Love by the Book (23 page)

“Hello?” Meghan's voice was thick with sleep and I felt a momentary pang of regret at waking her up. But these were rare times, and Lucy hadn't been in when I got home. I needed to talk to someone.

“Meg? It's me.”

“Kid?” I could hear the bed shift under her as she sat up. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine! I just had to tell you something.”

I heard a groan on the other end of the line. “It's two o'clock in the morning!”

“I know! I know! I haven't woken Sue up, have I?”

“No, don't worry. She's in the other room.”

“At two o'clock in the morning?”

“I've got a cold and was snoring, so she slept on the couch.” I heard a light click on. “What's this thing you're dying to tell me?”

I couldn't believe the words that were about to come out of my mouth. “I had a threesome.”

“
WHAT
?” She was awake now, that was for sure. “With a chick and a dude or two dudes?”

“A French girl and Adrian.”

“Jesus! I'm not sure you should be telling your big sister about this sort of thing.”

“Hey, I had to hear all about your sexual awakening with Lindsey Wheeler when we were in high school, so it's only fair that you listen to this.”

“Okay, okay: spill it.”

I thought back to the night before. “You remember those old shows they used to air on public television at weird times of night? The Benny Hill ones? Well, it was like that, only much less organized.” It was true: it had descended into farce pretty quickly, with me chasing Adrian, Adrian chasing Emmanuelle and Emmanuelle chasing me around the bed before any of us figured out what we were meant to be doing. “There was a lot more waiting around than I expected, too.”

“What about the lady-sex? Were you into it? God, can you imagine if Mom ended up with two lesbian daughters? She'd never stop bragging about it.” Our mom was a second-wave feminist and a bleeding-heart liberal; among her circle of friends, having a gay son or daughter was a point of pride.

“Well . . . I don't think I'm going back for seconds, let's put it that way.” Kissing Emmanuelle had been like kissing a small, well-moisturized man. It hadn't been unpleasant, but it definitely didn't stir up any nascent longings in me. The rest of it had been frankly terrifying, and I had a newfound respect for men's attempts to navigate the female body. It was a wonderland, all right.

“Aw, man! I was hoping we'd have turned you.” I heard her yawn and remembered what time it was there.

“I should let you get back to your snoring.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Good night, kid.”

I was about to hang up when I heard a tinny shriek on the other end of the line.

“Wait! I forgot to tell you something!”

“Nothing can top my news.”

“It's Dylan.”

I groaned. The last thing I wanted was an update on my ex. “What now?”

“He's cycling the length of the American-Canadian border.”

Of course he was. It was just the sort of rugged, outdoorsy, communing-with-nature shit he loved—and I hated. I'd spent our whole relationship ducking out of plans to trek the Himalayas or hitchhike across Venezuela. But now that we weren't together, it made complete sense that he'd be embarking on some sort of cycling adventure. Prick.

“What about Kelly? Is she going, too?”

I could just picture it: Dylan's blond hair going almost white in the sun, his square jaw grimaced against the elements, his ass getting tighter by the day. And she would probably be cycling along next to him in a spandex onesie, ponytail swishing perfectly in the wind (probably held back in a scrunchie—ha!). Or following behind him in an old camper van, waving encouragement to him as he pedaled away and occasionally handing him Gatorade and energy gels while wearing denim hot pants and a selection of kerchiefs and vintage sunglasses. I could never pull off a kerchief.

“Nah, I think they broke up. I saw her throwing back tequilas at Sangillo's and hanging all over a bunch of guidos.”

I felt a momentary swell of rage toward her for not telling me about this earlier, but brushed it aside. Theoretically, it was none of my business.

“Anyway, the reason I'm telling you about his Lance Armstrong moment is he asked for your address—apparently he wants to write to you along the way. You okay with me giving it to him?”

I worried about what he'd write, but I didn't want to put Meghan in an awkward position by saying no. Besides, it might not be that bad—maybe he just wanted to write me for sponsorship money. He'd probably be too tired to write, anyway. I'd probably never hear from him.

I told her to go ahead and hung up the phone. I was starting to turn the idea of Dylan contacting me around in my head when I heard Lucy's key in the door. Thank God. I ran to the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

“Come here and have a cup of coffee with me,” I called. “Have I got a story for you!”

Name: Emmanuelle

Age: French women don't get old

Occupation: Artist and possible lesbian

Description: Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure

Method:
Belle de Jour's Guide to Men

Result: I guess it cleared up a few latent questions

I hadn't heard from Adrian since I'd disentangled myself from him and Emmanuelle in the early hours of Sunday morning, and by this point I figured I wouldn't. His flight to America was scheduled for tomorrow and, to be honest, there wasn't much left to say. As my old soccer coach used to say, I'd left it all out on the field.

So you can imagine my surprise when my phone started playing a tinny version of the Carly Simon classic “You're so Vain” as we were finishing up our postconference debrief.

My boss looked around with his usual distracted air while Cathryn nudged me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I think it's my doctor.” I slinked out of the room and picked up the call. “What do you want?” I whispered as I crept out into the hallway.

“Cunningham, you never cease to amaze me, you little minx. But why did you run off so soon?”

“Shhhh!” I hissed, rummaging through my bag for my lighter. I pushed through the emergency exit and immediately lit up. I was worried that my colleagues would somehow pick up on the general content of Adrian's thoughts and I'd be fired.

“Anyway, you have given this grateful Briton some very fond memories to take with him across the sea. Can I repay you with a cup of coffee in, say, ten minutes?”

“I'll ignore the fact that you think the two things are comparable and say no thanks. I'm in the middle of a meeting—which I really need to get back to, actually.” I didn't think I could bear to see Adrian's face. I feared the image of him grinning up at me from between Emmanuelle's legs would be burned on my memory for the rest of my life.

“After, then. C'mon, Cunningham: I'm off tomorrow and I want to see you before I go.”

It was tempting. I thought about Belle's advice about lost causes—i.e., don't fight them—and knew I shouldn't.

“Nah. I can't. Send me a postcard from New York. Don't forget to eat a lot of bagels.”

“Ah, you disappoint me. Come visit whenever you're on the other side of the pond.”

“Bye, Adrian.”

I ended the call. I felt sad, sadder than I'd thought I would about him going. He was a jackass, sure, but over the past nine months he'd become
my
jackass. Aside from all the weird sex stuff (particularly recent events), he'd become my friend; they were few and far between in this country.

I finished my cigarette and pushed open the heavy metal door. There wasn't time to dwell now and, besides, I'd finally accomplished what I'd set out to prove to Adrian. Right?

I gave myself a couple of days to get over the events of the past week before settling back down to the task at hand: channeling my inner Scary Bitch and experimenting on some new test subjects. I scanned through Belle's list of places to meet men, hoping that inspiration would strike.

Singles events.
Even Belle admitted that this was a cock-lite arena, with good-looking women far outweighing the men at these things. A last resort.

Work.
Surprisingly, working at a nonprofit museum meant that male colleagues were few and far between (probably because men like to, you know, earn actual money). The guys I did work with were all either weird, semi-autistic science types or married. And I wasn't about to go snatching some woman's husband, despite Belle's third suggestion . . .

Someone else's man.
She admits that this is a morally gray area and often more trouble than it's worth. I'm going to steer clear (unless I meet a particularly attractive man in a particularly unstable relationship).

Pubs and clubs.
Belle sums it up perfectly when she says “the odds are good, but the goods are odd.” I don't know that I can face a sweaty Dalston basement bar at the minute. If in a pinch, I might try dragging Lucy to an area of town where the haircuts are less directional and try my luck in a pub there.

Somewhere mundane.
You know how magazines are always saying that the grocery store produce aisle or in line at the post office are great places to meet men? When was the last time you met someone who met their boyfriend in the waiting room at the dentist? This is London: no one speaks to each other in those situations, and if they did, they would immediately be written off as a lunatic. And that would probably be correct.

Online.
Oh God. I was only just beginning to recover from my YoDate experience. Could I really face another turn on the merry-go-round of the sexual interwebs? From what Belle said, it was my best bet. But no more American YoDate and no more boring Castaways. This time, I was taking a page out of the book of the two groups that seemed to be getting laid the most: The Gays and The Youths. I was going on Tinder.

It seemed a little weird and, I don't know, terrible to judge people solely on their picture, flinging those faces that disagree with you to the left, never to be seen again. It felt . . . harsh. It felt like something a dude with anger issues probably invented. But it also felt very much like something a Scary Bitch would be into, and besides, a friend of Lucy's went on it and swore that she got more ass than a donkey convention, so I signed up. (Also, it's free.)

It took me a long time to select my calling card (which is what was known as a profile picture in
2011
). It was what people would judge me on, so it had to be good. You could load in a few other photos that could be viewed after you'd been picked, but let's face it: men have the attention span of a gnat. I needed to reel them in with the first hook.

I found a nice photo of me looking tanned and busty and (after several consultations with a beleaguered Cathryn, who was becoming more and more grateful to be affianced with every dating gimmick I thrust in front of her) I uploaded it and was off and running.

In the world of Tinder, left = bad and right = good. The first few attempts weren't particularly successful. Determining my left from my right has always been a struggle for me, so within five minutes I'd flung a bunch of weirdos into my “yes” pile and swiped a very promising-looking man into the ether, never to be seen again.

But I got the hang of it pretty quickly, and soon I was swiping with the best of them. “X! X! X! Maybe heart? X!” I sang to myself as I merrily swiped left and right (mainly left). “X! Sweet Jesus, what an X.” It was addictive, this judging people thing. “X! X!” It was astonishing how many weird-looking people there were out there.

An hour passed. I had X'ed my way through at least half of London's male population, only hearting a handful of men. I decided to take a cigarette break before mounting my next attack.

When I picked up my phone again, I saw that one of the men I'd hearted had selected me, too. I had a match! How thrilling!

I clicked through to his other photos. He was sandy blond and baby-faced and potentially hyperactive: every photo featured him doing something extreme on a bicycle or a skateboard or—in one instance—one of those kite-surfboard things. I was just admiring his abs in one photo (where he appeared to be skateboarding down a volcano) when a message suddenly popped up.

Hey.

It was from him! There was his face, smiling blondly above the message. For a minute, I wondered if he could see me. What if the Tinder people had cruelly linked up with Facetime? I realized that no one would have sex again if that happened and stopped frantically brushing the cracker crumbs off my chest.

I wondered what I should write back. “Hey” wasn't giving me a lot to work with. I decided to fight fire with fire.

‘Hey,' I typed smugly.

Him: Nice pic. Want to meet?

Fuck! Was this the speed things moved here in Tinderland? No wonder all the kids were getting laid these days, and no wonder the gays loved Grindr so much. This truly is the future.

I considered what I knew about him: He was cute (plus). He was obviously fit (also a plus, unless he used his strength to murder me, in which case con). He was nearby (plus).

I then considered what I knew of myself: I had turned my love life into a sociological experiment; I had no immediate sexual prospects; I had little respect for my personal safety or emotional welfare; I was following the advice of a renowned escort.

My next move was clear.

Me:
Sure. Where and when?

Tonight was my first date with the blond from Tinder. Considering it was the topic that made up
85
percent of his conversation, I'll call him the Bike Guy.