“Because that’s what this is for.” He indicated to a large upside-down metal bowl in the middle of the table. “The food comes raw and you cook it on this. It’s really fun, trust me.”
Quite rightly, I was skeptical.
“How about I order a little of everything and a nice big salad for you and you can just try a few things?” He smiled, lifting his eyebrows, which made him look like an escaped mental patient.
Poor guy, smiling was not a good look for him.
I didn’t understand how a restaurant could be so lazy and charge this much for patrons to cook the food themselves. The whole reason I went to restaurants was to have food cooked for me, not for someone to give me a bunch of raw meat that I then have to cook … I could have done that at home for a third of the price.
He ordered and once the immediate worry of eating something out of its original packaging ceased, the stress of having no idea what this guy’s name was returned. Luckily, I realized that in the real world when you are speaking with someone, you really don’t say their name much. Instead I concentrated on extracting as much information as I could so I could Google/Facebook stalk him in the bathroom. I also had two glasses of wine. You know, to keep my mouth full so I wouldn’t be forced to talk.
Once I figured out where he was from, where he went to school, and the name of his work and job title, I politely excused myself and headed for the bathrooms. Since we were in London, the restrooms were down a precarious stairway in the basement next to the kitchen and staff room. A hazardous situation in five-inch heels and sober, life-threatening when alcohol was involved.
As soon as I was out of view and safely down the ladder the restaurant passed off as stairs, I started to Google. Or at least I tried to. There wasn’t any service in the bathroom.
OMG! I’m having such a bad life right now!
I climbed back up the stairs and peeked my head around the corner to see what Glory Hole was doing. Thankfully he was glued to his Blackberry so I took the opportunity to carefully make my way through the restaurant and out the front door. Then I called Lucinda.
“Luc!”
“Are you in a bin? Is he trying to kill you? Should I call the police?” she said quickly, and very panicked. It was really sweet of her to be so concerned.
I sighed. “No, I still can’t remember his name.”
“I’m watching Made in Chelsea and you interrupted me for this? Just ask him his bloody name.”
“I can’t. It’s gone too far. We already had drinks and ordered food,” I whined.
“What would you like me to do about it, chicken?”
“I have some info. I need you to Google and Facebook like never before.”
I gave her all of the information I’d collected and could hear her typing on her laptop. Then nothing. Then more typing.
“Well?” Now I was panicking.
“Right, from the info you gave me and what I vaguely remember from Saturday, his name is either Michael or Thomas.”
“No! No it’s not. That wasn’t one of the names on the reservation list. Are you sure there isn’t an Alan anywhere?”
“No Alan. Not even a Wang.”
“Oh my god! What am I going to do? I’ve been gone for like, ten minutes. He’s going to think I’m going poo.”
Lucinda was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “Chicken, you are ridiculous. I’ll keep searching and text you if I find anything.”
My situation was becoming more complicated by the second and I was very aware that it was totally my fault. I went back into the restaurant and tried to hide behind a decorative wall hang. The unhelpful hostess was staring at me and most likely contemplating calling the authorities. I glared back at her. What happened to feminism? Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same team, not judging each other for agreeing to go out with a guy who we only know as Glory Hole?
From my vantage point I could see Glory Hole, and he had given up on his Blackberry and now wore a look of concern on his face. How was I going to make sure he doesn’t think I was going poo?
A large man walked through the front door so I hid behind him and followed him into the restaurant. Glory Hole went back to his Blackberry so I awkwardly tiptoed to the staircase so my heels wouldn’t make noise and then nonchalantly turned the corner like I hadn’t been on a covert mission for the last fifteen minutes, while also trying as hard as I could to look like I didn’t just drop a deuce in a Korean restaurant.
“Hey! Thought you got lost in there. Almost sent in a rescue team.” Oh god, he told the same jokes as my Dad.
“Nope, just a line. When will restaurants and bars ever learn to have more ladies’ stalls?” I let out a pained smile but quickly realized it probably came off as gas.
He had ordered me another glass of wine while I was gone. Maybe I should give him a chance. He meant well, right? Or so I thought until the “food” came.
She presented us with a bowl full of “prawns.” I had no idea shrimp had like twelve arms and legs, not unlike cockroaches. Can you believe the part that you eat on a shrimp ring is only half of the animal? These were accompanied by calamari which, when not deep-fried, are purple, slimy, and come in the shape of Smurf hats with octopus legs. Then, on the other side of the bowl, there was a slab of red meat.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing at the mystery meat.
“Ox tongue,” said Glory Hole with his mouth watering as if he was looking at marshmallows.
Oh for the love of god! It’s like he wanted me to puke.
I was beginning to think he was some sort of creep who got off on girls gagging, because at the moment, I was doing a lot of that.
Salad was the only thing I could force down and for some reason they didn’t even serve bread, so consequently I got drunk really quickly. I should have listened to Lucinda. Apparently, she always eats a little something before a date so she doesn’t go starving and then end up eating like a pig. Ugh, I really wish I had some bacon right now. Cooked bacon, just to clarify.
Suffice to say, I gave up on the date in general and repeatedly called him Glory Hole to his face, which he seemed to find amusing. When we left the restaurant my head was spinning and I hoped Gemma wasn’t home because I was going to murder those Aussie cookies she had hiding in her cupboard.
Getting out of the car proved to be almost as hard as getting in. I tried to make a mental note to put this vehicle on my list of deal breakers, but my mind at the moment was a sieve. He started to laugh.
“What?” I slurred.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
“Ask you what?” I tried to focus on his face, but ended up mostly staring at the steering wheel.
“My name.”
I stared at my shoes in shock and then moved my head up slowly, narrowing my eyes.
“I never told you at the bar,” he continued to speak as if he wasn’t a total asshole.
I stayed silent.
“Well, it’s Michael. Michael Vaney.”
“Well, thanks for dinner, Michael Vaney.” I walked out of the car and into my house without looking back.
***
Waking up yet again to the smell of stale booze in my room on a weekday made me want to call in sick … or stop drinking on school nights, but probably the first thing more. I pulled myself out of bed and resisted the red blinking light on my phone. It could only mean bad things.
I showered and got dressed and threw my biggest pair of sunglasses on as I walked to the tube. I was finally ready to check the message once I passed the flamboyant homeless man on Earls Court Road. It was from Carlos.
Don’t check the Heat site. Sorry. P.S. Hope you aren’t dead, X
Well, at least he cared about how the date went. The sun was shining bright and I was overdressed for the weather. After I had sufficiently melted in the tube, I arrived at work and Carlos had a skinny blueberry muffin on my desk.
“What did you do?” I asked, highly suspicious of the muffin.
“I forgot
you were famous,” he said sheepishly.
“Carlos, we’ve been through this, I am not famous. What happened?”
He tilted his computer screen so I could see the bold headline on the Heat website: “DESPERATE PAIGE TURNS TO ONLINE DATING.”
“I hate you.” I sat down at my computer, stared at the black screen, and waited for the hum as I searched for the button on the tower under my desk. Emma came around the corner and stopped before she went into her office.
“Paige, I didn’t know you wanted a boyfriend that badly. I have loads of guys I could set you up with. I’ll see who’s free and let you know.” She disappeared into her office before I could politely, but firmly, decline her offer.
“Carlos, I seriously hate you so much right now.”
My computer still wasn’t humming and now demanded my full attention so I bent down to look for the button. The fan began to whirl and I turned back to yell more at Carlos. He was holding a pair of pony-hair, leopard-print peep-toe Christian Louboutins.
“Fashion fixes everything, right?” he said hopefully.
My mood lifted immediately. “Where did you get these?” They were in my size.
“I called in a favor with Louis. You know when you always fake say “oh let’s be friends” after you break up with someone? Well, for us, it’s true. I told him what happened and these are now yours. Be nice to them, Cinderella.”
They were broken up again? I couldn’t keep track of his love life. Surprisingly, it was far more dramatic than mine. I put on my “feel better” shoes, and what do you know? I felt better!
Before I closed my dating account, Carlos convinced me to read some of the messages that had been sent to me. I had to admit, they were very entertaining. There were the obvious “hey you’re famous, let’s shag,” the “I’m writing this but I know you won’t even answer so I’m not sure why I’m even writing it,” and of course the classic “wot r u up 2 2nite : ),” but there were a few that made us laugh out loud.
Enjoy:
Tvfreek29: Hows it going? Ya following Hollyoaks omnibus this morning? X
Animan32: Do you know a good place to see penguins? What I love about penguins is the way they are soo ungainly on land but torpedoes in the water!! Also when they gather in huddles to feed off each others heat, letting the ones on the outside into the middle to share the love!!! What do you reckon???
And my personal favorite:
672E49d: regards ?? date ?? something about you?? what subject can be there if person write to you first time ?? i think that is obvious what for every body write to each other on this side.so pleas write me any example what could be on that line ?? i'm really curious what you will invent?? hope u will not cursing me.
I realized I had been taking myself too seriously. So what if some stupid magazine had a story about me online dating? None of this was life-shattering. I was employed, seeing the world, and had good friends who cared about me enough to check in and make sure I wasn’t raped or murdered on a date. On top of all that, I now had these fantastic shoes. Let them write what they want.
London is such a magical place when it’s nice outside. Generally speaking, I don’t really believe in the weather totally dictating your mood, however, in London that is exactly how it works. I remember back home I would cherish those rainy days, where I could cuddle up on the sofa and watch TV or read in front of the fire. Here, I pray for at least one hour of sunlight a day, and this includes during the summer.
It was mid-July and for some reason the hottest day ever. Since air conditioning was a luxury for developed countries like India, I was wearing less clothing than a stripper and had spent most of my day so far in a lethargic daze.
That was, until I had an email come through from Carlos with a picture of a fat hairy Italian guy eating an ice cream with the caption “When in Rome.” I giggled, but that used up most of my energy and I went back to being semi-comatose. Carlos kicked my chair.
“Whaaaaaat?” My droopy eyes pointed in his general direction.
“Let’s go to Rome.”
“Ok,” I answered quickly. As if.
“Seriously, let’s go. Tickets are forty quid return.”
“Really? How are they so cheap? Are we walking there?”
“Rome is the only place hotter than London right now and most Italians are proud of their odor on a crowded train in mid-July. But, they have fit men and ice cream, so I’m up for it. Are you in, doll?”
“Sure, why not? When are we going?” I asked, clicking on August in my Outlook to see what meetings and parties I’d already committed to.
“Friday.”
I clicked back to July. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Well done, you,” Carlos said sarcastically. “Don’t worry, you have plenty of time to pack. And remember … anything more than a carry-on is excess baggage. We’re flying Ryanair.”
I realized I didn’t move here because it was renowned for its balmy summer days, I moved here to experience Europe. I’d finally saved up a few hundred pounds, which took way longer than I thought due to Topshop binges. It was time for a trip.
We were going for two nights. I managed to cut my original nine pairs of shoes down to four and my bag was still so heavy I needed frequent breaks on the walk from our office to the tube. Carlos didn’t offer to carry my bag; apparently it’s a courtesy men only extend to those they are sleeping with. He did, however, repeatedly berate me for my choice of footwear because my leopard Louboutins were apparently a terrible idea and wedges or loafers were a more acceptable alternative in this situation. My excuse that it was, like, the third time in my life I was getting on a plane was totally inconsequential.
When we finally arrived at Stansted, Carlos passed all of the counters and went straight to security, leaving me to stand in line at the Ryanair check in. A few minutes later he came back, glaring at me.
“Honestly!” he barked.
“I don’t know how you expect to get through security without your ticket, smart ass,” I said, contemplating not letting him cut in line.
He waved two pieces of paper at me. “It’s not 1997, Paige. I printed our tickets at work.”
He grabbed my arm and dragged me through the airport to security. I unloaded everything including my liquids, which were all brand new, cute travel sizes and neatly organized in two clear plastic bags. When it was our turn to go through the metal detector, the severe-looking woman stopped me before I walked through and pointed at my shoes.
“I know! They’re so cute, right?” I said enthusiastically, hoping the interaction would end there. It didn’t.
“Remove your shoes and place them in the tray.”
Ugh, the word “remove” is so gross. “Really? But these won’t beep, and even if they do, you’ll know what it is. Please don’t make me take off my shoes in public,” I pleaded with her, but received no form of sympathy. I NEVER take my shoes off in public. There was a time in University when I drunkenly tripped in the middle of the street, seriously injuring my ankle, and my solution was to have one of the guys from the football team carry me around instead of removing my boots. If I wasn’t going to take off my shit kickers to examine a possible broken bone, I certainly wasn’t going to take off a pair of thousand dollar shoes for a grumpy airport lady.
I could feel everyone in the line begin to shift impatiently and their negative energy wasn’t helping. I would hate me too if I was behind me, but these people had to understand that I didn’t want to walk barefoot through that security machine. I am really allergic to international foot cooties.
“Paige, this is just security. It’s supposed to be the easy part of the trip. Take your bloody shoes off and let’s go.”
So, Carlos was going to be a lot of fun this trip.
I begrudgingly removed my shoes, making a face at the smug troll who demanded I take them off in the first place. Once I was through, trying to take the least amount of steps possible in order to limit the amount of floor I had to touch with my bare feet,
the x-ray conveyor belt stopped with my shoes trapped inside. It went backward three inches and forward five. I was growing impatient while trying not to gag because my feet were still touching tile.
“Oh my god, the machine is eating my shoes,” I whined to Carlos, but he was too busy flirting with a guy who was wearing at least 40% Lycra.
Finally, my little pony-haired princesses emerged behind my bag and tray with the liquids in it. Apparently they didn’t contain explosives. Shocking.
“This yours, Miss?” The mustached security man was holding up my liquids. I nodded. One bag was filled with expensive hair products and my full regime of Clinique facial care. The other had seven lip glosses, two hand creams, and a bottle of hand sanitizer, which I was definitely slathering my toes in before they went back into my shoes.
“Miss, you are allowed one bag of liquids,” lectured mustachio.
My heart began to race. I needed all of that stuff desperately.
“What do you mean? They all fit in the plastic bags and are under a hundred milliliters.” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. This was the worst trip ever and we hadn’t even left London yet.
“One bag,” said the Hulk Hogan look-a-like in a this-isn’t-up-for-discussion tone. It was either dry skin, or a perpetually bad-hair day for the weekend because there was no way I was chucking seven £25 lip glosses.
“Do I look like a terro—” Carlos ran over to me and put his hand over my mouth.
“Please ignore her, she’s Canadian,” he explained to the mustached man.
“No, I can’t believe people continue to put up with this. There is no precedent of a Canadian girl in designer shoes blowing up planes. Stop worrying about me and go find the guy from Yemen who bought a one-way cash ticket.” I argued with both of them.
Carlos was desperately trying to cover my mouth. I picked up the lip glosses and shoved them in his plastic bag, which still had some room, and stormed off.
The Accidental Socialite Page 15
