We ordered Martinis and he told me a bit about himself. He’d moved over from Ireland six years ago for work and was now living in Hammersmith with his brother and cousin.
‘… and that’s how I ended up over here! Sorry, I’ve been yarking on for donkey’s years.’ He took a sip of his drink and nodded towards me. ‘And how did you end up on this glorious isle? Did you come for the weather or the customer service? It’s usually one of the two.’
I let a loud laugh escape before catching myself and arranging my features in a way I hoped would look demure. ‘I came over for work.’
‘That’s right, you work with Cathryn at the Science Museum! Lovely Cathryn. She’s a cracking girl. What are you lasses working on at the moment? Anything of great import?’
Actually, we were about to launch a series of after-hours, adults-only events that Cathryn and I had been working on relentlessly for the past six months. But that would have been giving away too much, so instead I shrugged and said, ‘Not really,’ and took another sip of my Martini.
‘Right, just ticking along then?’
I smiled and looked down at the table. I felt like I was doing a Helen Keller impersonation.
Top Hat looked momentarily deflated, then threw himself back into the conversation with renewed gusto.
‘I’m working on a big to-do with Michael at the moment. We’re off to Tokyo next week – did Cathryn mention that?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, we’re off on Tuesday for a fortnight and I plan on eating as much Wagyu beef as I can fit down my gullet. It ought to be a laugh. Have you been to Tokyo?’
‘Yes, once.’ In fact, I’d spent six months teaching English there after I graduated from college. I loved it.
‘It’s a fantastic place, isn’t it? It’s mad! Just totally mad! But in the most brilliant way. When did you go?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘And what was your favorite bit?’
‘Eating blowfish!’ I wanted to say. ‘The one that kills one in every hundred people who eat it! I ate it and stayed up all night waiting to see if I was going to die. But I didn’t and it was awesome!’ Instead, I just shrugged again. ‘I couldn’t really say.’
‘Did you see anything completely crackers? I’m desperate to see one of those robot bartenders they have in some of the flash places. Did you see one of them?’
‘Yes! And I saw one of those vending machines that sell girls’ used underwear!’ I wanted to scream. ‘It was so amazing and so weird and so gross and I took a billion photos of it so I could show everyone!’ Instead I said, ‘No, just the usual.’
Top Hat smiled wanly and stared into his drink. I was losing him, I could feel it, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Unsurprisingly, the conversation dried up after that. I couldn’t do anything to fill the long silences, as the book forbade me from introducing any new topics of conversation. So we sat there and sipped our drinks, Top Hat occasionally offering up a few questions and me murmuring monosyllabic responses. It was excruciating.
Thankfully, the end of the night came fairly quickly, as I had to leave after the second drink. After my last sip, I glanced at my watch and said what I’d been dreading having to say: ‘Well, this was really great, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
Top Hat looked both confused – it was only 9.35 on a Friday night – and relieved. ‘Oh, right then,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get the bill.’
The bill arrived and I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching for my bag. I felt the least I could do was pay my fair share for this disaster, but instead I had ruined some poor guy’s night and now he was going to have to pay for it.
Thankfully, Top Hat pulled out his credit card without so much as batting an eyelid. He probably just wanted to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.
We left the bar (with me pausing surreptitiously by the door so he was forced to open it for me) and Top Hat gallantly walked me to the nearest tube station.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening!’ I trilled.
‘It was great craic. Sorry you’ve got to scarper.’
‘Well, like I said, big day tomorrow!’ I cried. ‘Goodnight!’
I made a mad dash into the station and then snuck out the other exit to have a calming cigarette.
‘Christ, that was hard,’ I muttered to myself as I took another drag. I pulled my coat around me, suddenly conscious of the fact I was standing on a street corner in Soho dressed in sheer black stockings and a tiny black dress. I ground out my cigarette beneath my heel: I’d already been mistaken for a prostitute once tonight and I didn’t want to stick around for another invitation.
I turned to walk into the tube, perking up at the realization that I’d be home in time to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm on Channel 4. At least Rules-style dating wouldn’t interfere with my TV-watching schedule.
‘Lauren?’
I turned around to see Top Hat leaning out of the window of a cab.
‘Oh, hello again!’ I said, struggling to regain my air of elegant demureness.
‘Do you want a lift? I’m going to listen to the deedley-deets with some mates in Shoreditch. I could drop you on the way?’
Deedley-deets? I couldn’t help myself: I had to ask a question. ‘What’s a deedley-deet?’
‘Irish music! You know, it’s all deedley-deets and that. Come along if you like!’
‘No thanks.’
‘Oh, right – you’ve got that big day and all. Well, can I at least give you a ride home?’
I pondered this for a moment, thinking about what The Rules would do. I suspected they would frown upon it, but the April chill was currently blowing through my sheer stockings and a couple of older guys were leering at me from the doorway of a porn shop, so I nodded and jumped in the back.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘No problem at all.’ Top Hat looked at me for a moment and then said, ‘Do you mind if I ask if you’re feeling yourself tonight?’
Argh. It was too grim. He thought I was terrible. I forced myself to smile politely. ‘Yes, I’m feeling fine, thank you.’
‘It’s just that you seem very … quiet. I hope I’ve not said anything to offend you? I can be a mouthy bugger so just give us a slap if I have!’
‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘You’ve been a perfect gentleman.’ I crossed my ankles and gazed at his left earlobe, determined not to make eye contact. He was being really nice, and he was so boyishly handsome in that slightly fey Irish way I loved so much … I was sure I would lunge if I looked at him straight on.
We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I stared out the window, watching the streets whizz past me and willing the cab to beam me directly into my living room.
‘This is me!’ I said as the taxi pulled up to the curb off Old Street roundabout. ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening!’ I leapt out of the taxi and ran (well, wobbled – I am the worst at wearing heels) into the entrance of my building. I didn’t look back.
As I turned the key to the front door of the apartment, an icy chill ran down my spine. ‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘I didn’t even offer him money for the cab!’ Of course, I wasn’t supposed to, according to The Rules, but I still felt a rush of shame. ‘He must think I’m the biggest bitch on the planet.’
I poured myself a large glass of wine and took it out onto the balcony. The apartment was empty; presumably Lucy was off having fun somewhere, drinking and making out with boys and staying out past 10 p.m., unencumbered by the confines of Rules life. How I envied her.
If I’d been left to my own devices tonight, two Martinis would have led to a couple of bourbons, and the night would have ended with us grappling in a drunken make-out session in a dark corner of a dive bar on Hanbury Street.
That’s what I loved about being single: going on little adventures with a relative stranger to whom you’re suddenly desperately attracted; bizarre, off-piste conversations about your favorite breed of dog, or w
ho would win in a fight between New Kids on the Block and One Direction, or whether or not Michael McIntyre makes the world a worse place; mad hunts for booze and cigarettes; the feeling that the night is slipping away from you and trying to grasp on to it and haul the cover of dark over you for as long as possible. I loved the giddy feeling of waking up in bed the next morning, fuzzy and headachy but mainly really, really happy, still high on the sense of possibility from the night before.
Instead, I was home at an absurdly reasonable hour, having forced a perfectly nice man to spend a brief evening in my extremely boring company and not offering a penny of my own money as compensation. I felt deflated and kind of gross.
This was going to be harder than I’d thought.
13 April
A week had gone by without any word from Top Hat. It had taken all of my willpower not to send him a text thanking him for the drinks and apologizing for not offering any money for the cab, but if I had done that, I’d be going against several rules in the book.
Michael had left for Tokyo with Top Hat and Cathryn hadn’t heard any feedback about the date. I cringed to think what Top Hat would say about me; he was probably berating Michael for sending him on a date with such a frigid bitch. It was pretty humiliating, but I guessed I was going to have to prepare myself for that kind of thing now that I’d handed my love life to the experts.
Lucy and I had gone for our Saturday-morning run and our weekly shopping trip to Superdrug afterwards, wandering around the aisles like a couple of zombies who were really interested in nail polish. I was standing at the checkout, paying for an electric-blue liquid eyeliner I was very excited about, when I felt my phone buzz.
I pulled it out of my bag and looked at the screen. I had a missed call. Six, to be exact. All from Adrian.
It had been a while since I’d heard from him. Six weeks, maybe longer. I’d given up and assumed he had retreated to the Island of Lost Men, where he was playing Championship Manager with all the other guys who had suddenly evaporated from women’s lives.
But apparently he was off the island. And now, as I stood in the middle of the shop and stared down at the little blinking cursor on my phone, I was faced with a conundrum: to Rules or not to Rules?
‘Adrian called,’ I said, grabbing Lucy’s arm as we walked out of the store. ‘Like, six times. What should I do?’
‘Ooh! Ring him back! He’s probably calling to say he’s realized he’s madly in love with you.’
‘But the book says I can’t call him back!’
Rules girls treat the telephone as though it’s a one-way system: men can call you but you definitely cannot call them. The reasoning behind this is that if a guy really wanted to talk to you, he’d call you again and again until he reached you. It’s a very sensible edict, though it does require a breed of persistent, besotted man I have yet to encounter.
‘I thought the book said that you couldn’t return his first phone call. Surely you can return his sixth phone call!’
‘Right! I mean, what if he’s hurt? What if he’s been in an accident or something?’
Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Lo, it could actually be dangerous if you don’t call him back. You might be held liable or something.’
‘Oh my God. You’re right. I’m sure I saw something like that happen on Law and Order. Okay, I’m calling him when we get back to the apartment.’
Lucy nodded decisively. ‘You’re doing the right thing, babe.’
We hurried home, speculating on what crisis might have befallen Adrian. Joblessness? Homelessness? Freak combine harvester accident? Spurred on by the thought that I was only doing what any responsible citizen would do, I pressed the call button as soon as we walked through the door. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hello?’ he said.
God, his voice was hot.
‘Hi! It’s Lauren. I saw that you called so I’m just calling you back. Is everything okay? You’re not in the hospital, are you? Which hospital are you in? Should I come?’
‘What are you on about? I’m not in the hospital, you madwoman. I’m in the pub, about to watch Liverpool get spanked by Man City.’
‘Oh. So why did you call me all those times?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did. You called me six times, according to my phone. I figured it was an emergency or something.’
‘Shit. I must have sat on it and it dialed you. Sorry about that.’
‘Oh.’ I swallowed the bile that had risen in my gorge. ‘Okay. No problem.’
‘How are you, Cunningham? You well?’
‘Yep! Yep! All good here! Been crazy busy with, you know, lots of activities and projects and work and dates and stuff! Especially dates!’ Oh Lord, oh Lord, MAKE IT STOP. ‘Anyway! I’ve got to go. Busy busy!’
‘Right, well, I wouldn’t want to keep you when you’re clearly so … busy. Sorry about ringing you.’ Adrian managed to sound both bemused and indifferent. He was infuriating. I was starting to wish that he had been involved in some kind of combine harvester incident.
‘No problem! Bye!’ I hung up and sat on the couch. Well. That hadn’t gone according to plan.
Lucy was lurking outside the door and pounced on me as soon as I came out.
‘So?’ she said. ‘Is he all right? Was there an accident?’
‘No.’
‘Oh my God, he wants to get back together, doesn’t he? I knew it!’
‘No,’ I said again.
‘So what was it?’
‘It was his ass. His ass called me, not him.’
Lucy looked confused. ‘What do you mean, his arse?’
‘I mean he sat on his phone and it dialed me by accident, apparently.’
She looked crestfallen. I think she was more disappointed than I was. ‘Oh. Bugger.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Preventative measures were needed. I looked up Adrian’s number in my phone and changed his name to ‘Are You Drunk?’ so that if I was ever again tempted to call him, I would be immediately rebuffed.
I went into my room and grabbed my copy of The Rules.
I lay down on my bed and flipped to the chapter entitled ‘Next! And Other Rules for Dealing with Rejection’. I’d had my fair share over the past few weeks so was keen to see what wisdom they had in store for me. I read on.
‘Rules girls don’t get hung up on men who reject them. They say, “His loss” or “Next!” They carry on.’
Say what you like about the Rules authors – I’ve been saying that they’re shrill harridans set against me ever having sex again, for example – but I like the fact that there’s no room for self-pity.
There was more: ‘The Rules recipe for rejection is to wear a great dress and flattering make-up and go to the very next party or singles dance.’ Seemed pretty sensible to me. I had never done that whole sit-around-crying-into-a-pint-of-ice-cream cliché that seems to have been thrust upon womankind through romcoms and chick lit.
Luckily, I had a work event that night which could be rife with possibilities. We were launching the late-night series: the museum would be open until 2 a.m. on Saturdays and there’d be DJs, special exhibitions and cocktails. It wasn’t easy enticing grown-ups into a science museum; sometimes you had to cajole them with liquor.
Obviously tonight would be all about me being the ultimate professional (at least for the first twenty minutes) but after I’d kissed the cheeks of all the important people I was planning on enjoying the open bar and hopefully bagging myself at least one new test subject.
In preparation for the big night, I flipped over to the section on Rules party skills. My heart sank: the evening might not be that fun after all.
Daunted but undeterred, I did my best to spruce myself up. I put on my favorite little red dress and, after finally managing to apply liquid eyeliner without poking myself in the eye, I ran into the living room to get Lucy’s approval.
‘Ooh!’ she said, looking up from the latest issue of Grazia. ‘Where are you
off to? You’re looking very glam.’
‘Do you really think it’s okay? I’ve got to go to the Nights at the Museum launch. Is this too Pretty Woman for a work event? I keep getting mistaken for a prostitute.’
‘Absolutely not. It’s all very sexy secretary.’
‘Thanks. Now I’ve got to go roam around a room for several hours and not look at anyone. I’ll call you from the bathroom.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll fill you in later. Bye!’
I left a confused-looking Lucy on the couch and made a dash for the tube. As usual, I was late.
I managed to squeeze on to the train just before the doors shut. Once on, I realized my mistake. It was, as always, fifteen degrees the wrong temperature – in this case, fifteen degrees too hot – and the run to the station hadn’t done me any favors. I struggled to loosen the buttons of my coat but realized with rising panic that it had already begun: the tube sweats.
Within minutes, my dress was stuck to the small of my back and there were tiny rivulets of sweat making their way down my neck. Gross.
When I finally disembarked a half-hour later, my make-up had made a run for south of the border and my dress was clinging to me like cellophane. I ducked past the front entrance in case I was spied by a colleague/client/possible test subject and ran into my office, which was tucked neatly beneath the museum in an area I liked to call the Cellar of Despair. There was lots of gray and lots of dank.
I pulled out my emergency make-up stash and frantically reapplied while fanning myself down with a sheaf of museum leaflets.
At that moment, Cathryn walked in, looking regal in a blue maxi dress and heels that I would have to describe as sensible. If I wore them, I’d look about forty-seven. On her, they looked French and expensive.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, taking one look at my beetroot face and assuming that I was about to stroke out.
‘Fine! That goddamn tube was so hot and now I can’t stop sweating, mainly because I’m thinking about sweating.’
‘For heaven’s sake, stop thinking about sweating.’
‘I’m trying!’ I cried as I fanned myself faster. ‘How’s the turnout looking? Any cancellations?’
Age, Sex, Location Page 3
