Love by the Book (6 page)

The waiter suddenly appeared at my elbow and began pouring champagne into glasses. I don't like champagne—always gives me a headache and I can never fit my nose into the champagne glass—but I was forbidden from turning my nose up at any of Popeye's date decisions, so I had to live with it. Tough life, I know.

He raised his glass in a toast. “To you. The most beautiful woman in the room.”

We clinked glasses. He smiled. I narrowed my eyes. Where the hell did he come from?

“I feel I did the talking for both of us last time,” he said. “I want to know everything about you.”

“Oh, there's not much to tell,” I said, trying to exude quiet mystery.

“Okay, well, let's start with the simple things. Where are you from originally?”

“Maine. A little city called Portland.”

“What's it like there?”

“Oh, you know. Small-town America. Lots of land, lots of sea, lots of coffee shops. The usual.”

“Sounds like heaven. What brought you over here?”

“Work, mainly. And the weather, of course.” Shit, I'd made a joke. That was definitely against the rules.

Popeye laughed more heartily than the comment deserved. “Ah, yes, the great British weather. Beautiful, isn't it? Although I do think there's something to be said for taking a bracing walk in the countryside and then hiding in a pub when it pisses down.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

“Personally, that's the sort of thing I love to do with a girlfriend. Book a really gorgeous B&B someplace and whisk her up the M
4
to the Cotswolds for a weekend away.”

“That sounds . . . nice,” I said. I wasn't sure what to make of this.

“That said, I love quiet nights in, too. Whipping up a cozy meal for two and opening a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“Just one bottle?”

He gave me a slightly disapproving look, then laughed. “Oh, Lauren. You're a gem.”

“Thanks,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

The waiter reappeared with two menus, but Popeye took them both.

“We'll start with the
insalata di polpo
and move on to the
pollo alla cacciatora
.” He gazed over the menu at me. “You eat meat, right, darling?”

“Yes,” I said. Though usually I like to know what type before I eat it, I thought silently, but the book forbade me from saying anything. In the eyes of
The Rules
, Popeye was being a gentleman and protecting my delicate female brain from making any decisions—and I should just shut up and be grateful.

“I hope you don't mind me ordering,” he said as the waiter whisked away the menus and glided off to the kitchen. “I've eaten here a thousand times so I know the best things on the menu.” He reached his hand across the table and intertwined our fingers. “And you deserve only the best.”

The evening went on as it had begun. It was as though I was a prospective employer and Popeye was trying very hard to get the position of My Boyfriend, even though I hadn't realized I'd been advertising. He fed me food off his plate. He told me that he was good with people but also enjoyed his own time. He mentioned that he wanted to go to Paris with someone special one day.

Honestly, if I'd produced a written test and asked him for a urine sample, I'm pretty sure he would have happily agreed to both and would have passed with flying colors.

I couldn't help wondering why on earth this gorgeous man was trying so hard to win me over. What sort of deep, fetid secret must he be hiding? Because, surely, someone this attractive and successful and charming had swathes of women falling at his feet and didn't need to try so hard to win my approval? Unless he had something seriously, horribly wrong with him . . . images of meat lockers started flashing before my eyes again, but I swiftly swept them aside and took another sip of champagne.

The food came, was eaten and plates were discreetly taken away. The champagne turned to wine and flowed like there was no tomorrow. He continued to ride around the room on his white steed, asking if there were any damsels in distress who needed rescuing. At one point, a man started coughing loudly and Popeye leaped to his feet and asked if he needed the Heimlich maneuver. Turned out he was just getting over a chest cold.

I couldn't decide how I felt about this charm offensive. It was so entirely different from what I was used to, and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. It was a little weird being the focus of so much attention, but it beat sitting on Adrian's couch watching him play
Championship Manager
on his laptop and occasionally being asked if I wanted some more potato chips. And Dylan and I were together for so long, our idea of romance was taking out the trash so the other person didn't have to. All this chivalry was a nice change.

And so, at the end of the night, when the taxi pulled up in front of my building and he asked if he could come up for a cup of coffee, I said yes.

So it was entirely possible that this whole gentleman act was just a clever ruse to get me into bed. But you know what? I was fine with that. Really, aren't most people being polite to one another in the hope that it could lead to them getting laid? Even when I'm doing something charitable for someone outside of my sexual demographic (an old homeless woman, for instance), I'm secretly hoping that there's some really hot guy who's watching me be charitable and thinking, “God, look at that girl being charitable—how incredibly attractive. I must fly her to Fiji on my private jet.” I'm pretty sure Doctors Without Borders runs almost entirely on doctors looking to impress the opposite sex with their selflessness.

Besides, it had been a while since I'd had sex—we're talking at least a month here—and it was basically our third date, so
Rules-
approved. (I was counting the night we met, yes, so sue me.
Months
, people!) We went up to my apartment and I made him a cup of Tesco's finest instant coffee granules, which was inevitably left to cool on the counter as we got down to business.

And down to business we got. If I thought I'd seen an audition in the restaurant, I was mistaken. That was only a warm-up.

He picked me up. He spun me around. He put me down briefly so that he could undress me with his teeth (I was worried about the dress, but he was surprisingly deft with his incisors), then picked me back up and spun me around again. He stood in front of me and peeled off his own clothes like a former Chippendale and, I have to admit, the show was spectacular. The arms were just the beginning: the man was Michelangelo's wet dream.

In spite of the display, there was something slightly . . . off about the whole thing. He choreographed sex in the same way he had choreographed dinner. He had a vision in mind, and I was just another actor on his stage. And not a principal character, either: I felt like the Greek chorus in
The Bacchae
. At one point, during a particularly complicated set of moves, I caught him watching himself in the mirror. Not me. Himself. He was basically starring in his own porn film.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy myself, because I did. He was great in bed, probably because he put so much effort into perfecting his starring role. Nevertheless, I felt unsettled when it was over, particularly when he got up and started to put his clothes back on.

“Where are you going?” I was trying to rearrange my hair into something not resembling a bird's nest, but gave up when I saw my reflection in the window.

“Sorry, darling. I've got an early start tomorrow so I'm going to shoot off home.”

I'm not sure if it was the champagne, the wine or the images of meat lockers, but the last vestiges of the demure
Rules
goddess were lost and a mad harridan stood in her place.

I pulled the covers up to my chin. “Oh, okay. Fine.” I tried not to pout but felt the corners of my mouth drift southward.

He came and sat on the edge of the bed. “Don't be upset, lovely girl. You told me yourself that you need a good night's sleep tonight for your run tomorrow.”

“But that doesn't mean you couldn't sleep here, does it? It feels weird that you're just racing out the door.”

He looked irritated for a second, then rearranged his face into an expression of paternal patience. “Shh. You just go to sleep, sweetheart.”

I felt a stab of anger. “If this is just going to be a one-time thing, that's totally fine but don't bullshit me and say otherwise.”

“Darling, of course I want to see you again! What happened tonight makes me want to see you even more so.”

“Whatever. I mean, don't put on this whole Mr. Perfect show for my benefit.”

“It's not a show! I want to treat you like the princess you are. I'll call you later, all right?” He bent down and kissed the top of my head.

“
FINE
.”

As soon as I heard a door click shut, I leapt out of bed, suddenly convinced that he had stolen my wallet. So
that
was his motive: he was a thief! A common thief! Okay, sure, he'd seen the inside of my admittedly shabby apartment, and I vaguely remembered him mentioning his parents sitting on a pile of money somewhere in Hampshire, but that made it even more sick!

I pulled on my furry yellow bathrobe and ran into the living room to check the contents of my bag.

Once I'd confirmed that all £
2.35
was still accounted for, I scurried back to my room, bag clutched to my chest, and ran smack into him as he came out of the bathroom.

“Hello,” he said, surprised.

“Hello,” I mumbled.

I walked him to the door.

“Okay, well, bye.”

“I'll see you soon, darling.”

“Whatever.”

The door clicked shut and I stumbled back to bed, muttering about thieves and sexual bandits.

I woke up with an unpleasantly fizzing brain and had a moment of peace before remembering the purse-clutching incident.

Ack.

But the weekend had yet more trauma in store for me. I had a terrible shock in the afternoon when, in my hung-over and vulnerable state, I tried to call Meghan and accidentally dialed Dylan's sister, Molly, instead. I'm not sure what was to blame—the iPhone or my shaky, apparently enormous fingers—but when I heard Molly's incredulous “Lauren? Is that you? You've got one hell of a nerve, calling here . . .,” I wanted to travel back in time and throttle Alexander Graham Bell for his cursed invention. I mumbled my apologies and got off the phone, swiftly pouring myself a whisky to calm my nerves.

I couldn't get the hurt and anger I'd heard in Molly's voice out of my head. I knew Meghan had been sugar-coating her dispatches from home, but now I'd heard the truth for myself. I was Public Enemy Number One back in Portland. I lit a cigarette and contemplated throwing myself off the balcony.

When Lucy got home from her trip to Westfield, she took one look at my ashen, clammy face and dropped her Topshop bags.

“Babe, what happened? You look like you've seen a ghost!”

“I have, sort of.”

“What the hell are you talking about? And did I hear you bring a boy home last night? I thought I'd come home to find you and Mister Perfect wrapped in each other's arms!”

“Oh, Luce, it's all gone horribly wrong!” I was shocked to find myself on the verge of tears. Crying is usually an event reserved for extremely bad toe-stubs—certainly not for accidental phone calls or morning-after blues.

“Right, that's it. Up you get!” Lucy pulled me off the couch and directed me toward my room with a firm pat on the ass. “Get dressed and put some make-up on. We're going to the pub!”

 • • • 

And so, after a month of fastidious
Rules
following, booze and paranoia had blown all of my careful research. I had no idea if I'd hear from Popeye again or if my burst of lunacy had put him off for good. Regardless,
The Rules
was done and it was time to assess.

The main thing I learned from
The Rules
was that I'm really not very good at following
The Rules
. My natural instinct with men is to try to force things to a head (ahem) because I don't like not knowing how things will turn out. Hence the big old freak-out on poor Popeye.

So, in a way, it had been good for me to be forced to be more reserved. I should probably leave the ball in the other person's court more often. I get so caught up in the drama of a new assignation that I don't stop to think if it's something I actually want to get involved in, and then I end up driving it over a cliff.

And it had been strangely refreshing to let the guy make all the effort and I'd realized that, most of the time, they prefer it that way. Sometimes it's nice to have a man make a fuss over you.

Works best on . . .

Alpha males who are used to getting what they want and who love a challenge. They tend to be happy to make a big song and dance out of things and to spend money in order to get what they want, especially if it's particularly hard to get. They're the ultimate capitalists.

To be used by . . .

Women who don't need instant gratification and who are looking for commitment (though how you could keep up the Princess and the Pea act for forty years of marriage, I have no idea). And it's probably preferable if you're a teetotaler, as following
The Rules
when drunk is pretty much impossible.

 • • • 

So it was with sadness tinged with relief that I put
The Rules
aside. The only way forward was through a new book, this one fittingly called
The Technique of the Love Affair
. I obviously needed some help fine-tuning my technique.

Shockingly, I heard from Popeye again. He texted during my epic pub debrief with Lucy on Sunday night to say he was going to be away for a week on business and would be in touch when he got back. I'm not holding my breath.

I am, however, holding the new book in one hand and a cigarette in the other and thoroughly enjoying both.

The Technique of the Love Affair: By a Gentlewoman
was first published in
1928
and caused quite a stir at the time, with Dorothy Parker (beloved wit, glorious alcoholic and devoted divorcée) saying that if she had read the book earlier in life she may have been “successful rather than just successive.” It was out of print for years but is happily back in circulation, complete with helpful editorial notes.

Let me tell you, my friends: it is fucking awesome.

It was written in the time of the Bright Young Things and conjures up the frothy, tongue-in-cheek attitude that epitomized the post-
WWI
era (see also: Noël Coward, Evelyn Waugh and the aforementioned Ms. Parker). It was a time of bootleg gin, sharp wit and romantic dalliances. The author, Doris Langley Moore, was only twenty-three when she wrote the book. (She was married at the time but later went on to divorce her husband. After reading some of her advice, I can't say I'm surprised.)

The basic principle revolves around the idea that the “love affair” is an art form and should be viewed as a diverting hobby rather than a necessity. The author advises her readers to garner as many suitors as possible; you're meant to be light, charming and flirtatious with everyone and invest in no one. It's all about building and maintaining your “prestige” (which is essentially what we now refer to as the upper hand). By showing a man that you care more for him than he cares for you, or by investing in one man to the exclusion of others, you lose your prestige and therefore your appeal.

Swept up in the excitement, I made a list in my notebook of things I thought would come in handy over the coming month:

cigarette holder

kohl eyeliner

very short flapper-esque dress

bathtub gin distillery (?)

I was chomping at the bit to get started but while enjoying a homemade highball after work (in the name of research, of course), I realized that, once again, I had an alarming lack of test subjects. With Popeye
AWOL
, possibly never to be seen again, the cupboard was bare, and I needed someone to experiment on. And the nature of the book dictated that I didn't need just one someone—I needed several. There was no way I could summon up an army of men to be flirted and trifled with just by batting my eyelashes on the tube (though I'd certainly be giving that a shot). I needed help. Modern, forward-thinking help.

I needed the Internet.

So, on my lunch hour and after doing a quick sweep of the area to make sure no one was around to catch me, I signed up for Castaways.

Castaways is based on the idea that one person's trash is another one's treasure. People nominate friends who've recently been dumped but who deserve to meet Prince/Princess Charming. The Dumper can also nominate the Dumpee if they feel their ex is a wonderful person but couldn't quite get over the way they pronounced the word “prosciutto” or whatever.

I wasn't entirely convinced that the people doing the nominating were genuine, but I'd heard that it was filled with decent, non-disgusting men and I didn't have to take a psychological test to join, so I was sold.

The catch was that I had to ask someone to write a testimonial saying how unbelievably gorgeous, talented, brilliant, hilarious, sexy I was and how they just
COULDN'T BELIEVE
that I was still single and it must be because men are intimidated by me because of my incredible beauty and searing intellect. At least that's what most of the testimonials I scrolled through seemed to say, always accompanied by a very arty black-and-white photo of a pouty mouth or half a hooded eye.

I asked Meghan, as I figured she knew me better than anyone and was bound by blood to say nice things about me. She doesn't have all that much experience in the dating world herself, having married her soul mate, Sue, after they met at a Lilith Fair revival back in college.

They live in a converted barn and spend their weekends blissfully making jam and knitting each other scarves. Meg owns a successful gardening center and Sue's a surgeon at Mercy Hospital. That's right, my sister is married to a doctor. Meanwhile, I'm conducting my love life as a science experiment, accidentally phoning my ex's irate sister and joining a dating site presumably filled with lunatics and weirdos. Obviously luck is one thing that does not run in the family.

Anyway, I asked her to write something that would entice the menfolk and she came up with the following:

Lauren is an American expat who's been in London for a while now. She reads, drinks and smokes a lot. She excels at the following activities: having fun, making sure her companions are having fun, eating baguettes, being clever.

As a child, she rode a very fat horse named Jason, played defense in football, kick-boxed on a regular basis and got in trouble at her Catholic high school for reading
Candide
in church. When you meet her, none of this will surprise you.

Now. First of all, let me say that all of the above is true. But more important to the cause at hand, it makes me sound like Ignatius J. Reilly out of
A
Confederacy o
f
Dunces
. And yes, I know that reference just reinforced her description of me, but I'm trying to hide my true, hideous self from prospective suitors (at least for a little while).

So Meghan's description just wasn't going to cut the mustard. In the end, I confessed to Cathryn that I'd signed up to Castaways and begged her to write my description, hoping that her relatively scant knowledge of my adolescence would work in my favor. I was right, and Cathryn wrote a great, slightly fabricated couple of paragraphs that made me sound eminently more attractive than Meghan had.

It went online today along with a full-color photograph of my entire smiling face and from then on it was in the hands of the Internet dating gods.

Soon, messages from Castaways started pinging into my inbox. I was retrospectively pleased that I'd used my hotmail account rather than the work email as, by the afternoon, I'd clocked up over fifty emails from various online suitors vying for my attention. My head had swollen to the size of a watermelon.

When I got home from work, I mixed myself a sidecar (more research) and started clicking excitedly through the replies. I soon realized that the number of emails wasn't at all a reflection on my good self. The guys on this site were playing a numbers game, as there were lots of generic one-line emails from men who were just spamming all of the female Castaways out there, hoping one of them would bite.

In fact, after a little bit of scrolling, it became clear that quality merchandise was thin on the ground. It was kind of like being a kid in a really shit candy store, one that was mainly filled with slightly stale licorice sticks with the occasional peanut butter cup shining through.

After I deleted all the spammers, I weeded out anyone with a tag name like “Rocstarz” or “ChocolateBum.” These men have qualities of their own, I'm sure, but they are not to be sampled by me.

Here's the thing that I quickly discovered about online dating: it enables shamelessly shallow behavior. All of these codenamed, speechless photos blinking up at me . . . it was impossible not to judge fairly heavily on the photo. So out went the hideously ugly, the morbidly obese, the wearers of wraparound sunglasses. Off you go, Oakleys! Back in the sea!

Finally, and most crucially, I got rid of all the dudes who used text-speak in their emails or, worse, emoticons. What self-respecting man uses a winking smiley face in a pick-up line? I ask you.

I assessed my lot after the cull and was pleasantly surprised to find half a dozen decent-looking, sane-sounding, proper-grammar-using guys still in my inbox. I fired off what I hoped were reasonably witty replies while eating an avocado in my old gym shorts. If this was any indication of online dating, I was hooked. Not having to wear heels in some sweaty meat-market bar was incentive enough.

My first Castaways date! Hooray! Eeek.

His online name was inoffensive enough, and after a few fairly promising email exchanges, he suggested we meet up for a drink. Whoop! How easy was that? I immediately agreed and a date was set for this evening.

Here's what I knew about him. He photographed well (if a little moodily). He had dark curlyish hair and brown eyes and appeared to spend a fair amount of time leaning up against slightly grimy walls in East London. A female friend recommended him to the site, which made me slightly suspicious because if he's so great, why wasn't she dating him herself? But his profile made him seem funny and clever and interesting, so what the hell. Plus, I needed to start testing out my technique and he was as good a candidate as any.

One interesting little curve ball: he was a fashion photographer. This was both alluring and terrifying. On the one hand, I quite liked the idea of someone a bit artsy and right-brained but, on the other, I hated the idea of going on a date with someone who spent lots of time in close proximity to models. I could already feel a hot kernel of jealousy ready to pop inside of me and I hadn't even met the guy yet. Not good.

I got ready in the bathroom at work, Cathryn looking on in fascination as I applied eyeliner.

“I don't know how you manage to get it in a straight line. I've tried it a few times and I've always got it in my eye,” she said, blinking at me with her irritatingly long-and-mascaraless eyelashes.

“Practice. My sister and I used to give each other makeovers all the time when I was a kid. I've been an eyeliner expert since I was seven.”

“You were allowed to wear make-up when you were
seven
?” Cathryn touched her peachy cheek with her hand, horrified.

“Christ, no. Not out of the house. It was just for fun! What kind of a nut do you think I am?”

“Thank God,” she said, gently exhaling.

I swiped some red lipstick on, knowing I would end up eating it off before I even got to the bar, and cuffed the hems of my jeans so my new yellow heels were on show.

“All right, I'm off. Wish me luck!”

“Be careful! Remember to call if you need to make your excuses! And for goodness' sake don't follow him down any back alleys!”

“Thanks, Mom. See you tomorrow!”

I stood outside the pub in South Kensington, took a couple of drags on my cigarette and then gave a piece of Trident a couple of chews to cover the smell. As much as I'd brushed off Cathryn's warnings, I was a little nervous myself. The Photographer could be anyone. He could be a sociopath. He could be a drug addict. He could slip me a mickey and sell me into the sex trade.

Within five minutes of meeting him, I knew my evening wasn't going to be anywhere near as exciting as all that. The Photographer was a dud.

He stood up nervously when I approached him and gave me a slightly damp handshake.

We ordered our drinks (separately, with no movement to order/pay for/carry mine from him—suddenly I missed
The Rules
) and sat down at the bar so that I could begin to dazzle him with my sparkling conversation.

Within fifteen minutes, I had resorted to talking about the weather. He was a nice-enough guy but, Jesus, it was like getting blood out of a stone.

I referred to the book's advice:

You must always seem attentive to his conversation; conceal the signs of flagging interest at any cost, but yet don't look too eagerly engrossed, or he will soon feel his talk is so delightful to you that he does you rather a favour by talking at all. Equally elementary, but highly effective, is the well-known policy of drawing a man out to speak about himself.

I put on my most engaged-yet-slightly-disengaged face (remaining careful not to go cross-eyed in the process) and played a fine game of twenty questions.

Throughout the Q&A, I was the perfect
1920
s flirt. I nodded enthusiastically. I laughed merrily. I opened my eyes wide in fascination. To an outside observer, I'm fairly sure I looked like I had snorted speed earlier in the evening.

The Photographer remained impressively stone-faced throughout the performance, answering only in haiku:

Q: Where do you live?

A: Leyton, by the station.

Q: Where did you grow up?

A: Stoke. It was shit.

Q: How did you get interested in photography?

A: My uncle. Also, porn.

It got to the point where I was asking him about childhood pets and his favorite color. Except for the mention of porn, it was like interviewing a shy five-year-old.

The only moment of fun (and the only time the book seemed to work) came when he went to the bathroom. Two attractive guys walked in and sat down at the table across from me and immediately started an entertaining discussion about the decor of the pub (which was, bizarrely, Sherlock Holmes–themed).

“Banter!” I thought. “God, how I've missed you.
TAKE ME WITH YOU
.”

One of them looked over at me sitting at a table on my own with two full drinks in front of me and two empty glasses to one side.

“Drowning your sorrows, I see? And two different types of drink as well! Must have been a rough day.”

“Man, you have no idea. This is just a warm-up. It's bourbon next.”

“Why not go straight for the absinthe? That always sorts me out.” He smiled at me and I noticed that he was very handsome indeed. I raised what I hoped was a flirtatious eyebrow and was about to say something suggestive when the Photographer returned to his seat, which prompted the handsome man to raise an eyebrow of his own. I gave him a little shoulder shrug and the Photographer and I resumed our slow death march to the end of the date. After our second drink, the Photographer asked if I was hungry.