Single in the City

by Unknown

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ Central London now knows I didn’t keep my wax appointment.

  Twenty humiliating minutes later, we pull up in front of my apartment. ‘Thanks,’ I mumble as I smoothe down the front of my dress. Small civilities are important at moments like these.

  ‘No problem. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘What? I…’ It hadn’t crossed my mind. Do I owe him a drink or something? Or something? Just exactly what is he implying?

  ‘Well, I assumed when you flashed me –’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That you might be interested in getting together.’

  ‘First of all, I did not flash you because I like you–I did not flash you!’

  ‘I think you did. Are you sure you don’t want to go out sometime?’

  ‘Look, charming as your proposition is, I don’t think we’re exactly simpatico, do you?’

  ‘That did cross my mind. But I think you’re pretty, and you’ve got fight.’

  ‘And you like to date pretty fighters?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess it’s my thing.’

  ‘We don’t even know each other.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  At 4 a.m., I don’t have the will for banter. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘Then how are we going to get to know each other?’

  ‘I guess we’re not. Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you on Monday.’

  As I turn the key in the lock, I hear him say, ‘Wyoming.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wyoming. I’m from Wyoming.’

  Is that one of the square states in the middle? ‘Thanks, Sam. Goodnight.’

  Really. As if I’ve moved 3,000 miles to date a busboy from Wyoming.

  11

  I’m on the rebound, with Mark still rattling around in my head. I know the ‘experts’ say I should take a break from dating, have a little me-time to focus on what I want out of life and love. I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. I just mope around making ill-advised beauty choices and annoying my friends with long self-absorbed, repetitive conversations. I don’t care if it’s politically incorrect. The best way for me to get over a man is to get under another one. A sexy date trumps a seaweed mask in self-imposed exile any day.

  Potential may be the perfect balm to soothe my wounded heart. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be so optimistic, given the astronomical odds against meeting the love of your life on a speed-date, but I think we can agree that these are not normal circumstances. And Potential isn’t your normal man…at least, he isn’t my normal man. Not only is he interested (not always a given when it comes to the objects of my desire), he compounds his allure by being the most English Englishman I’ve ever met. Granted, my sample consists of Mark, London cabbies and Henry, our office accountant.

  ‘I know him, hnn. He was at school, hnn, with my brother.’

  When Chloe suggested that we get massages together, I naively thought she meant at the same spa. We’re in the same room. Naked, being kneaded, in the same room. I was right. English women’s nipples are just the icing on the proverbial uninhibited cake. I’m only here because she insisted on doing the legwork to find the best masseuse in town. It’s her way of saying thank you for running her extra keys around last week when she locked herself out. It was no big deal, I just had to stop home to get them and go to her place. I’d hate to know how she’d thank me if I helped her out of a real jam.

  ‘Which school?’ It could be one of the two I’ve heard of.

  ‘Eton.’

  ‘So he’s rich!’

  ‘Or upper class. Few are both, hnn. He’s probably from an old family.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Double-barrelled surname.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two surnames.’

  So hyphens in England are a sign of breeding, not feminism. It must get a little unwieldy after a couple generations of marrying well. Imagine the poor teachers at roll call. Penelope Spencer-Wessex-Salisbury-Churchill-Gladstone-St John-Smyth? Here, miss. Without wanting to jinx my chances at this early stage, I can say with 100 per cent certainty that I’d take his name if we got married. Giving up my own will deprive me of nothing but mortification. Just try being a twelve-year-old girl called Cumming when the boys in your class learn about sex. I heard more heavy breathing in my formative years than a phone-sex worker does in her whole career.

  ‘Take as long as you’d like to relax,’ croons my magic-fingered masseuse, handing me a little bowl of flower-scented water, ‘and when you’re ready, you can get dressed and someone will take you down to lunch.’ Do I drink it? Once bitten, twice shy after an embarrassing finger-bowl experience last year.

  What a nifty way to spend ninety minutes and most of a day’s pay. I can’t imagine ever feeling stressed again. I don’t even care that my towel fell off when I got up. Nudity be damned, that was wonderful, and the perfect way to prepare for my third date with Potential. That’s right, my third date. But I will not stupidly crow to all my friends about him until he’s officially my boyfriend, in case my inclination to vocalize good fortune proves too tempting for fate. That’s at least half the reason why I haven’t told Chloe till now. The other half is because there wasn’t much to brag about from the first two dates. I didn’t have a bad time, but I don’t have the prickly sweats either. It’s not helping that we haven’t even kissed, but I will not be disheartened. Some people just need a few dates to hit their stride. Besides, we’re a multicultural couple. That can’t be easy for him. Plus I’d hate to give up when he’s so obviously… rich.

  Perhaps finding out that he’s practically a lord is colouring my view, because Potential looks the epitome of the English country gentleman when I spot him in the pub. And he’s not flirting with the barmaid, which is a plus given recent events. His longish hair curls around his ears, though it’s hard to make out the style because it’s adorably windblown. He’s the right height to complement a girl’s rural fashions (wellie-tall rather than Manolo-tall) and he has at least a two-day stubble. This unshaven look is incredibly sexy, though I confess a hopeless attraction to George Michael too. His jeans look honestly old, not Gap made-to-look-old old and he has a little hole in his sweater that he’s got his finger stuck through. There’s a collared shirt under there too, sticking out on one side of his jeans where he forgot to tuck. Very absent-minded professor.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hey, America. You look nice.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s with you and these old pubs?’ We’re in a run-down boozer where half a dozen regulars are having trouble focusing beyond their beer mats. When Potential said drinks, I assumed he meant cocktails in a trendy club. I don’t know why I assumed this. Our first two dates were in equally morose surroundings. So it’s my own fault that I’m overdressed. Chloe and I crisis-shopped after lunch for a beguiling unwrappable outfit, critical when there’s a chance you’ll be in flagrante delicto with someone. Skinny jeans might be stylish, but try getting them off while lying down. Diane von Furstenberg was the only sensible option.

  ‘They remind me of home.’

  An intriguing glimpse of home life. We haven’t had the whole how-dysfunctional-is-your-family conversation yet. ‘Oh? Is your town very old?’

  ‘Erm, the whole country is very old.’

  ‘Right.’ Duh. ‘I mean, do you come from a little village?’

  ‘Yeh, it’s small enough to fit everyone inside for lunch.’

  ‘You invite the entire village for lunch? You talk like you own it. Hah, hah, hah.’ Oh my god, he owns a village. I’m a little short of breath. ‘Do you go home very often?’

  ‘Most weekends, eck-tually.’ He’s got one of those accents that ambushes my ear with odd pronunciations like this.

  ‘I’d kill myself if I had to be around my family that much.’

  ‘Well, we don’t see much of each other. It’s a big house. Maybe you’ll see it sometime.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little early to meet t
he parents?’

  I shouldn’t fault him for looking confused. Not everyone gets my humour right away. ‘They’re not there now. It’s winter.’

  So rich Brits, like geese, follow seasonal migration patterns. ‘I’d love to see it.’ What will I wear?

  The restaurant Potential has chosen is as old as the Declaration of Independence. So, it appears, are most of its clientele. The decor brings to mind Miss Havisham in her faded wedding dress, with tonight’s specials stuffed and mounted all over the walls. The waiters are identical, septuagenarian, penguinlike in their attire and manner. ‘This way, madam, sir.’

  ‘What a cool place.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘The food looks, er…’ The menu reads like the ingredients in a questionable hot dog.

  ‘Mmm.’

  …

  Why, when he held my hand all the way here, is he now sitting silently slumped in his chair? It’s possible that PDAs aren’t the done thing in restaurants. I mean public displays of affection, not those little hand-held computers. Nobody else is holding hands, but then most of them probably no longer have their own teeth, so they can be forgiven if the romance has worn off a bit. Yet this isn’t the behaviour of a man contemplating our future together. It isn’t even the behaviour of a man contemplating dessert together. The shine’s come off the penny already. I knew it. I don’t exactly radiate that worth-the-wait vibe. I blame university for the fact that I’m more Wal-Mart than waiting list. In school, I hardly ever dated. I got drunk and made out with cute boys. After four years, alcohol-induced allure is a hard habit to break, so I’m woefully unprepared for seduction that doesn’t involve half-price drinks. I’m sure my dates would have wined and dined me if they thought they needed to. Obviously they didn’t. I mean seriously, who looks at a price tag and says, ‘Go on, charge me an extra fifty.’…But that was the old Hannah, not who I am now, right? I can be a sex bomb if I want to, a real-world Dita Von Teese.24 Just watch me.

  To my relief, he doesn’t snatch his hand back when I reach for it over the tablecloth. My mother is wrong. The way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach. It’s through his ego. Show me a guy who talked about himself all evening and I’ll show you a guy who thought he had a great time. ‘Tell me, what’s your idea of the perfect day?’ Yes, of course I feel ridiculous fluttering my Xtreme Volume eyelashes (Chloe swears by it. The mascara, I mean, not the slutty eye contact), but my question is going to tell me volumes about Potential, including whether he’s into me or not.

  His lazy, beautiful smile proves that not all Englishmen have wonky teeth. ‘It would have to be at the house. We’d get up late, have some breakfast, then go for a walk. Maybe we’d pack a picnic hamper in summer, or else go to a lovely old pub in the village. Winter’s my favourite time because you can sit by the fire. We’d read our books before dinner, and drink some nice wine from the cellar. How does that sound?’

  It sounds like I could be in love one day. At least he’s not one of those guys who defines perfection as a day out drunkenly watching football with his friends (or at least he’s savvy enough to tell me he’s not one of those guys). I’m more likely to win the lottery than ever get that kind of man to stay for breakfast. I was right not to give up on him after the first lacklustre dates. He’s obviously got a romantic streak, as evidenced by his picnic and pub ideals. He’s well rounded, based on the fact that he likes books and wine, and old-fashioned, proven by our presence in his stately home. And into me! Otherwise why would I be there at the start of his perfect day? ‘That sounds great…’

  The ensuing silence is occasionally punctuated by his chewing. I’m sure he’d ask about me if his smoked salmon didn’t require such undivided attention, what with all the lemon to be squeezed. In a movie, there’d be a clock ticking loudly on the wall to help me keep track of the minutes stretching out. I don’t mind working hard for some things, but I draw the line at food and dating. I should no more have to dig meat out of a lobster’s claw than I should have to spend an evening pulling conversation from my date.

  It is the cheese at the end of the meal that inexplicably loosens Potential’s tongue long enough to tell me it’s his favourite. I beg to differ. A lump of blue goo that smells of dirty socks isn’t even cheese. And anyway, the only way that cheese is dessert is when it’s followed by the word cake.

  ‘Thanks for dinner. I had a nice time.’ Courtesy demands this lie. On a positive note, it did give me a few hours for uninterrupted contemplation.

  Dad’s always said there’s no shame in failure as long as I’ve done my best. It’s untrue, but I appreciate the sentiment. I did try, listening as if spellbound to his single contribution to the conversation, making witty and charming attempts to extract more participation from him. Plus I hardly even made a face about the cheese. Yet here we are, walking towards the Tube station. I charged a £300 dress on my credit card. It’s unfair to have to pay off a bad date in instalments.

  ‘Did you?’

  He sounds uncertain. Not incredulous, as in ‘I did everything but pee in your soup and still you won’t get the hint’, but truly uncertain. Have I completely misinterpreted his silence? He may not be uninterested, just shy. A bashful prince, like Shrek, only not green. My new lingerie may show a return on investment yet. ‘Yeah, the restaurant was great.’ Offal and cheese and silence and geriatric table companions aside. ‘And you’re, well, you’re cool too.’

  ‘Cool…’

  He thinks I’m a geek.

  ‘Cool enough to maybe go out with again sometime –’

  ‘I’d love to!’ Admittedly, my enthusiasm isn’t very cool. Think Dita, think Dita. ‘It would be nice to get together. Again. Sometime. Whenever.’

  ‘Well, how about…A few of us are going down to the house this weekend and, well, normally I wouldn’t, but, em, well, when you said you were up for it when we met…Would you like to come?’

  Today’s Wednesday. As if I’d just take off at the drop of a hat, as if I’m the kind of girl who’ll swan off for a sleepover with a virtual stranger. Like I don’t already have plans for the weekend. I have morals. I have a social life.

  ‘I am, definitely up for it!’ Who am I kidding? I’d planned to buy a space heater this weekend.

  …‘You are?’

  ‘Totally!’

  ‘God, I love how direct you Americans are. Perfect. Shall we say one o’clock, Saturday? I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Great!’…I’m practically puckering with my eyes closed. I can’t give him a stronger signal without humping his leg.

  ‘G’night, then.’

  ‘G’night.’ This is ridiculous. I’m an adult. If I want to kiss him, I should just kiss him. It’s not like I’ve never launched myself on a man before. What would Dita do?

  Before you can say striptease, he’s got his tongue in my mouth. The least I can do is show my support for his efforts. My tongue tickles back. Mmm. We’re grappling and kissing while London’s revellers stream by. I’m a little embarrassed. What must everyone think? Who cares–there’s a handsome man on my face! This is sexy. I wonder how far away he lives. I’m ten minutes by Tube. Can we navigate the escalators in this position?

  Wait a minute. Have I learned nothing this last month? Repeat after me: boys don’t date easy girls. They sleep with them, and then toss them aside. I can’t jump into bed with Potential the first night we kiss just because he’s bought me dinner. Unless I want another one-night stand. And I definitely don’t. ‘All right, then. Thanks again. See you Saturday.’ I’m trying not to pant as I say this.

  ‘Wha–? Really?’

  ‘Really. Goodnight.’

  ‘Uh, okay. ’Night, then. See you Saturday.’

  Exactly how does one prepare to meet one’s future husband’s best friends? I have no idea, but I do have forty-eight hours and Stacy at two pee a minute to help me figure it out.

  ‘Oh my god, how exciting!’

  Stacy is beside herself with glee at the thought of the manor-ho
use wedding. I know she’s envisioning a dalliance in the stable with a morning-suited usher. I’m not excited yet. I’m still scared. ‘But I’ve never been to an English country house.’

  ‘You’ve been to a regular house, haven’t you? What’s the difference?’

  I don’t know. That’s what I’m afraid of. ‘What if his friends are mean?’ If they hate me, Potential will dump me.

  ‘What if they’re wonderful?’

  If they’re wonderful, I’ll spend the whole weekend wondering if he’s slept with any of them.

  ‘You’re worrying too much about the wrong things. What are you going to wear?’

  Much as I love my friend and admire her fashion sense, her forte in themed ready-to-wear extends only to cruise collections. She’s impeccable in the Hamptons and Newport, but her idea of the country is any place where her cellphone reception is patchy. And I’m not falling for Ralph Lauren’s tally-ho view of what Brits wear at home. The man started life as Ralph Lifschitz in the Bronx, for god’s sake.

  I wish Chloe was in town. Being born into this fancy manor-house life, she’d know exactly what to bring. But she left for the Alps this week, as fancy manor-house people do here in February, and her cellphone just rings and rings. She warned me when we first met that she has a habit of letting it run out of juice or dropping it in the toilet. I thought she was joking until I went to her apartment to wade through her closets and witnessed the chaos first-hand. She wasn’t exaggerating. It’s remarkable, really, for such a well-put-together girl to be so incapable of managing the details of her own life. She insists there’s a method to her madness, but the frequency with which she loses her keys, Oyster card, lipstick, shoes, car…makes me wonder. She’s just as untidy in her personal life. She always likes at least two men at a time and can never seem to remember where she’s left them either.