Single in the City

by Unknown

  Tears are pricking my eyes. Relief? Yes, and the emotion of missing her. ‘I love you!’

  ‘You dope! I love you too. Now, you’re going to do this, right? Because if not, even though I’ll be happy to have you back, I’ll think you’re a wimp for giving up.’

  ‘I’m really going to try.’

  Of course I can do this. Just think of our founding fathers. They didn’t have hotels or recruitment agencies or savings accounts. They had famine and unfriendly Indians and outdoor plumbing, and they started a whole new country. What have I got to complain about?

  It’s time to push the universe a bit. And I know just where to start.

  5

  Surely it isn’t always considered stalking to track a man down at his place of employment. There are many legitimate situations where this is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. If you’re a doctor with his lab results, for instance, then obviously it’s expected that you’d get in touch. Or maybe you’re a telemarketer with an amazing opportunity, then he couldn’t blame you for calling. Perhaps you’re with the airline and his flight details to Bermuda have changed (he’ll be grateful you’ve let him know). Or what if you’re a friend of a friend who’s just moved into town and doesn’t know anyone else? Naturally, he’ll be happy to chat. I’m about as close to the last category as a girl can be without actually having a friend in common. So it’s not stalking.

  There’s a hiccup in my plan when I call the first company.

  ‘Mark who?’ the woman asks.

  What am I supposed to say, Mark the good kisser? Luckily my PR training has armed me for these sticky situations. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, projecting such confidence that she’ll naturally assume I’m a client, ‘but I didn’t catch his last name when he called.’

  ‘When he called’ may be a small lie but it’s a huge door-opener. Actually, he would have called if I’d had a phone number, so this isn’t a lie, it’s simply the anticipation of an eventual fact.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number. There’s no one here by that name.’

  ‘I see.’ My tone says I’m very sorry she’s putting me out like this. ‘Thank you very much. Good day.’

  The next two calls go the same way, each time the receptionist telling me that she’s sorry and afraid. Then, open sesame, I’ve got the right company. ‘One moment, please. May I tell him who’s calling?’

  May she? Of course she may. My lip is sweating. What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if he completely regrets ever meeting me? What if he tells the receptionist to say he’s not there? Or was fired? Or had to have an operation? What if he –

  ‘Hi, Hannah. How are you?’

  And the angels sing Hallelujah! ‘I’m great! Um, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, busy with work as usual.’

  ‘Oh.’…Now what am I supposed to say? I really should have thought this through better. Or at all. It’s probably too late to pretend it’s the wrong number and hang up. ‘Me too…I’m fine, I mean. Not busy with work. I don’t have a job. As you know.’ Surely he’s questioning his judgement in women at this point. ‘Erm, I met a new friend though. We went out for drinks the other night.’

  ‘Hmm, drinking again. That’s great. Should I be jealous?’

  Ah. Flirting I can do. ‘I don’t think so, she’s not really my type.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that…So, what are you doing now?’

  He sounds even sexier over the phone. ‘Nothing. Just hanging around…trying to stay out of trouble.’ Whereas I sound like a dimwit.

  ‘There’s no fun in that. Feel like meeting me for a drink?’

  ‘I thought you were busy with work.’

  ‘I’m the boss; I’m allowed to bunk off.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour?’

  ‘I’ll have to check my schedule. Hang on.’ One-hippopotamus, two-hippopotamus, three-hippopotamus. ‘Yes, I can fit you in this afternoon.’

  ‘Good. There’s a Balls Brothers on Brook Street, shall I meet you there at four? You can take the Tube to Oxford Circus.’

  ‘Okay, see you there!’

  This almost never happens. Men showing such obvious interest, I mean–I go to bars fairly regularly. He must think we have a future too, otherwise he wouldn’t leave work at the drop of a hat, when he’s obviously critical to his company, just to meet some girl that he’s already slept with. I admit it: if I knew his last name, I’d be tacking it on to Hannah just to see how it sounds.

  A date and a Tube ride; fortune strikes twice. I love the Tube. I’ve got my pick of cushioned seats. The fact that there are actual fabric cushions on public transportation speaks volumes for the country’s civility. Surely if they can’t be hosed down, there must be no need to. So not only is it clean, it has many considerate touches that you wouldn’t see anywhere else. Like classical entertainment. Yesterday there was a woman playing her cello for us at the bottom of the escalator. A cello! It’s a beautiful instrument, but not the obvious choice for portability. And when the trains are delayed, the man on the loudspeaker cheerfully tells us why, as in: ‘The train is delayed because there’s impersonator the drain.’ Only when the guy next to me muttered ‘Bloody top yourself on your own time’ did I realize there was a person under the train. Nausea aside, I admire this kind of honesty in public services.

  To be clear, I’m not spying on Mark. I’m killing time looking in the window before I’m due inside. He’s standing nonchalantly by the bar, laughing with the barmaid. Is he flirting with her? Surely not, not when he’s waiting for me to meet him. Though technically he’s only waiting for me because I called him. Isn’t there something seedy, and slightly needy, about that? I should be playing hard to get. Admittedly that’s hard to pull off now that I’ve stalked the man. Unfortunately, restraint isn’t one of my strongest qualities when it comes to the opposite sex. Whenever my better judgement suggests I don’t call, or write or follow, I’m plagued by that little voice that whines, ‘But I like him.’ I’m the girl who, when a guy claims illness as an excuse for not having called in a week, brings him soup.

  Catching sight of me at the door (thank god not through the window), he beams me a smile. Definitely the best-looking man ever to see me naked. I’ll play hard to get after today.

  ‘Hi!’ To kiss or not to kiss. Considering where our lips were a week ago, you wouldn’t think there’d be any question. I’m not going to make the first move. I will not, I will not. Unless he doesn’t.

  Mwah, mwah. I was under the impression that cheek-kissing one’s lovers went the way of the corset and the chamberpot (necessary at the time but thankfully no longer in use), but I suppose there’s a certain charm to it.

  ‘Come, let’s sit down. You’re looking well.’

  Did I look ill before? He must mean I look pretty. I should, considering the effort I put into my outfit (and in under an hour too). It’s not like I’m spoiled for choice, for despite an innate preoccupation with fashion, and several full suitcases to show for this, I have only a handful of good pieces. That’s what my mother calls them: ‘pieces’. She likes to tell me what ‘pieces’ ‘they’re’ wearing this season. My limited pieces are what make the decision tricky. Pacing is essential. If I peak too early, I’ll only disappoint later on. But let’s be frank, the second date is the most important. On the first date you’re generally either 1) drunk when you meet, so the goggles work their magic or 2) anticipating the date, so the rose-coloured glasses do the trick. The second date is when you see each other in the cold, hard light of day. It’s very important to be extra-impressive. For this reason I’m wearing my Missoni sweater with skinny jeans. Though it may cause me to have nothing to wear on a third, hopefully dinner date, it’s worth the risk.

  I’m suddenly nervous. I really like this guy. Plus I’ve never tried to manoeuvre my way into a job and a man’s bed at the same time before. ‘Nice place. Is it near your office?’

  ‘No. I just like it here. Stella?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, please. A half.’ He remembered. I don’t want to start looking for signs, but not every man would bother to remember your drink. He’s clearly had some training. I wonder who trained him. The American bitch? Many American bitches? Men are works in progress, and it’s usually a woman on the construction site. Some, of course, don’t even have their scaffolding up. They’re the ones you make sure you don’t get under.

  ‘So, do you usually sneak off from work to go drinking in the afternoon?’

  ‘Only when I don’t have my AA meeting.’

  ‘Drink too much?’

  ‘No, I drink just the right amount. Well, cheers. I’m glad you called.’

  ‘Happy to.’ With my hand clasped in his, it’s a little hard to concentrate on anything but the fact that he’s holding my hand!

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing since we last met. Have you had fish and chips yet?’

  ‘Not yet, and no cricket either.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the season. That leaves being seduced by the world’s greatest lovers.’

  Is he jealous? I hope so. ‘Is that in season?’

  ‘Always.’

  Maybe dropping a few hints will make him think he’s got some competition. Rivalry can be a great motivator. Psh, right. Look at this guy. His competition is in LA making blockbusters. ‘Nothing that exciting. I’ve been on the job hunt…’ Here’s my chance. Don’t blow it. Mmm. His eyes are lighter blue than the other night. They’re wonderful. I wonder if I look different. Maybe… maybe I should stop daydreaming and focus on the task at hand. ‘But no luck so far.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take long.’

  ‘I don’t know. If I don’t get something soon, I’ll have to go back home…I don’t suppose there’s anything at your company?’ If I smile like I’m kidding, maybe he won’t take offence. I’d hate for him to think I’m just after him for a job when I really want sex and a job.

  ‘Well, I think there could be. How’re your juggling skills?’

  ‘I’m a great multi-tasker.’ I knew this was a good idea!

  ‘No, I mean can you juggle?’

  ‘What, literally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’ Is it possible that I’ve literally slept with a clown? ‘Is juggling a prerequisite for working at your company?’

  ‘You do know what we do, right?’

  ‘Uh, you’re M&G Events. I assume you plan events.’

  ‘Ah, no. We staff events.’

  ‘Like the circus?’ Oh god, he is a clown. This has to be a new low in my dating career.

  ‘Not always. Can you eat fire?’

  ‘Eat fire!’

  ‘What about your clown skills. How are those?’

  …‘Right. You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m kidding. We plan events, parties, conferences, store launches and the like. The look on your face was priceless.’

  ‘So given that I can’t juggle or walk a tightrope, do you –’

  ‘Or eat fire. I have to wonder what those American schools are teaching these days.’

  ‘Right. Anyway, is there something, given my limited acrobatic skills, that you think I might be able to do for you?’

  ‘I think there is. Would you like another drink?’ I am the luckiest woman on the planet. Not only is the sexiest man in this bar (possibly in all of London) holding my hand like I’m his one true love, he’s going to give me a job. How great is this?

  Only…is this smart? Hasn’t moving here taught me anything? Barrelling ahead and sorting out the consequences later hasn’t exactly put me ahead of the game so far. Getting a job should be a decision I make, not an accident I stumble into. In the abstract, it might be a great idea to take a job from an amazingly handsome, sexy man that I’ve just slept with. But if I do, and I only got the job because we’ve slept together, does that make me a prostitute? I think the answer is yes. But the question is: do I care?

  a) I do care what people think of me, at least some people. I’m shallow like that. The people I care about include the ones I already know, plus anyone I might like to know in the future, like potential friends, boyfriends or employers.

  b) But none of the people I might like to know in the future will ever know the circumstances of my employment, unless I tell them.

  c) And the same is true for the people I already know. But unless I’m prepared to lie to them all, I’ll have to tell them.

  d) Ergo, the question is whether the people already in my life will judge me for taking a job from a man I’m sleeping with.

  e) Stacy definitely won’t. She’d do it in a second.

  f) My parents can’t judge me, they’re my parents. It’s in their contract.

  g) My grandmother judges everyone, but she’s senile, so she’ll forget all about it within a week.

  h) I’m 100 per cent sure that all the women in the new office will think I’m a slut if they find out, except anyone who’s like me and Stacy, and those are the ones I’d want to be friends with anyway, so I don’t care about the others.

  So there’s my answer.

  ‘I will have another, thanks. Make it a pint.’

  6

  Of course I take the job. No sane person would pass it up, not when the alternative is to go home, and certainly not given the fact that I’m going to get paid to attend A-list parties. Granted, I have to plan them first, and I’ll need to learn how to do that. And I have to be someone called Felicity’s assistant before that, but this miraculous series of events can’t be coincidence.

  My certainty that I was made for this job almost (almost) offsets the doubts I have about sleeping with the boss. Again. In my optimistic moments, I think, how bad can it be? It was such an amazing night, drinking at the bar, flirting and swapping stories, then dinner at the coolest tapas restaurant I’ve ever imagined. Then, yes, to bed for a marathon session (I was definitely in contention for the gold this time). It was the kind of night you’d remember for ever. A night like that has to lead to something and who knows, working with Mark might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If we fall madly in love, we’ll get to spend all our time together. We’ll be a team, like Clements Ribeiro (Suzanne and Inacio) or Dolce and Gabbana (before they broke up). And if we do eventually part ways, like Domenico and Stefano we’ll maintain an amicable professional relationship. But if I don’t take him up on his offer, then I’ll have to go back to Connecticut, with no chance to convince him to fall in love with me and no great job to distract me from the first two points.

  But the doubt creeps in at night, usually while I’m lying awake listening to the hotel’s creaking floorboards, trying not to think about the potential murder suspects wandering the halls. What if we’re not as mature as I hope we’ll be? What if he dumps me, then fires me? Or he dumps me but doesn’t fire me, and I have to face him every day? Or, worse still, what if I’m so terrible at my job that he has to fire me? It’s going to be very difficult to seduce him when he’s seen me bawl in front of HR. Then I’ll have to go home jobless, heartbroken and with my self-esteem puddling in my socks…Come to think of it, the worst-case scenario puts me exactly where I’d be if I didn’t take the job in the first place, minus the self-esteem puddle. So I have nothing to lose. Besides, I’m confident at least in the fact that I was born to be a party planner. I just didn’t know it until now.

  I’m missing only one ingredient (besides relevant experience): the perfect assistant-soon-to-be-party-planner wardrobe. Nothing says career success like the right trouser suit.

  ‘Sorry!’

  The entire population wants to pass me on its right-hand side. We meet, shuffle to my right, meet, shuffle right till one of us hits a building or falls off the kerb. Where does their compulsion to veer left come from, and more importantly, how am I supposed to survive in a city where I’m destined to knock foreheads with everyone I try passing in the street?

  It’s hard to fathom that ten million people live here. In a ten-mile radius. Do the math–that’s ab
out thirty square feet per person. Prisoners have bigger cells. New Yorkers might disagree, but London feels like the most crowded city in the world. Exciting and vibrant, but crowded. There are hordes of people everywhere, all the time, and they all want to be exactly where I’m standing/walking/sitting. Londoners are teaching me some very effective coping mechanisms though. For sheer passive-aggressive versatility, the tut is already a firm favourite. I first learned the technique when its originator stood three inches behind me and clucked in my ear. I think it’s shorthand for ‘Excuse me, please, may I get past you?’ Sometimes it coincides with a mild but well-aimed elbow, and is almost always followed up with the ‘huh’/eyeroll combination (‘Thank you very much’).

  There’s Chloe, trying to hold her position against the rising tide of shoppers. ‘Ready to shop?’ she asks as we air-kiss. Mwah, mwah, darling. It feels very posery, but everybody does it, and not even ironically. I suppose it’s no more odd than our compulsion to begin every social interaction with ‘Howareya?’ when we never intend for the question to be answered.

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’

  What a question. Only rookies try something this important without diligent preparation. I’m armed with every fashion magazine on sale here. They weren’t obvious to spot at first, buried under the rubble of crashed relationships and burned-out careers spread over the magazine shelves. Brits are obsessed with Hello!, OK! and Tatler, and aren’t even ashamed about reading these odes to sensationalized mediocrity. Not for them the ‘I must have picked it up by accident’ or ‘My sister left it here’ excuses that we use. They celebrate their voyeuristic tendencies, revelling in magnificent hyperbole. So, in the midst of all the infidelities and catfights, my fashion favourites coyly waved from the news-stand like old friends. There’s Vogue–hello Vogue! And InStyle…looking great as usual. Elle, always a pleasure, and Glamour, where did those shoes come from! Thumbing through these British cousins was an epiphany. The styles here are completely different. Can I really reinvent my look in a chain store? Must I no longer settle for the Gap-Banana Republic-Limited triumvirate of cookie-cutter fashion? It’s amazing, stupendous, a life-altering experience…