Love by the Book (10 page)

“Some of them weren't bad. I thought the one about the tractor was decent.”

“That's not the point! The point is, I like you. I want to look after you.” He reached across the table, covered my hand with his big manly one and smiled. “I just want you all to myself. When I first met you, you were a quiet, demure little dove. Now all I seem to hear about are other men and mad drunken nights out. I want you to settle down. With me.”

I know that in many of the romantic comedies at the start of this millennium, a speech like that would have triggered a tear of happiness to bead up in the heroine's eye as she realized that she had the love and protection of a strong-armed, strong-jawed man who wanted her all to himself. She would throw out her cigarettes, pour all of the whisky in her cupboard down the drain and start tagging meat-heavy recipes on Pinterest.

But as I mentioned at the beginning of this experiment, I wasn't looking for a knight on a noble steed, or Gerard Butler on a motorcycle, or even Ryan Gosling in a boat in the rain. I'd had enough of that back in Maine and the experience taught me that these things end in tears. I felt a pang of guilt. Popeye was a decent guy, even if he could be a little territorial. I couldn't lead him on.

I slowly extricated my hand and smiled.

“You're a great guy, but I'm just not looking for a relationship right now.”

His smile faltered. “What do you mean? I thought this was going somewhere.”

“I thought we were just having fun,” I said, knowing that wasn't exactly the truth.

“But surely that has to lead somewhere? At some point, Lauren, you're going to have to grow up. Time isn't kind to women over a certain age. You don't want to wake up one day and find out the party's over, do you?”

I swallowed my feminist outrage: there was no point in getting into a heated debate about gender ethics. “You're a great guy, and you have fantastic arms, and I'm sure there are loads of girls who are desperate to meet someone like you. Look at you—you're a total stud!”

He perked up a bit at this. “Mmm. But I thought we were on to something.”

“We had a good time. Isn't that enough?”

“I'm afraid not, and I'm afraid you're not the woman I thought you were. If it's all right with you, I'd like us to say our good-byes now.”

“Of course. I don't feel much like sushi at the moment, either.”

Popeye got the bill (a gentleman to the last) and we parted ways outside. I smoked a cigarette on my way back to the tube, thinking how odd it was that I'd never see him again. I realized I felt fine about it. Really, I felt nothing. He was a nice guy, if a little chauvinistic, but we'd both been playing roles that didn't suit us. It was for the best that the curtains had closed.

I sent Lucy a text telling her I was on my way home before stubbing out my cigarette and walking down the steps to the tube, careful not to trip on my skirt.

Push-up report: five (better!)

Pull-up report: still dangling. I might try doing one backward tomorrow and see if that helps.

 • • • 

Abstinence is boring and the valerian root is giving me a stomachache. So far, I hate this month.

Meghan called from Maine to check in on me this afternoon.

“Hey, kiddo. How's it going?”

“It's going. Thanks for the postcard.” It had arrived last week: a picture of an old clapboard mansion in Portland, days before it had been demolished. The front yard was covered in rusted-out car parts and green vines had nearly consumed the front porch. On the back, she'd written:

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see”—Confucius

Love you, M

I had tucked it in the pages of my journal along with the last one.

“Just a little reminder of home,” she said. “So how's the experiment? Any conclusions yet?”

“Well, Popeye and I parted ways last night.”

“What happened? I thought he was a good egg.” I heard the sound of a dog whimpering in the background. “Hang on a sec, I've got to let Harold out.” I heard a screen door creak open. “There you go, buddy! Where's Maud? Huh? Go find Maud!”

Maud was their new kitten, bought to catch mice in the farmhouse kitchen.

“Are you sure Maud really wants to be found?”

Meghan laughed. “Are you kidding me? She rides on Harold's back like he's a horse! They love each other. Now, tell me what happened with Popeye.”

“He wanted me to be Maud to his Harold.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that proves that at least one of the books works, right?”

“I guess so. I'm still not getting what I want, though.”

“I know, sweetie. No strings attached, no lovey stuff, no feelings, no emotions . . .”

“Exactly.”

“People aren't robots, kid. People fall for other people, emotions get in the way, irrational decisions are made. You know that better than most. You can't keep yourself away from that forever. You'll have to let some light in there at some point.”

“No, I don't. Why does love have to be the ultimate goal, the end result? I give zero fucks about love. I'm happier on my own.”

There was a sigh on the end of the line, and then I heard an almighty crash in the background.

“Maud! Get down from there! Kid, I'm sorry but I've got to go: the cat has just scaled the china cabinet. Look, I'm sorry. I just worry about you.”

“I'm fine! You don't need to worry. I've got everything under control.”

“You've been saying that since you learned how to talk. ‘I'm fine' were practically your first words. That's what I worry about.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love to you, love to Sue.”

“Love to you, too.”

I hung up and threw my cell phone onto my bed. I glanced down and saw the small cardboard box peeking out from under the bed. I thought about opening it and picking through the old photographs and letters like week-old scabs. Instead, I grabbed my trainers and headed out for a run. Reminiscing wasn't going to get me anywhere: I had an obstacle course to train for.

Push-ups: five and a half (steady if slow progress)

Pull-ups: half a backward one with the help of a chair

 • • • 

Today the sun shone for the first time in a fortnight and I woke up feeling renewed. I decided to face this month's challenge with as much aplomb as I could muster. So what if I couldn't have sex? I was soon to be a lean, mean, Tough Muddering machine.

Speaking of which, I've got my date with Running Man next Saturday.

And, even more excitingly, or possibly disastrously, tomorrow is my dinner with Adrian.

I have no idea what to expect but I do know what
NOT
to expect, and that is sex. I can't believe I'm actually writing these words, but tomorrow I am going to see Adrian at his house (which is
WHERE HIS BED LIVES
) and I am not going to have sex. I feel like I've fallen into Bizarro World (which may explain the sunshine in London today).

Wish me luck.

Push-ups and pull-ups: none—too annoyed

 • • • 

Adrian canceled yesterday. Of course he did. Apparently there was a massive warehouse fire in Slough and he had to go cover it for the paper. I hope he got a fireman's hose stuck up his ass.

And to add insult to injury, Running Man canceled our date for Saturday too. Apparently his grandmother is ill or something. Selfish bitch.

On the bright side, a month of abstinence isn't going to be all that difficult to achieve if no one wants to have sex with me.

I've also noticed that all of last month's flirting has ceased abruptly. I don't know if it's all the demure clothes, or if I'm emanating some kind of anti-pheromone, but I haven't had a single glance thrown my way so far this month. On the tube, in shops, in bars: it's like I'm invisible. My light has definitely gone off.

Push-ups: two to three billion, all under duress

Pull-ups: none, though I can barely pull my pants up at this point so it's not surprising

 • • • 

Lucy and I went to boot-camp training in Victoria Park tonight after work. I thought it would make a nice change from our usual run and it was a glorious evening: still warm and bright with only the slightest of gentle breezes.

Before I knew it, that gentle breeze was whizzing past as I galloped up and down a hill while an enormous former Marine sergeant shouted insults at me. We were being forced around a gigantic circuit, each station bringing its own special blend of blinding pain and bullying from the instructors.

I caught Lucy's eye as she dove to the ground to do yet another burpee while a sadistic-looking blond man towered over her. Her pupils were dilated with fear.

At the end of the hour, we were both covered in dirt and brambles. Lucy's normally bouncy ponytail was hanging limply and I was convinced I'd dislocated my thumb in an overzealous forward roll. We went to the pub for a pint and a bowl of chips (carbohydrates being an important recovery food).

“Jesus,” I said, taking a long sip from my pint. It tasted like cold, liquid heaven. “Those guys were a little . . . intense, don't you think?”

“Never again, babe.” Lucy swiped a chip through the pot of mayonnaise and popped it in her mouth. “Those instructors might have been super fit, but I stopped thinking about shagging them when the blond man called me ‘dumpling,' and I don't think he meant it affectionately.”

I clinked glasses with her. “Here's to abstinence.”

Push-ups: eight (amazing progress!)

Pull-ups: a quarter (again, progress!)

 • • • 

I had already changed into sweatpants and was folding laundry when my cell phone rang. The time was
11:03
on Friday night. It was Adrian.

I stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if I should pick up.

That's a lie. Who am I kidding? Of course I was going to pick up.

“Are you calling to cancel non-existent plans just for shits and giggles? Cat up a tree this time? Bomb threat in Tesco?”

“Cunningham, are you still dwelling on that? You know what Billy Joel says: I didn't start the fire.”

“Go to hell. What do you want?”

“I'm just by your flat and wondered if you wanted to get a nightcap.”

“I'm in my pajamas.”

“Even better. Shall I come up?”

My eyes darted around the room, which was currently covered in piles of socks. It wasn't exactly inviting. Plus, Adrian in close proximity to a bed was asking for trouble.

“No!” I blurted. “Do not come up here.”

“Why? Have you got a suitor around? Dirty girl.”

“No. I just don't want you coming up here.”

“Fine, then come down here. Meet me in the Eagle in ten.”

I made a noise like a trapped cat.

“Come on, Cunningham. Just for one. I'm buying.”

Three hours later and dressed in torn skinny jeans and an oversized sweatshirt (my painstakingly assembled “I just threw this on and came down to meet you” outfit), I found myself pressed up against Adrian in the Horse and Groom as a drunk man in a bear costume stumbled past.

I had consumed more bourbon than I could recall, and Adrian had his hand on my inner thigh.

“Do you want another one?” His breath was warm and vodka-tinged and impossibly alluring.

“Sure. Can we go outside first? I need a cigarette.”

“You and your nicotine . . .”

I followed him out and leaned against the wall of the pub. As I lit my cigarette, I glanced over at Adrian. His hair had fallen over his left eye and his white T-shirt had a huge rip down one side.

“What happened to your shirt?”

He glanced down at the tear. “Dunno. Been like that for months.”

“Did you ever think about throwing it out?”

“Why would I do that? It's still functional.”

“I don't know that I'd call it functional. I think you'll find the purpose of a shirt is to cover your torso, and that, my friend, ain't cutting the mustard. Where the hell did that phrase come from anyw—”

He lunged forward and kissed me, pinning me against the wall.

“Do you ever shut up, Cunningham?” he whispered.

“Hrrrmmmmmgh,” I mumbled.

“Let's get out of here. Back to yours?”

I nodded weakly as he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd of smokers. I was powerless in the face of his voodoo magic. Where the fuck was my valerian root when I needed it? He stopped at the intersection to kiss me again, then slipped his hand under my sweatshirt to my bare back. (I was suddenly grateful for all the push-up work.)

We were a block from my apartment when I saw it: an enormous billboard featuring a neon-lit pint of Guinness and the words “The Best Things Come to Those Who Wait.”

It was like a bolt of lightning sent by Zeus, or the angel Gabriel blowing his little trumpet right in my face.

I stopped short and dropped Adrian's hand like it was on fire.

“I can't do this.”

Adrian looked startled. “Do we need to make a condom stop?”

“No. Ugh.
NO
! I can't have sex with you.”

He gave me a lopsided, quizzical grin. “Of course you can. It's very simple, Cunningham. I believe you've done it before, though I'm happy to provide a refresher course. I can assure you that you'll have a lovely time.”

“I'm sure I would but I just . . . can't. I'm sorry.”

I gave his hand a quick squeeze and then ran across the road, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a minicab in the process. I heard someone cursing me, but didn't want to turn around to see if it was the driver or Adrian.