After slamming our empty shot glasses down on the bar, the Stranger did something most unexpected. He brushed a strand of hair off my face (for once my annoying new fringe had come in handy) and before I knew it we were kissing. Me! Kissing the Stranger! I could scarce believe it. Fifteen minutes later we were still kissing. Half an hour later we were basically horizontal on the bar top. Yeah I know, you can’t buy class right? But guys, I was so happy in that half hour, even with the puddle of spilt beer on the counter staining the back of my dress and shot glasses digging into the folds of my back fat.
Keep in mind, I was, and still am, in a massive Sahara dry spell. It took all the willpower I could muster to refuse his offer to go back to his place. I do everything I can not to sleep with guys before they’ve at least asked me to dinner. Have found that rule to be very useful in weeding out the manwhores. But there was a big part of me that wanted to give into temptation. I mean, when would I get an offer to go home with a Gerard Butler lookalike again? Maybe never? In fact, most-probably likely definitely never.
It was tough, oh so tough, but I held firm. When he started to lead me out of the bar I said that I needed to go home. He had looked disappointed, asked for my number (but it seemed like it was under duress), then left.
I didn’t hear from him until yesterday, thirteen days after the event. I’m sorry, but that’s just not on. Whatever happened to the day-after-make-out-session-follow-up-text rule? Plus his message was so lame yesterday, it had read,
Hello Penelope. How are you?
I’ve been riding an emotional see-saw on whether to contact him since yesterday. Don’t message back, Penelope, I’ve been telling myself. It won’t lead to anything good. You want a guy who genuinely wants to be with you, someone who is willing to text the same night, and the next day, and every day after that. You deserve someone who treats you well. Don’t do it, woman!
I turn to Mags and Chloe,
“I’ll be right back.”
I leave them – they’re still arguing about Stalker - and walk in the direction of the bar. I’ve decided to text him back. So what if it took him thirteen days? I’ve waited 24 hours, that’ll show him I can be tardy too. I know I should be stronger but... Gerard Butler guys! The sexiest superstar on the planet besides maybe Ryan Gosling. I can’t let this opportunity slide. Can’t. Won’t.
At the bar I shove my bag on the counter and pull out my phone. I scroll down to his name, but just as I begin typing I’m interrupted by the music. I hadn’t noticed but the jazz band has been replaced with a DJ and he’s remixing Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams. Oh, happy days, I love this track!
I look up from my embryonic text message to the Stranger (which is currently one word, “Hi”) and spot the DJ. For a moment I don’t believe my eyes. It’s the hot waiter from lunch, it’s Blue Eyes!
I try to catch his gaze but he seems very involved in whatever he’s mixing. He finally notices me and just as quickly looks back down at his kit. I can’t believe it’s him. His headphones sit over blonde, sandy hair, which is just a little longer and a little wavier than usual. And those eyes… Their brightness is dazzling even from the other side of the room. He is tall, lean, wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. On the surface it’s nothing to write home about, but he’s just… I dunno. He’s somethin’.
I smile nervously to myself and take a deep breath as I begin The Walk Over. Toughest move in the book. Blue Eyes doesn’t notice me sidling up next to his DJ-music-mixing-complicated-machinery-stuff thingy, or if he has noticed me, I’m being properly ignored.
“Hi.” I say.
He glances up and half heartedly smiles, like responding would be the greatest burden he could think of.
“We met at the Cat and Canary today, remember?”
“Maybe.”
And he looks back down. He’s acting particularly averse to launching into conversation. Oh well, clearly he doesn’t think I’m pretty enough, but I may as well request some tracks while I’m here.
“I was wondering, I love Eurythmics, could you perhaps play some more later?”
He looks at up me as if I’m the world’s biggest idiot and turns his lip up in a sneer,
“The Loft isn’t the type of establishment to play dated 80s tracks.”
My jaw actually drops. The cruelty drips from each word as he looks back down at the vinyl. I am frozen to the spot, mouth open, gaping like a fish. I take a small step backwards. Unfortunately, there’s a cable I haven’t noticed directly behind my shoe, and within a second my heel is caught and I’m hopping on the other trying to untangle myself. Oh great, this is just fucking GREAT.
As if what he said wasn’t enough, he starts chuckling at my clumsy attempts to free myself. I feel my face blushing bright red, burning with anger and embarrassment. Who does this dick think he is?
“You’re a dick.”
Did I just say that? Yep, I just said that.
“I’m sorry but this is a classy place and we don’t play that sort of music.”
“You just played it before!”
Ah, free at last. My heel is out and I am ready to storm off in a huff.
“That wasn’t Eurythmics. It was DJ Ez featuring FKA Twigs.”
“I know what I heard and it was Annie Lennox!”
I’m yelling. Work people around me have gone quiet. Oh go to hell, you dreary parasites (read. lawyers). You want something to gossip about over the water cooler next week, you got it!
And Crazygirl comes out,
“How dare you talk to me that way? You’re just a loser nobody disc jockey who waits on tables, you don’t have the goods to back up the attitude. So just… fuck off!”
As my eyes fill with tears I swivel back round to walk back to Chloe and Mags. And in that split second the tornado of hatred, animosity, embarrassment and plans for bloodthirsty revenge vanish as I see who’s in front of me.
It’s the Stranger.
Still Friday - The Stranger
I can actually feel my heart soaring up, up, up and away as he leans down and pecks me on the lips. I’m frozen to the spot.
“Hello.” He coos in his oh-so-sexy Spanish accent.
He looks at Blue,
“Who is the pendejo?”
I’ve hung out enough times with the Spaniards to know this is not a very nice way to refer to another guy. I smile smugly at Blue. He returns my look with a blank expression. I turn back to the Stranger,
“He’s no one. Don’t worry about him. What… how…”
The reality of seeing the Stranger is not sinking in. What is he doing here?
“What are you doing here?”
“I have come from work with Antonio.”
He waves in the direction of the sofas in the back corner. There indeed is Antonio, another member of the Beautiful People, straddled on either side by two lovely ladies.
“I see you fight with your boyfriend, so I come.” The Stranger continues, giving me a cheeky grin.
“Who? Him?” I jolt my thumb in the direction of Blue, but I don’t see him anymore. Not really. My eyes are for the Stranger only,
“He’s not my boyfriend, as if!”
I meet the Strangers eyes and we smile at each other. I feel like I’m melting. Seriously, there is going to be a puddle of Penny on the floor if this moment lasts much longer. How is it that just a few moments ago I was feeling empty, hopeless, rejected… yet here I stand less than a minute later positively beaming with unadultered affection for this man I barely know, who with one gesture has made me feel… Made me feel…
He takes my hand and walks me to the couches. I may as well be floating. We sit down, facing Antonio and the ladies. The Stranger pours a shot of Sambuca and places it on a coaster in front of me. I’m still feeling light and fluffy and melty and I must make this feeling to go away, stat. God forbid we have another ‘Yo-Bro’ moment. I do the shot and ask for another. I’m still thinking about how to thank him when he puts an arm around my shoulders and asks,
&n
bsp; “Why you no respond to my message?”
Oh. Shit I’d forgotten about that. If I was smart I would have thought of a solid reply by now. A reply that had been rehearsed into a mirror many times before delivery. Something along the lines of ‘I’m not sure we want the same things, I think not texting me for thirteen days gave that away’. But how to tell him that without sounding needy and pathetic?
“I dunno, it’s not like you asked me out for dinner or drinks, and I’m not really one night stand material...” I trail off intentionally, hoping he’ll fill the void with some hope of his own.
He laughs.
“Ah yes, dinners. Women love the dinners.”
Denied.
He lifts his arm from around my shoulders and jumps from the couch.
“I buy more drinks, what you like, mi amor?”
Mi amor? I can’t help it, I’m floating again. I adore it when a guy I actually like does sweet stuff like buys me drinks. I love it I love it I love it!
“Can I please have a Campari grapefruit? It’s my favourite.”
And I suddenly remember I have drinks and friends waiting for me on the other side of the room. I’ve abandoned Chloe and Mags and most importantly my drinks for this unbelievable beefcake. What kind of a friend (and dedicated alcoholic) am I?
“Actually wait,” I pull him back down by his arm (such nice arms… keep it together Penny, c’mon), “I’ve got plenty of drinks on the other side of the room, let me grab ‘em.”
Half an hour later me, Chloe and the Stranger are chugging down the remains of our last order drinks (Mags has gone back to Stalker) and we have another bottle of Sambuca on the way. So far I’ve learnt that the Stranger’s favourite colour is green, he works in the business development division of a management consultancy, his passion is football and his family live in Barcelona, where he and Arianna went to school together.
Antonio has taken a liking to Chloe and has stopped paying the other two ladies any attention. Chloe, as usual, is playing the ice queen. I know she doesn’t do it on purpose, but when the day finally comes that Chloe actually likes someone I hope she doesn’t do the whole ‘Ice Queen’ bit. Kinda related to Hard-To-Get, the Ice Queen is a technique where a girl acts all superior and high maintenance when meeting guys. There aren’t many girls who do it on purpose because let’s be honest, guys tend to go for the fun, bubbly ‘will laugh at everything he says’ types, but some girls do Ice Queen without realising it (Exhibit A, Ms Chloe Dowling).
As an aside, why does the world still use ‘Miss’ and ‘Mrs’? In this modern, post-feminist-revolution age, can’t we all just agree to use ‘Ms’ for adult females? Call little girls Miss, fine, but I’m in my late 20s and unmarried and I am not a Miss. I won’t be denoted based on my relationships or lack-thereof with men, thank you very much.
My mind is wandering and I’m starting to feel very tipsy indeed. Too many wines, too many Proseccos, too many shots of Sambuca and now the Stranger is ordering Jägerbombs (it’s starting to feel eerily similar to two weekends ago).
“Tonight we will be out late. We have Red Bull now,” he announces when the tray arrives, winking at me while handling me a tumbler.
Shakily, I take the glass. I stand by my earlier statement - shots are always a bad idea - but again, I must keep this hunk’s attention at any cost. One of his Leonidas-like arms is currently wrapped around my shoulders and I want it to stay there forever. Totally lame thing to say, I know, but... Gerard Butler guys!
I can feel the rest of the room sneaking glances our way, especially the Gribblettes. The ladies like my mancake, and that knowledge suddenly makes me feel oh-so smug. Yeah! Take that bitches, Penny’s in da house!
I wish evil witch-boss Angrypants was here tonight. She might be smarter, thinner, taller, more successful and earning thrice what I do, but her fiancé-very-soon-to-be-husband ain’t no oil painting. In the life contest of ‘Who Dies Happy’, I’d definitely win with the Stranger by my side.
Chloe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be appreciating our advantageous situation (Antonio’s a bit of a babe too), because she’s currently fighting with him, about gyms of all things,
“They’re utter pants,” she’s saying, “Why would anyone want to work out with a bunch of musclehead freaks?”
“What’s wrong with muscleheads? Hell, I hope to be one myself one day,” Antonio’s English is much better than the Stranger’s.
“Oh sure, they bully people off machines then monopolise the cardio equipment themselves, leaving deep pools of sweat in their wake. What’s not to love?”
“Pish posh,” Antonio jokes.
But my bestie powers on,
“And the absolute worst are those twats who think they’re personal trainers just because they live at the gym, and try to give advice to me mid-workout, saying things like ‘you shouldn’t run so fast at the start’ or ‘you’re not doing those squats properly’. Who the hell asked you, asshole?”
“Oh my god, I hate those guys too!” I interrupt, a tad too loudly I think because I’m well sozzled by this point. But it’s true. I do hate them. Freekin’ know-it-alls.
“I disagree.” Antonio starts again, “I work out with those same guys and they’re great.”
“Whatever makes you feel special,” Chloe smiles sardonically before taking another sip of her wine.
“It’s not about feeling special,” he hasn’t picked up on her bitter-much sense of humour, “there is an almost perfect linear correlation between time spent in the gym and appeal to the opposite sex. You find me attractive, don’t you?” Antonio winks at her.
“I beg your pardon?” Chloe replies (she hasn’t picked up on his bonding-in-the-moment sense of humour).
Realising the situation that’s about to unfold (Chloe is massively turned off by arrogance) I interject with my own brand of humour – toilet jokes,
“I’m not a fan of gyms and I’ll tell you why. It’s the smells. Between the chick sweating out the curry from the night before, to the guy farting his way through his workout, to all the deodorants they use to cover up their bodily secretions, unsuccessfully I might add, I just can’t take the sensory overload.”
The table laughs, even the two hottie girls who are staring death daggers at Chloe. Chloe sniggers then says something I’m not expecting. Turning to Antonio and the Stranger, she unwittingly opens up my X-file,
“Penny’s ex was a gym junkie. He basically walked around asking people if his massively chiselled arms were properly proportional to his humble ego.”
They keep chattering away and don’t notice that I go silent. I don’t like being reminded of He Who Shall Not Be Named, not just because he’s a scumbag and I’d rather forget he ever existed, but also because of that horrible, terrible thing I did all those months ago. I mean, it was just wrong guys, all sorts of levels of wrong, as wrong as anything could be. And every time I think about the Terrible Thing it feels wronger, so I’m going to stop thinking about it now.
I feel a vibration in my bag and take out my phone. It’s Mags.
Hi hun, sorry I bailed. Sam and I are going to grab a bite down the road. Kisses.
I quickly key a reply,
No worries, have a great night. You’ll never guess who I bumped into – the Stranger! Call you tomorrow x
Mags, Chloe and Emma all know about my infatuation with this guy. I put my phone away and try to focus back on the conversation. I sneak a look at the Stranger and notice he was staring at me as I was typing. He meets my look, then starts planting tiny kisses on my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I see Chloe rolling her eyes but I don’t care. I’m floating again. Up, up, up and away I go. When he pulls away I feel lightheaded. Whenever he kisses me, even if it’s just a couple of pecks, I get that song in my head, I’m so dizzy my head is spinning, like a whirl pool it never ends…
I pour myself another Sambuca, hoping it will keep me perfectly poised for the rest of the evening.
***
Seve
ral hours later we’re in Fabric and I’m drunkidy drunk drunk drunk.
We left the Loft at midnight. As we’d walked out, Antonio’s neglected beauties declared that they were leaving. They had looked real grouchy. Fair enough, two random girls did just waltz over and steal their mans.
The night is turning into a bit of a blur, but right now I’m boogying to something drum-and-basey. I’m still amazed that I’m dancing with someone who can only be described as a demigod. I’m laughing loudly and sloshing my vodka Coke onto the floor. The Stranger is equally plastered, but he’s got the good sense not to talk too much.
“You know I call you ‘the Stranger’, right?” I pull him in so I don’t have to yell over the music.
Maybe I pulled a little too hard because we both stumble.
“Really?” He laughs and pulls me in for another of tonight’s many hugs (another melt-worthy moment), “Why is this, bellissima?”
“Because of the way you treated Lizzy.” I slur.
Lizzy was the Stranger’s ‘friend’ from two years ago. And when I say ‘friend’ I mean fuck buddy. When Emma moved in with Arianna and we met this group for the first time, Lizzy had been big on the scene. Poor Lizzy had been madly in love with the Stranger, but whenever anyone asked him about her he would laugh and reply that she was ‘just a friend’. He told Lizzy from the outset that he wasn’t interested in a relationship and never would be, but if she wanted to explore the physical side of things he was ready, willing and able. She had agreed, probably thinking he would come around. You know, that delusional rationale so many of us use (including myself), goes something along the lines of ‘If-I-hang-out-with-him-long-enough-he’s-bound-to-start-liking-me’.
He hadn’t. Though the Stranger and Lizzy were hooking up for over a year he never took her out for a date. Everrr. There were times when he would text her to come over to his place, but if she didn’t arrive quickly enough would refuse to answer his door. There are two sides to every story though, while she said he had refused to answer the door, his version was that he’d fallen asleep and it was an innocent mistake.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 3