Age, Sex, Location

by Melissa Pimentel

  1 August

  Cathryn and I had just sat back down at our desks after a client meeting when my phone bleeped with a text message. It was Sleepy Eyes.

  ‘That’s a surprise,’ I muttered as I slid the button on my iPhone.

  Got a gig in Australia. Back in three months. Laters, sexy.

  Yeah, that felt about right. He’d fit right in in the land down under.

  Cathryn looked over at me. ‘Who was that, then? Mr Chatty?’

  ‘Yep. Gone to Australia apparently.’

  She looked momentarily confused. ‘What, for a visit?’

  ‘For a gig. I think he’s officially flown the coop.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m terribly disappointed. He was a bit odd, don’t you think? He obviously had some sort of drug problem, and he said all those weird things about me meeting someone who was like-minded.’

  I cringed. ‘Yeah … that was definitely the drugs talking, I’m sure.’

  3 August

  In order to get into the 1950s spirit, I needed to do some research. Thankfully, this weekend was the Goodwood Vintage Festival and I’d managed to convince Lucy to accompany me with the promise of lots of frilly dresses, pin curls and Victoria sponge cake.

  I woke up to the sound of rain. The BBC had promised occasional bouts of sunshine for the day, but a year in this country had taught me that the BBC forecasters lie often and lie well, probably because if they told the truth about the weather, they would be run out of town like a pack of rabid dogs.

  I went for a quick run in the morning to make room for all the Bakewell tarts I planned on eating. I got in, soaked, just as Lucy was emerging from her bedroom.

  ‘Hey, love,’ she said sleepily. ‘You’re dripping.’

  ‘I know. It’s raining like hell out there. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  We sloped into the kitchen and I flicked on the kettle while she spooned coffee crystals into two mugs.

  ‘Is Tristan still in bed?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  This was weird. Since they’d met, Lucy and Tristan had spent every possible moment together, and definitely every weekend. His absence couldn’t be a good thing.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  She shrugged. ‘We had a bit of an argument.’

  ‘Shit. What happened?’

  ‘It was nothing, really. Just a silly little fight about this party we’re meant to go to in a few weeks’ time.’

  ‘What, some work thing of his?’

  ‘Not exactly. Look, let’s not talk about it. It’s dull.’

  ‘If you need me, you know I’m here.’

  Lucy nodded and patted my hand. ‘I know. Thanks, lovely. Anyway, let’s just focus on having fun today. What are you going to wear?’

  ‘Well, the rain isn’t helping that decision. I wanted to wear my peep-toe heels and that little playsuit I have, but a giant cagoule is looking more likely.’

  She waved me away. ‘It always pisses it down at festivals – it’s tradition! You shouldn’t let that stop you from wearing the playsuit, though the peep toes might be a problem. Anyway, you’ll get the real English experience this way! Do you have wellies?’

  ‘No, I didn’t bring them with me from Maine. I thought my climbing-around-in-mud days were behind me.’

  ‘Silly cow. Come on, I’ve got a spare pair.’

  Lucy charged off into her room and I heard the sound of her closet being disemboweled. She returned with a pair of electric pink rubber boots that were dotted with white polka dots.

  ‘I know they’re not your style,’ she said as she handed them to me, ‘but they’ll keep your feet dry.’

  Dressed and be-wellied (Lucy looked amazing in a royal-blue sailor-style dress with a cinched waist, though the look was slightly marred by her rainbow-colored wellies), we jumped on the first train to Chichester. By the time we arrived at the festival gates, the rain had cleared up and the sun was shining brightly on the mud. It was a festival miracle.

  Inside, the field was lined with tents overflowing with gorgeous vintage dresses, dainty little tea sets from the 1940s and 1950s and more Battenberg cakes than you could shake a stick at. In the middle of the green, dozens of gleaming roadsters and hot rods were parked up, their owners standing proudly next to them. The crowd was full of women with perfect beehives and cherry-red lips and men wearing immaculate three-piece suits. It was like stepping onto the set of an Audrey Hepburn film.

  Lucy spotted a retro makeover tent and pulled me towards it, squealing with excitement. Forty-five minutes later, we both emerged in full vintage splendor, her with a head of shiny blond pin curls and a full red pout, and me with a Veronica Lake wave and ridiculously long fake eyelashes. Every time I blinked, they stuck together slightly. I was hoping it made me look sultry, but I suspected I looked like I was struggling to stay awake.

  We wandered through the tents, Lucy buying a few vintage corsets (her interest in lingerie has skyrocketed since meeting Tristan) and me buying an amazing pair of Perspex cat’s-eye sunglasses, which I immediately donned in the hope of hiding my increasingly gluey eyelashes.

  After three hours and six Pimm’s cocktails served in jam jars, I made a beeline for the portable toilets.

  The queue was, of course, endless. I was eyeing up a promising-looking bush when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Cunningham?’

  Of course. It made total sense that he would turn up right now. ‘Adrian. What a surprise.’ He was wearing trousers, a button-down, suspenders and a bowler hat. And pulling it off, much to my annoyance.

  ‘Having a nice day out?’ He looked me up and down, taking in the playsuit and sunglasses. ‘You’re looking very La Dolce Vita today.’

  I tried to flutter my eyelashes behind the glasses, but the left one stuck. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It suits you. Though the boots jar a bit.’

  I looked down at my be-wellied feet and shrugged. ‘You can’t have it all, I guess. What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘What all these other beautiful young things are doing: feigning interest in a load of old crap while plotting who they’d like to fuck.’

  ‘Such a romantic.’

  ‘What about you? I didn’t think you’d be into festivals.’

  ‘I’m here with Lucy. We’ve just been learning how to knit.’

  Adrian raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that right? You never struck me as the fifties-housewife type, Cunningham.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Well, you can darn my socks anytime, my dear.’

  ‘You’re a true gentleman.’ I’d finally reached the front of the line and was about to push open the porto-door when I blurted out, ‘Want to get a drink with me and Lucy? I can guarantee it will come in a jam jar.’ I was a glutton for punishment.

  ‘How could I refuse?’

  ‘Hang on a second while I pee.’

  ‘Not quite a lady yet, I see.’

  When I’d finished facing the horror of a festival toilet, I grabbed Adrian and pulled him over to Lucy, who was sat at a picnic table trying to master purling. ‘Sorry I took so long. I ran into an old friend. You remember Adrian?’

  Adrian emerged from behind me, grinning like an old goat. ‘Hello, darling! You’re looking lovely as ever.’

  Lucy put down the enormous sleeve she’d knitted and smiled coldly. ‘Hello, Adrian. Full of shit as ever, I see.’

  He feigned indignance. ‘How could you say such a thing? I’m honest to a fault.’

  ‘One of many,’ I said. ‘Now, do you want a Pimm’s or a lime rickey?’

  ‘Lime rickey, please.’

  I returned with three more jam jars full of liquor (who was eating all this jam?) and sat down at the table, where Lucy was studiously ignoring Adrian and focusing on adding yet more rows to her sleeve.

  Adrian sat down next to me and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Not a fan apparently.’

  I shrugged. ‘She’s just protective of me.
’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t need protecting from me.’

  I took a sip of Pimm’s and changed the subject. ‘How are the moving plans going? Are you still set on invading America?’

  ‘Afraid so. Plane ticket booked for next month.’

  I felt a stab of sadness in my gut. Even though he was a complete dick most of the time, I sort of hated the idea of not having him around.

  He slung an arm across my shoulder. ‘Don’t look so sad, Cunningham. We’ll always have Clissold Park.’

  Last January, when we were dating (or whatever we were doing), he and I had spent an afternoon building a snowman in Clissold Park after a freak snowstorm hit London. I didn’t know if I should feel touched that he remembered or annoyed that he was now teasing me about it.

  I brushed his arm away. ‘I just feel bad for all my poor countrywomen. There should be a national health warning, like there was for bird flu. Women should be vaccinated to protect against you.’

  Adrian looked smug. ‘I’ve got an English accent: the women of New York will throw me a welcome parade. Anyway, I’ve got to run. There are huge swathes of twenty-two-year-old women here who I’ve not yet slept with, and I’d be doing them a disservice if I didn’t give them the opportunity.’

  ‘Don’t let me keep you from the lucky ladies.’

  He kissed me on the cheek, paused for a moment and leaned in again. ‘You look good a bit muddy, Cunningham,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘I always knew you were filthy. Let’s have a proper goodbye before I go. I’m having a little soirée to see me off – you should come.’

  I swatted him away, trying to ignore the tingling between my thighs. ‘We’ll see,’ I said, in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. ‘Goodbye, Adrian.’

  ‘Goodbye, Cunningham.’ He turned to Lucy and gave her his most winning grin. ‘Goodbye, Lucy! A pleasure as always! And do take good care of this one for me, will you?’

  ‘Better than you,’ she said, shooting daggers at him.

  He bowed with a flourish and kissed both our hands before turning away. As much as I’d miss him, it would probably be a blessing to have him safely ensconced in New York City and far away from me.

  5 August

  With Sleepy Eyes off in the land of Oz, I needed a new 1950s dating partner. I revisited the section on suitable suitors.

  One thing was for sure: this book was a big fan of homogeny. When posed with questions about dating people with differences in ethnicity, nationality, class or religion, the author’s answer was always the same: it’s probably best to stick with your own kind.

  Brushing aside my intense discomfort with this level of xenophobia, I figured the best way to put the advice into practice was to do something I’d avoided for a long time and date a fellow American.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love Americans. Fondness for guns and crazy politics aside, they’re some of the earth’s best people: hospitable, funny and kind. There are moments when I’m at the checkout counter at a grocery store in London, being glared at by a sullen teenager as he whacks my eggs too hard into the bag (not a euphemism) and I would give my right eye for someone to tell me to have a nice day.

  But dating them is another kettle of fish entirely. There are so many complicated, unspoken rules involved in American dating, and everyone is always trying to trade up on their original investment. It’s like the sexual equivalent of Homes Under the Hammer. Not to mention the fact that most American men can’t dress their way out of a paper bag. I don’t know who this Docker guy was, but he has a lot to answer for.

  Anyway, I didn’t have all that much experience dating Americans. There were a few dalliances in college, but I don’t think I’d describe making out with someone in the broom closet of a fraternity house a date. There was Dylan, of course, but we’d known each other since we were kids, so we never really went through the whole ‘dating’ thing – it was more just hanging out with friends and then having a quick fumble on the car ride home. None of which had prepared me particularly well for the world of adult dating.

  Still, I was starting to understand the appeal of dating a fellow American: a familiarity with the nineties TGIF line-up on TV and an appreciation for Kraft macaroni and cheese were things that no amount of properly fitted trousers or charming accents could replace. These were my people. It was time I gave them another shot.

  Finding a dateable American in London was another matter. Apparently there were swarms of us here, but I didn’t know one single American guy. As with so many other things in life, the answer was just a Google search away, which is how I ended up signing up to YoDate.

  I know. YoDate. Doesn’t sound promising, does it? But it’s the biggest American ex-pat dating community in the world, and there are apparently almost ten thousand eligible American men in London signed up to it. Sorry, not men: bros. All of the guys on YoDate were categorized as ‘Bros’.

  I set up an account in the ‘Hoes’ section (I don’t think that needs clarification, does it?) and I was up and emailing Brads and Justins and Scotts like there was no tomorrow.

  The next day, my inbox was flooded with messages. Sorry, not messages: sup’dates. That’s what they called emails on YoDate. I almost unsubscribed when I saw it, but Cathryn dissuaded me.

  ‘The name isn’t a reflection on the men, Lauren, just the site they’re on.’ She was loading paper into the printer with military precision as she said this. ‘And you’re on it now, too, so you can’t judge them too harshly.’ She shut the paper drawer with a decisive click.

  As always, she had a point. I clicked on the first email and skimmed it, deleting it as soon as I got to the words ‘country music fan’.

  I screened out a few other candidates – a born-again Christian, a Fox news viewer, an NRA enthusiast – with Cathryn offering commentary over my shoulder.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with that man?’ she asked, pointing to a freshly scrubbed Ivy League type. ‘You’ve gone right past him!’

  ‘His favorite book is The Fountainhead.’

  ‘So? Isn’t that quite popular? I’m sure I saw it in Daunt’s the other day.’

  ‘Yeah, it basically means he’s a fascist.’

  ‘I don’t think Daunt’s would be displaying fascist literature –’

  ‘Next!’ I yelled.

  ‘Quiet!’ Cathryn hissed, looking pointedly at our boss’s door.

  I kept scrolling until my eye caught on a pair of mischievous dark eyes.

  ‘Him,’ I said, pointing to his photo icon.

  Cathryn peered over my shoulder. ‘Yes, he’s quite handsome.’

  I took in his close-cropped black hair and stubbly beard. His tag name was Frisco.

  I gave Frisco a gentle virtual nudge – a ‘high five’ in YoDate terminology – and hoped it would prompt him to get in touch.

  7 August

  It was the end of the day, and Cathryn and I were knee-deep in planning the sponsors’ conference; it was all we were thinking about. Well, all she was thinking about. I had a few other things on my mind, particularly when the email pinged into my inbox.

  ‘He’s emailed!’

  ‘The caterer? Has he signed the contract?’

  ‘No, not him – Frisco! He just sup’dated me!’

  ‘The one with the nice eyes? What does he have to say?’

  ‘He wants to take me for dinner and cocktails.’

  ‘Dinner and cocktails! Is that how you Americans date? I don’t think Michael took me for dinner during our first year together!’

  ‘Yeah, dates tend to involve food in America. I guess it’s the lack of pubs or something.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds very promising.’

  I sent off a quick email to Frisco suggesting some free evenings. Maybe dating an American again wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  9 August

  Tomorrow is my dinner date with Frisco. In preparation, I spent my lunch hour Google-stalking him.

  Don’t act like you don’t do it, too.


  Actually, it’s encouraged by the book! Well, sort of. The book recommends that, should a stranger ask you out, you should ‘ask around the neighborhood about his reputation’ before going out with him. Surely, with the collapse of local communities and the rise of globalization, the contemporary equivalent of ‘asking around the neighborhood’ is looking up someone on the Internet, right?

  From his profile I knew his full name and his home state (California, obviously). I pride myself on being an excellent googler – it’s definitely in my core skill set – so within a few minutes I knew where he went to high school and college, his last three addresses, and had access to about a hundred photos of him through his (not privatized, the fool) Facebook page.

  I spent ten minutes flicking through his Flickr (was that little blond woman an ex-girlfriend? What about the brunette? And, holy shit, was that his pug??). I forced myself to click away before I became overwhelmed with unwarranted pangs of intense jealousy and/or lust.

  I scanned through the rest of the results and kept seeing references to something called Catify. I clicked on a link to Wired and started reading, coffee dribbling down my chin.

  In 2011, he invented an app that could superimpose an adorable cat face on to any photo. I vaguely remember the frenzy it caused when it first came out. ‘Kitty me’ became a popular catchphrase and celebrities everywhere released kittied photos of themselves on the red carpet and on film sets. Heads of state even got in on the act, kittying photos of their meet and greets. And then, at the height of the kitty-craze, Facebook bought the app for one point three billion dollars.

  ONE POINT THREE BILLION DOLLARS, PEOPLE.

  I clicked on another link: there was Frisco giving a TED talk about technology and self-expression.

  Another: a photo of him shaking hands with Bill Gates.

  I stood up from my desk and told Cathryn I was going out for a cigarette.

  She eyed me suspiciously. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just found out that I’m going on a date with a billionaire.’