Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  “Oh God,” he said, now sounding very shaken. “Oh dear. I’m going to be fired, aren’t I? Please, whatever you do, don’t sue.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing! I’m following this stupid dating guide and—oh, forget it. I can assure you that I won’t be suing anyone. I just hope we can be . . . discreet about all this?”

  “Consider it forgotten,” he said.

  Relief washed over me. “Thank you so much!” I said.

  “Of course, if you ever change your mind . . . you know, we could still be very discreet. And I do love an American accent.”

  I let out a high, nervous laugh and Cathryn looked up at me, alarmed. “No!” I babbled. “That’s okay! I think we’re all set!”

  He let out a small sigh. “It was worth a try.”

  I hung up and put my head in my hands.

  “Everything all right?” Cathryn asked, her face a picture of worry. “Not bad news, I hope.”

  I shook my head. “Just a little misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about.”

  But I was starting to worry. Sure, Rachel Greenwald, MBA, suggested I give up my job for the project, but I wasn’t so keen on getting fired.

  November 21

  Adrian’s back.

  I left work this evening to find him standing on the pavement, holding a One Direction pinwheel. I saw him before he saw me, so I had time to compose myself. I lit a cigarette and affected my most nonchalant air.

  “Adrian?” I called. “Is that you?”

  He turned the full wattage of his smile on me, the black frames of his glasses glinting in the sun. He was wearing a white button-down with a navy-blue knitted tie, trousers rolled up to the ankle to showcase some very yellow socks and a pair of newly shined brown leather oxfords. He looked like he’d fallen out of Vice. “It is indeed, Cunningham!” He bowed deeply and held out the pinwheel as I approached. “For my favorite American.”

  I gave the pinwheel a spin and kissed him on the cheek. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m back!” he announced. “I left New York on Tuesday—for good. It’s a lovely town and all, but so overrated. All that hustle and bustle, all that macho bravado . . . all anyone talks about is how amazing New York is! They all act as though it’s the center of the bloody universe!”

  “Well, I mean, it is one of the major cities in the world . . .”

  “I had to get out of there, Cunningham. It was suffocating me. It’s good to be back on the shores of Albion, enfolded in the comforting embrace of Mother London. Now, let’s get you a drink and you can tell me how desperately you’ve missed me.”

  We went to the Hoop & Toy and settled at a table at the back with a couple of pints.

  I plucked a chip out of the open packet and popped it in my mouth, studying him intently from across the table. He was the same old Adrian, but there was something different about him. He looked a little smaller, somehow. A little deflated. “Okay, spill it,” I said, pushing the chips toward him. “What really happened in New York?”

  He waved me away. “I told you, New York is dead! It’s an anachronism! A fool’s paradise!”

  I folded my arms in front of me and narrowed my eyes.

  “All right, all right. Jesus, you’re like the bloody KGB! There was this little thing about me shagging the intern . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. “I knew it.”

  “It was just a dalliance, but you know how Americans are: so uptight. No fun at all. So I had a little fling with the intern—so what? It was nothing and I can assure you that she enjoyed herself very much—but then some little brown-noser grassed me up to the boss and suddenly it was all ‘misconduct in the workplace’ and ‘constructive dismissal.’” He shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently it was a problem that she was eighteen, though that is technically over the age of consent so I don’t see what all the fuss was about.” He picked up a coaster and flicked it across the table. “It’s all water under the bridge. Now, let’s talk about more important things, like what color underwear you’re wearing.”

  I brushed his wandering hand aside. “So what are you going to do now that you’re back in London?”

  He shrugged and took a long sip from his pint. “Something will turn up, I expect. I’ve had this screenplay in mind for a while, so I might give that a run. My mate has a pub in Peckham, so I can pick up a few shifts there. You know me, Cunningham: I always land on my feet.”

  I nodded, but felt a little stab of pity for him. “Where are you staying?”

  Adrian slumped down in his chair and started flicking another coaster around the table with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m at the old familial home in Wandsworth for now, but that’s only temporary. My mate has a place in Brixton, so I might crash with him for a bit.” He flicked the coaster off the table. “Something will turn up.” For a minute, he looked like a lost little boy, but he recovered quickly and put on his most charming grin. “Now, enough questions about logistics and finances from you, Cunningham. I want you to tell me, in detail, the last filthy dream you had about me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Normally, this sort of talk would have rendered me near-unconscious with pent-up sexual energy, but so far I was unmoved. “They all merge into one at some point.”

  “I’m sure they do, you filthy thing. Now, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Working,” I said, slightly exasperated. “Remember, I’ve got a job?”

  “Not anymore you’re not. We’re going to spend the day together. I’ll plan everything: just leave it to me.” He reached out and gave my knee a squeeze. “It’ll be a scream.”

  I considered for a moment. Work was pretty quiet, and that little card mix-up the other day proved that my head wasn’t entirely in the game; I could probably do with a day off. But was spending an entire day with Adrian really the respite I needed?

  Adrian saw my hesitation and pulled my hand to his lips. “Come along, Cunningham. Be a good sport. I really have missed you.”

  He looked so earnest in that moment that I almost didn’t recognize him. I nodded my head in assent. “Deal. But we’ll have to keep clear of South Ken so I don’t get caught out.”

  He kissed my hand again and I felt a little flurry in my stomach. Maybe I wasn’t so unmoved after all.

  November 22

  After I sent the requisite email to work (migraine, didn’t sleep, will check emails later if I can), I started the day with Lucy bouncing up and down on my bed, making sweeping proclamations about true love. Obviously, I’d told her about Adrian’s return.

  “Oh, Lo, this is it! He’s come back because he’s finally realized that you’re meant to be together!” She collapsed on the bed with a sigh. “It’s so romantic.”

  I threw a balled-up pair of socks at her. “He has not. Besides, I thought you hated Adrian! I thought you were convinced that Dylan was my destiny.”

  She waved away the thought. “No, no, I was all wrong about that. I did think Adrian was a bit of a knobber, but that was because he was always disappointing you! But now he’s come all the way back from America to tell you that he was a fool before and that he loves you deeply and that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.” She sat up suddenly, eyes widening. “We could have a double wedding!” She lay back down and twisted around on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. “No, I want to have my own day. Sorry, babe. But you can get married straight after.”

  I got out of bed and pulled my yellow robe over the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in. “Lucy, get a grip, will you? He’s not back because he realized that he’s in love with me, he’s back because he fucked a teenage intern and got fired.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Everything happens for a reason. Anyway, he’s back now and the first thing he did was to come and find you, and he’s spending the whole day with you! If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. And now y
ou can stop following all these silly guides and just be with him!”

  I flung another pair of socks at her and went off to the shower.

  As I applied a conditioning mask to my hair, shaved my overgrown bikini line (there was no time for a wax) and buffed my entire body to a high shine with a fancy salt scrub, I thought about what Lucy had said. It was a little weird that he’d turned up like that. What if New York had changed him? What if he’d realized . . .

  No. The whole thing was ridiculous. I dried myself off and slipped on the fancy underwear from my Belle de Jour month. Lucy caught me agonizing over what to wear as she passed my open bedroom door on her way out.

  “See?” she called as she ran out the door. “You think he loves you, too!”

  “Fuck off!” I shouted down the hall. The door shut and I turned back to inspecting my wardrobe. Well, it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

  Adrian turned up at my door at eleven twenty-five, a full hour earlier than he was meant to. I was still in the process of getting ready and my hair was only half-dried. I accepted the lurid-green carnation he’d brought and sat him down on the couch while I finished drying my hair.

  “You know, Cunningham,” he called from the living room, “this place isn’t half bad after all.” Adrian had always mocked the Old Street flat (I think he referred to it as a dosshouse on several occasions) so this was a surprise. “I might crash here for a few weeks.”

  I poked my head around the corner and found Adrian sprawled across the couch and flicking through the channels on the TV. “Uh, I think Lucy might object to that,” I said, grabbing my bag and pulling on my coat. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  He didn’t budge. “Can’t we watch telly for a bit?”

  I glanced at the screen and saw Dickinson trying to get a Real Deal out of someone. “What do you want to sit around watching this for?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Just might be nice to chill out here for a bit.”

  “Fine,” I said, sitting next to him with a huff. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of spending my day off watching terrible daytime television, but it was with Adrian—he’d probably start ripping my clothes off soon.

  “I’d kill for a cup of tea,” he said, looking at me expectantly.

  I rolled my eyes and got up. “I’ll put the kettle on. Anything else you want while I’m up?”

  “Have you got any Jammie Dodger biscuits?” he said, spreading back out across the length of the couch. “That’d be lovely.”

  And so, for the next seven hours, we sat on the couch together watching property shows and old episodes of Nash Bridges. At some point, Adrian ordered a curry, which I had to pay for. (“Sorry, Cunningham, a bit skint at the minute.”)

  When six o’clock came around, I suggested we go to the pub, but he was reluctant.

  “Why go all the way outside when we could just stay in?” he asked, holding out his mug for a refill.

  “I don’t have any booze in the flat,” I pointed out.

  He dug around in his pocket and placed a pile of loose change on the table. “I could go to the shop?” he said, though he didn’t make any move to get up.

  I was desperate for an airing at that point, so I jumped at the chance. “I’ll go,” I said, grabbing my coat. “What do you want?”

  “A bottle of Sancerre would do me nicely,” he said, flicking over to Wipeout. “And maybe something for tea?”

  He finally left at a quarter to midnight. I’d thrown together a spaghetti dinner, which we ate on plates balanced on knees while watching a Cassavetes movie marathon. We finished the two bottles of Sancerre I’d bought at great expense from the wine shop around the corner, and at some point during She’s So Lovely, Adrian fell asleep and started snoring. When I woke him up and told him I was going to bed, he briefly started fumbling with my bra clasp.

  I pushed away from him, suddenly angry. “Do you really think it’s that easy? You turn up here, expect me to wait on you hand and foot, do precisely nothing that could be construed as attractive or endearing, and then expect me to sleep with you? Who do you think I am, exactly? Am I meant to be your girlfriend? Your mom? Or your little piece of ass?”

  He reared back as if he’d been slapped, but quickly arranged his face in what he clearly thought was a charming manner. “Darling,” he said, reaching for my hand, “I would never want to put a label on what we have.”

  I snatched my hand away. “You know what, Adrian? Go fuck yourself.” I stood up and handed him his coat. “For some stupid reason, I thought you were actually going to make an effort this time. Why did you send me those postcards? Why did you turn up at my work like that?”

  “Because you’re my filthy little Cunningham,” he said, “and I thought we understood each other.”

  “No, we don’t understand each other. It’s pretty clear that we never have.”

  He reached out and tried to pull me toward him. “Come on, let’s not argue.”

  I pushed him away. “Good-bye, Adrian.”

  “Don’t be a little spoilsport.” He made another grab for me.

  I opened the door and waved him out. “Get out.”

  He gave me a withering look as he walked out. “I thought you were cool, Cunningham,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Out!”

  After he left, I went out onto the balcony for a smoke.

  I wasn’t sure what had changed with Adrian, and why he’d sent me over the edge this time. It was like the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz; behind all the smoke and mirrors, he was really just a sad lost soul looking for someone to make him tea and clean up after him. A maid who he could occasionally fuck. I’d spent almost a year chasing an illusion, and now that the illusion had solidified in front of me, the magic had worn off.

  I shook my head and took another drag. There was more to it than that. I hadn’t really wanted Adrian to declare his undying love to me, because I didn’t want to be with him. Not really. Deep down, I’d always known that Adrian was more trouble than he was worth: he was selfish, unreliable, immature . . . He was charming, sure, but he wasn’t exactly someone you’d want to be responsible for.

  I realized suddenly—and with intense clarity—that I’d fallen victim to that age-old dating guide principle: it’s all about the chase. Adrian had, completely obliviously (or at least I assumed as much), been using The Rules on me all this time. And The Game. And the 1920s guide. Hell, all of them. I’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker. And, it turns out, they were right: there’s nothing more attractive than someone who’s elusive . . . particularly when that someone is never going to remind you of the quiet, kind man back in Portland whose heart you broke.

  I heard Lucy’s key in the door and called out to say I was on the balcony. She joined me after a minute, cigarette already in hand.

  “So?” she said expectantly. “How did it go? Is it true love?”

  “He grossed me out,” I said. “We ended up having a huge fight and I made him leave.” I explained the details of the day to her while we smoked.

  “Ugh, that’s the worst,” she said, stubbing the butt out on an empty flowerpot. “Sounds like he’s a bit of a sad sack now. And no one wants to fuck a sad sack.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  I turned my focus to next Saturday. Surely one of the ten candidates would be decent? At least I hoped that would be the case: I was starting to lose faith in the project again, and I needed something to bolster my belief.

  November 28

  Adrian left three messages on my mobile today, one asking if I’d seen his sock, one asking if he could come around to mine to watch football next week as his mom wouldn’t let him, and one to see if I wanted to get a drink after work. I deleted all three.

  It was also Thanksgiving. Obviously I was only home a short time ago, but it’s my favorite holiday (as it’s about eating ridic
ulous amounts of food and falling asleep in front of the television) so I was pretty bummed to miss out.

  I called Meghan at 3:30 her time, as I figured it would be after the big meal but before the Patriots’ kick-off. She sounded sleepy and a little drunk when she picked up: classic turkey coma symptoms. I was so jealous.

  “Is everyone playing nicely?” I asked. “Any tears over the mashed potatoes?”

  “Harold made a grab for the turkey—which is Cajun-style this year, by the way—but Dad managed to wrangle him away and we only lost a drumstick.”

  “No one likes those anyway. How’s the Cajun turkey going down?”

  “Pretty much as well as you’d expect.”

  “Any other excitement?”

  “Mom and Sue got into a long, protracted debate about the merits of second-wave versus third-wave feminism and ended it by arguing who would win in a fight: Betty Friedan or Naomi Wolf.”

  “Oh, Friedan all the way. She’s not fucking around.”

  “That’s what I said! So what’s new?”

  “Adrian’s history.”

  “Thank fuck that’s over—that guy sounded like a jerk. Never forget the wise words of TLC. You definitely don’t want any scrubs.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  November 30

  Today I met a random sample of the world’s male population and I’ve got to be honest: the results were not encouraging for the species. I might be doing my best to follow TLC’s advice, but it was proving very difficult to avoid scrubs. It seems they’re everywhere.

  I had scheduled my ten dates with military precision. Every hour, on the hour, I had to move on to a new location and a new man: there was a brunch, a lunch, three coffees, two dinners and three drinks. It was a Herculean task and, by the end of it, I was a drunk, caffeine-rattled maniac, stuffed to the gills with food and despair.

  I can’t bear to go into details about each date, because each was more tedious and bizarre than the rest, so I’ll just tell you the moment I knew that each one wasn’t going to work out.