was in a suit and looked totally different. Same bright blue eyes, but fifteen pounds heavier than I remembered.
I stood on the passenger side of the car and felt where the door handle should be. There was nothing. I scanned the side of the car and further down on the panel, hoping it was like the DeLorean from Back To The Future, but no handle there either. Then I noticed a thin line that was kind of like a button where you would normally have the door handle. I pushed the button. Nothing happened.
Traffic was rushing by and I was immediately aware that I didn’t live on a street where stopping was convenient. I knocked on the window and made a shrugging motion to indicate I had no idea what I was doing.
Once it was relatively clear, Glory Hole ran around the car to my side and magically pushed the button again and the handle popped out. He opened the door and shut it behind me then stood on the curb for what felt like several minutes until the traffic was clear again for him to get back in the car.
As he drove to the restaurant, I was thinking of all the nicknames I could call him, pretending to be cute and not some idiot who couldn’t remember his name.
“Sorry about that. These cars can be tough to get into. But, they’re expensive so they should be,” he said, laughing at his own non-joke. He was nervous and I felt bad for not doing more to put him at ease, but I had my own problems. Mostly I had no idea who he was.
We pulled up to a small Korean restaurant in Soho and he let me out to get our table while he found somewhere to park. I walked inside and the place was clean, quaint, and not too fancy with lots of Asian people eating there. Exactly what you want in a Korean restaurant.
“The name, Miss?” asked the hostess.
Yes! This was the perfect opportunity for me to find something that at least sounded a little familiar.
“Umm, so this is really embarrassing. I’m kind of on a date with this guy and I can’t remember what his name is. I know, it’s happened to all of us. Do you think I could have a quick peek at the list, just to see if anything rings a bell?” I tried to be as nonchalant as possible. It was either lost in translation or she thought I was a moron because she didn’t really say anything when she shrugged her shoulders and moved aside so I could have a look at the list.
It was hard to read the names scratched quickly in pencil on the over-used reservations book. From what I could read, there were five reservations for two people at eight-thirty under Eugene, Christian, Albert, Wang, and I think Alan. I was praying his name was Alan, everything
else seemed strange and I could never picture myself saying “I Do” to a Eugene. Not that he’d actually asked me to marry him, yet.
Further conversation with the hostess went as it had previously. I asked her not to seat me so I could hear Glory Hole say his name and offered her a plethora of reasons to tell my date why I hadn’t been seated yet, including but not limited to: your table isn’t ready, we are waiting for the marching band, it’s rude to have a lady sit on her own, and health and safety requires that the man must carry the woman to her seat. However, when he came in fifteen minutes later (we could have walked from my place faster than that) and asked why we hadn’t been seated the hostess simply pointed at me and said, “She no want.”
That didn’t make me seem like a tool at all.
To top it off, she failed to even ask his name for the reservation. How the restaurant avoided complete meltdown was beyond me, and I still didn’t know his stupid name!
We sat down and the waitress came by asking for our drink order and handed us menus. I opened mine up to a variety of pictures of freshly slaughtered mammals and marine life. I thought I could go my whole life not knowing what a squid looked like right after it went to see the big man upstairs, but apparently that was slightly too ambitious.
“Paige? Paige?” I glanced up from my horror story. Glory Hole was trying to get my attention. “What did you want to drink?”
Something made without pigs’ blood? I shook my head and mumbled wine as my eyes were drawn back to the menu, similarly to the way people can’t stop rubbernecking at car accidents. There was no way I was eating any of this.
Glory Hole ordered the drinks and asked me what I’d like to eat.
“Nothing.” Obviously.
“What?” said a very offended Glory Hole.
“Well, all of this still looks a little bit alive. I guess I’m used to restaurants whose food isn’t quite so fresh. So sorry to be a pain, but why don’t they show what the food is like after it’s cooked?”
The Accidental Socialite Page 14
