I walked into the dimly lit restaurant. There was Popeye, lifting some kind of manly, brown-colored drink to his lips with a massive forearm. He was definitely an alpha male: the type who not only had a firm handshake but who also did that thing where he put his hand on top of yours, just to emphasize his genetic dominance. This was a man with Darwin on his side. In spite of myself, I found this kind of thing hot. My stomach did a very, very small flip.
Once again, he stood up immediately when he saw me, kissed me on the cheek, slipped off my jacket, pulled out my chair and pushed me into the table in one fluid movement. It was like being mugged by gentlemanliness.
He sat down and pushed a cocktail across the table to me. ‘I’ve ordered this for you. I hope you like it – house speciality. How are you? You look gorgeous.’
‘Thank you.’ I took a sip of my drink, which was shocking pink and sickeningly sweet. Not my kind of thing at all, but I necked it nonetheless and tried my best to look demure while doing so. ‘Great place. I’ve never been here before.’
‘It’s one of my old favorites. Went to school with the owner.’
At that moment, a well-dressed man with impressively slick hair magically appeared holding several dishes of delicious-looking Italian tapas. Normally I hate tapas as it involves sharing, but I could make an exception for this.
‘Hello, old chap! Always a pleasure to have you in my humble establishment, especially when you bring a gorgeous creature like this with you.’ The slick-haired man smiled and kissed my hand.
Popeye made the introductions. ‘Joff, this is Lauren. Lauren, this is my dear friend Joff. He’s as much of a wizard in the kitchen as he was on the rugby field!’
‘I was nothing compared to our man here. He used to eat up the turf like nothing else. Still got that cauliflower ear of yours, you ugly bugger, you?’ Joff enveloped Popeye in a bear hug from behind. It was still the most macho thing I’d seen since the log-rolling competition at the Maine state fair.
Popeye shrugged him off. ‘You’re one to talk, mate! You lost about eight teeth in the scrum.’
‘All in the name of glory. Anyway, I do apologize: I’m keeping your guest waiting.’ He turned towards me. ‘Would you like some champagne? Of course you would. A woman like you should be bathing in champagne. I’ll send the waiter straight over.’ With that, he evaporated in a puff of smoke.
‘Great bloke, Joff,’ Popeye said. ‘And he obviously has great taste.’ He reached across the table and touched my hand.
The waiter suddenly appeared at my elbow and began pouring champagne into glasses. I don’t like champagne – always gives me a headache and I can never fit my nose into the champagne glass – but I was forbidden from turning my nose up at any of Popeye’s date decisions, so I had to live with it. Tough life, I know.
He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To you. The most beautiful woman in the room.’
We clinked glasses. He smiled. I narrowed my eyes. Where the hell did he come from?
‘I feel I did the talking for both of us last time,’ he said. ‘I want to know everything about you.’
‘Oh, there’s not much to tell,’ I said, trying to exude quiet mystery.
‘Okay, well, let’s start with the simple things. Where are you from originally?’
‘Maine. A little city called Portland.’
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Oh, you know. Small-town America. Lots of land, lots of sea, lots of coffee shops. The usual.’
‘Sounds like heaven. What brought you over here?’
‘Work, mainly. And the weather, of course.’ Shit, I’d made a joke. That was definitely against the rules.
Popeye laughed more heartily than the comment deserved. ‘Ah, yes, the great British weather. Beautiful, isn’t it? Although I do think there’s something to be said for taking a bracing walk in the countryside and then hiding in a pub when it pisses down.’
‘Yeah, that’s true.’
‘Personally, that’s the sort of thing I love to do with a girlfriend. Book a really gorgeous B & B someplace and whisk her up the M4 to the Cotswolds for a weekend away.’
‘That sounds … nice,’ I said. I wasn’t sure what to make of this.
‘That said, I love quiet nights in, too. Whipping up a cozy meal for two and opening a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
‘Just one bottle?’
He gave me a slightly disapproving look, then laughed. ‘Oh, Lauren. You’re a gem.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
The waiter reappeared with two menus, but Popeye took them both.
‘We’ll start with the insalata di polpo and move on to the pollo alla cacciatora.’ He gazed over the menu at me. ‘You eat meat, right, darling?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Though usually I like to know what type before I eat it, I thought silently, but the book forbade me from saying anything. In the eyes of The Rules, Popeye was being a gentleman and protecting my delicate female brain from making any decisions – and I should just shut up and be grateful.
‘I hope you don’t mind me ordering,’ he said as the waiter whisked away the menus and glided off to the kitchen. ‘I’ve eaten here a thousand times so I know the best things on the menu.’ He reached his hand across the table and intertwined our fingers. ‘And you deserve only the best.’
The evening went on as it had begun. It was as though I was a prospective employer and Popeye was trying very hard to get the position of My Boyfriend, even though I hadn’t realized I’d been advertising. He fed me food off his plate. He told me that he was good with people but also enjoyed his own time. He mentioned that he wanted to go to Paris with someone special one day.
Honestly, if I’d produced a written test and asked him for a urine sample, I’m pretty sure he would have happily agreed to both and would have passed with flying colors.
I couldn’t help wondering why on earth this gorgeous man was trying so hard to win me over. What sort of deep, fetid secret must he be hiding? Because, surely, someone this attractive and successful and charming had swathes of women falling at his feet and didn’t need to try so hard to win my approval? Unless he had something seriously, horribly wrong with him … images of meat lockers started flashing before my eyes again, but I swiftly swept them aside and took another sip of champagne.
The food came, was eaten and plates were discreetly taken away. The champagne turned to wine and flowed like there was no tomorrow. He continued to ride around the room on his white steed, asking if there were any damsels in distress that needed rescuing. At one point, a man started coughing loudly and Popeye leapt to his feet and asked if he needed the Heimlich maneuver. Turned out he was just getting over a chest cold.
I couldn’t decide how I felt about this charm offensive. It was so entirely different to what I was used to, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. It was a little weird being the focus of so much attention, but it beat sitting on Adrian’s couch watching him play Championship Manager on his laptop and occasionally being asked if I wanted some more potato chips. And Dylan and I were together for so long, our idea of romance was taking out the trash so the other person didn’t have to. All this chivalry was a nice change.
And so, at the end of the night, when the taxi pulled up in front of my building and he asked if he could come up for a cup of coffee, I said yes.
So it was entirely possible that this whole gentleman act was just a clever ruse to get me into bed. But you know what? I was fine with that. Really, aren’t most people being polite to one another in the hope that it could lead to them getting laid? Even when I’m doing something charitable for someone outside of my sexual demographic (an old homeless woman, for instance), I’m secretly hoping that there’s some really hot guy who’s watching me be charitable and thinking, ‘God, look at that girl being charitable – how incredibly attractive. I must fly her to Fiji on my private jet.’ I’m pretty sure Doctors Without Borders runs almost entirely on doctors looking to
impress the opposite sex with their selflessness.
Besides, it had been a while since I’d had sex – we’re talking at least a month here – and it was basically our third date, so Rules-approved. (I was counting the night we met, yes, so sue me. Months, people!) We went up to my apartment and I made him a cup of Tesco’s finest instant coffee granules, which was inevitably left to cool on the counter as we got down to business.
And down to business we got. If I thought I’d seen an audition in the restaurant, I was mistaken. That was only a warm-up.
He picked me up. He spun me around. He put me down briefly so that he could undress me with his teeth (I was worried about the dress, but he was surprisingly deft with his incisors), then picked me back up and spun me around again. He stood in front of me and peeled off his own clothes like a former Chippendale and, I have to admit, the show was spectacular. The arms were just the beginning: the man was Michelangelo’s wet dream.
In spite of the display, there was something slightly … off about the whole thing. He choreographed sex in the same way he had choreographed dinner. He had a vision in mind, and I was just another actor on his stage. And not a principal character, either: I felt like the Greek chorus in The Bacchae. At one point, during a particularly complicated set of moves, I caught him watching himself in the mirror. Not me. Himself. He was basically starring in his own porn film.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy myself, because I did. He was great in bed, probably because he put so much effort into perfecting his starring role. Nevertheless, I felt unsettled when it was over, particularly when he got up and started to put his clothes back on.
‘Where are you going?’ I was trying to rearrange my hair into something not resembling a bird’s nest, but gave up when I saw my reflection in the window.
‘Sorry, darling. I’ve got an early start tomorrow so I’m going to shoot off home.’
I’m not sure if it was the champagne, the wine or the images of meat lockers, but the last vestiges of the demure Rules goddess were lost and a mad harridan stood in her place.
I pulled the covers up to my chin. ‘Oh, okay. Fine.’ I tried not to pout but felt the corners of my mouth drift southward.
He came and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t be upset, lovely girl. You told me yourself that you need a good night’s sleep tonight for your run tomorrow.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t sleep here, does it? It feels weird that you’re just racing out the door.’
He looked irritated for a second, then rearranged his face into an expression of paternal patience. ‘Shh. You just go to sleep, sweetheart.’
I felt a stab of anger. ‘If this is just going to be a one-time thing, that’s totally fine but don’t bullshit me and say otherwise.’
‘Darling, of course I want to see you again! What happened tonight makes me want to see you even more so.’
‘Whatever. I mean, don’t put on this whole Mr Perfect show for my benefit.’
‘It’s not a show! I want to treat you like the princess you are. I’ll call you later, all right?’ He bent down and kissed the top of my head.
‘FINE.’
As soon as I heard a door click shut, I leapt out of bed, suddenly convinced that he had stolen my wallet. So that was his motive: he was a thief! A common thief! Okay, sure, he’d seen the inside of my admittedly shabby apartment, and I vaguely remembered him mentioning his parents sitting on a pile of money somewhere in Hampshire, but that made it even more sick!
I pulled on my furry yellow bathrobe and ran into the living room to check the contents of my bag.
Once I’d confirmed that all £2.35 was still accounted for, I scurried back to my room, bag clutched to my chest, and ran smack into him as he came out of the bathroom.
‘Hello,’ he said, surprised.
‘Hello,’ I mumbled.
I walked him to the door.
‘Okay, well, bye.’
‘I’ll see you soon, darling.’
‘Whatever.’
The door clicked shut and I stumbled back to bed, muttering about thieves and sexual bandits.
28 April
I woke up with an unpleasantly fizzing brain and had a moment of peace before remembering the purse-clutching incident.
Ack.
But the weekend had yet more trauma in store for me. I had a terrible shock in the afternoon when, in my hung-over and vulnerable state, I tried to call Meghan and accidentally dialed Dylan’s sister, Molly, instead. I’m not sure what was to blame – the iPhone or my shaky, apparently enormous fingers – but when I heard Molly’s incredulous ‘Lauren? Is that you? You’ve got one hell of a nerve, calling here …’, I wanted to travel back in time and throttle Alexander Graham Bell for his cursed invention. I mumbled my apologies and got off the phone, swiftly pouring myself a whisky to calm my nerves.
I couldn’t get the hurt and anger I’d heard in Molly’s voice out of my head. I knew Meghan had been sugar-coating her dispatches from home, but now I’d heard the truth for myself. I was Public Enemy Number One back in Portland. I lit a cigarette and contemplated throwing myself off the balcony.
When Lucy got home from her trip to Westfield, she took one look at my ashen, clammy face and dropped her Topshop bags.
‘Babe, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘I have, sort of.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? And did I hear you bring a boy home last night? I thought I’d come home to find you and Mister Perfect wrapped in each other’s arms!’
‘Oh, Luce, it’s all gone horribly wrong!’ I was shocked to find myself on the verge of tears. Crying is usually an event reserved for extremely bad toe-stubs – certainly not for accidental phone calls or morning-after blues.
‘Right, that’s it. Up you get!’ Lucy pulled me off the couch and directed me towards my room with a firm pat on the ass. ‘Get dressed and put some make-up on. We’re going to the pub!’
And so, after a month of fastidious Rules following, booze and paranoia had blown all of my careful research. I had no idea if I’d hear from Popeye again or if my burst of lunacy had put him off for good. Regardless, The Rules was done and it was time to assess.
The main thing I learned from The Rules was that I’m really not very good at following The Rules. My natural instinct with men is to try to force things to a head (ahem) because I don’t like not knowing how things will turn out. Hence the big old freak-out on poor Popeye.
So, in a way, it had been good for me to be forced to be more reserved. I should probably leave the ball in the other person’s court more often. I get so caught up in the drama of a new assignation that I don’t stop to think if it’s something I actually want to get involved in, and then I end up driving it over a cliff.
And it had been strangely refreshing to let the guy make all the effort and I’d realized that, most of the time, they prefer it that way. Sometimes it’s nice to have a man make a fuss over you.
The Rules in Conclusion
Works best on …
Alpha males who are used to getting what they want and who love a challenge. They tend to be happy to make a big song and dance out of things and to spend money in order to get what they want, especially if it’s particularly hard to get. They’re the ultimate capitalists.
To be used by …
Women who don’t need instant gratification and who are looking for commitment (though how you could keep up the Princess and the Pea act for forty years of marriage, I have no idea). And it’s probably preferable if you’re teetotal as following The Rules when drunk is pretty much impossible.
So it was with sadness tinged with relief that I put The Rules aside. The only way forward was through a new book, this one fittingly called The Technique of the Love Affair. I obviously needed some help fine-tuning my technique.
Book Two: The Technique of the Love Affair
1 May
Shockingly, I heard from Popeye again. He texted during
my epic pub debrief with Lucy on Sunday night to say he was going to be away for a week on business and would be in touch when he got back. I’m not holding my breath.
I am, however, holding the new book in one hand and a cigarette in the other and thoroughly enjoying both.
The Technique of the Love Affair: By a Gentlewoman was first published in 1928 and caused quite a stir at the time, with Dorothy Parker (beloved wit, glorious alcoholic and devoted divorcée) saying that if she had read the book earlier in life she may have been ‘successful rather than just successive’. It was out of print for years but is happily back in circulation, complete with helpful editorial notes.
Let me tell you, my friends: it is fucking awesome.
It was written in the time of the Bright Young Things and conjures up the frothy, tongue-in-cheek attitude that epitomized the post-WWI era (see also: Noël Coward, Evelyn Waugh and the aforementioned Ms Parker). It was a time of bootleg gin, sharp wit and romantic dalliances. The author, Doris Langley Moore, was only twenty-three when she wrote the book. (She was married at the time but later went on to divorce her husband. After reading some of her advice, I can’t say I’m surprised.)
The basic principle revolves around the idea that the ‘love affair’ is an art form and should be viewed as a diverting hobby rather than a necessity. The author advises her readers to garner as many suitors as possible; you’re meant to be light, charming and flirtatious with everyone and invest in no one. It’s all about building and maintaining your ‘prestige’ (which is essentially what we now refer to as the upper hand). By showing a man that you care more for him than he cares for you, or by investing in one man to the exclusion of others, you lose your prestige and therefore your appeal.
Age, Sex, Location Page 5
