The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  Kate blanched and reached in her pocket for her phone. “Sorry.” She smiled apologetically. “Forgot to turn it off.”

  Magda rolled her eyes again as Kate brought the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” she said. “Kate Hetherington speaking.”

  “Kate,” said a guy with an American accent, “it’s Joe. I was just calling about our date.”

  7

  Sal put down the phone and tried to ignore the angry red light flashing on her handset, informing her that she had at least one message waiting for her. It could wait, she told herself, even though she found it nearly impossible to ignore something like that, to procrastinate even the slightest bit. Life, in her book, was a list of “to do’s” waiting to be ticked off, and she prided herself on getting through her list promptly and efficiently Husband? Tick. Nice house? Tick. Interesting and fulfilling job? Tick. Mostly, anyway.

  Still, she accepted that sometimes you had to ignore the red flashing light. Sometimes she had to prove to herself that she was capable of ignoring it. And anyway, right now, she wanted a cup of tea.

  Sal worked in the regulation department of a large pharmaceuticals firm, deciding which claims and advertising slogans the company could get away with and which ones they couldn’t. “Fast, effective pain relief” was okay; “No more pain. Period” wasn’t. Even though the marketing team thought it was the best slogan they’d ever come up with. She was a scientist by training but had done a stint in marketing, and her boss had told her this job would be the best of both worlds, straddling the divide between brand and science. In reality, she was more of a whipping horse for both, the focus for all their anger at the other side. She didn’t mind. She could take it, after all. Sal didn’t let things get to her because she was practical. Pragmatic. Ed often told her about the histrionics of his friends’ girlfriends and wives— smashing plates over the smallest thing, overreacting and getting upset over nothing—and said that he was so pleased she wasn’t like that. Was so lucky that “his Sal” was so down to earth and sensible.

  Slowly she stood up and made her way toward the communal office-kitchen. She’d been in quite a good mood this morning—Ed had been out with clients the night before, but he’d got back before midnight, which was pretty good going. He’d even kissed her as he got up for work at five thirty A.M., remembering to close the bedroom door so that the noise from his shower didn’t keep her awake.

  Then, as if the God of Serendipity himself was looking favorably on her, the train had been on time; she’d even got a seat. And apart from a little dispute over the wording of a nicotine patch advert, things at work seemed to be going pretty smoothly, too. No one had called in sick and her manager hadn’t appeared at her door with a pained expression on his face, which always happened when he had been bollocked by his manager because a decision that she had made wasn’t the decision they’d wanted her to make. No, all in all, today had gone well.

  So why was it that she had a niggling feeling in her stomach, she asked herself as she methodically placed a tea bag in her mug and boiled the kettle. Why was a little frown burrowing itself into her forehead and feelings of irritation—usually reserved for late nights when Ed had failed to come home at the time he’d promised— creeping into her consciousness?

  There was no reason, she told herself. Which meant that she was imagining them. Which meant that if she ignored them, they would go away. Sal had no time for feelings that could not be traced to events, no time for moods that had no basis. She usually accepted that once a month her hormones, whilst not events, could result in chemical imbalances that made her feel out of sorts, but she had no truck with general malaise—in others or in herself. You made your own moods, she regularly told anyone who was willing to listen. Just as you made your own luck.

  Maybe she’d slept badly, she thought. Maybe she needed a holiday. Maybe she’d call up Ed and suggest it, even though she knew he’d say he didn’t have the time. Ed never had the time for holidays— he seemed to think that if he stepped out of the office for one single day, they’d realize they didn’t need him after all and he’d be fired. Maybe she’d just book a day at the Sanctuary instead.

  Sal jabbed at her tea bag and threw it in the bin.

  The fact was that she was happy with her life. Very happy. Kate might make out that financiers were boring, and she and Tom might even think that she and Ed were boring and too grown-up, but Sal wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Passion and romance were all very well, but they didn’t provide for you in your old age, did they? Not everyone wanted drama and proclamations of love. Some people preferred a quieter life.

  Was she one of them though? she wondered wistfully. When exactly had she and Ed got so terribly serious, anyway? They used to have fun together. Used to laugh and play silly games and spend entire weekends in bed.

  But now Ed always seemed to be either at work or on some golf weekend with clients. And she seemed to spend her life either cleaning up after him or nagging him to put a shelf up, take one down, put out the rubbish, or to get home when he said he would so that her meals wouldn’t be completely overcooked and ruined.

  She opened the fridge to get out some milk. It probably was just growing up, she decided. After all, they had a mortgage to pay off now. Life was more serious—it was unavoidable.

  And Kate’s romantic notions of meeting Mr. Right and living a life of romantic fantasy were hardly getting her very far. No, pragmatism had served Sal well, and a few little blips weren’t going to convince her to change course. Like she always said, you made your own luck. And she was very lucky, Sal told herself as she walked back to her desk. Very lucky indeed. In fact, she was going to call Ed right this minute, just to remind herself how happy she was.

  Decisively, she picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “Hi, darling, it’s me.”

  “Sal?” Ed sounded surprised. “What do you want?”

  Sal frowned. “I just wanted to see how you are. Just, you know, to say hello to my husband.”

  “Right. It’s just that it’s quite busy here. Is everything alright?”

  Sal rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s alright,” she said crossly. “Do I have to be facing a crisis to call you?”

  “I dunno. Look, can we discuss this later? Bit tied up here.”

  “Right,” Sal said, her shoulders slumping just a bit. “So you’ll be back for supper tonight?”

  “Ah. Actually, no. Sorry. Got a thing on.”

  “A thing.”

  “Yeah. Work thing. Sorry. Probably going to be a late one, too.”

  “Fine. Well, I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “You’re sure everything’s alright?” Ed’s voice told her that he was praying things were alright. That the last thing he needed right now was for anything to be wrong, for anything of hers to demand his precious time.

  “I’m fine, honestly,” Sal said. “You’d better get back to work.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  He put the phone down before Sal could say good-bye, and she slowly put the receiver back before turning to stare at the pile of papers on her desk, telling herself that everything was fine, that Ed being busy all the time didn’t mean anything, didn’t suggest that anything was wrong with their marriage.

  Anyway, she was busy, too, she thought, pursing her lips at the marketing blurb in front of her. How many times had she told those guys that they mustn’t make claims that couldn’t be backed up with evidence—yet here, yet again, was the proposed packaging for some nicotine gum with “Will stop you thinking about cigarettes forever” plastered across it.

  Tutting under her breath, she crossed out the will and replaced it with could.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom yawned and stared at the paperwork in front of him with contempt. He was a doctor, not a bloody administrator, yet he seemed to be spending more and more time these days filling out forms, writing memos, or completing time sheets. It was all such a waste of time.

  “D
r. Whitson?”

  He looked up to see one of the nurses hovering at his door.

  “Lucy? Hi, what can I do for you?”

  She was new. Quite pretty, but too many teeth. And a bit too ballsy for him, too. She looked like the sort of girl who would think nothing of taking off her top in a club and dancing on the bar. She probably holidayed in Ibiza and had a tattoo on her hip.

  “I just wondered if you could look at these charts for me. Tell me if everything looks okay.”

  “You can’t read them yourself?”

  “I’d like your opinion. If that’s alright?” She wasn’t intimidated by him, he noticed. In fact, she was staring right at him, bold as brass.

  Tom nodded and she handed him the charts. He knew them well—they were Mrs. Sandler’s. He’d operated on her two months before. Nasty tumor, he recalled. Caught it quite late.

  “She’s back?” he asked with concern. “I thought she was on a course of chemo now.”

  “She was,” Lucy said, “but she wasn’t responding well. And now Dr. Laketin says the cancer’s come back. Only she’s too weak for surgery right now.”

  Tom stared at the charts. “Well, these look okay,” he said, immediately forgetting about Lucy’s teeth or possible tattoo and becoming absorbed in the lines, figures, and results that revealed so much about his patients, about the frail human condition. “It looks like she’s on the right dosages. You’ll need to check that this line doesn’t go up—if it does, let me know right away. Is she eating alright?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Keeps puking up.”

  “Okay, that’s the problem,” Tom said. “Have a word with her about it. Find out if there are any foods she particularly likes. Soup is often good.”

  Lucy nodded. “I think she’s worried. She was telling me about her son at home. Said how she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s only got his dad looking after him and—”

  “I’m sure she’s worried, but let’s focus on her treatment, shall we?” Tom interrupted. “Food. That’s what she needs.”

  “I know, Doctor. But he’s got a school play coming up, see. And she really wants to be there, but she’s worried she isn’t going to be better in time….”

  “Lucy,” Tom said, “what is your job?”

  Lucy looked at him uncertainly.

  “What do you do?” he persisted.

  “I’m a nurse, Doctor.”

  “Good. Well done. So, Lucy, why don’t you focus on being a nurse, treating your patients, ensuring they get the right medication and care? A bit more of that and a little less chin wagging and who knows, Mrs. Sandler might actually recover enough to get to the play.”

  “I just thought that maybe I could have a word with her husband. You know, check that everything is okay?”

  Tom’s frown deepened. “And yet, here you are still talking about her personal life. Curious. Because as I think I made clear before, I am not interested, okay? Soup. Tomorrow. And watch the lines on the chart. I’ll have a word with Dr. Laketin and see when he’s likely to schedule her for surgery.”

  “Soup,” Lucy said flatly.

  “That’s right,” Tom said. “Was there anything else, Lucy?”

  She held his eye for a fraction longer than was comfortable, then shook her head. “No, Doctor, that’s it.”

  As she walked away, Tom rolled his eyes. Why did people find it so hard to remain emotionally neutral? Why did his colleagues feel the need to get personally involved with their patients? It was crazy. A neutral doctor could make informed decisions. The right decisions. Emotion just got in the way. He’d gone into medicine to cure people, not listen to their problems.

  If Mrs. Sandler refused to eat because she was worried, then Lucy simply would have to make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that she was jeopardizing her recovery. That’s how you handled patients. Stick to the facts. Black and white.

  In fact, he decided, he would tell her himself. Next time he saw her.

  Sighing, he turned back to his paperwork.

  8

  The Dance of Love

  Falling in love is rather like a dance. Each dancer has his or her own steps, but for the dance to work, each dancer must also understand the other’s steps, and they must move together in a fluid movement, sometimes parting but always aware of the other. It is a beautiful thing to watch. And yet so many budding romances fall at the first hurdle; too many dancers spin apart from each other, or fail to bend to the other’s rhythm.

  The hopeless romantic understands the dance of love. The romantic knows how to achieve the delicate balance of turning heads whilst focusing her attention on one man; how to keep her suitor intrigued whilst learning everything about him.

  It’s an open secret that listening is an art that can prove most attractive yet that few perfect. Of course, dressing for a date is equally important— choosing eye-catching accessories to enhance your plain dress, for instance, will brighten up your date’s day, choosing a perfume that is sweet but not overpowering will show that you are thoughtful, and finding the height of heel that allows you to walk elegantly whilst flattering your leg will ensure that all eyes are on you. But truly listening to a gentleman, remembering the information he imparts to you, and making thoughtful comments will do more to imprint you on his memory than any amount of powder or face cream. Learn to listen well, and romance will follow you wherever you go.

  The dance of love is also a physical one. As with real dancing, the gentleman will lead this dance, but it is very important that you maintain your distance in the early stages. A chaste kiss is acceptable after one or two dates, but no more; heaven forfend that the man of your dreams should judge you to be an easy conquest. Maintain your allure by keeping a slight distance, and you can be sure that the dance will last a lifetime; move too close, and it may be over before the music has even stopped playing.

  Eye-catching accessories, Kate thought uncertainly as she studied her wardrobe. Sweet perfume. It wasn’t the most practical advice she’d ever been given. But, bearing in mind her successes—or lack of them—so far, she didn’t really feel in a position to argue.

  “Hi!”

  Joe was waiting at the table when she got there, and he stood up briefly as she sat. “You look … lovely,” he said, appraising her with a smile. “I love that… what is it you’ve got there, a brooch?”

  Kate nodded, smiling. “Thanks. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

  Joe nodded back. “It’s pretty. It’s so nice to see someone dressed … you know, elegantly. In a pretty dress. Making an effort.”

  Kate blushed slightly. “It’s just a plain dress, really,” she said.

  “Well, it looks great,” Joe said. “So, I hope you like the food here. It’s Italian.”

  Kate picked up the menu and sneaked a peak over it at Joe. He was incredibly good-looking, she decided. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt that showed off his broad chest, muscled arms, and tanned skin. He looked like a Calvin Klein model. Or the gardener off Desperate Housewives. The kind of guy who could pick you up and toss you over his shoulder, if he felt so inclined.

  “I love Italian food,” Kate babbled. “You know, I went to Italy on holiday last year and there was this restaurant that did the most amazing …” Suddenly she stopped talking.

  “What?” Joe asked. “Did the most amazing what?”

  Kate bit her lip. “Scallops,” she said softly. “They did amazing scallops.”

  “You okay?” Joe ventured, and Kate nodded. She was thinking about Elizabeth Stallwood. Truly listening to a gentleman, remembering the information he imparts to you, and making thoughtful comments will do more to imprint you on his memory than any amount of powder or face cream….

  “I’m fine,” she said. “So tell me about yourself, Joe. How did an American end up working in a bar in London?”

  Joe grinned. “Actually, I’m an actor,” he said. “The bar work just keeps me out of trouble.”

  “That’s right, you mentioned that at
the bar,” Kate said enthusiastically. “I’ve got a friend who went into acting. Went to Central School of Drama in Swiss Cottage—just up the road from here

  Kate stopped herself again and smiled at him.

  “So, tell me about your acting,” she said, digging her nails into her palms to remind herself to let the guy talk this time.

  “Oh, there’s not much to tell,” Joe said with a shrug.

  Kate smiled encouragingly, clamping her mouth shut.

  “Okay, then,” Joe relented. “So, I’ve been doing a lot of stuff in LA. I was in this show, Everything I Do, in the second male lead role. It was kinda big in the States. But then the show comes to an end, I want something a bit different, so I come to London. Got here about a month ago, and it’s cool, you know? Actually, it’s freezing, but that’s another story, right?”

  Kate nodded, with another smile. “So what sort of stuff are you looking for?”

  Joe looked pensive. “I figure a television show. I’ve got an agent here, he’s setting me up with some auditions.”

  “Right,” Kate said. “Of course.” She nervously picked up her menu again, desperate to have something to focus on other than Joe. He was just so radiant, it felt like looking at the sun. She was convinced that every time their eyes met he could see her goofy swooning.

  A few moments later, the waitress came over and they ordered their food, then Joe looked up at Kate.

  “So you work in television?” he asked.

  Kate shrugged. She always felt a bit awkward talking about what she did. First, she was an interior designer, not a television presenter, which made it hard to explain her role, and second, people always got so interested when she said she worked in television, an interest which died away the minute she admitted it was a little-watched daytime show.

  “Oh, it’s just a cable program,” she said vaguely. “A makeover show.”

  “Cool,” Joe said. “So, is it a big television company? Do they do shows? Sit-coms, that kind of thing?”

  “Nope.” Kate shook her head. “Just Future: Perfect, the cheesiest makeover show on television. I do the interiors, but to be honest I’m wondering whether it’s the right thing for me. I mean, I love interior design, but we have to do everything for such a small budget and it’s not like I even wanted to be on television. …”