“Accurate” isn’t exactly a word I’d use to describe the article. Somehow “Stuart is amazing” was a bolded quote although I don’t remember those words leaving my mouth in that order. Since the article didn’t really help my I’m a big fat whore situation, I decided to try some optimism. Maybe at least I could get a job out of it.
Once I Googled around and figured out that a CV was an unnecessarily long version of a resume, I wrote one of my own and sent it to Peter’s friend.
I was lazily searching for jobs—actually, screw that, let’s be honest, I was watching cat videos on YouTube for three hours—when my phone buzzed. The number wasn’t saved in my phone, but the text said:
Hey Canada. Saw the paper. Didn’t realize you were a local celeb. Dinner tonight? X Jason.
Drunk Paige, because you had the wherewithal to give a hot and socially abundant man your number, I officially forgive you for puking on the shoes. Cool girls don’t accept dates on such short notice, but cool girls would probably have plans and I didn’t have anything better to do.
Hi Jason. Not exactly a celeb, but somehow in the papers. Is 8 ok?
I struggled with adding the “x” at the end; it just seemed so European, all these people kissing each other nonchalantly. I bet the flu ran rampant around here.
I went upstairs to watch TV, but spotted creepy Philip on the couch. Avoiding eye contact with him, I grabbed a Fashionista magazine off the coffee table and ran back down to my room.
Cuddled up in my bed, I was on a mission to absorb English culture. The magazine had some very interesting articles including how to fake it in a job interview (dog ear that one for later), jeans for every body type, and Five Must Have Moves That Will Blow His Mind—Yes, please!
I scanned the page and, to be honest, they were pretty much just twists on my old tried-and-true moves, but number four really caught my eye. It was titled simply, Mounting the Horse *should we all be so lucky*. Basically, it involved the guy lying down and me swinging my leg over as I simultaneously whipped my hair—very sexily—in an animalistic motion and kissed him. Apparently the angle flattered everyone, and it was just a kiss, so totally innocent.
Jason arrived five minutes after eight and as soon as I opened the door I could smell his subtle, but sexy, cologne. Then of course he smiled and he could have been five hours late and I wouldn’t have cared.
There was a Mercedes waiting outside.
“Launceston Place, South Ken, please,” he said to the driver.
We were dropped off on a small residential street with a very old and expensive-looking restaurant wrapped around the corner. When I walked in I immediately noticed the plush white carpet. It was by far the nicest restaurant I had ever been in.
We sat down and I shoved myself in the corner of the banquet, mostly because I always feel more comfortable in a place where I am able to see everyone. Kind of like a cat. Jason raised an eyebrow as he pulled out the chair for me.
“I thought nobody put Baby in a corner.” His tone said “you naughty girl” which I actually kind of liked. Anyway, I also wanted to sit in the corner so I could see if anyone was staring and gawking at me. Understandably, I had become a little paranoid. I smiled shyly at him and stayed put.
The waiter handed me the menu, a nice parchment-colored piece of paper. There were no prices, just lists of starters, mains, and desserts, and apparently I was supposed to pick whatever tickled my fancy. It was probably the kind of place where the bill was going to be more than my rent, so I hoped Jason knew he was paying.
Champagne arrived. I’d doubled the amount of champagne I’d had in my life in the last few days. It was offered before water in London.
“Santé,” said Jason in a perfect French accent as he raised his glass.
“Santé.” My accent wasn’t so perfect.
I glanced down the menu. Listed at the top was foie gras, and I had absolutely no idea what that was. Gras? Maybe it was some kind of salad? It was followed by several other starters I couldn’t even pronounce, never mind consider eating. I studied my menu hard, but stole a quick peek at Jason. He totally knew what he was doing and I tried to imitate his posture and facial expressions.
My quick peek wasn’t quick enough and he caught me staring. I blushed and went back to my menu: guinea fowl, pigeon, rabbit, and John Dory. I hoped that wasn’t the pickled remains of some obscure fourteenth-century poet. I wasn’t likely to eat any of that without gagging. What happened to plain old chicken? Was it out of style already here? Did the chickens have some kind of disease like the cows? Further down the menu, there was something called cote de beouf. I assumed it was beef and immediately decided to order that. I was willing to risk Mad Cow to never have to know what a pigeon tasted like.
“Have you decided what you want to drink?” asked Jason. Every time he spoke it felt like butterflies had taken LSD in my stomach. There was a large bound book on the left side of the table next to me with at least fifty pages of very nice paper inside. I opened to the first page. Listed one by one was what must have been every wine in the world with numbers next to them, which I thought was the year until I saw one listed at 2309. That’s when I realized it was the price and choked on the shock.
“Don’t worry about it; I’ll call the Sommelier over.”
“Excuse me?” Since when was it ok to be openly racist on a first date?
“To help you with your wine choice?” As he waved his arm to call the waiter over, he didn’t appear to clock that I was not ok with this.
“That’s a super rude way to address someone. I’m sure the guy has a name. And how do you even know he’s from Somalia?”
Jason seemed confused, but really, our waiter didn’t exactly look like he was from Somalia, not that I’m being racist or anything. A short, distinguished man with dyed brown hair appeared. He had on a plain black suit and tie with a pin attached to his lapel. Was that a bunch of grapes? Interesting choice, I wasn’t one to judge.
“Miss, may I assist you with your wine choice?” This guy was definitely not from Somalia, more like the South of France. Not that a white French guy can’t be Somalian. I was sitting there, staring at the guy like I took the short bus to school. “Miss, we do have quite the selection of wines. I can help you pick out an excellent one to pair with your meal. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”
The very helpful man began to speak with Jason about the temperature in France in 2006 and the aspect of the hill on some farm. As I was trying to figure out why this Somalian knew so much about French meteorology, my train of thought was broken when I noticed they were both staring at me.
“What do you think, miss?” asked the Somalian.
Umm, clearly nothing, but Jason was looking at me like he was not only expecting an intelligent answer, but one that should come off eloquently, like I’d had this perfectly formed sentence in my head since they began talking and was just politely waiting for my moment to share it.
Nodding and smiling shyly, I murmured, “Whatever you think is good.”
I had no idea what I just agreed to.
“Paige, this Sommelier is one of the best in London, you won’t be disappointed.” Jason gave me his biggest smile so far.
I stared blankly at Jason. “Sommelier?”
“Ya, Sommelier, you know, a wine expert?”
So it wasn’t a derogatory term for someone from Somalia? Keep that one in the ten-dollar word bank.
“Yes, of course.” Nobody in the real world knew that, right?
Quickly returning to our table, the Sommelier presented the bottle of wine. He poured a small amount of the deep burgundy liquid into Jason’s glass and stood by attentively. Jason picked up his glass, swirled it around, stuck his nose deep inside, sniffed, and then drank it. He thought for a second and nodded at my new friend, the Sommelier, who then filled both of our glasses.
Now, I’ve never really been a fancy person. A nice date for me usually included a trip to the Olive Garden, where the choice of wine wa
s limited to one red and one white and there was no swirling, smelling, or a special man to help you pick it out. I raised an eyebrow but continued to fix my eyes on this strange ritual.
Another man materialized to take our order, also French speaking, but I wasn’t going to pigeonhole him into being French.
“I’ll have the foie gras,” I said, using the terrible French accent I’d learned in school. “And then the cote du beouf.”
The waiter nodded. “Oui, Madame, and for you, sir?”
Jason ordered some other stuff that sounded French. I couldn’t believe how international I’d become!
The starters arrived and apparently foie gras was French for meat butter because that’s what it looked like. It came with a little piece of Melba toast, so I spread the meat butter on it and took a bite. It tasted like what I imagined uncooked bacon would taste like if you put it in a blender with some herbs. It was gross, but in the interest of broadening my horizons I had another bite.
“Do you like it?” Jason seemed surprised.
“It’s ok. What is it?”
He told me. I will admit I was incorrect in my previous statement. You should NOT try everything once. Essentially … in a nutshell … oh god it makes me gag just thinking about it. Ok. I’ll just get it out. It’s essentially bird vomit. Ok, well, not exactly, but they force feed geese, which makes their liver fat. I didn’t even know your liver could get fat. Was that just a bird thing? Anyway, this foie gras garbage on my Melba toast was that liver. Needless to say, I did not finish my starter; I didn’t care how much it cost. Geese were gross, ipso facto their livers were vile. Fact.
Turns out, me gagging on obese bird liver was a great icebreaker. Once I got over the situation on my plate and started listening instead of trying to catch a glimpse of his triceps through his shirt every time he reached for his wine, Jason seemed to be a really nice guy. I swore every time he looked at me his eyes sparkled, like, literally. I was tempted to ask if he was wearing special “fall in love with me instantly” contacts.
“What brought you to London?” I asked.
“Work. I know, boring,” he said, putting both his arms up as if he was surrendering.
“Not at all. What do you do?”
“I’m a Venture Capitalist.” He smiled at himself. “You have no idea what that is, do you?”
“Ummmm,” I said, slightly offended that he assumed I didn’t know. I didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.
“Well, you know Pretty Woman?”
“Yes, we have movies in Canada.”
Jason laughed. “Well, basically, I do what Richard Gere does in the movie.”
“What, you pick up hookers and don’t know how to drive a Lotus?” I said with a straight face.
“I guess.” He fidgeted with his glass of wine. “God, I don’t know how to act around you. I haven’t been back to Tennessee for a while and I’m not used to dealing with American girls, never mind Canadians. Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s kind of a policy I have.”
What he probably wasn’t used to was people who could care less about how much money he made. But this wasn’t a way to make new friends. I should keep an open mind, cut him some slack; he was gorgeous and made an effort to invite me out despite seeing my Wednesday period underwear strewn all over the street. And did I mention he was hot?
A surprise pre-dessert arrived and it was some sort of tiny tart, which came with a special dessert wine that sounded lovely. That Sommelier guy really knew his stuff because Jason and I had polished off three bottles of wine already. I was pretty drunk. So drunk in fact, that my elaborate ruse of pretending like I belonged and knew exactly what I was doing abruptly stopped. There I was, staring at an array of forks and knives and spoons and four different glasses filled with various grape-based liquids.
Which utensil should I use? Did I even use one at all? Was there something else coming with the surprise?
There were several surprises between the courses, so I wasn’t sure which fork/spoon/knife/strange-spatula-thing-Jason-used-for-his-fish to dirty for this surprise. And what did I drink with it? Everything was just sitting there on the table, mocking me.
“Paige, you don’t have to pretend around me.” I was so consumed with the drama on my table that I forgot I was actually at the table with someone.
“What do you mean? I’m not pretending about anything.” As the words came out of my mouth, I knew they weren’t convincing.
“Paige, when I got here, I didn’t know about wine, what fork to use, and I certainly didn’t know how to get into any of the clubs. You’ve only been here a few days, you’re unemployed, and living in a condemned building. I’m not going to hold it against you if you don’t know what wine to pick or what foie gras is.”
I let out a deep breath, one I felt like I’d been holding in since I got off the plane. It was ok for me not to know everything, and I just needed to give myself some time and be proud of what I had managed to achieve already. I had been on the other side of the ocean by myself for several days and I was not dead. Jason genuinely accepting who I was felt really comforting. That, combined with his Southern accent, was a perfect storm. Ugh—too soon! I really liked him.
Once we finished the meal and Jason paid the bill, we walked out into the crisp London air. Jason suggested we head to a place called Eclipse for a nightcap. I didn’t need another drink, but if I wanted to be a local I needed to act like one, which included learning how to drink like a fish on a Tuesday.
Eclipse was packed and the first thing I noticed were the giant watermelons on the bar.
“What would you like?” asked Jason.
You.
“One of those watermelon things, please.”
He smiled at me like he knew that was exactly what I was going to say. Obviously he had been here before with a few girls.
“Can I get a Stella and … ” he pointed at one of the watermelon drinks that had just been made, “one of those. What’s it called?”
“Melon Mambo,” said the Spanish bartender as if he was salsa-ing with his mouth.
“Alright, a Stella and a Melon Mambo, please.”
The bartender handed me the drink and there was literally half a watermelon in it with a giant slice used as garnish on the side of the glass. Jason raised his glass to mine.
“Cheers.”
I smiled back. “Cheers.”
As we clinked glasses, my piece of watermelon almost fell over. He caught it and fed me a bite, then decided to have the rest himself.
“That’s got to be at least one of your five a day,” I whispered in his ear, over the thumping music and bongo guy badly playing along to the beat.
He laughed. “Your drink must be enough to fill your weekly requirement of fruit and veg.”
We walked over to an unoccupied table with a reserved sign.
“I honestly don’t mind standing.”
Jason smiled again. He really needed to stop doing that or there was a good chance I was going to rip his clothes off there in the bar.
“It’s reserved for us.”
“Oh.”
After one more Melon Mambo, I was sufficiently drunk so we decided to call it a night. As we walked out of the bar, someone grabbed my arm. I turned around and there was an Arab man staring at me.
“How much?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” I knew my dress was a little short, but I honestly didn’t think I looked like a hooker.
“She’s mine, man, not for sale.” Jason gently put his arm around my waist and pulled me away. I stood shaking my head in disbelief as Jason booked the car home from the taxi man in front of the bar.
“Oh my god! Was he serious?” I was so embarrassed.
“It happens a lot here. You’d be surprised how many women in London can be bought for a price.”
I was indignant. “Not me!” I couldn’t believe that was true. What kind of crowd did Jason hang out with?
I’m melting … melting …
We went back to Jason’s place because he was clearly a professional at seducing women and I couldn’t bring him into my disgusting flat to Philip demanding a cover charge for guests.
“Good evening, Mr. Frost,” said the doorman as we walked into the lobby of his building.
We got into the elevator and Jason pushed the button to the fourth floor. I’d never wanted anyone so much in my life, but I reminded myself that I was a nice girl and nice girls don’t jump boys in the elevator on their first and a half date.
But I didn’t have to. Jason kissed me as soon as the doors were closed. I had my eyes shut, but I am fairly sure I saw fireworks. Or I was a tad too drunk and was beginning to black out.
His flat was amazing, definitely decorated by a man, or he paid a woman a lot of money to make it appear as if he’d decorated it himself. Leather couches, huge TV, and some eye-catching modern art. He clicked a button and soft music started to play. This would border on cheesy if I wasn’t so completely obsessed with him.
We made out like teenagers on his leather, and therefore quite noisy, couch, then he picked me up and carried me to his room, keeping his eyes and lips locked onto me at all times. He eased me onto the bed and his hands began to wander. I was drunk but I was 100% not sleeping with him. Well, like, 89% not sleeping with him.
“Jason,” I murmured as I pulled his hand away.
“Playing hard to get?”
“You can call it what you want, but we ain’t bumping nasties tonight,” I said in a hillbilly accent.
I pushed him off of me and winked, hoping I looked cute and he wouldn’t realize how stupid I sounded. Jason furrowed his eyebrows as if he wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. I giggled nervously. He was lying on his back on the bed and it was pitch black in the room save for a small sliver of moonlight cutting across his face. That’s when I remembered it. Mounting the Horse. This was the perfect opportunity. Just because I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him didn’t mean we couldn’t have a little naughty fun.
The Accidental Socialite Page 3