“Ooh! Ring him back! He’s probably calling to say he’s realized he’s madly in love with you.”
“But the book says I can’t call him back!”
Rules girls treat the telephone as though it’s a one-way system: men can call you but you definitely cannot call them. The reasoning behind this is that if a guy really wanted to talk to you, he’d call you again and again until he reached you. It’s a very sensible edict, though it does require a breed of persistent, besotted man I have yet to encounter.
“I thought the book said that you couldn’t return his first phone call. Surely you can return his sixth phone call!”
“Right! I mean, what if he’s hurt? What if he’s been in an accident or something?”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Lo, it could actually be dangerous if you don’t call him back. You might be held liable or something.”
“Oh my God. You’re right. I’m sure I saw something like that happen on Law and Order. Okay, I’m calling him when we get back to the apartment.”
Lucy nodded decisively. “You’re doing the right thing, babe.”
We hurried home, speculating on what crisis might have befallen Adrian. Joblessness? Homelessness? Freak combine harvester accident? Spurred on by the thought that I was only doing what any responsible citizen would do, I pressed the call button as soon as we walked through the door. He picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?” he said.
God, his voice was hot.
“Hi! It’s Lauren. I saw that you called so I’m just calling you back. Is everything okay? You’re not in the hospital, are you? Which hospital are you in? Should I come?”
“What are you on about? I’m not in the hospital, you madwoman. I’m in the pub, about to watch Liverpool get spanked by Man City.”
“Oh. So why did you call me all those times?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You called me six times, according to my phone. I figured it was an emergency or something.”
“Shit. I must have sat on it and it dialed you. Sorry about that.”
“Oh.” I swallowed the bile that had risen in my gorge. “Okay. No problem.”
“How are you, Cunningham? You well?”
“Yep! Yep! All good here! Been crazy busy with, you know, lots of activities and projects and work and dates and stuff! Especially dates!” Oh Lord, oh Lord, MAKE IT STOP. “Anyway! I’ve got to go. Busy busy!”
“Right, well, I wouldn’t want to keep you when you’re clearly so . . . busy. Sorry about ringing you.” Adrian managed to sound both bemused and indifferent. He was infuriating. I was starting to wish that he had been involved in some kind of combine harvester incident.
“No problem! Bye!” I hung up and sat on the couch. Well. That hadn’t gone according to plan.
Lucy was lurking outside the door and pounced on me as soon as I came out.
“So?” she said. “Is he all right? Was there an accident?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, he wants to get back together, doesn’t he? I knew it!”
“No,” I said again.
“So what was it?”
“It was his ass. His ass called me, not him.”
Lucy looked confused. “What do you mean, his arse?”
“I mean he sat on his phone and it dialed me by accident, apparently.”
She looked crestfallen. I think she was more disappointed than I was. “Oh. Bugger.”
“Tell me about it.”
Preventative measures were needed. I looked up Adrian’s number in my phone and changed his name to “Are You Drunk?” so that if I was ever again tempted to call him, I would be immediately rebuffed.
I went into my room and grabbed my copy of The Rules.
I lay down on my bed and flipped to the chapter entitled “Next! And Other Rules for Dealing with Rejection.” I’d had my fair share over the past few weeks so was keen to see what wisdom they had in store for me. I read on.
“Rules girls don’t get hung up on men who reject them. They say, ‘His loss’ or ‘Next!’ They carry on.”
Say what you like about the Rules authors—I’ve been saying that they’re shrill harridans set against me ever having sex again, for example—but I like the fact that there’s no room for self-pity.
There was more: “The Rules recipe for rejection is to wear a great dress and flattering make-up and go to the very next party or singles dance.” Seemed pretty sensible to me. I had never done that whole sit-around-crying-into-a-pint-of-ice-cream cliché that seems to have been thrust upon womankind through rom-coms and chick lit.
Luckily, I had a work event that night that could be rife with possibilities. We were launching the late-night series: the museum would be open until 2 a.m. on Saturdays and there’d be DJs, special exhibitions and cocktails. It wasn’t easy enticing grown-ups into a science museum; sometimes you had to cajole them with liquor.
Obviously tonight would be all about me being the ultimate professional (at least for the first twenty minutes) but after I’d kissed the cheeks of all the important people I was planning on enjoying the open bar and hopefully bagging myself at least one new test subject.
In preparation for the big night, I flipped over to the section on Rules party skills. My heart sank: the evening might not be that fun after all.
Daunted but undeterred, I did my best to spruce myself up. I put on my favorite little red dress and, after finally managing to apply liquid eyeliner without poking myself in the eye, I ran into the living room to get Lucy’s approval.
“Ooh!” she said, looking up from the latest issue of Grazia. “Where are you off to? You’re looking very glam.”
“Do you really think it’s okay? I’ve got to go to the Nights at the Museum launch. Is this too Pretty Woman for a work event? I keep getting mistaken for a prostitute.”
“Absolutely not. It’s all very sexy secretary.”
“Thanks. Now I’ve got to go roam around a room for several hours and not look at anyone. I’ll call you from the bathroom.”
“What?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Bye!”
I left a confused-looking Lucy on the couch and made a dash for the tube. As usual, I was late.
I managed to squeeze on to the train just before the doors shut. Once on, I realized my mistake. It was, as always, fifteen degrees the wrong temperature—in this case, fifteen degrees too hot—and the run to the station hadn’t done me any favors. I struggled to loosen the buttons of my coat but realized with rising panic that it had already begun: the tube sweats.
Within minutes, my dress was stuck to the small of my back and there were tiny rivulets of sweat making their way down my neck. Gross.
When I finally disembarked a half-hour later, my make-up had made a run for south of the border and my dress was clinging to me like cellophane. I ducked past the front entrance in case I was spied by a colleague/client/possible test subject and ran into my office, which was tucked neatly beneath the museum in an area I liked to call the Cellar of Despair. There was lots of gray and lots of dank.
I pulled out my emergency make-up stash and frantically reapplied while fanning myself down with a sheaf of museum leaflets.
At that moment, Cathryn walked in, looking regal in a blue maxi dress and heels that I would have to describe as sensible. If I wore them, I’d look about forty-seven. On her, they looked French and expensive.
“Are you all right?” she asked, taking one look at my beet-red face and assuming that I was about to stroke out.
“Fine! That goddamn tube was so hot and now I can’t stop sweating, mainly because I’m thinking about sweating.”
“For heaven’s sake, stop thinking about sweating.”
“I’m trying!” I cried as I fanned myself faster. “How’s the turnout looking? Any cancellation
s?”
Cathryn flipped through the papers on her clipboard. “A few people have dropped out but it looks like we’ll be at full capacity by eight.”
“Amazing!” I kicked off my flats and slipped into my heels. They’d cripple me by ten, but hopefully that was long enough to make an impression. “We’ve only got half an hour before the doors open so let’s do a quick sweep of the area and make sure the planetarium is ready to go.”
The sweating had just about subsided and I gave my hair a final brush before following Cathryn to the front of the museum. The planetarium looked amazing. The DJ would be stationed up in the rafters and the crowd would be dancing beneath the stars. There was a bar being set up right outside the door so people could slip out and get another gin and tonic without spilling booze on any expensive science equipment. The powers that be had stressed that no expensive science equipment should be damaged in the name of a good time.
I was really proud. Sure, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of learning happening, but at least it would introduce the museum to a new demographic and, hopefully, bring in some money from ticket sales. Mainly, though, I had set the whole thing up to realize my thirteen-year-old self’s dream of having a party in the planetarium. Blame the Pink Floyd laser show I saw in junior high, I guess.
I smiled at Cathryn. “It all looks great.”
“It does, doesn’t it? I’m quite pleased.”
“Seriously, we’ve outdone ourselves. If we don’t get a promotion out of this, I’ll eat my hat.”
“That’s probably going a bit far, but I do think it looks lovely.”
I nodded. “I’m going to run outside for a cigarette and then I’ll take my post at the door.”
“Don’t get lost!” she called as I ducked out the side door.
Cathryn and I had agreed to rotate the painfully boring job of standing guard over the door and checking people off on the guest list. I usually hated door duty and tried to get out of it any way I could, but tonight I was looking forward to it. It was like a sneak preview: I could take a look at the merchandise before it went on the shop floor.
I snuck into a back alley and lit up, thinking about the best way to tackle the evening without breaking any rules. No eye contact. No lingering. No approaching a man I was interested in. No giving out my number unsolicited.
I sighed and flicked my cigarette butt into the corner. I sensed this was going to be a long night.
Doors opened at 7 p.m. so I took my place with a clipboard and a smile on my face. At first, there was just a trickle of people filtering through but thankfully by 8 o’clock that trickle had become a steady stream.
So far, the talent was looking good. As with any event like this, it was kind of a mixed bag. Maybe one too many hooting preppy guys with popped collars for my liking, and I was pretty sure I got the hairy eyeball from a couple of graying sixty-something men who really should have known better, but I definitely noticed a few wan-looking hipsters slide past me. Underfed men with too much hair and brooding eyes are like catnip to me. My ideal man is one-third history professor, one-third guitarist in a struggling neo-folk band and one-third deranged hobo.
Finally, 9:30 rolled around and I passed door duty over to a slightly frazzled-looking Cathryn.
“How’s it going in there? You all right?”
“Yes, all going well, though if one more trustee member gropes me, I can’t promise what I’ll do.”
“They’re like octopi, those guys! They should be heading off soon, though. I’m sure their wives will be calling them home.”
“Or their mistresses. Right, hand me the clipboard and get yourself in there. There are some good-looking men and you need a new test subject.”
“I know. Too bad I can’t look at any of them.”
Cathryn shot me a quizzical look as I ducked through the door.
I made my way through the throngs of people at the bar and then slipped behind it and helped myself to a well-deserved Jack and Coke, showing the bartender my free booze pass. I peered into the planetarium; it was full to capacity with loads of twenty- and thirtysomethings dancing maniacally to nineties hip-hop (my idea, thankyouverymuch). The trustees were pressed against the walls watching, like they had stumbled into a postmodern immersive theater experience.
I downed my drink and made my way into the furor. I wasn’t sure how to approach this new style of partying. Usually I would just get drunk, make eyes with a guy, hope he reciprocated and then sidle over to him. But with the Rules, I realized my place was more with the trustees on the sidelines.
I squeezed myself next to a man in a suit who was old enough to be my father, hoping I could melt into the background. He smiled benignly at me and I quickly returned the smile before looking out at the dancing crowd.
“Bit loud in here, isn’t it?” the father-figure said.
“Yep, but that’s how they like it!” I had to shout over the music to be heard.
“Well, it’s a bit much for our lot, don’t you think?” He nudged me gently in the ribs. “You look like you’d much rather be home with a nice cup of tea and a good book, like me.”
I smiled and shrugged, then slowly realized that he was lumping me in with his generation. He apparently thought I was in my sixties because I wasn’t jumping around on the dance floor like a lunatic.
I felt old and lame. I had to get into the fray.
I decided to try out Rules-style mingling. I couldn’t make eye contact, but I could move around. I excused myself, then started circling the room like a restless buzzard, pushing my way through the crowd before eventually getting pinned against the wall by a couple of guys hooraying themselves a bit too enthusiastically to Kid ’n Play. Things weren’t going according to plan.
I decided to try another Rules-approved tack: act removed and vaguely entitled. With the “dance like no one’s watching” mantra quoted so much on Facebook posts running through my head, I staked out a spot in the middle of the dance floor, closed my eyes and went nuts to “Jump Around.” I mean, I really got into it. By the end of the song, the people around me had cleared away, leaving me in the middle of an empty circle. I’m not sure how refined I looked, but no one could say I was on the prowl for a man.
I stayed the course, doing a low-key, interpretive dance-style performance to “Gin and Juice” before throwing everything I had at Missy Elliott. It was strangely liberating, this whole dancing-like-no-one-was-watching thing. Just as I was about to get to the finale of “Hot Boyz,” I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I cautiously opened my eyes, willing it to be one of the rumpled hipster types and not Cathryn asking me to go back on door duty. Instead, I found myself staring at the face of a chiseled blond man.
“Hello,” he said. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”
He wasn’t my usual type (he looked far too healthy for that) but he was very handsome. He looked like a poster child for the Aryan nation and I could see the outline of some impressively muscled arms underneath his neatly pressed button-down shirt. I decided to give it a shot.
“Sure,” I said. “I need some air.”
He smiled a white, even-toothed smile. “I’m not surprised, after that performance.”
I tried to look demure. “I was just feeling the music.”
We squeezed our way to the bar and he clicked his fingers at an annoyed-looking bartender and ordered two vodka tonics. He hadn’t asked what I wanted, but as it was free, I accepted without complaint.
I was acutely aware of the fact that I had only a few minutes with him before the Rules pulled me back into the room to mingle. I had to work fast if I wanted to see those arms in more detail. We exchanged names. Let’s call him Popeye (post-spinach, of course). Drinks procured, he looked at me politely but expectantly, as though waiting for a surprise to pop out of me like a jack-in-the-box. I remained staunchly silent for a few minutes before finally crack
ing under the pressure.
“How are you enjoying the museum?” I asked. “First time here?” Argh. What kind of a Rules girl was I if I couldn’t go five minutes without asking a question? I put my most uninterested face on as penance.
“No, I’m an old museum pro. I brought my nephew a few weeks ago.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Yeah, he’s four. He loved it. Couldn’t get enough of the Launchpad bit, and I had to drag him out of the planetarium. He just wanted to look up at the stars for ages.”
“Yeah, that’s always a little-boy pleaser. So, are you having fun tonight?”
“It’s great. Though I’ve got to say, it’s a bit of a different vibe tonight than when I was here with my nephew.”
“Yes, more drunken.” I concentrated on looking aloof.
“My father is one of the museum’s patrons, so I’ve spent a lot of time here. What brought you here tonight?”
“Your father pays my salary. I’m one of the events coordinators here.”
“So this is your event? I’m impressed! It’s fantastic.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But thanks.” I pulled my eyes away from his and settled on his left bicep. Surely that counted as avoiding eye contact? God, he was hot. I wondered what he looked like without a shirt. Maybe doing some carpentry.
I could sense I was getting into dangerous territory. My Rules fairy godmothers pulled me away. “Anyway, I should get back. Circulate or whatever. It was really nice to meet you, though, and thanks for the drink.”
For a second, he looked surprised—he obviously wasn’t used to being rebuffed—but his chivalric side recovered quickly. “Of course. Here, let me get the door for you.”
I walked through, trying to look elegant and graceful. “You are a creature unlike any other,” I thought to myself. “A creature unlike any other.”
The mingling began anew, with me bouncing from wall to wall like a well-played game of Pong. I danced to a couple more songs but, despite DMX’s best efforts, my heart wasn’t in it. When it reached midnight, I decided to call it a night. Being out and surrounded by attractive men but unable to do anything other than look aloof and dance by myself was boring, and my shoes were officially two hours past the bearable mark. It was time to turn back into a pumpkin.
Love by the Book Page 4
