Single in the City

by Unknown

‘Is he still your boss?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you still hate him?’

  ‘Nah, we’re okay now. When it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be.’

  Without wanting to jump the gun, Barry may perfectly fit my new criteria for a suitable boyfriend. He’s mature–thirty; not poor–as evidenced by his home purchase; he’s ambitious and smart–proven by his unexplainable job; he’s sensitive–a Neanderthal wouldn’t share his heartbreak with virtual strangers over dinner; and philosophical–que sera sera. He’s also sometimes funny. At least, I think he was being funny. It was hard to tell because he’s completely deadpan. And English. I didn’t wring much out of him in the way of interests. Every time I asked about him, he asked about me (how much do I love that?). He did let slip that he likes football (he means soccer, not the NFL31). Oh, and he’s Jewish. Three cheers for circumcision!

  So having decided that Barry is exactly the kind of guy I want to date, and establishing that there’s no Mrs Kaplan, I simply needed to convince him that he couldn’t live without me. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not particularly skilled in this art, tending to take an if-I-flaunt-it-he-will-come approach. And it does work. When I have flaunted, they have come. But they’ve always left soon afterwards. Now, not only do I want more, I want more from a completely different kind of man. This is no Fun Guy (not to say he’s not fun). He’s like an exotic, well-paid bird. If I move too fast, I’ll scare him off. Convincing Barry that I’m the future love of his life necessitated a few modifications to my approach. These were my promises to myself.

  First, I won’t act needy, clingy or otherwise insecure. This is very difficult for needy, clingy or otherwise insecure girls like me, but I’m reliably informed that it’s a deal-breaker unless you’re Pamela Anderson. In practice, it’s all about suppressing urges: the urge to bitch (about his old girlfriends, beautiful friends or random strangers on the street); the urge to stalk him (to work or any place else); the urge to call (email or text) every ten minutes; the urge to snoop (I’m bound to find something to make me even more insecure); the urge to fish for compliments; or the urge to initiate public displays of affection. As much as I want to drag on his leg when he leaves the room, I will resist the temptation.

  Second, I will be mysterious. This doesn’t mean disappearing in the middle of dinner with the whispered explanation that I have to meet an informant, but being a little coy never hurt anybody. Historically, upon meeting a guy I liked, an information-overload trigger was flipped, causing me to give him my life story in an evening. Sometimes, less can be more.

  Third, I will not be easy. A good rule of thumb might be that if I don’t know his last name, how many brothers he has and his favourite ice cream, he doesn’t get to see me naked. I know they may not sound like big goals, but a girl’s got to start somewhere.

  The fact that Barry is here, at my front door, is surely testament to my progress. Generally, I meet my dates out, though not always officially. I say meet, you say stalk. He kisses me very properly on both cheeks.

  ‘These are for you.’

  It’s the most gorgeous bouquet I’ve ever been given. ‘Thank you so much!’ You can tell a lot about a man by the flowers he chooses. Carnations, for example, are gnarled pods of everlasting foulness. It figures that the ugliest flowers on earth don’t wilt. They tell a girl, ‘Not only are you not worth much, but I don’t want to have to do this again for at least a month.’ I’m not saying that all gas-station flowers are suspect. They could signal an impulsively romantic nature. But in my experience, they’re a panic-buy after the guy’s done something he hopes flowers will fix.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he smiles, eyeing my new apple-green silk tank dress. ‘Ready to go?’

  I’ve been ready for two hours. ‘Yep. Where are we going?’

  ‘Hakkasan. Do you like Chinese?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. I hoped you’d like it. It’s a very trendy place.’

  Seriously, how cutting edge can an egg roll be?

  Well, let me tell you. It must be cool because it’s in a basement off a little alley that smells of pee. Everyone knows that in cities, dank airlessness and the waft of urine are the hallmarks of a great night out. And once we navigate down the dim stairs, all traces of homelessness recede into an Eastern fantasy. The dark latticework room dividers are very Frank Lloyd-Wrightesque, if Wright had worked in Shanghai instead of Chicago, and somehow the lighting manages to illuminate all the unimportant parts of the room, like the ceiling and the little spaces under the tables, leaving walkways and anything at eye level plunged in darkness. And we’re surrounded by glowing blue walls. Picture a beautifully illuminated fish tank, from the fish’s perspective. I’ll never find my way out if I get drunk.

  Speaking of which, the cocktail menu offers drinks like raspberry and lychee martinis. Delicious and nutritious? Make mine a double. We’re surrounded by men and women who don’t suffer clothing crises or bad-hair days. It may be a trick of my American eyes, but London is teeming with uber-trendies. New Yorkers are certainly better groomed, but Londoners make up for their chipped nails and unwhitened teeth with very cool clothes.

  Uh-oh. I’m starting to get the tiniest, niggling concern. My lip isn’t sweating. I know I’ve made this sound like a bad thing, because it’s unsightly and uncomfortable, but it does tend to happen when I’m nervous. And I’m nervous when I really want something. Is this a sign?…No, Hannah, this is an adult relationship. If I go through life letting my glands make my decisions, I’m going to end up with the same guy that I’ve always dated. And I’ve firmly agreed with myself that that isn’t what I want. Besides, Barry ticks all the boxes. Plus he’s good-looking. He’s got all his hair, which is mostly light brown with some blond that probably gets lighter after a week at the beach, a sort of ruddy complexion that implies that he’s been at said beach, and big brown eyes. I’m being too harsh. In fact, he’s downright cute, and that’s not just the lychee martini talking.

  ‘Hannah, thanks so much for coming out with me tonight.’

  I’m crazy to be worried. He is really rather handsome. ‘Thanks for asking! This is an amazing restaurant.’

  ‘You must go to places like this all the time,’ he says.

  ‘No, in fact, I never do. I haven’t yet, in London.’

  ‘You’re kidding! But you’re so…’

  What? I’m so what? Easy?

  ‘Great. I can’t believe you’re not constantly out on dates.’

  Nobody has ever said that to me. Is this how adults talk?

  ‘Well, you flatter me.’ Please flatter me some more. ‘Have you ever gone out with an American before?’ In other words, do you have high expectations about our willingness to go down under the table?

  ‘Nope, I’ve pretty much always dated English girls. Jewish girls, but English.’

  ‘Uh, I’m not Jewish.’ I’m barely even Protestant.

  ‘I figured that. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Hmm. How about your parents?’ Not that I’m suggesting he introduce me to his parents. We haven’t even ordered appetizers yet.

  ‘They wouldn’t mind. They just want me to be happy.’

  This, I know, is unlikely to be true. I dated a Jewish guy once. When he took me home to meet his parents, his mother laid newspapers on the floor throughout the house. He finally admitted she did the same thing when his father brought home Chinese or other unsanctioned food, so that it wouldn’t contaminate their table. Apparently, God doesn’t mind loopholes. I’m trying not to imagine having sex on Barry’s mother’s kitchen table with the Sunday Times headlines tattooed on my ass.

  ‘Em, have you dated outside the faith before?’ It’s best to lay the cards on the non-kosher table. I don’t plan to be the other woman again, especially if the other other woman is his mother.

  ‘Sure. But to be honest, I wasn’t on the market for a couple of years, and now, with working long hours…’

  Right, investment banking and the
mysterious ex. ‘So what do you do for fun?’

  ‘Fun?’ He’s looking uncertain. ‘Ah, I really like football. I mean, your soccer.’

  ‘You’re not a hooligan, are you?’

  ‘I’m Jewish.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you follow it?’ he asks. ‘Football, I mean soccer?’

  I saw a World Cup game once. And I think our girls may have won a medal in the Olympics. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You do? Most women I know hate football. Who do you support?’

  I wish he’d get off this line of questioning. ‘Who do you support?’

  ‘Arsenal.’

  ‘Me too! What a coincidence.’ It’s a harmless lie. Not once have I had to prove my allegiance when feigning interest in a sport.

  ‘Have you been to a match?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to.’ How bad can it be to watch fit men run around in shorts for an hour? It’s not like I’m committing to cricket, where matches can go on for five days, then end in a draw.

  ‘Well, maybe if you’re still talking to me in August, I’ll take you to see Arsenal play.’

  What’s this? A statement of future intent? On a first date? This is an unprecedented show of interest.

  Nothing on the menu looks like Chinese food. Where’s the chop suey?

  ‘You said you haven’t been here before?’ He’s looking right into my eyes.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘If you like, I can order for us.’

  This is obviously a man who’s used to being in charge. While I’m not generally keen on dates choosing my meals, he makes the offer sound chivalrous rather than cheesy. But if he says ‘and the lady will have…’ I’m going to rethink my judgement. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘We’ll have…’ He orders four or five dishes that sound great. And already he’s ‘we’ing!

  As soon as the waiter leaves, Barry returns to my favourite subject: me. He has a real knack for making me feel comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that before you can say ‘perfect date’, I’ve confessed all kinds of embarrassing things, like my fashion-magazine addiction.

  ‘I like that you’re so committed,’ he says.

  ‘I’m obsessive.’

  ‘I think it’s adorable.’

  Is it possible that I’ve finally found the man who thinks I’m quirky rather than weird? I’ve always fancied myself along Meg Ryan lines, but I’m afraid I come across more Joan Cusack. This is fun. And easy. That’s a good sign. The real test will be whether he can have a decent phone conversation. I haven’t found a man yet who can, which is down to a fundamental difference in objective. They have the frustrating habit of using speech only to convey information.

  Dessert is a deep-fried tower of something with green-tea ice cream on top. ‘Oh shit.’ In trying to get the right ratio of ice cream to tower, I’ve just deposited the frozen dairy ball into my lap. And right on the part the napkin isn’t covering. If I lob it quickly back on to the plate, will he notice? Things like this don’t happen to Meg.

  ‘Oh, Hannah, they shouldn’t have put so much ice cream on top.’

  I’m not sure we can blame this on the chef’s heavy-handed scooping, but I love that he’s trying to tell me it’s not my fault. ‘It’s okay. It needs to go to the dry cleaner anyway.’ My poor dress. I hope London’s dry cleaners are used to slightly clumsy girls with a fondness for delicate fabrics. If not, I’m prepared to ship it to my miracle dry cleaner at home, where it will take top priority–my custom over the years has nearly paid for her lake house.

  ‘Waiter! Your dessert fell over and now my date has ice cream on her dress.’

  ‘Barry, that’s okay –’ He shakes his head.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, madam. If you’d like to give us the bill, we’ll be happy to pay for the dry cleaning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Barry. As the waiter walks away, I catch him looking at me suspiciously. He knows this was no dessert malfunction.

  ‘Thanks, Barry, but you didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have given you an unstable dessert. These restaurants all try to be clever. Their food can be dangerous.’

  Okay, so he hasn’t exactly slain a dragon for me, but his chivalry is delightful.

  His gallantry extends right to my front door. ‘I’d love to see you again.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ And I would too. My stomach may not be somersaulting but this was a nice evening.

  ‘Great. How about Saturday?’

  ‘Sure!’…Why did I say sure? A Saturday second date? That’s a little presumptuous. Besides, I’m mysterious, an enigma. I should have said I was busy. Even though I’m not. ‘I mean, I’ll have to check my calendar.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, sure. Well, if you’re free from about noon, I’ll plan a surprise.’

  I’m a sucker for surprises.

  Just as I’m beginning to fear his manners are too good, he leans in to kiss me. And you know how there are two, maybe three kissers in your life that stand out as remarkable, the kind of kisser you’d give your left arm to have constant access to? Well, Barry’s not one of those. He’s not bad, just sort of soft-lipped and slow. I will not say boring. I–will–not–say–boring. He’s fine.

  ‘Hiya! Back so soon from your date?’ Sarah is stretched on the sofa with her legs over Nathan and her feet on Adam’s thigh. The fact that my flatmates often pile together like puppies was disconcerting when I first moved in. It’s never easy breaking into such close camaraderie, but they’ve welcomed me with open hearts, open arms and an open spot on the sofa. Plus they’ve never seen each other in the nuddy, so there’s no weird sexual dynamic to worry about.

  ‘What do you mean, so soon? It’s –’ Piaget says 10.15. That can’t be right. Does England have a daylight saving time that I don’t know about? ‘I thought it was later.’

  ‘Hah, date that bad?’ Adam says from under the pile of flatmate. ‘Poor Barry.’

  ‘No! It was great. He’s really nice.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a good bloke. Not boring, though?’

  That’s not fair. Just because I didn’t spend the night doesn’t mean Barry was a bad date. In fact, it was the most perfectly executed date I’ve ever been on. Flowers: romantic. Choice of restaurant: the perfect combination of buzz and intimacy. Conversation: flowing. And all about me. Hmm. We did only talk about me. Other than his Jewish Arsenal fan status, I still don’t know anything about him. That won’t work if I’m going to stick by my newly imposed rules. I’ll at least have to find out his favourite ice cream…I’m kidding. This is a guy worth getting to know. I promise to ask all about him on our next date.

  16

  Felicity has just given me my first account! I’m so grateful I could hug her, until I catch her expression. Okay, not a huggy person. Noted. Nevertheless, this is exactly the break I’ve been waiting for. She’s going to regret not taking a chance on me sooner. And you know what? Despite the cold reception, this is so much more satisfying than praise. Just one thing is bothering me. I’m not crazy about the project. The former Mrs Read-Hutchins wants us to throw her a divorce party. In my family’s social circle,relationship failure isn’t something to be celebrated with crab puffs.

  ‘Tell me again, Felicity, what’s the point of this?’

  ‘It’s a rite of passage, a way to mark the start of her new life.’

  ‘Then I take it there’ll be no ex-husband on the guest list?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’ll be there. Their divorce wasn’t acrimonious.’

  ‘Any ideas for themes?’

  ‘Hannah, this one’s all yours. If you want to come up with some ideas, I’m happy to give you my opinion. All I can tell you is that it’s the end of an old life and the beginning of a new one. You might try tongue-in-cheek humour.’

  ‘When do we meet with her?’

  ‘We don’t. She’s in St Barths. It’s all up to you. Here’s the guest list. Surprise her. By the way, it’s eleven o’clock.’ She hands me her fish mug.


  I’m shooting to the top of the career ladder all right.

  So I have to plan an ironic divorce party, which I’ve never heard of, for a woman I’ve never met, in a country where I’m not generally considered ironic or funny. No sweat. I simply have to put myself in the stack-heeled Pradas of a fifty-year-old English divorcée. Based on what I know of divorced women, she’s at least a little bitter. My mother’s friends all are. Their reaction to hearing their former husband’s name ranges from mild annoyance to uncontrollable oath-swearing on his decapitated corpse. That’s Mrs Miller, but she also set fire to Mr Miller’s Porsche while he was in it, so her reaction is probably outside the norm. I won’t go far wrong if I set the theme somewhere between black armbands and pin the penis on the husband.

  Meanwhile, I have a more pressing social engagement to contend with. Being the font of all English knowledge, naturally Chloe is the obvious choice to help me figure out what Barry’s surprise date could be.

  ‘You don’t think it’s a balloon ride or rock climbing or anything like that?’ I don’t like the idea of falling. And I hate the idea of the stop at the end.

  She laughs. ‘No, that’s something you Americans would do. He’s probably taking you to a nice restaurant.’

  ‘That’s not a surprise. He’s taken me to a nice restaurant already.’

  ‘Maybe he’s going to take you to a crap one, then. Surprise!’

  ‘Very funny. Come on, think, Chloe. This has important implications for my wardrobe.’

  Sobered by the truth of this statement, she ponders. ‘Maybe it’s a picnic.’

  ‘It’s freezing outside.’ Despite the calendar insisting that it’s April and the flowers believing the calendar, going outside still involves three layers and an umbrella.

  ‘Mmm, you’re right, too risky. Maybe tickets to the theatre?’

  ‘Speaking of the theatre, how was your date?’

  ‘It was wonderful.’ Her latest suitor scored tickets to Avenue Q32 that included the cast party afterwards (with the actors, not the puppets). ‘Thanks for suggesting it.’ Siobhan took me to see it for my birthday. ‘And thanks so much for the tip on those shoes. You were right, they were perfect.’ I think I’ve become Chloe’s fashion adviser, which is only fair since she’s my relationship counsellor. ‘I don’t think it’s a theatre date. It’s a daytime date.’