Love by the Book (35 page)

He kept his eyes focused on the counter as he wrapped my purchases up in brown paper. “Oh, yes?” he said. “And what did you think?”

“I loved it. Ellen is such a great character—so vibrant and full of life.”

“I agree,” he murmured. “I think she's quite wonderful.” He held my gaze for a minute before we both looked away, suddenly embarrassed.

“Well, I should be going. Thanks again!” I grabbed the package of books off the counter and hustled toward the door, hoping he wouldn't notice how furiously I was now blushing.

“I'm glad you came back,” he said quietly, following me to the door. He was about to close it behind me when he pulled it back open and stuck his head around. “Don't leave it so long next time.”

I smiled. “I won't. I've got plenty of free time now.”

I walked toward the tube, clutching my bag of books to my chest and feeling as liberated as a little bird. I had an empty flat that night, a couple of box sets to break in to, a bunch of new books and a fridge full of chocolate mousse and gin. Being unattached definitely had its perks.

Ah, my first dating-free Saturday. I went for a long run before taking myself to Ironmonger Row for a steam and a sauna. After being pummeled by a large Turkish woman for three-quarters of an hour, I got back to the flat and had a coffee and a slice of cake before cocooning myself in a nest of books and magazines, Ani DiFranco blaring on the stereo. So far, this dating myself thing was amazing.

I was about to make myself another cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. It was a bike courier, holding out a parcel wrapped in brown paper addressed to me. I retreated to the couch to open it. Inside was a first-edition copy of
Black Beauty
. I ran my fingers over the purple embossing, admiring the softness of the brown leather cover beneath my hands. Tucked between the pages was one of my Program
RSVP
cards, a note scrawled on the back:

Something to add to your reading pile. Xx

Something clicked inside of me. I wanted to run straight out the door, hail a cab and throw myself into his arms, but if there was one thing I'd learned over the past year, it was that it was important not to rush things. The real beauty in life came from savoring the in-between bits, the anticipation and uncertainty and suspense. The important things would wait: this moment was all mine.

I settled down in my couch cocoon and read the book from cover to cover, savoring every word and only pausing to make more coffee or smoke the occasional cigarette. It was just as good as I'd remembered.

It was dark by the time I'd finished. I slipped the book in my bag and set off into the London night.

When I got to the shop, the door was locked but I could see a dim light coming from the back room. I knocked once, softly, and felt the nerves flutter up inside me.

No answer.

I knocked again, louder this time. I knew I could always come back tomorrow, but I was gripped by a sense of urgency. I had to see him.

On the third knock, I heard footsteps, and then the bookseller's face appeared in the window. We smiled shyly at each other through the glass, and then he opened the door.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello.”

We stood there for a moment, both on the threshold, neither of us certain where to begin.

“I . . . I wanted to thank you for the book,” I said. “It meant a lot to me. I know you were attached to it.”

He shook his head. “It shouldn't be kept under glass like that—it should be loved. It belongs with you.”

“Well, I promise I'll take good care of it. And you can have visitation rights—we can share partial custody.”

He smiled. “I like the sound of that.” He paused as if searching for the right words. “I . . . I know this might sound a bit mad, but . . . he reminds me of you.”

I was confused. “Him who?”

“The horse,” he said. “Black Beauty.”

“I remind you of a
horse
?” I said incredulously. This wasn't working out the way I'd planned.

“Sorry, I know that sounds weird, and it probably came out all wrong, but . . . yes. Not just any horse. That
particular
horse.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I should probably be going now . . .”

“No, wait!” he said, pulling me inside. “It's just—Black Beauty is so full of life, so brave, so . . . so fearless. That's why I always loved the book so much—it represented everything I admired. And you . . .” He placed his hands gently on my arms. “You're it. You're fearless.”

“I don't know about that,” I said, laughing awkwardly. “I've done some pretty cowardly things in my time.”

His eyes locked onto mine and I felt my breath catch in my throat. “I think you're extraordinary,” he said. He slid his hands onto my waist and I felt a shiver run through me. “What do you say—how would you like a lifetime supply of free books?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Well, when you put it like that . . .” I said, wrapping my arms around him.

And there, among the stacks of dusty old books, he kissed me and the world fell away.

(Journal forgotten due to sexual bliss)

Name: Callum (i.e., The Angry Bookseller)

Age:
32

Occupation: See above

Nationality: Scottish

Description: Auburn-haired, green-eyed, cardigan-wearing, very handsome when he smiles

Method: Rancor, sarcasm and capriciousness

Result: Unmitigated success

Dear Reader (or person who flips to the back of a book before finishing it, in which case, Hello, Kindred Spirit!),

Far back in the annals of time (
2009
), I made the decision to turn my love life into a sociological experiment. I can't remember where the idea came from; I just woke up one morning and there it was, lying fully formed on my pillow, waiting for me. Like Lauren, I was fed up with men assuming that I was desperate to settle down and bear their children just because I'd spent a couple of nights in their company, so that certainly influenced my decision to start the project. I'd spent so much time running around London bleating about how noncommittal I was that it was starting to feel like a bit of a . . . commitment. So when the idea of following the experts' advice on dating came to mind, I figured it would be a good way to find out if it was me from which men were fleeing, or just my approach. To make things more interesting (and perhaps to legitimize what might be construed as a sign of mental illness), I decided to write a blog about it, too. I went out and bought my first dating guide (
The Rules
) the next day.

Four months on and four books down, I'd written forty-two posts, gone on twenty-three dates, drank God only knows how many drinks and alienated approximately half of London's single male population. I'd signed up to two different dating sites—Match and My Single Friend, the inspiration for the fictional Castaways and YoDate—and been on several blind or almost-blind setups. I also somehow managed to meet the love of my life. All in all, not a bad way to spend a summer.

But the meeting-the-love-of-my-life thing, while nice, is sort of beside the point. The real objective of my little dating project—and, I hope, this book—was to show that dating can and should be really, really fun. Sure, there are terrible kisses with garlicky men, and moments of crippling shame the mornings after the nights before, but even those bits end up being fun in that slightly manic, gossipy, breathless way. Dating is surely one of the weirdest human behaviors we engage in—two relative strangers spending a few hours together in order to determine whether or not they want to see each other naked—so we might as well have fun while doing it.

Anyway, all of this is a long-winded way of saying that I hope you enjoyed the book, and I hope it inspires you to go out there and be brave in the big bad dating world. And, as I'd wished for myself and for Lauren, I hope you get to have lots of sex with attractive, non-psychopathic men while doing it. If you happen to meet the love of your life along the way, even better.

Melissa x

I would never have even attempted to write a book if it wasn't for the patience and encouragement of my editor at Penguin UK, Hana Osman, so she gets the top billing—Hana, I can't thank you enough for taking me out for that pint all those years ago. Sorry it took me so long. Enormous thanks to the incredible Felicity Blunt, who I've long been proud to call a friend and am now equally proud to call my agent, and to my wonderful U.S. editor, Tara Singh Carlson, whose insight and energy have been truly remarkable. Thanks to everyone at Penguin (on both sides of the Atlantic), with special thanks to the translation rights team led by Chantel Noel: you guys are awesome. Thanks to my foreign editors, particularly Andrea Best at Goldmann Verlag and Quezia Ceto at Companhia das Letras.

An unfillable debt of gratitude to Katie Cunningham, who fielded countless panicked emails and read countless half-formed sentences and never once lost her patience (or at least hid it well), and who has also been the best friend a girl could ever ask for these twenty-two years: I'd be lost without you. Endless thanks to Simon Robertson, who put up with lots of furrowed brows in the pub and weekends of me staring at my computer screen or into the middle distance: you make me feel lucky every day and I love you a stupid amount. Thanks, too, to Carly Peters, my partner in crime and exercise, who has supported and at times enabled my lunacy from the very beginning. Thanks to everyone at Curtis Brown, a lovely place to work and an even lovelier place to be represented by, with particular thanks to my office-mate Helen Manders, who answered lots of hypothetical questions about a book she hadn't read and always offered excellent advice, and to Emma Herdman, for her help and good cheer.

Mom and Dad, I know this book has probably mortified you (sorry about that) but your constant love and support has been the making of me, and I can never say thank you enough. Chad and Meighan, I love you both and trust that you will ensure that my two favorite girls will never be allowed to read this book, at least not until I'm dead. To the lovely Robertson clan, thank you for being the best second family I could have imagined. And to both the Pimentels and the Robertsons: remember, it's heavily fictionalized.

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The Art of Dating
. New York, NY: Association,
1958
.

Fein, Ellen, and Sherrie Schneider.
The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right
. New York,
NY
: Warner,
1995
.

Greenwald, Rachel.
Find a Husband After
35
(Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School): A Simple
15-step Action Program
. New York, NY: Ballantine,
2003
.

Humphry, C. E.
Manners for Women
.
1897
. Whitstable, UK: Pryor Publications,
1993
.

Jour, Belle de.
Belle de Jour's Guide to Men
. London, UK: Orion,
2009
.

Moore, Doris Langley, and Norrie Epstein.
The Technique of the Love Affair
.
1928
. New York,
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: Pantheon,
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.

Strauss, Neil.
The Rules of the Game: The Stylelife Challenges and the Style Diaries
. Edinburgh, Scotland: Canongate,
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.

Taylor, Kate.
Not Tonight, Mr. Right: Why Good Men Come to Girls Who Wait
. London, UK: Michael Joseph,
2007
.

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