‘It’s sad, really. Now let’s get some food into you.’
After watching Cathryn suspiciously spear bits of kofte into her mouth (‘Are you sure this is lamb?’), I went home and wrote up my notes from the night’s experiment.
While it hadn’t been a raging success, I had managed to make conversation with three groups of strangers. Sure, two of those groups descended quickly into argument, and I’d seriously tarnished Cathryn’s gleaming reputation with the third, but it was progress nonetheless. I couldn’t help thinking that what Cathryn said was true, though: men communicate with their friends in very different ways than women, and trying to apply the same rules to both doesn’t always work out smoothly.
9 July
I decided to do a little bit of music research in advance of Sleepy Eyes’s gig on Thursday.
I hadn’t been to a gig in years (other than weird Max’s, which obviously didn’t count). The music scene in Portland had been, shall we say, niche; while I didn’t object to the banjo, it wasn’t necessarily enough to get me to change out of my pajamas on a Saturday night and hit the town.
I sat down with my laptop and put iTunes on shuffle as I made dinner, hoping that it would throw up some forgotten indie gem I could casually drop into conversation on Thursday night.
I’d been lulled into a false sense of security by an excellent run of early Justin Timberlake while chopping onions, so when the first strains of the song came on, it took me a second to register what it was. As soon as I realized, I threw the knife in the sink and leapt across the room to the laptop, mashing the keys with my damp fingers, but it was too late: Stevie Wonder’s voice had been released into the air, and ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ was in my head. I sat down on the kitchen floor and put my head in my hands.
It had been our song. When we moved into our first apartment, the first thing we unpacked was our beat-up stereo. We’d put the volume up as loud as it would go and danced with each other in the kitchen, me in my dad’s old overalls and him in faded jeans speckled with dried paint. He held me in his arms and sang the words softly into my ear, and I thought to myself, ‘This is what it means to be in love. This is what it means to be an adult.’
We moved out a few months later – the bathtub leaked and the upstairs neighbor had a passion for salt cod, the smell of which had permeated all of our clothes – but the song stuck around. Well, for as long as I had.
I gathered myself up off the floor and called Meghan. When an iTunes ambush strikes, only a sister can help.
11 July
I’d spent my lunch hour locked in the toilet, staring at myself in a compact mirror and reciting the book’s mantra: ‘You are perfection. You deserve only the very best. People feel privileged to speak with you. You are magnetic. You are irresistible.’
When I emerged, Cathryn looked at me strangely.
‘Were you talking to yourself in the toilet?’ she asked.
‘Just giving myself a little pep talk about tomorrow’s meeting,’ I said. In truth, the pep talk had been more focused on Sleepy Eyes’s gig, but I was too embarrassed to admit that to Cathryn, and we did have a big meeting coming up tomorrow.
‘How very … American of you,’ she said, turning back to her spreadsheets.
With a little cajoling and the promise that I’d lead a group of six-year-olds on the museum tour tomorrow, Cathryn agreed to cover for me so I could slip out early in order to get ready for the gig tonight. I poured myself into my skinniest pair of black jeans, rimmed my eyes with an entire pot of kohl and, after a swift vodka or two, I was ready.
I had managed to lure Lucy out of her love cocoon to join me. I hadn’t seen much of her in recent days, so I explained my next mission to her on the way to the bar.
‘I’ve mastered opening, apparently, and now have to move on to disqualifying.’
Lucy took a drag on her cigarette and checked her reflection in the window of a pop-up fried chicken joint. ‘What the hell is disqualifying?’ she asked as she adjusted her cleavage.
‘Basically, I have to get the guy to try to impress me rather than the other way round. It’s some sort of power switcheroo.’
‘Right. And how are you meant to do that?’
‘I’m supposed to figure out what I think his insecurities might be and then push his buttons.’
‘Hang on, is that what this book is telling men to do? Make women feel like shit about themselves?’
‘Yeah, that’s part of it. Though in my experience, a lot of men don’t need to read a book to do that.’
‘There is something terribly familiar in all this. It’s like smelling an awful, rancid smell, but not quite being able to trace it.’
‘I know what you mean. When I started reading the book, I was sure I recognized moves guys had pulled on me before, but I couldn’t connect them with any one person.’
‘Thank God Tristan’s nothing like that.’
I looked at her dubiously. ‘What, he’d never pull this sort of stuff? An alpha male like him? Get real.’
‘I’m telling you, there’s no way he would ever treat me badly. He says I’m his princess and he’s just a serf living in my kingdom.’
‘He does not!’
‘He does! He says he lives to serve me.’
The whole thing creeped me out a little, but I did my best to hide it. I knew Lucy had had a rough time with a few dickheads in the past, so I was happy that she’d found someone who treated her well, even if I thought it was a little over the top. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘He sounds like a keeper.’
Lucy’s eyes glazed over again. I was getting used to it. ‘He really is.’
‘Oh, brother. C’mon, let’s get in there. They’re on in fifteen minutes.’
‘What’s his band called again?’
‘Languid Brother Machine.’
‘What the fuck is that meant to mean?’
‘Christ knows. I’ll be sure to hit on that when I’m insulting him later on.’
Watching Sleepy Eyes on the drums was a near-spiritual experience. He gave me a wink at one point and I almost had a stroke. I had a theory about drummers: if they had that sort of rhythm on stage, it only followed that they would have it in bed. Ever the science devotee, I was determined to test the hypothesis.
‘Is that the one?’ Lucy yelled in my ear.
I nodded.
‘Fuck, Lo, he’s hot!’
‘I know!’ I shouted back.
‘Don’t be mean to him! Have sex with him!’
‘One thing is meant to lead to the other!’
The set ended and Sleepy Eyes climbed off the stage, sending that slow grin my way as he ambled over.
‘Nice to see you,’ he said as he leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. He smelled like sweat and stale cigarettes. I fought off the urge to lick him.
Instead, I made a face and wiped my cheek with my palm. ‘Eugh, you’re all sweaty!’ I gave him what I hoped was the book’s ‘playful swat’. ‘This is Lucy, by the way.’
He nodded towards her.
Lucy turned pink and showed him her dimples. ‘You were great,’ she said breathily.
‘Cheers.’ He turned back to me. ‘I’ve got to go talk to the lads about the set. You around later?’
I looked at Lucy, who was nodding furiously.
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’
‘Cool.’ He reached out and brushed his hand up my arm.
‘Hands off the merchandise!’ I said. ‘Touching me doesn’t come cheap. You owe me forty pounds.’
He looked startled, then shook his head and smiled as he walked away.
Lucy grabbed my wrist. ‘What is WRONG with you?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s called flirting,’ I said smugly.
‘You’re acting like an arse.’
‘That’s the whole point! Think about how many douchebag guys we’ve fallen for in the past. There’s got to be something in it.’
We watched Sleepy Eyes lope off to the bar; his white T-shirt was
translucent with sweat and clung to the muscles on his slim back.
Lucy grasped my arm, hard. ‘You have to sleep with him. It would be some sort of crime against womankind if you didn’t. Please stop being mean to him.’
‘I’m not being mean! I’m doing the power switcheroo!’
She shook her head. ‘If you blow it because of this bloody experiment …’
‘Hey, that’s science you’re talking about!’
We spent the next hour pressed against the back wall, listening to a band entirely comprising banjo and ukulele players, while pouring as much alcohol down our necks as we could get our hands on. I spotted glimpses of Sleepy Eyes through the crowd, leaning against the side of the stage and talking to a man I quickly recognized as the aviator from the other night. Thank God Cathryn wasn’t here.
‘Speak to him!’ Lucy said, giving me a little shove.
‘No way. Not yet.’
‘I don’t know how much more ukulele I can stand.’
‘We’ll go soon, I promise. I’ll buy you a cocktail at Happiness Forgets.’ I was doing a lot of friend-bribing this month.
Twenty minutes passed, and I was about to give up when Sleepy Eyes made his way across the room back to Lucy and me. He was so languid, he was practically a liquid.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, running his fingers through his dark curls and revealing a sliver of torso in the process. ‘Band stuff.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘You’re fired.’
‘Fair enough.’ He took a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his back pocket. ‘Smoke?’
I felt Lucy place her hand on my back and give me a firm shove.
We walked outside and sat down at an empty table around the corner. He pulled out two cigarettes, tapped them on the inside of his wrist and offered one to me. I hadn’t smoked Reds since a brief stint with a Frenchman last October and I felt my lungs contract in protest on the first puff.
‘I can’t believe you smoke these things,’ I said, pleased to finally have a genuine criticism I could launch at him.
He shrugged.
‘They’re pure rat poison and arsenic.’
He shrugged again.
‘You would smoke them, though. You should just go whole-hog James Dean and roll the pack up in the sleeve of your T-shirt.’
Another shrug. ‘They fall out.’
‘Whatever,’ I said, sulking visibly. I gave up. It was like trying to anger a turnip. I stubbed out my cigarette and stood up. ‘I’m going to get going.’
He turned to me and gave me that slow smile, then stretched himself over the table, slid his fingers through my hair and kissed me. He bit my lip as he drew away, then smiled again. ‘Later,’ he said, and sat back down to finish his cigarette.
I went back inside, grabbed Lucy and pulled her out of the bar.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look as though you’ve been drugged.’
‘He kissed me,’ I whispered.
‘Thank fuck for that! Why are we leaving?’
‘Because I said I was going to leave right before he kissed me. I was trying the power switcheroo.’
‘So he kissed you and then you just walked away?’
‘What else could I do? He didn’t exactly beg me to stay! He just sat back down and smoked his stupid gross cigarette!’
Lucy stopped short. ‘Lo, you’ve got to go back there! A hot drummer just kissed you. Do you have his number?’
‘No.’
‘Does he have yours?’
‘No.’
‘For fuck’s sake! How are you going to see him again?’
‘I don’t know, okay?! I have no idea. Maybe he’ll track me down?’
‘No offense, babe, but he doesn’t seem inclined to track down his own pants, never mind a woman who just spent an evening telling him how shit he is.’
‘You’re right,’ I mumbled.
‘Now, we’re going to go back there and you are going to get his number. Isn’t this month meant to be about you being the man?’
‘Kind of.’
‘And how long has it been since you had sex?’
‘Too long.’
‘Well then, be a man! Go back there and get him!’
I knew when I was beaten. We turned around and trudged back to the bar to find Sleepy Eyes standing outside.
‘Thought you’d left,’ he said as we bustled past.
‘Lucy forgot her scarf,’ I said, ignoring the fact that it was a balmy July night.
Sleepy Eyes raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth.
‘Yes, silly me!’ Lucy sang. ‘I’ll be right back – you stay here!’ I owed her at least three drinks by that point.
I rocked back on my heels, looked up at the sky and tried to whistle. I could feel him watching me but couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I thought I might explode in some sort of awkwardness immolation.
He leaned against the wall and started whistling, too.
After a few minutes, Lucy emerged empty-handed. ‘Couldn’t find it,’ she said. ‘Someone must have got there first.’
‘Big demand for scarves these days,’ Sleepy Eyes drawled.
‘You’re so right,’ Lucy said. ‘Are we ready to go? Do you have everything, Lauren?’ She gave me a significant look.
‘Um, yep, I think so …’ I started to walk away, then turned back to Sleepy Eyes as though just struck by a brilliant thought. ‘Actually, we’re having a get-together in a couple of weeks. Just dinner with a few friends. You should come. Maybe. Whatever.’ I had just skipped ahead by several missions and was in unfamiliar territory.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘You got a pen?’
I pulled a Bic out of my bag and handed it to him. He took my wrist and wrote his number on the inside of my arm. I felt like I was back in high school (or what I imagined high school would have been like if I’d been popular).
‘Cool,’ I said, hoping my face wasn’t too bright a shade of magenta.
I linked my arm through Lucy’s and we sauntered away as casually as we could manage until we knew we were out of his sightline, then dissolved into hysterics.
‘I’m gonna get laid! I’m gonna get laid!’ I sang while doing a little jig.
Lucy clapped her hands together. ‘He is soooo fit! Well done!’
‘It’s all down to you, my friend. You were like my spirit-guide back there.’
‘I hate to see a gorgeous man go to waste. Now what’s all this about a dinner party?’
‘Yeah, I was going to talk to you about that …’
The book’s final mission was to throw a dinner party and invite a bunch of interesting people, including any people you’d managed to successfully game over the month.
‘Sounds like a laugh,’ she said. ‘I’ll invite Tristan. It’ll be fun!’
‘It’ll be something,’ I muttered.
I got my trusty notebook out when I got home and jotted down what I knew about him:
Name: Sleepy Eyes
Age: I don’t think I want to know. 23?
Occupation: Part-time drummer, full-time hipster
Nationality: English
Description: Slim, curly brown hair, dark-brown eyes, looks like he fell out of a dumpster (in the best possible way)
Method: The Rules of the Game
17 July
Today’s mission was to note down interesting upcoming cultural events in a possible-date diary and to read a men’s magazine in public and ask a male passer-by for his opinion on one of the articles.
I went to the bookstore on my lunch hour, sneaking in past the new owner as he was busy debating Albert Camus’s football career with an irate Frenchman wearing a trilby.
I thumbed through a copy of Time Out and jotted down notes in my notebook. This wasn’t the first time I’d made notes of upcoming cultural events, but if I followed the book’s guidelines, it would be the first time I actually attended aforementioned cultural events rather than brushing them off in favor of sitting in my living r
oom and watching back-to-back episodes of Biggest Loser USA while drinking wine and eating stale seasonal chocolates.
When I first moved to London, I felt a constant low-level guilt about not spending every free moment gallery-hopping and attending free experimental jazz concerts, but after a few months I realized that no one who lives in London actually does any of those things. Time Out is basically just a list of things you might have gone to if you hadn’t been so busy getting drunk in your local pub or nursing your hangover in your living room. I felt infinitely comforted by the thought.
But this month was going to be different, or at least I was going to do a better job of pretending that it was going to be different. Events noted down included a food festival on Columbia Road, an art installation in Hanover Square and a debate on gender politics in Bloomsbury. I was already mentally preparing excuses as to why I hadn’t gone to any of them.
First part of the homework done, I turned to the men’s magazine. The book encouraged readers to read Cosmo and then flag down a woman and ask her opinion on a particular article. I couldn’t imagine any man doing this without expiring from embarrassment, as most Cosmo articles are about sex tips involving gelatin and nipple tassels.
I figured the male equivalent was Maxim. I flipped through the first few pages and realized there weren’t all that many conversation-sparking articles in it. It was mainly photos of women in their underwear and guys with bloodied heads. I soldiered on.
‘Excuse me,’ I asked a man in his early forties who was stationed firmly in front of a rack of computer magazines, ‘would you say that this is accurate?’ I pointed to a random article about something called ‘felching’. I assumed it was some sort of muddy obstacle course invented by the Marines.
‘Sorry?’ he said, looking flushed.
‘Felching,’ I repeated. ‘Apparently it’s all the rage with guys at the minute?’
‘I’m afraid I really couldn’t comment on that,’ he said and hustled away.
‘Christ, I’m sorry I asked,’ I muttered.
I looked back down at the article and started to read. I felt my ears begin to tingle, then burn. There was no mention of running or rope climbs, but there were some pretty disturbing pixellated photos accompanying the article.
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