The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The next evening, Kate and Tom got to the Bush Bar and Grill at exactly the same time.

  “And how is my favorite hopeless romantic?” he asked with a smile, kissing her on the cheek and heading for the bar.

  “Pretty well,” Kate said happily. “And how’s my favorite grumpy doctor?”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “Not grumpy, just battered and bruised by the world conspiring against him,” he said. “Now, can I get you a drink?”

  Kate declined. “Actually, I was going to buy a bottle of champagne.”

  Tom stared at her. “Champagne? Are we celebrating? If so, shouldn’t I know what it is first?”

  Kate shrugged. “Well, I’ve got an announcement to make. I am no longer a hopeless romantic, at least not in your interpretation, because I may just have a boyfriend. Plus, since I’m in such a good mood, I thought that we should celebrate our friendship.”

  “Our friendship?” Tom asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Kate said. “You realize we’ve all know each other for more than twenty years now? I think that’s worth celebrating.”

  “You’re completely mad,” Tom said with a shrug. “But if you wish to squander your money on champagne, please don’t let me stop you. And did you just say you’ve got a boyfriend?”

  “That’s right.” Kate grinned. “At least, you know, we haven’t discussed it yet or anything, but I’ve got a good feeling about it. A very good feeling.”

  “You’ve got a boyfriend? That was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?” Sal said breathlessly, appearing beside them. “Sorry I’m late. Argument with Ed. Don’t ask. So, boyfriend?”

  “He’s American,” Kate said with enthusiasm. “And he’s an actor.”

  “An actor in work or an actor working as a waiter?” Tom asked.

  Kate frowned. “How do you know he works in a bar?”

  Tom grinned. “I didn’t. It was a lucky guess. Isn’t LA meant to be full of actors working in bars?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Okay, so right now he’s working in a bar. But he was in this show called Everything I Do which was really big in the States.”

  “It must have been big to achieve the career trajectory of waiting tables in London,” Tom said dryly.

  Kate glared at him. “Stop being so bloody cynical. He’s gorgeous and he’s going to be hugely successful and I don’t care what you think.”

  Tom was still grinning. “But I thought you wanted to celebrate our friendship with champagne? Surely you must value my opinion?”

  “Champagne?” Sal asked. “Why are you and Tom celebrating? I don’t understand.”

  Kate sighed. “The three of us,” she said, annoyed. “I wanted the three of us to celebrate our friendship. You know, to think how lucky we are and everything.”

  “Lucky?” Sal asked. “In what way are we lucky?”

  “In all ways,” Kate said, exasperated. “We’ve got jobs, we’ve got each other, you’ve got Ed, for goodness’ sake. How lucky is that?”

  Sal shrugged. “Let me see: I’m lucky to be married to someone who’d rather play golf than see his wife, and to be mortgaged up to the hilt so we can’t afford a holiday, am I?”

  Kate looked at her helplessly. “I just thought…”

  “Kate, you’re on a high because you’ve finally had sex after a drought, that’s all,” Tom said. “Whereas we’re the same miserable buggers we were last week. Ignore us.”

  “Actually, we …” Kate started to say, then decided that Tom didn’t need to know about her sex life or lack of it. “I thought you shagged a different girl every week,” she said instead. “Shouldn’t you be on a constant high?”

  “I suppose the novelty wears off after a while,” Tom said with a thin smile. “So, are we going to get drinks or are we just going to stand here all evening?”

  “Fine,” Kate said crossly, wondering whether putting her friends near the top of her list of things to be happy about might not have been a little premature. “No champagne, then. Do you think the two of you could see your way to drinking some wine instead?”

  They bought a bottle of Australian red and found their usual table.

  “So,” Sal said when they’d all sat down. “Tell us about your new boyfriend. Where did you meet him?”

  Kate grinned. “In a bar. His bar, actually. The one where he works. I was with Gareth. Anyway, we went out to dinner and then went out again a few nights ago, and he’s really nice.”

  “Nice?” Tom said. “I thought girls didn’t want to go out with ‘nice’ boys.”

  Kate rolled her eyes at him. “ Nice’ as in gorgeous and funny and sweet,” she said irritably.

  “And did your eyes meet across the bar? Did you know at once that he was the one?” Tom asked, a little smile playing on his lips.

  “Oh bugger off,” Kate said. “Why do you always have to be so cynical about everything?”

  “Yes, shut up, Tom,” Sal agreed. “So d’you think it’s serious, Kate?”

  “Maybe.” Kate smiled. “I mean, I think so. I hope so. You know we were talking last week about speed dating and stuff? Well, I started thinking that maybe you were right, that I should just go out with someone—anyone—and stop worrying about whether he’s the one, or whatever. And then I met Joe and it feels really right, you know? And I’m just so pleased that I didn’t. Settle, I mean. He said I was really special.”

  “Special?” Tom said. “Pass the sick bag. Next he’ll be sending Hallmark cards to his ‘special someone.’ “

  Kate glared at him. “Just because you’ve never been special to anyone in your life, or, God forbid, let anyone become special to you, you don’t have to knock my new relationship,” she snapped. “You’re just jealous, that’s all.”

  Tom frowned. “I’m only interested in someone calling me special if it is in the middle of or just after the coital act. And only in reference to my performance. I’m serious—if either of you ever call me special, our friendship is over. Terminated. No second chances.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” Kate muttered, and took a swig of wine.

  Sal smiled thinly. “Tom, being special to someone is not a death sentence, you know. I mean, there is life after marriage and commitment.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Tom said. “Just not for me.”

  “What, because it’s boring? Because being married makes you somehow unable to have fun?” Sal demanded.

  “Can I just say for the record that Joe and I are not getting married,” Kate put in. “I mean, you know, it’s been two dates. …”

  “Great. So you think marriage is boring, too,” Sal said crossly.

  “I don’t!” Kate said, indignant. “I just don’t want you thinking that someone calling me special means I’m about to walk up the aisle with him. I mean, I might, one day. But not quite yet…”

  Tom scowled. “You actually think you might marry this guy and you’ve known him for less than a week? Are you mad?”

  “No!” squealed Kate. “I’m not bloody marrying him. I just said that… Oh, forget it. This is ridiculous.”

  “Fine,” Sal said, folding her arms defensively. “So you all just have fun, and I’ll stay at home being married and boring, shall I?”

  Tom turned to Sal with concern. “Sal,” he said gently, “believe me that Kate and I are having no fun at all. Well, Kate might be, but it will probably be short-lived and then she’ll be as depressed as she usually is and you will again reign supreme as the only one of us mature enough to sustain a proper adult relationship.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows at him. “It won’t be short-lived,” she said. “At least, I hope it won’t. But Sal, he’s right—you’re not the boring married one. You’re the lucky married one.”

  “You say that,” Sal said with a shrug, “but I bet the two of you haven’t spent the weekend at home alone—well, until four o’clock this afternoon, anyway. I bet this drink isn’t the only exciting thing that’s happened to you all
weekend.”

  Tom grinned and raised his glass to her. “I’ve been at work all weekend, so actually it is.”

  “And I watched Sleepless in Seattle on my own last night,” Kate added, with a little smile.

  Sal looked at them sheepishly. “Did you two think that it was going to be like this? I mean, when I left university, I thought things were going to be so brilliant.”

  “And they are,” Kate said. “You just have to focus on what’s good and pleasing in your life, and then you’ll always keep your spirits high.”

  Tom and Sal stopped and stared at her.

  “Kate,” Tom said, “that is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said all night. You are obviously suffering from a rush of endorphins brought about by the erroneous notion that you are in love with this American chap. If things don’t improve, I might have to write you a prescription.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. “I might well be in love with Joe, and it’s more than a chemical reaction,” she said levelly “But that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve met a great guy, who’s good and kind and strong and noble, and I really like him, okay? Plus, I have two great friends. …” She looked meaningfully at Tom. “Sorry, one great friend and one pretty great but also quite annoying one, and I also have a job that pays my bills and that I quite enjoy sometimes. So feel free to rain on your own parade if you want to, but leave mine alone, okay? I’m happy, and if you don’t like it, then frankly I don’t care.”

  Tom gave her a quizzical look, then shrugged. “Well then,” he said, “let’s hope your Mr. Right lives up to your expectations, shall we?”

  11

  Drawing a Romantic Line

  A few years ago, the idea of a gentleman expecting more than to be offered a hand to kiss was quite beyond the pale. Indeed, those were simpler times, when affection between courting couples was limited to words and glances, which were in their own way really very powerful.

  Todays hopeless romantic, however, must navigate difficult and choppy waters where expectations are very different and decisions so much harder. A kiss may just be a kiss, but it can lead very quickly to a great deal more. How many young girls have given away too much, too soon, only to be left heartbroken as their “suitor” moves on to his next conquest.

  Of course the true romantic will choose her suitor carefully, as discussed previously, and this vetting process will reduce the likelihood of misunderstandings and broken promises. But however strong a man’s word, remember that the flesh can be weak and that what is exposed can no longer be hidden.

  However much you admire and trust your gentleman caller, then, I advise the following guidelines. A demure kiss is always an acceptable way to finish a date. Any man who expects more in the early stages is unlikely to have honorable intentions.

  As a relationship flourishes, you may be tempted to go further, and modern medical advances mean that it is now quite possible for girls to do so. But do not do so unadvisedly, because a broken heart is so very difficult to mend.

  Before you embrace the modern world and say yes to a man who is keen for your attentions, be sure to satisfy yourself on the following: Is this man the man of your dreams? Are you the woman of his? Do you talk regularly about the future? Is he keen to gain acceptance by your family, and does he implore you to spend more time with his? When he looks at you, is it with love or simply desire? Would this man be a good role model and father to your children, or do you sense that he would shirk his responsibilities?

  The true romantic will know the answers to these questions and will know accordingly whether she wishes to give more of herself than might be traditionally proper. Love affairs do not always last forever, nor should they; but for the duration of the affair, both parties should long for a lifetime together though events may deny them their dream. Affairs without love, on the other hand, are different entirely and will provide no beautiful memories or teach you no lessons. For, in truth, if you give to the undeserving, it only makes you poorer.

  Sarah Jones, the rather overweight woman who was sitting in front of Kate, was playing nervously with the hem of her dress and every so often brushed beads of sweat from her nose and upper lip.

  “So,” Kate said, picking up her notes. “As you know, with Future: Perfect, we’re looking for an image makeover that’s going to suit you. I’m Kate Hetherington, and I’ll be making over your house. Now, I’ve been looking at your notes and your video, which, by the way, was great!” She flicked a quick look at Mrs. Jones to see if this comment had had the desired effect of calming her a bit, maybe even getting her to smile, but it was no good. She looked terrified.

  “Anyway,” Kate continued, “we all agreed that what we’d like to do is create an ambience in your home that enables you to live your busy family life but that reinforces the feeling of sanctuary, if you know what I mean?”

  Sarah Jones looked at her blankly.

  “A special place where you can feel comfortable and cosseted,” Kate said with an encouraging smile. “Somewhere that reinforces the wonderful feeling of domesticity—that celebrates the fact that you are in fact a domestic goddess!”

  Sarah Jones’s face was still impenetrable, but Kate jotted down her own words. Lines like that were perfect for her piece on camera.

  She was doing her best to be enthusiastic, but she had to admit she was struggling. Joe had called her late last night, when she’d just got back from the Bush Bar and Grill, telling her that his shift had finished, that he’d been thinking about her all day and that he wanted to come over.

  And she’d said no.

  Naturally, she’d regretted it at once, and she’d been unable to sleep all night, worrying that he’d get tired of her turning him down and that she was crazy for following a stupid code aimed at women in the 1950s. Now she was seriously cranky.

  “So,” Kate went on, her forced smile beginning to strain the muscles in her cheeks, “I’ve got some lovely fabrics for you to have a look at, and some great paint colors—lots of bold patterns, and bold but faded colors, if you see what I mean? Kind of lived in …”

  She handed a large mood board to Sarah, on which she had painstakingly painted some warm blue and green wall colors, matched against some IKEA fabrics that looked as bright as anything you might find in a Cath Kidston shop.

  Sarah didn’t appear to be enticed by the swatches, however, her face remaining tense.

  “This is just the board for the kitchen, but we’re doing the sitting room, too,” Kate hurried on. “Along the same lines, but toned down a bit…”

  Please say something, she begged silently. Please just say one thing. All she needed was a smile or a nod and a “that one looks nice” and she could get to work. Or rather, Phil could, directed by her.

  Sarah cleared her throat and looked up.

  Kate gave her the most cheerful smile and an encouraging nod.

  “I want a leather couch. Like that Linda Barker one in that advert.”

  A leather sofa? Kate frowned. How did that fit with the Desperate Housewives- meets-Camilla-Parker-Bowles theme? The only kind of leather sofa that could work would be a large, old slouchy one, and that would absorb the budget for not one show but three.

  “Well,” she said, knowing that it was important never to say no but instead to offer alternatives, “I’m not sure which sofa you mean, but don’t you think that with these wonderful colors it might be an idea to cover your existing sofa instead? Think of all the family memories of that lovely sofa—and now you’ll be able to keep it, whilst also updating it to fit the new color scheme!”

  “Black leather and chrome, it was,” Sarah stated. “My neighbor’s got one just the same. Leather and chrome, that’s what I want.”

  Kate took a deep breath. “The thing is, Mrs. Jones—Sarah, I mean—the concept we designed for you doesn’t really include a leather sofa. And you’ll probably be aware that our budgets are really very tight, so a sofa would absorb almost the whole lot.”

  Sarah Jones stared at h
er, unflinching. Then she leant in close and grabbed Kate’s hand. “Look,” she whispered desperately, “I don’t care about your concepts. You’re young and pretty, so you won’t be able to understand, but I’ve been married for sixteen years. Had three children and look like it, too. For the past ten years, my husband’s been sleeping with a woman lives across the road and hasn’t so much as kissed me on the cheek. No amount of makeup or concepts are going to change the fact that I haven’t had sex for years. So what I want is a leather sofa. One that’s better than what she’s got. And he’s not going to be allowed to plant one buttock on it, not if I’ve got anything to say about it. Do you understand?”

  Kate thought for a moment, then nodded. She did understand. More than she wanted to. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the noise of her parents screaming at each other when she was eight, remembering how she listened to every word from her vantage point on the stairs. Remembering the words that woman being used meaningfully in conversations as though Kate wouldn’t know what it meant. Remembering telling herself that she would never have a marriage like theirs, a marriage that felt as if it was secured with Sel-lotape instead of superglue.

  She also knew all about pent-up frustration and not having had sex for so long she could barely remember how it worked; knew about waiting so long for perfection that she was in danger of missing out completely. But she also knew that a leather sofa was not at all what she had in mind for Sarah Jones’s house. “Let’s talk about this later, shall we?” she said in a soft voice, and stood up. Then she walked to the hallway and took out her phone.

  “Joe?” she said when she got through. “It’s me. How does seven P.M. at mine sound?”

  He arrived at 6:45 P.M., holding a bottle of wine. A bottle of wine that didn’t get opened until two hours later.

  Kate had been right about him being the kind of guy who could carry someone over his shoulder. No sooner had they started kissing than he whisked her into his arms and carried her silently, strongly, into the bedroom where he slowly but carefully peeled off her clothes.