Love by the Book (2 page)

I started to get excited about the prospect. I'd follow a different guide every month and log the results in a journal (this very one!) for scientific posterity. It would be a sociological experiment. Jesus, after a few months of scientific study, I'd practically be Margaret Mead! Maybe not quite, but at least it would be interesting. Much more interesting than scaring off men with eggs and being passed over for
Football
fucking
Focus
.

I immediately texted Lucy.

Me:
Have you ever used a dating guide?

Lucy:
Why?

Me:
Just asking.

Lucy:
Why are you asking?

Me:
Just tell me!

Lucy:
Maybe.

Me:
Maybe?

Lucy:
Maybe. Yes. Am I a saddo?

Me:
Maybe.

Lucy:
Fuck off.

Me:
Which one?

Lucy:
The Rules
. Don't judge. Was at low point.

Me:
No judgment. Have a new life plan. Tell you when I get back. Xx

I ran to my favorite bookstore, a little gem tucked behind the tube station at South Kensington. It was owned by a sweet, kindly, white-haired man with a Scottish accent so thick you could stick a fork in it. He'd become one of my favorite people in London, always pressing wonderful books into my hands and mumbling incomprehensibly about them. The bookstore itself was amazing: all tiny nooks and crannies, with a little attic space reserved for used books. I spent most of my lunch hours curled up there, searching for hidden treasure.

I got there ten minutes after closing, but the door was still open. I could see the owner tottering around inside, arranging a table of Seamus Heaney books and singing along to the radio.

He greeted me with a warm grin and a burble that I assumed was a hello.

“What can I do for you, love?” he said. “Come back for more Austen? Or perhaps some Thackeray?” He started pulling books from the shelves into a pile for me, as usual.

“No thanks, Hamish. I'm actually looking for something a little different today. Do you have any self-help?”

“Ah, love, you don't seem to need any help! What's it for,
DIY
? You should get yourself a strapping fella to do that!”

“No, it's not that.” Christ, this was embarrassing. “It's . . . dating. I need dating help.”

He straightened himself up on his cane and gave me a kind smile. “I'm sure that isn't true. You're a lovely lass! I bet the boys are falling over themselves to take you out on the town!”

“Not quite,” I mumbled. “Anyway, it's for research. Scientific research.” I tried to say it with more conviction than I currently felt.

“Ah, I should have known! You working at the Science Museum and all. I think I've got some of those books tucked away in the attic. Give us a shout if you can't find them and I'll go on the hunt.”

I thanked him and ran up the steps to the attic room, which was filled to the rafters with perilous towers of used books. I found the right corner, blew off the dust and sifted through the titles:
Men Are from Mars
,
He's Just Not That Into You
,
Why Men Love Bitches
 . . . lovely old Hamish had a great selection.

I heard him clear his throat and call up the stairs. “Sorry, love, but my seat in the Chandos is getting cold . . .”

“Be right there!” I yelled.

Found it! I pulled it from the stack and ran down the stairs, brandishing it and a ten-pound note triumphantly.

I returned to the apartment, my copy of
The Rules
in hand, and explained the plan to Lucy.

She was silent for a moment, clearly overwhelmed by my shrewd scientific mind.

“Babe, are you bonkers?” she said. “You're going to use your love life as an experiment?”

“That's right!”

“But . . . that's mental! What happens if you end up seeing someone for more than a month?”

“I can't really see that happening, but if it does, I'll have to change tactics and follow the new guide! So suddenly my behavior will
TOTALLY CHANGE
and I'll document how that affects them!”

“What happens if the book tells you to do something really weird? What if it says you have to let them pee on you during sex? Or do lots of Japanese bondage or something?”

“Lucy, it's a dating guide, not fringe porn.”

She clutched my arm. “Lo, I've heard some of those guides tell you to”—her eyes widened—“
stop having sex
.”

I arranged my face into a Zen-like expression. “I'll just have to draw on my reserves of inner strength.”

“Hmm.” I could tell she was wavering. Her eyes brightened suddenly. “What happens if you fall in love with one of your test subjects? What then?”

I rolled my eyes. “I've had enough of that love shit to last me a lifetime. This, my friend, is for the advancement of single women everywhere!”

“In that case, I'm all for it!” she cried, and we raised our glasses to toast.

“To science!”

Written in
1995
, after both the first and second waves of feminism had crashed on our shores and in the middle of the post-structuralist tidal pool of the third,
The Rules
preaches a message that could be described as old-fashioned. Victorian, even. Chapter headings include “Don't Talk to a Man First (or Ask Him to Dance)” and “Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much,” which sounds like the advice a fictional grandmother would give her young granddaughter in a made-for-
TV
movie about the Amish.

Most worrying is this: “Don't Discuss
The Rules
with Your Therapist.” Surely it's a red flag if a book is encouraging you to behave in a way that you should hide from your therapist?

The main concept behind the book is that you're meant to make him chase you. Forever. Apparently, by seeming like an elusive creature unlike any other, who never looks a man in the eye, only speaks when spoken to and with no discernible thoughts or opinions, you'll be the sexiest damn thing on legs. Stick that in your post-structuralist pipe and smoke it.

The idea seems to be that you repress your entire personality in order to become some sort of mysterious feminine ideal. “Be feminine,” the book advises. “Don't tell sarcastic jokes. Don't be a loud, knee-slapping, hysterically funny girl . . . be quiet and act mysterious, act ladylike, cross your legs and smile.” As I tended to feel more like smiling when opening my legs than when closing them, I was a bit worried about how suited I was for this challenge.
The Rules
had some comfort on that front: “You may feel that you won't be able to be yourself, but men will love it!”

I was daunted, but at the same time I could see there was a method to the madness. Here's the working ratio:

Seventy percent total and complete horseshit that goes against all I believe in to thirty percent total genius
.

The more I read, the more I wondered if it was actually . . . well, empowering in a way.
Rules
girls don't date men who don't want them, the book proclaims, and if a man really wants you, he'll chase after you. He'll make the effort. I thought briefly about Adrian and
Football Focus
and the distinct lack of effort that had come from him in recent months. Hmm.

I tried to distill the essence of it to Lucy after work that night.

“So, you're not meant to call him, ask him out, talk very much, return calls or look at him?”

I nodded.

“That sounds grim.” Lucy took a drag on her cigarette, looking pensive. “How are you meant to flirt?”

“That's the thing! You're not. Or at least you're not supposed to flirt in the way we flirt. You're meant to be all shy and bashful.” I heard a keening sound below and leaned over the balcony. “Are those guys fighting their dogs down there?”

Lucy looked over my shoulder. “I think it's a drug deal, actually.”

“Anyway, according to this, we're meant to be intangible. Like some kind of wood nymph. Men are never supposed to be completely comfortable or sure that they've won us over; they're meant to constantly work to win our affection.”

“Well, I suppose that would make a change. I can't remember the last time a man worked for anything.”

Later that night, we went out to see Lucy's latest possibility doing his best Ed Sheeran impersonation in the dank basement of a Soho bar. Max was a slightly aloof sports-car-driving martial arts aficionado who, we were now witnessing, had a penchant for singing songs about butterfly kisses.

He was also extremely good at playing hot and cold, and would go through the whole wine-and-dine rigmarole with Lucy one night and then disappear for three weeks, only to resurface by calling her on a random Tuesday at
11
p.m. and asking her to come around to his flat. This had been going on for weeks now.

Lucy and I both thought he was kind of an asshole but unfortunately, as is so often the case, he was an asshole who was good in bed and also capable of wielding that all-powerful form of female kryptonite: the acoustic guitar. Personally, I would have rather licked the bottom of my flip-flop after a backpacking trip around India than sit on the edge of a bed while a man sang a song to me, but Lucy was a different animal. She loved it. She actually sang along with him. I shuddered at the thought.

As Max rounded out his set and stepped off the stage to a smattering of applause, he glanced over at Lucy, flashed a killer smile and gave her a wave. I felt my heart flutter a bit on her behalf: he was pretty hot.

“Okay, here's the deal,” I hissed. “When he comes over here, you keep it to five minutes maximum and then tell him you have other plans.”

“Are you mad? I would like him to take me home tonight. I would
like
to have sex.”

“I know, but
The Rules
says—”

“I'm not the one following the bloody
Rules
! You are!”

“I know, I know! But you shouldn't be waiting around for him—he should be chasing you!”

“Are you forgetting that I would like to have sex?”

“
YOU ARE A CREATURE UNLIKE ANY OTHER
!”

“Be
quiet
! He's coming over!”

Max appeared at our table, holding a pint and looking pretty pleased with himself.

“Hello! And how are you lovely ladies? Did you enjoy the set?”

Lucy and I murmured approval noises.

He turned to Lucy. “Baby, I've got to go over and see my mates and my brother for a while. Are you sticking around?”

I threw a sharp glance Lucy's way. She scowled back, rolled her eyes and then said, “No, we've got to get going actually. We've got other plans.”

“Yep, other plans!” I cried. “Big plans.” It sounded more menacing than I'd intended, but I wanted to be supportive.

Max furrowed his brow. “Oh. That's a shame but . . . well, let's get together soon. It was great to see you.”

I could sense Lucy crumbling beneath the weight of his brow so I jumped up and got our coats.

“We'll be late!” I trilled.

After a quick kiss on each of Max's cheeks, we stumbled out of the bar and onto a bus on our way back to Old Street for a nightcap. Lucy's phone chirped within minutes. It was Max.

You looked gorgeous tonight. Sorry you had to go . . . Dinner next week? Xx

I felt a strange mix of triumph and horror. So this crap actually worked? It was time for me to try it out for myself.

As soon as I took on the project, I knew that I was seriously lacking in one thing: test subjects. And while I love going out and trying to pick up dudes as much as the next girl, experience indicated that technique alone wouldn't provide enough source material.

Cathryn and I had formed a pretty tight friendship over the time we had been working side-by-side, despite being in many ways the physical embodiment of the transatlantic divide. She was sleek and posh and stealthfully wealthy. She lived in a gorgeous terraced house in Notting Hill with her equally gorgeous fiancé, Michael, and she had glossy chestnut hair that she could sweep up into a perfect, perky ponytail without using a hairbrush. Enough to make me hate her, and usually in these scenarios we would embark on some bitter rivalry—probably over our dashingly-handsome-but-ultimately-callous boss. But Cathryn was also wickedly funny and very generous, and our boss was sweet and happily married and had an ever-thickening middle, so instead we became friends. I now hoped her generosity would extend to her extensive network of attractive male friends.

I walked into work the next day and dropped my bag on the floor next to my desk.

“I need your help.”

I explained the situation to her; I wouldn't want her to unwittingly put one of her friends up as a test subject (though she obviously couldn't let them in on what was happening). Cathryn's perfect brow furrowed slightly and she looked at me with concern in her eyes.

“I'm not sure about this. Have you considered the ethics of the project?”

“What ethics? It's harmless! Women follow these rules
ALL
the time—that's why these books sell! The only difference is that I'm pursuing it from a scientific point of view. Come on, you like science—you should appreciate what I'm doing in the name of research!” I tried to look lofty and academic. “I'm actually being noble, if you think about it. Sacrificing myself in the pursuit of knowledge.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're a modern-day Marie Curie.”

“You know what they say: some of us are born for greatness . . .”

“Are you quite sure you're up for this? Your psyche aside, we've got so much on at the moment. The summer late openings are starting in less than two weeks and you've got to iron out the guest list.”

“Oh, please. I'm American—you know how efficient we are. We love working! Not as much as the Germans or the Chinese, but pretty close.”

“Well, then, what
about
your psyche?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. It's meant to be fun! And informative, of course.”

I saw her vacillate and knew I had her. “It does sound interesting. I've been with Michael for so long I've forgotten all about various dating etiquettes, so I'd quite like to see what happens.”

“Excellent. So, who've you got for me?”

Cathryn proceeded to tell me all about one of Michael's coworkers who was apparently good-looking, well-mannered and, importantly, single. Like Michael, he did something in finance that I didn't understand but suspected was destroying our economy while making him a shit-ton of money. I'd never gone out with a banker before but time was of the essence, so I put aside my concerns about capitalism and agreed.

Let's call him Top Hat, as it reminds me of Monopoly. I filled his details into my notebook.

Name: Top Hat

Age:
31

Occupation: Investment Banker

Nationality: Irish

Method:
The Rules

“This is fantastic. Thanks! Can you try to set something up for this Friday? I need to get cracking.”

“I'll talk to Michael tonight.”

And just like that, I had my first test subject.

I hadn't spoken to my sister in over two weeks, which was unheard of for us, so when Meghan's number flashed up on my cell phone during my lunch break, I dropped my sandwich and picked up the phone.

“I have come up with a new life plan,” I said breathlessly. We'd never been much for saying hello.

“Oh Lord. You haven't found God or anything, have you?”

“No, nothing that serious.” I filled her in on my plans for the dating project, ignoring her frequent snorts of disbelief. I knew convincing Meg would be tough, but I wasn't quite prepared for her ire.

“I thought you called yourself a feminist,” she scoffed.

“I do! And actually, if you think about it, this is an act of feminist rebellion.”

“In what way is following a bunch of bullshit, probably misogynist dating guides a feminist act?”

I had to think quickly. While I do consider myself a feminist, I had to admit that I didn't put much thought into the mechanics of it. “By . . . um . . . infiltrating the enemy! Getting behind enemy lines! By using my archetypal feminine wiles to penetrate the male psyche for the betterment of women everywhere!”

Meghan laughed. “Kid, it's okay. Just admit you're doing it to forget Dylan.”

I felt indignant. “Dylan has nothing to do with it! Dylan is the past, Meg. This project is my future!”

I heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “Whatever you say. Just look after yourself. The last thing I want is for you to go changing yourself for a bunch of pale English guys.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm in complete control of the situation.”

“I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse . . .”

I walked back to my desk and picked up my sandwich and my dog-eared copy of
The Rules
, brushing aside Meghan's words of caution.

Date night arrived surprisingly quickly. I'd been boning up on
The Rules
all week but I was still nervous about a couple of points.
Rules
girls aren't allowed to pay for anything on dates, as apparently being financially independent might undermine their creature-unlike-any-otherness. I am a big believer in splitting the bill, so I knew that letting him pay for everything was going to make me uncomfortable.

I was also supposed to end the date quickly, after just two drinks. I have a penchant for nights out that last way longer than advisable, so I suspected this would be tricky, too.

I wasn't allowed to suggest anything about the date, so I left him to choose the place. I was secretly grateful for that particular rule as I hate choosing dating venues and activities; all the venues I know are old-man pubs, dive bars and my bedroom, and the only activities I think are suitable for dating are drinking, smoking and having sex. I'm not even sure about dinner.

He chose a swanky-looking prohibition-style bar in Soho.
The Rules
encourages you to, and I quote, “wear sheer black stockings and hike up your skirt to entice the opposite sex.” As it was a Friday-night date and I hadn't wanted to turn up to the office looking like I was moonlighting in a Mayfair brothel, I ran home after work, chucked on the nearest and smallest dress I could find, had a cigarette on the balcony and then ran out to meet Top Hat.

The bar was hidden away from the road and pleasingly secret-looking, with a discreet little doorway demarcated only by a lantern outside. Those places usually make me intensely nervous because I worry that I won't find the door and will wander around like Moses in the desert or, worse, I will find the door but be turned away for not being cool and interesting enough.