Age, Sex, Location

by Melissa Pimentel

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s something that he apologized,’ she said as she took a long drink from her pisco sour.

  ‘I guess. Though what am I meant to do with an apology?’ I nudged a bit of sashimi onto a tortilla chip and crunched. ‘Do you think I’ll hear from him again?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, lovely. That one is like a recurring case of thrush. Just when you thought you were rid of it, the itching starts again. Anyway, enough about that knob. Let’s plan our party!’

  I had convinced Lucy to throw a house party in the name of science. While researching this month’s book, I had come across a flapper’s dictionary and in that dictionary, shining up at me like a little diamond, was the term ‘petting party’. And, from there, a dream was born.

  Apparently, a petting party was a ‘social event devoted to hugging’ – I think it was sort of like a rave, but without the ketamine (or whatever the kids are doing these days). How could I resist? I was hoping it would be like the game of seven minutes in heaven I played at my thirteenth birthday, only this time hopefully Joey Richardson’s braces wouldn’t get caught in my hair.

  ‘Okay. I think we should keep it small. Why don’t you invite Hayley and Georgie and I’ll invite Cathryn? And then lots and lots of dudes.’

  ‘Cathryn won’t come, will she? It’s too far east for her. Didn’t she once confuse Hackney with Harlem?’

  It was true, she had.

  ‘Yes, but I should ask just in case and, besides, maybe Michael will have some cute single friends lurking around.’

  A waifish waitress wearing a baby-doll dress and knee-high athletic socks appeared at our table, having been summoned by Lucy’s frantic waves. ‘Yeah?’ she asked, boredom etched artfully across her face.

  Lucy acknowledged her with an eye roll before turning to me. ‘Do you want another sake, babe?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ I said brightly, beaming at the waitress. Ever since my bartending days back in college I’d made an effort to be nice to wait-staff, however incompetent or surly. I turned back to Lucy. ‘Okay, Saturday night, as many prospective men as we can handle. I’ll invite Popeye to see if I can stir up some jealousy in him.’

  ‘I’ll invite Max. He’s gone all quiet again so he might need a bit of a kick up the arse as well.’

  ‘Perfect. Now. One question. Should I invite Adrian?’

  ‘Lauren …’

  I took a long sip from my fresh sake and tried to look innocent. ‘Well, he did call and apologize … maybe we could be friends!’

  ‘Friends? You can’t be in the same postcode without wanting to shag him.’ She took a ponderous sip from her drink. ‘Though I suppose he would get to see you with Popeye.’

  ‘Exactly! I could incite jealousy all over the place!’

  ‘Fine. But I’m hiding the breakables.’

  ‘You’re a wise woman, Lucy.’

  15 May

  Inviting Popeye involved a certain amount of finesse. When I first broached the subject, he wasn’t available because he had to go to the birthday party of a family friend. Regardless of whether or not this was true, I was getting tired of him not being around. If I’d been following The Rules, I would have never contacted him again. But The Technique had a different approach, offering up this little gem of advice: ‘Let your relations with men leave memories of seething fury and hatred rather than embarrassment.’

  I’ve had enough embarrassing assignations in my time, the memory of some of which still have the power to stop me dead in my tracks and bathe me in the white heat of shame. Rage and fury, however, were largely uncharted territory.

  I was never one for confrontation, but this time I was pissed off. After all of that knight-in-shining-armor shit I felt like he should just be a bit … better! Did the man not understand that it had now been several weeks since we’d had sex? It felt like I was slipping into another Adrian situation: ambiguous, lackluster and mildly infuriating.

  So to get the rageball rolling, I sent this Technique-approved text message to him:

  Well, I have been as pleasant as I could, but you are apparently determined to be dull, so I shall go and spend my time in more responsive company. Let me know when you are feeling more amiable!

  His response was swift: five minutes later, a text flashed up on my cell phone.

  Sorry, darling! I know, I’ve been a bore. I’ll try to come to your party, I promise. Xxxx

  He texted again the next day to say he’d canceled on the family friend and was coming to the petting party. Ha. Screw you, old family friend! I’ve got more prestige than you!

  Adrian, on the other hand, accepted the invitation immediately, no finessing needed. Maybe it was a full moon.

  18 May

  Petting party time!

  Lucy and I spent most of Saturday pawing through the rails at a vintage store on Holloway Road, looking for suitably flapper-ish outfits. I settled for a black, high-waisted, obscenely short playsuit and a feathered hairband and Lucy ended up with a cleavage-enhancing drop-waist dress and approximately three hundred strands of fake pearls.

  We put bowls of cigarettes out for guests and filled the bathtub with ice and bottles of gin. Hair done and make-up applied, we started helping ourselves to the Tanqueray before the guests arrived.

  Cathryn had gracefully bowed out of the evening, citing yet another family dinner. Being posh seemed to involve a lot of family dinners. But a couple of other colleagues had agreed to come, and Lucy had a bunch of her friends coming along (thankfully some of them male).

  The doorbell rang at 8 p.m. sharp and from then on a steady stream of people flowed into the apartment. Some of them even looked vaguely familiar. Max turned up wearing a flat cap and holding his guitar. Popeye came with a bottle of Scotch and a guy wearing two polo shirts called Henry.

  ‘How many of these people do you actually know?’ I asked Lucy as I poured drinks for Popeye and Co.

  ‘Hmm. About sixty percent?’

  ‘Okay, that’s reassuring. I know about ten percent. Thirty percent is a manageable unknown variable.’

  At that moment, the opening strains of ‘Waterfalls’ blared out over the speakers.

  ‘I’ve got to go find Popeye,’ I said, making a dash for the balcony.

  It was a petting party, so hugging had to be a part of the evening. I couldn’t figure out a seamless way to weave it in, so in the end I had made it a house rule that every time TLC’s ‘Waterfalls’ came on (which was surprisingly often due to my dubious iPod DJ-ing skills), everyone had to find a partner and hug through the chorus.

  ‘Hello!’ I said brightly. ‘It’s hugging time!’ I grabbed Popeye and Henry, and the three of us swayed gently to the chorus while I tried unsuccessfully to keep from burning myself with my cigarette.

  Popeye obviously felt a little sheepish about the hugging and poor Henry looked like he was seriously considering hurling himself off the balcony. I suspected that when Popeye asked Henry if he wanted to go to a petting party, he’d slightly mis-sold the idea.

  But after a couple of hours, the Jägermeister had made its appearance and everyone was hugging like it was going out of style. Henry in particular was clinging on to two of Lucy’s more buxom friends like he was a shipwreck survivor and they were flotation devices.

  ‘I have to confess, I’ve not been to many house parties. Well, not this sort of house party.’ Popeye eyed the cement balcony, now full to the brim with drunk youths.

  ‘There’s booze in the bathtub and nineties hip hop on shuffle. Whose kind of party isn’t this?’

  He smiled wanly. It definitely wasn’t Popeye’s kind of party.

  At that moment, a pilled-up young man whose name I think was Felix sidled up to us and started stroking the hair on my left arm.

  ‘Would you like to hear a poem I just wrote?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure!’ I said. Popeye nodded imperceptibly.

  He proceeded to regale us with several (surprisingly pretty good) poems. And then a Billy Connolly imper
sonation. And then a couple of tricks with his trilby.

  Forty-five minutes passed.

  Something strange occurred during this time (other than the obvious). It’s fair to say that it was extremely obvious to anyone not on a massive amount of drugs that pilled-up Felix would make a pretty poor challenger in the suitor department, but the more he talked to me, the more proprietary Popeye became. At one point, he leaned over and, nodding towards pilled-up Felix, said, ‘It looks like this fellow is sweet on you, darling. Is he bothering you? Shall I have a word?’

  I assured him that an intervention wasn’t necessary as the pilled-up man certainly wasn’t making any overtures towards me; he was too busy gurning his face off.

  Regardless, the chivalrous, complimentary Popeye from last month suddenly returned with a vengeance. There was hand holding and admiring glances and more compliments than I could shake a stick at. Eventually, Felix drifted off, probably because I was too busy saying thank you and being distracted by the hand on my ass to listen to anymore of his poems.

  I hadn’t seen this side of Popeye before: the competitive, possessive side. It was hot. I looked around the room to see if there were any other patsies who could help me incite jealousy in him.

  Like a gift from God, the buzzer rang.

  By this point, I’d given Adrian up as a lost cause but then, at a quarter to midnight, a full three hours after he promised to show up, there he was with a marshmallow bunny on a stick and a mate called James about whom I’d heard only filthy, deviant things. I immediately introduced him to Lucy, who was looking increasingly worn out by Max’s insistence on playing the acoustic version of Jay-Z’s ‘Can I Get A …’.

  I took Adrian’s proffered bunny and, with something approaching glee, introduced him to Popeye.

  The two shook hands, Popeye puffing himself up considerably in his button-down while Adrian looked on shiftily, a little grin on his face.

  ‘Hello! How are you, Cunningham? I’ve not seen you in ages!’

  ‘I know! I don’t know why it’s been so long …’ I smiled at Adrian while trying to burn a hole through his forehead with my eyes.

  ‘We mustn’t leave it so long next time.’ He turned his attention towards Popeye. ‘And you must be Lauren’s beau. At last, to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much. How long have you two been together now? A year? Two? Any nuptial plans on the horizon? She’s not getting any younger, you know!’

  Popeye dropped my hand like it was on fire.

  ‘Perhaps you’re thinking of someone else. Lauren and I have only been out a few times, though she is an amazing lady.’ Popeye gave me an alligator grin and I heard Adrian stifle a laugh.

  ‘Hmm. Yes, maybe I’m thinking about the bloke she used to go out with. Very good-looking, him. Such an artistic air about him. Wasn’t he a writer, Cunningham? What was his name again?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ I hissed.

  ‘I remember you saying how good he was in bed, too. Whatever happened to him?’

  Popeye took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Lauren hasn’t told me much about her love life.’

  ‘Well, there’s lots to learn! Lots to learn.’ And he didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘I can’t think of anything worth recalling in recent months, actually,’ I said as I pulled Popeye away. ‘Help yourself to the gin in the bathtub, Adrian. Careful you don’t drown.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me!’ Adrian said as he made a beeline for the bathroom door. ‘I’m known for my buoyancy.’

  ‘What an asshole,’ I said. ‘Sorry about that. Do you want another drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. So who’s this chap he was talking about?’

  ‘Oh, no one. Just some idiot I used to date. Old news.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and then he kissed me for the first time that night. ‘I don’t like competition.’

  The evidence indicated otherwise.

  20 May

  ‘Oh God, what happened last night?’ Lucy was standing in front of me in last night’s dress and a pair of slippers.

  ‘I think you made out with Adrian’s friend. Coffee?’

  ‘James? Oh no. Yes to coffee, though.’

  I flicked the kettle on and got out an extra mug. ‘Don’t worry, you just kissed. He whispered something into your ear and you flew into a rage and threw him out. I think it may have been something about a threesome.’

  ‘Ugh. Why are men always asking for threesomes? If I want to have one, they’ll bloody well know about it.’

  ‘I know. It’s like kids begging for chocolate before dinner time. You just want to slap their hand and say “Not now!” ’

  ‘Did Adrian go with him?’

  An image of him staggering out the door holding a bottle of gin and bellowing the words to ‘Engine Engine Number 9’ flashed through my head.

  ‘Yeah, I think so. He was such a jackass last night in front of Popeye.’

  ‘That’s hardly a surprise. What happened with Popeye? I saw you two snogging on the sofa.’

  ‘He left a couple of hours ago.’ I handed her a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

  ‘Ooh. So? How was it this time? Still a one-man show?’

  ‘It was … vigorous. Lots of lifting up and putting down and spinning around.’

  ‘Ooh!’

  ‘I knew I was on to a winner with those arms. Although it did feel like he was trying to prove something. You know when it’s like you’re having sex with a dude who’s performing for the camera even if there’s no camera there?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘I mean, he was calling out directions at one point. It was all “arch this” and “bend that”. I was Debbie, and we were definitely in Dallas.’

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘Sounds a bit much.’

  ‘Honestly, I blame the Internet. Every guy now seems to think he’s auditioning for YouPorn.’ My eyes widened. ‘Oh my God, you don’t think he’d put us on YouPorn, do you? My parents just learned how to use Google – what if they find it?’

  ‘I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, love. I’m sure you would have noticed if he’d been filming you.’

  ‘That’s true. I don’t think he would have managed all of the acrobatics if he was juggling a phone in one hand.’

  ‘Well, at least you had a decent shag. Max was nowhere to be found this morning.’ A shadow of dread suddenly passed over Lucy’s face. ‘Wait … what exactly happened to Max?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you threw his guitar out the door.’

  ‘Oh God.’ A pause. ‘Oh fuck.’ A second pause. ‘I remember now. He kept insisting on playing the acoustic version of everything, and when I tried to lure him into my bedroom, he said he’d be disappointing his audience if he left.’

  ‘Musicians, eh?’

  ‘Fuck it, I’m glad I tossed his guitar out.’

  ‘There’s always James,’ I trilled.

  Lucy buried her face in a sofa cushion. ‘Don’t remind me.’

  I slunk away to the balcony to check my emails. There were a couple of promising Castaway candidates so I tried to set up dates with them for the following week. I needed to get a coterie together by the end of the month and time was seriously running out.

  After my third email, my phone flashed up with that familiar phrase: Are You Drunk? I picked up on the fourth ring.

  ‘What the fuck do you want, Adrian?’

  ‘Is that any way to talk to an old friend?’

  ‘When that friend is an asshole, yes.’

  ‘Come on, Cunningham! I brought you a marshmallow last night! No one who brings confectionery can be a complete arsehole.’

  ‘You also pissed off the guy I’m seeing for no apparent reason and tried to convince him that I’m a giant slut. So yeah, you’re an asshole. Marshmallow or not.’

  ‘Ah, I was only joking. Besides, that bloke seems like he has a rod up his arse.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman, actually. And he has great arms.’

  ‘Mmph. So you’re, like,
seeing him?’

  ‘I dunno. I guess so. Sort of.’

  ‘Sounds exciting. Him and his big arms.’

  ‘It is, actually.’

  ‘Look, let me get you dinner. To make up for the eggs thing, and for being a knob last night, and for being a twat in general.’

  Dinner. I had never had dinner with Adrian. We hadn’t had a dinner-having sort of relationship. At the very most, we’d had a meet-in-the-pub-for-a-chat-beforehand relationship.

  ‘Dinner, eh? Okay … though I’m not paying for it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not into supporting starving artists.’

  ‘Give me some credit. Jesus. I’ll cook and everything.’

  I had lost the power of speech by this point, so I grunted my consent and then hung up. What. The. Fuck.

  I guess this jealousy thing works on more than just Popeye.

  24 May

  The flirting project had gotten slightly out of control; I couldn’t seem to stop making eyes with everyone.

  Cathryn and I went to our favorite lunch place after a meeting at Imperial College about a potential lecture series. I realized that she was watching me with hawk-eyed suspicion.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice what you were doing to that poor defenseless man on the counter,’ she said as we walked back to the office.

  ‘What?’ I said, clutching my overflowing salad box. He had been more generous than usual, and I suppose it may have had something to do with the fact I told him that he was looking particularly dashing …

  Later, when waiting for the elevator at work, a couple of moving men pushed past us carrying a large desk.

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ Cathryn said, shaking her head.

  ‘What?! I didn’t even look at them!’

  ‘Well, it seemed like you were flirting with the burly one. At least, I think he thought you were flirting.’

  ‘You’re being paranoid,’ I said, flicking a quick wink at the burly mover.