“Hang on, just a hug?”
I nodded.
“Not even a peck? A little cuddle?”
“A hug.”
“Did you give him the eyes?”
“Oh yeah. He got all the eyes I could muster.”
“What about the lips—did you plump?”
“They’re not pillows, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m being perfectly serious! Did you plump them? Like this?” Lucy made a face like a duck’s ass.
“I fucking hope not,” I muttered.
“Laugh all you like, but this pout has never let me down.”
“Well, whoop-dee-doo for you. I guess I’m the only leper around here.”
“Babe, you are not a leper! He did say that he wanted to see you again, so he must fancy you.”
“Maybe he just wants an American buddy,” I said, throwing myself back on the couch in despair.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, finishing another row on her giant sleeve. “Men don’t want to be friends with women.”
August 16
I’d heard from Frisco the morning after my debrief with Lucy, and we’d gone on a second date on Wednesday. He’d been just as dreamy and just as chaste as the first time.
But this morning, I woke up to a very exciting text from Frisco.
Frisco: Wanna hang out tonight?
I jumped out of bed and did a small dance of joy before responding.
Me: Sure. What did you have in mind?
Pleasesaysexpleasesaysexpleasesaysex . . .
My phone bleeped happily.
Frisco: Why don’t you come over to my place? I’ll make dinner and we can watch a box set.
I let out a little whoop: dinner at his place—sex was pretty much guaranteed.
Me: Sounds good. I’ll bring the beer.
I spent the next twenty minutes agonizing over my choice of underwear. As is always the way, all my good stuff was in the wash so I had to hand wash my favorite Coco de Mer set (bought on sale when drunk after a work event last year) and, despite my best efforts with the hair dryer, left the house in a slightly damp bra.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything at work.
“. . . so are you okay to compile the figures? Lauren? Hello, Lauren?” I looked up to see Cathryn watching me with a mix of concern and exasperation.
“What? Oh, sorry. I wasn’t really listening.”
“The figures, Lauren. For the sponsorship deal?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure, of course, I’ll send them over.” I started to pull up the Excel spreadsheets, but was struck with a thought before I had the chance to press send. “I mean, maybe he’s just a gentleman, right?”
“Who? The client? I wouldn’t say that, not after the way he looked at my bum last week.”
“No, Frisco! Maybe he’s just old-fashioned, you know? Wanted to wait until the third date before making a move. He probably just respects me, right?”
Cathryn sighed. “Could be. I really don’t know, Lauren.”
I nodded decisively. “I’ll bet that’s what it is.”
“I certainly hope so. I don’t think I have the strength to deal with you like this much longer.”
• • •
It took me eons to get to Peckham, so I was running seriously late by the time I staggered to his front door carrying two six-packs of Sierra Nevada and a lemon drizzle cake I’d impulse-bought from Gail’s.
Dressing “appropriately” for hanging out and watching TV proved way more difficult than dressing “appropriately” for anything else; I’d settled on a pair of loose-fitting, faded jeans from my Portland days and an old Billy Idol T-shirt. I was hoping the effect was “effortlessly sexy” and not “effortlessly homeless.” It had been sweltering on the bus and I was covered in a thin layer of sweat and grime.
I was greeted first by a scruffy, aproned Frisco followed by a waggy-tailed pug and a waft of delicious cooking smells, all in quick succession. It was like walking into a version of heaven created specifically by my vagina.
“Hey!” Frisco gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come on in! You brought Sierra Nevada! Good call.”
“I aim to please. Who’s this little guy?” I knelt down and scratched his wrinkly little head. The dog responded by rolling over on his back and wiggling around on the floor. If only Frisco was as easily enticed.
“He’s just showing off for the ladies, aren’t you, Billy Budd?” Frisco scooped up the pug in one arm. I was overcome with the desire to be a dog so I could be scooped up in the other.
“Billy Budd?” I asked. “Like, as in Melville?”
He laughed. “Yeah. He’s got this crazy squint when he gets excited, so I thought he looked like a sailor. Don’t you, Budd?” He gave Billy a scratch behind the ears and his little face scrunched up. I had to admit, it was pretty accurate.
“So what’s cooking?” I asked, following him down the corridor into the big, open-plan living space. “It smells amazing. Your place is great, by the way.”
It really was. There was art on every wall in the living room—real, honest-to-God interesting art, not just a poster for The Godfather stuck on there with Blu-tack. There was a yoga mat rolled up in the corner of the room next to a photo of Bikram Choudhury and various knickknacks from around the globe, and there was a plant that was actually still alive on the windowsill.
He led me through to the kitchen, which was tiled navy and white and spotless, despite the fact that several pots and a casserole dish were quietly bubbling away on the stove.
The whole place felt like a sitcom set.
He gestured toward the casserole dish. “Are you okay with eating fish?”
“Love it.” I didn’t, not really, but I wasn’t about to tell that to this dream man in an apron.
He opened a couple of beers and handed me one, and we talked while I watched him cook. Seeing him wield a wooden spoon was unbelievably arousing: it was like watching some sort of domestic striptease.
Billy danced between the two of us, begging for bits of food and presenting his belly for scratching. I wasn’t sure which of the two I was more in love with.
I’d had a quick flick through the latest issue of Wired last night, so I was primed with what I hoped would be a few techy tidbits to drop into conversation.
“So,” I said casually, “how about those bitcoins, eh?”
Frisco looked up from the stove. “What about them?”
“They’re just . . . crazy, right?”
He frowned slightly and turned back to stirring. “Not really. It’s just another form of currency. In five years’ time, we’ll all be using something similar. The concept of individualized national currencies is virtually dead.”
Shit. I had no idea what he was talking about. Time to try another tack.
“You know, I tried Snapchat the other day,” I said. “I sent a few photos to my sister, but they kept getting deleted after she’d looked at them.”
“That’s the point,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re meant to self-destruct so there’s no incriminating evidence. That’s why teenagers love it so much.”
“Oh.” Great, forty minutes trying to learn about the digital age for nothing. I gave up and concentrated on petting the pug.
We sat down to eat and he put a series of increasingly amazing-looking vegetable dishes on my plate, topped off with a steamed fillet of cod.
I took one bite and almost passed out. It was incredible.
“This is probably the best thing I’ve put in my mouth in a long time,” I said, eyebrow raised suggestively. I waited for him to react to the innuendo, but he just serenely speared a piece of asparagus. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He shrugged and then bent down to feed Billy a scrap of fish. “I’ve always loved to mess around in the kitchen.” I choked on a piece o
f roasted cauliflower before recovering myself. “It’s actually why I decided to come to London.”
“Really?”
“It’s a long story, but I came here via Greenland.”
“Greenland? What the hell were you doing in Greenland?”
“I went to a conservation forum in Greenland a few years ago. We ended up on a trawler with these fishermen who’d dedicated their lives to sustainable deep-sea fishing. These guys take it seriously—I mean, they’re out there in blizzards and storms and all kinds of weather. Really inspiring stuff. But the best part was when this Icelandic guy on the boat gave me some hakari.”
“What’s hakari? Some kind of psychotropic drug?”
Frisco laughed a deep, dimpled laugh. “No, it’s pickled shark.”
“Why the fuck would you want to pickle a shark? Unless you’re Damien Hirst, I guess.”
He frowned. “It’s actually a delicacy in Iceland. It was an honor for him to share it with me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be—I didn’t know about it either. But as soon as I tasted it, I knew that hakari was my destiny. I went home, sold the business and moved to Iceland. I spent a year studying with some of the greatest hakari producers in the world, learning all the tricks of the trade. I’m now a level-three hakari master.”
“Congratulations,” I said, not knowing if that was the correct response. “How did that lead to London? I didn’t know there was a great demand for pickled shark here.”
“Yeah, but there’s such an incredible food scene,” he said. It was true: you couldn’t sneeze in central London without spraying on someone selling pop-up artisanal hot dogs or snail gratins out of a truck. “There’s no better place to bring hakari to the masses. I’ve been curing my own batch for the past four and a half months, and in two weeks I’m going to open my own hakari stall in Broadway market.”
I nodded. So pickled shark was this guy’s one true love. What chance did I have?
I remembered the book’s advice: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. “Can I try some?” I asked. I didn’t think I liked the sound of pickled shark, but I was willing to try it for the sake of “sharing his interests.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, it’s still curing. You can’t eat it until it’s had its full pickling time.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, feigning disappointment.
“I can show you where the strips of shark are hanging, though.”
“I haven’t had a better offer all year.”
I followed him into the basement where, lo and behold, a truly ridiculous amount of shark pieces were hanging up, all emanating a special blend of moldy cheese, athlete’s foot and death.
“Ohmygod,” I said, resenting the exhalation because of the inhalation to follow.
“Amazing stuff, right? I mean, this is the smell of LIFE!” He took a deep breath and grinned.
I nodded maniacally and valiantly fought off my gag reflex.
“You should come down to Broadway market when I open the stall. Get a taste of the real thing.”
I took a quick gasp. “Mmm-hmm!” I spluttered.
“So, now you’ve seen my baby. Ready for a cigarette and a DVD?”
I nodded again and ran up the stairs after him, getting a lungful of fresh air into me just before I started to black out.
Three episodes of Justified and nary a hand held or a thigh grazed later, I saw Frisco stifle a yawn. It was the moment of truth: could I stay or would I go?
I got up from my side of the couch and stretched in what I hoped was an alluring way. “Well, I guess I should get going . . . ?” I let the question dangle in the air for a minute, like so much pickled shark.
“Yeah, I’m pretty beat myself,” he said, running his hand over his stubbly chin.
My heart sank, but I wasn’t yet defeated. I leaned over his lap, ostensibly to give Billy a scratch but really to give Frisco the chance to look down my T-shirt.
He leaned away and gave Billy ample scratching room, which the dog appreciated and I did not. My little light of hope was flickering.
“Okay, well, thanks for dinner. It’s my turn next time.”
“No problem. I’ll walk you to the door.”
I shuffled down the hallway like a man on death row.
He opened the door and turned to let me out. “Thanks for coming all this way, Lauren. You’re a great girl.”
“And you’re a great guy,” I said. This was it. This was my chance: it was rape-kiss or nothing. I had to take it. I tilted my head and lunged for his face.
Frisco deftly caught my mouth with his cheek and pulled me in for a hug. “Be careful out there. Let me know when you get home. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks at the market—you’ll get a prime piece of hakari, I promise!!” he called before he shut the door.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “Night.”
I slunk away into the darkness, leaving the smell of pickled shark and defeat in my wake.
August 17
Lucy was away for the weekend with Tristan, so I had the flat to myself, and after last night’s hug-and-run, I needed someone to talk to. I distracted myself by going to the gym for an hour or so (though not particularly successfully, as every time I picked up a weight or stepped onto a machine, I’d remember the hug and stop to mutter a few expletives under my breath).
Back at home, I sat on the couch and checked my watch obsessively until it was late enough that I knew Meghan would be awake in Maine. I stepped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette and dialed her number.
“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up,” I chanted into the phone.
“Hello?”
“Thank GOD! I have to talk to you about this American guy. He’s a billionaire tech guy and I did loads of research on him to prepare for the date because the book told me to but I can’t figure out what a bitcoin is and I hate pickled shark and he’s super hot and smart but all he ever does is hug me.”
“Whoa! Slow down there, cowboy—deep breaths. Now, what about bitcoin?”
I calmed myself enough to give Meghan a relatively coherent account of the situation with Frisco.
“What am I doing wrong? I’m following all of the book’s advice, but it’s just not working!”
Meghan sighed. “I hate to say it but . . . maybe he’s just not that into you?”
“How am I supposed to know? I haven’t read that book yet!”
“Not the book, numbskull, the concept. I don’t want to harsh your buzz, but maybe he’s not interested.”
I felt a stabbing pain in my chest and tried my best to brush it aside. “But he asked me out again! And when we said good night last night, he said he’d see me soon!”
“Maybe he’s gay.”
“That’s your answer for everything.”
“Look, you’re amazing. You’re smart and beautiful and funny. This guy . . . if he doesn’t see how great you are, he’s not as perfect as you think he is.”
I mumbled noncommittally.
I heard her take a deep breath down the phone. “So, I saw Dylan again.”
My stomach contracted. “Oh yeah? How’s he doing?”
A pause. “Look, I’ve got to tell you something, otherwise you’re going to find out on Facebook or some shit.”
I knew immediately that whatever it was, I didn’t want to know. “Do you have to?”
A sigh. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Better come right out with it.”
“He’s seeing Kelly Leibler.”
“That Kelly Leibler?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh.” My stomach contracted further and I could taste a little bit of the morning’s coffee in the back of my throat. Kelly had been the golden girl in high school: blond, tiny, permanently tanned, and mean as a box of snakes. I had spent
my formative years skulking around in Doc Martens and black eyeliner, filling journals with stories imagining the demise of Kelly and the other golden girls. And now she had Dylan.
“They’re shacked up together, apparently. I hear she moved into the house a few weeks ago.”
I was silent for a minute.
“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but I figured it was better to hear it from me. She looks like shit, if that makes you feel any better. Saw them together at Sangillo’s—all those years on the tanning bed have started to catch up with her.”
I tried for a minute to picture her as a wizened old crone, but it didn’t do much to dent the feeling of free-falling emptiness. I took a deep breath. “I’m glad you told me. And I’m happy for him. He deserves to be happy.”
“C’mon, it’s me. You don’t have to do this bullshit.”
“I am! I’m very happy for him. I hope they have a long and fruitful life together and die in their sleep within seconds of each other, like that old couple in The Notebook.”
I heard a long sigh. “Kid . . .”
“Okay, fine. I hate it, okay? He should be on the Island of Lost Men where he belongs! But here I am, getting fucking HUGS from a fucking YOGA ENTHUSIAST and he’s living happily ever after with Kelly fucking Leibler.”
“Feel better now?”
I sighed. “You know I have no right to say anything about what he does with his life.”
“Yeah, I do. But I know that doesn’t make it any easier to hear he’s with someone else.”
We said our good-byes and hung up. I knew it was none of my business—I was the one who left him, after all—but the idea of another woman in the house we’d shared together, another woman taking my side of the bed . . . it was terrible. But more than that, I felt like I was watching one more person make the leap into adulthood while I regressed into extended adolescence.
I grabbed my laptop, already filled with self-loathing for what I was about to do.
You see, Facebook and I have an abusive relationship. No matter how many pictures of other people’s holidays and babies I’m forced to slog through, I keep coming back for more. I’d log on with the intention of having a quick peek and find myself flicking through photographs of the cousin of someone I went to elementary school with. “Why? Why am I looking at these?” I would ask myself as I clicked through to the next reel.
Love by the Book Page 17
