by Zoe Foster
Dan just radiated…something. Insouciance blended with a dash of confidence, most likely. But he wasn’t overcompensating the way super-hot or super-wealthy dudes do. He was well-dressed, in unbranded jeans and a dark T-shirt, and he reminded me of that actor from The Motorcycle Diaries. He had fluffy long hair, which was endearing in a fashion-ignorant way.
Dan must not have sensed how predatory I was feeling, because he kept smiling in my direction. I decided to strike. Breaking several of my hardcore-bitch rules en route:
I sauntered over to him. (Violation of Rule No. 34)
I initiated the conversation. (Violation of Rule No. 56)
‘So. You’re that famous guy, huh?’ It was a line Jacinta had put into her latest ‘How to Find a Good Guy’ article. I’d been dying to try it. The fact that I had on my Boozy the Clown shoes helped. Right now I was the funniest, sauciest girl in the world; irresistable pick-up lines fell from my mouth with ease and perfect timing.
‘Um… I don’t think so. But I can be, if it helps?’
Perfect.
‘No, no, being common is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m Hannah, by the way. Totally common Hannah.’
He smiled. ‘Dan. But you can call me Famous Guy.’
‘Accent, huh? That’s not very common.’ As I rearranged my hands, I nicked the tip of my glass. Wine splashed all over my top.
Dan tried not to smile as he watched me frantically blot it.
‘So, now that I’ve proved that I’m definitely common…’
‘I’m from LA,’ he said, pouring more wine into my glass.
‘So you’re trying to be famous?’
‘Nah, who needs fame when you’re already a multi-millionaire?’
Oh, he was good. I laughed and sipped my drink.
After an hour of flirty getting-to-know-you talk, I discovered that Dan was a property developer-slash-real-estate agent-slash-crazy entrepreneur who was about to become obscenely rich. He worked with his brother selling ridiculously expensive property for people with too much money and not enough time; he’d then reinvest their money into commercial developments that would make the clients far more money, because even though they didn’t actually need the extra cash, they enjoyed having it all the same. I also learnt that Dan never finished high school, that he hated bananas because their consistency reminded him of snot, and that he wanted desperately to own a python. I found all of this fascinating, especially as I’d been known to eat up to three bananas a day. But eventually I grew bored of the usual platitudes and began speaking with lascivious intonation. (Violation of Rule No. 98)
According to Iz, who swore she saw the whole shonky honeytrap assembled, and who tried in vain to hold back snorts of laughter as she retold the story the next day, I winked at him before going to get him a drink. (Violation of Rule Nos. 23 and 45)
But it worked. We moved to the sofa and kept talking while the party wound down around us. I have no idea what about, but he was very funny and clever and knew lots of things about lots of things. I suspect I was terribly engaging and witty too, as he seemed to be enjoying himself. Or else he was drunk.
In any case, when he stood up and asked if he could walk me home, I happily accepted.
On the street I took off my shoes, which I never did, but they were new and absolutely killing me.
‘I never do this, I swear. I have never been the tramp with her shoes off at the end of the night.’
‘Actions speak louder than—’ I threw a shoe at him.
Once we reached my door, I turned and smiled at him. ‘So…this is where it gets awkwa—’
He swooped in and kissed me.
We stood there and kissed. We fell against the wall. I gripped the back of his head, and then he moved his hands up under my Safari shirtdress to squeeze my bum. My brain was screaming ‘TAKE HIM UPSTAIRS,’ but, immediately after, my conscience piped up with, ‘No! You mustn’t! You’ve just met him!’ I felt daring, as though I was being offered an opportunity that would only come along every so often, where I could be wild and crazy and throw caution to the midnight breeze, and live, just for a few wild hours. Then I thought of my rules. Nuts.
‘What happens now?’ Dan mumbled, as he kissed my chest and I arched my back to let him.
‘You say goodbye and I go upstairs…’ I said slowly, reluctantly.
‘Alone?’
‘Yesss, alone…’ I hated what was coming out of my mouth. I so, so wanted him to come upstairs. It had to be a clean break or I would never go.
‘OkayI’mgoingnow!’
I broke free of his grip, turned my key in the lock and jumped through the door of my apartment-block foyer. I turned to face Dan before closing it. His hair was everywhere and his face was flushed.
His eyes were disbelieving.
‘You cheeky little monkey,’ he said with a smile, straightening up his jeans. ‘I’ll get you, don’t you worry.’ He started walking backwards.
‘We’ll see…’ I replied, smiling, as I closed the door.
I looked at my reflection in the lift. My hair and make-up would frighten the elderly and I had a smile that suggested marijuana use. I glanced at my phone. Ah yes, the very respectable time of 4.34 a.m. Thank God it was Sunday.
Once in my bedroom, I removed my make-up with the facial wipes I kept in my bedside drawer for late, lazy nights, and fell into bed, the goofy, gooey smile refusing to leave my face. I hadn’t felt a glow like this for a long time. There was a quiet, urgent voice bubbling away in the back of my head, whispering caution about getting hurt again, but I chose to ignore it.
At around 11 a.m. Iz came around and we cooked up bacon and eggs and laughed at how ill the other looked. She was wearing a frilly summer dress over jeans, with ballet slippers, a scarf, large hoops and sunglasses on her head. None of it matched.
‘You look like shit.’
‘You look worse. Thought you beauty editors told us not to go to bed wearing slap.’
‘I took it off! This is just…leftovers.’
She laughed and I sighed dramatically. I felt like hell.
‘So, do you think Dan will call?’
I hoped so. I’d already checked my phone three times. ‘Not sure. I’m pretty sure I gave him my number, but who knows? And anyway, he could be a total flake.’
‘Doubt it. He spent all night with you. And he didn’t turn when you didn’t sleep with him. He’ll call,’ she said knowingly.
‘Well, we’ll see. Joowanna see a movie?’
She looked at me for a second before answering. ‘I’m supposed to work on a new menu, but yeah. Screw it. Let’s go.’
Once we got into the movie, a silly romantic comedy, Iz promptly fell asleep, while I ate my body weight in cold salty popcorn. When we walked out, Iz went into the bathroom and I checked my phone. Two missed calls from a private number. I listened to the voicemail.
It was him. Dan had called, asking to see me that night.
I hung up with a whopping big grin. There was a small envelope still on my phone; I checked my inbox. There was a text from a number that I didn’t recognise.
Girl with no shoes reported on Carlot St at approx 4 a.m. Please call back if you have any details about this barefooted fugitive.
Oh, he was funny. And cute. And wanted to see me tonight. Iz had come back from the loo looking one drip of morphine off comatose.
I grabbed her hands and squealed, ‘He called, he called, and he wants to see me tonight!’
She immediately came to life. ‘Oooooh! Honey! Look at you! You’re all excited!’
‘But I can’t see him tonight – no way, that’s too keen. You know my rules: three days till tickets to the second show are available.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Han. Cut it out. Be human for once and see the poor guy. Didn’t you say he was going back to LA soon? To sell Donald Trump’s beach house or whatever? Live a little!’
‘How do you expect men to value your time if you drop everything to see them at a few hours’ notic
e? You might as well have a flashing neon sign saying: “I have no life.”’
‘Right. And which plans, exactly, would you be dropping for him?’
I sighed, exasperated. ‘Not the point. It’s about making them wait for you, pine for you, get excited about seeing you again.’
‘You’re insane. You sound like a Fifties housewife. See the boy or miss out on what could have been excellent. Regret what you do, not what you don’t – isn’t that what you used to say?’
‘I’ve changed, baby.’
‘For the worse. I know Jesse screwed you over, but that doesn’t mean every guy is out to hurt you. Text him and say yes.’
‘Gosh, someone needs some sleep.’
‘I won’t argue with that. But my point still stands.’
As we drove home, I struggled with what to do. Seeing him tonight really would be going against all my rules. But then, I’d already broken most of them last night…
‘All right. I’ll go,’ I said, leaning my head back on the passenger seat and sighing dramatically.
‘Course you will. Good girl,’ Iz said with a smug smile.
Now I just had to text him. And it had to be good.
I have heard of this creature. She drinks too much and does inappropriate things with boys she does not even know. She must be locked up immediately.
I hit send and waited nervously. What if he didn’t respond?
Twenty minutes went by. Nothing. I took it out on Iz. ‘See, this is why I’ve sworn off men. They are torture. They do my head i—’
The magical two beeps chimed in.
I will send squad car five at nineteen hundred hours to collect her. Try your best to keep her sedated till then, as it is very very very important we capture her tonight. VERY. Very.
He was winning. I melted more and more each time I reread his text. How could I possibly rebuff? He was practically telling me he wanted to father my children.
Refer to said alcohol consumption: if she were any more sedated, she would be comatose. Make sure officers wear full uniform. In one size too small.
I wasn’t anxious as I got ready – the one upside to a hangover is the numbing of nerves – and when seven hit, Dan called to say he was outside. I was impressed with his punctuality. I was impressed with everything he did. Kisses especially…
I strutted outside like I did this kind of thing all the time. I was dressed in what Iz deemed to be a no-fail date outfit: jeans that made me look skinny (as opposed to my skinny jeans, which made me look fat), saucy tan heels that made my coral toenails look like yummy little lollies, and a white singlet filled with chicken fillets and a push-up bra, which would serve to remind him that I was the proprietor of mammary glands.
He looked me up and down from his driver’s seat. The car was a Hertz hire car, a dull white family sedan. ‘Service car, babe. Ferrari’s getting some work.’ He winked and nodded sleazily.
I laughed.
‘You look fresh, so fresh!’ he said with zest.
I liked him even more. ‘Fresh’ is one of the highest compliments you can offer a woman. I jumped in, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then on the mouth. I giggled like a schoolgirl. He looked hot, in that same devil-may-care, I-didn’t-put-in-any-effort way. He was wearing a blue grandpa-style top, checked golf pants and fruity pink-and-yellow Adidas trainers, which he caught me gawking at.
He had style. His own style. Jesse always wore the same thing: jeans and a collared shirt.
After a few ridiculous exchanges about the monster with no shoes escaping once more to terrorise the neighbourhood, we arrived at a posh pub near the house Dan was staying in. Once inside, he took charge, ordering two glasses of a lovely red wine, salami-swamped antipasto and some salt-and-pepper squid.
‘And what if I were vegetarian?’ God, I was being so flirty.
‘Ah, but you’re not, because I saw you eating that sausage sandwich earlier this morning. At roughly 2 a.m., if memory serves.’
Aw, he remembered me laying into a late-night booze meal. This could be love.
‘You’ve got me there.’
‘You say this with surprise? Hannah, you’re not giving me enough credit.’
Who was this man? He was too good, too smooth. I wondered how many dates he must have been on, and how many women he must have bedded with these very same moves. It was probably in the hundreds. But, right then, I didn’t care. And so I flirted, and he flirted, and we were both clever and sharp, despite our hangovers, and it was dreamy.
‘So, why are you here again? Not that I wasn’t completely listening last night, of course…’
‘I’m looking at a development down on the river that’s about to be built. A lot of people back home are keen to invest here, because it’s a growth area and the tax is a joke for foreigners, and also because the girls here are supposed to be really loose.’
‘They are, are they?’ I smiled cheekily, internally amused that I could quite possibly be about to prove his joke to be correct.
‘The shoeless, sausage-sandwich-eating ones are supposed to be the loosest.’
I giggled and blushed. I’d never been with a guy who was so flirtatious, funny and sexy all at once. I was used to the three being exclusive.
After he told me a story about a malevolent squirrel, an overweight neighbour and his front doormat, which had me crying with laughter, I decided to buck all of the rules. I wanted to see him every day for the rest of his time here.
Which, at the end of the date, after a delicious goodnight kiss that involved wandering hands and gentle moans, I found out was only 11.3 days.
Thank God Iz had made me go out tonight.
If you expect sex, you won’t get it
Can’t master dark-coloured polish? The rules: nails filed short and neat. Cuticles pushed back. Polish to three millimetres above the cuticle to avoid an uneven, sloppy finish. No coffee before attempting application.
‘Because he is sexy. And leaving the country forever. And because I have decided to stop being so prim and dull, and start being the girl everyone expects you to be if you’re single and you work for Gloss magazine.’
Iz looked at me with a surprised smile. Then she cocked her head and grinned. ‘No explainers or disclaimers required, miss. I am beyond stoked that you have a fully fledged holiday fling going on. In your own hometown. And that you’ve stopped those silly rules, too.’
I wasn’t sure why I had worried about what Iz would think. Maybe I was now so used to the idea of being tough on guys that I was anxious Iz would think that had all been a façade, and the real me, the weak girl who fell for boys after one walk home and a date, had fallen so hard she had bruises.
‘I’ve gotta be at work in ten minutes, but I’m very happy for you, and I don’t want to even have the discussion about whether you should sleep with him tonight, because there is only one answer and it starts and ends with YES.’
An hour later I was heavily glossed and smoky-eyed and sitting across from Dan at a café frequented by people who liked to wear black and talk loudly about films and galleries. We were here because next door was an art-house cinema and we were off to a movie Dan had been dying to see. Which was about an Amazonian tribe and an ancient cursed canoe. Apparently.
As I sat across from him, wondering if he used product in his hair or if it just naturally went like that, and what our children might look like, I realised that Dan was everything Jesse was not.
He spoke with fervour about worldly things, was well-travelled, liked to cook, and was a brilliant surfer. He was an ‘active’ guy, whereas Jesse was a ‘papers and coffee’ guy. And, as any women’s glossy magazine will tell you, such a contrast to one’s ex is like kerosene to a freshly heartbroken girl’s flame.
Dan ate his mussel linguine, twirling it like a pro, as he talked about his impending snowboarding trip to Osaka. I started to speculate on whether I would in fact sleep with him later that night. The thought made me very nervous. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself. What
if I were no good? Or he was too good? Or he expected a head job? The more I thought about it, the more terrified I became. The solution was simple: I would have to get raucously drunk. I gulped down the remainder of my red wine.
Iz had been concerned nothing would happen because I had performed not one but two fateful acts of sexpectation: getting a Brazilian wax and cleaning my room. I knew the immutable law that if you expect sex, you won’t get it. Whereas if your room is a pigsty and you are wearing your nastiest, oldest undies, you’ll get lucky for sure.
I had to stop thinking about it; it was too much pressure. I was even biting my nails, which, as a beauty editor, was a very bad thing indeed. Especially as I was wearing red polish. You can always tell when a woman is getting some: she’ll have red nails. I was a case in point: the day after meeting Dan I applied a fire-engine red polish to my fingernails and I never wore red. Pink was as dark as I got. But now, since meeting Dan, I wanted red this and red that. Red lips, red dresses, red shoes. It was bizarre.
I stood out with my red talons – every other beauty editor wore OPI’s Bubble Bath. ‘It is easy to apply and maintain,’ I’d written in Gloss a few issues back, ‘and can be done at your desk three minutes before you race out the door!’
‘Hannah? Are you listening?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Sorry. What were you saying?’
‘Never mind. Hey, I like your dress. Your style is very LA, you know. Cool LA,’ he corrected himself. ‘West Hollywood LA. Not Beverly Kills LA.’
‘Um…thanks. Don’t they all wear velour tracksuits there?’
‘Not in my hood. It’s a velour-free zone. And you’re colourful, I like that you wear colour.’
I looked down. I was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot shirtdress, and black peep-toe patent pumps. It was another no-fail outfit: sexy but pretty, the kind that was perfect for a midweek afterwork date, because it was great for daytime functions but held its own at a restaurant, too. With an extra button undone, of course.
Hussy. I smiled coyly and took another enormous gulp of wine. I needed liquid courage. Lots of liquid courage. I realised, looking at his olive skin and watching him animatedly tell a story about the house he was staying in, that I didn’t want to see a movie, I wanted to talk and kiss in his car.
