Outside, I took a long drag and thought about my predicament. So Frisco was a billionaire, but I had to pretend that I didn’t know that he was a billionaire when I met him tomorrow because if I mentioned it, he’d know that I was Google-stalking him and that would be gross. The first rule of Google-stalking is that you can never let on that you already know everything about the person you Google-stalked, even though everyone Google-stalks everyone these days.
I imagine things were much simpler in the fifties. Hearing some neighborhood gossip is substantially different to seeing a photograph of your date palling around with Bill goddamn Gates.
I was going to have to be on my A-game for this one. But how was I supposed to prepare myself for a date with someone psychotically rich? I had no experience with these sorts of things. What if there was a whole rich-people etiquette I knew nothing about? What if they somehow used their cutlery differently from me? What if he took me somewhere scary and fancy where they scraped the crumbs off the table with one of those silver things?
I needed someone who could guide me through this new rarefied world. I walked back into the office with a purposeful stride.
‘Right,’ I said, perching myself on the edge of Cathryn’s desk, ‘I need your help.’
10 August
I was primed and ready for my date with a billionaire. Cathryn had taught me all about the correct order for silverware usage (work from the outside in, apparently) and the correct way to be seated at a table in a small fancy restaurant (wait for the maître d’ to pull out the table, then sit down and allow him to shove the table back in place. Seems more complicated than just pulling out the chair …).
I was expecting Frisco to pick some extortionate two-Michelin-star restaurant that served only foams and essences, so I was a little confused when he sent over the address of a place in Kentish Town.
When I arrived, I was surprised to find a slightly grubby Ethiopian restaurant. I’d never had Ethiopian food before, but I remembered from an episode of No Reservations that you were meant to sit on cushions on the floor and eat with your hands. I suddenly regretted wearing the tasteful shift dress I’d borrowed from Cathryn.
I walked in to find Frisco waiting for me by the door. He looked just like his photograph: piercing eyes, deep dimples and stubble so perfect it looked Photoshopped. Instead of a well-cut suit, he was wearing a pair of board shorts and an old Pixies T-shirt.
I tried to sit on my cushion as elegantly as possible, though I was sure all of the restaurant had caught a glimpse of my Addis Ababa.
I launched straight in with flattering conversation, as per the book’s instructions. ‘Wow, what a hidden gem! How did you find this place?’
Frisco shrugged. ‘I spent some time in Addis Ababa a few years ago, and a friend there told me about their cousin’s place in London. I made it my first stop when I got here and I’ve been coming ever since.’
No concierge service, then. In the end, he ordered for both of us, and a bunch of unpronounceable but delicious dishes started appearing on our mat. He showed me the best way to eat it, scooping up the spiced meat with pieces of flatbread, and didn’t seem too horrified when I dropped a handful onto my (thankfully napkinned) lap.
I’d forgotten how nice it is to have the linguistic shorthand that comes with talking to another American. I was so used to explaining my cultural references to confused Brits who hadn’t grown up with Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and hadn’t seen the US Dairy Lobby-sponsored commercials encouraging cheese consumption. I almost wept with relief when I made a joke about Bob Ross’s happy little trees and he understood it.
I guess I’d underestimated how hard I’d been trying to make myself understood in London. This was just … simple. Maybe the book was right about sticking to one’s own kind.
The flatbreads were cleared away and the honey wine was flowing like, well, wine.
‘So,’ I said, ‘I’m assuming from your YoDate name that you’re from San Francisco?’
He grinned. ‘Born and raised, though I spent some time in Mountain View before I moved over here.’
Yikes. Even I knew that’s where Google HQ is based. ‘What were you doing there?’ I asked innocently. Presumably developing another billion-dollar app, or maybe a self-navigating hovercraft.
‘Oh, you know. This and that. Do you want dessert?’
Several more glasses of honey wine later, Frisco walked me to my bus stop. It had been an amazing night, and Frisco had been the perfect gentleman … though knowing what I did, I was a little surprised when he let me split the bill with him. He was probably a feminist to boot and didn’t want to seem like he was partaking in the traditional patriarchal fiscal system. Swoon.
‘So, how are you getting home?’ I asked. Private jet? I thought. Helicopter?
‘I can jump on the bus from here, actually.’
I didn’t want the evening to end, but the 214 appeared almost immediately. For the first time in my life I rued a bus turning up quickly.
He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. ‘I had a really great time, Lauren,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ This was it. He was going in for the kiss. I met his gaze and steadied myself, licking my lips and hooding my eyes in what I hoped was an attractive way.
Frisco pulled me in for a hug, then jumped through the bus’s open door. ‘See you soon!’ he called.
11 August
Lucy had been at Tristan’s when I got in from my date with Frisco, so tonight was the first night we were able to have a serious debrief. She was still working on her sleeve, which was now about six feet long.
‘Don’t you think you should start on the other sleeve soon?’ I asked. ‘Or the body bit?’
‘I’d love to, babe, but I don’t know how to cast off, so I’m just going to keep going until I run out of yarn.’
‘It’ll be a hell of a sleeve when you’re finished.’
Lucy was a rapt audience as I gave a detailed blow by blow of the date, only interrupting to suggest more wine or another cigarette. After almost an hour, we reached the point where he hugged me.
‘Hang on, just a hug?’
I nodded.
‘Not even a peck? A little cuddle?’
‘A hug.’
‘Did you give him the eyes?’
‘Oh yeah. He got all the eyes I could muster.’
‘What about the lips – did you plump?’
‘They’re not pillows, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I’m being perfectly serious! Did you plump them? Like this?’ Lucy made a face like a duck’s ass.
‘I fucking hope not,’ I muttered.
‘Laugh all you like, but this pout has never let me down.’
‘Well, whoop-dee-doo for you. I guess I’m the only leper around here.’
‘Babe, you are not a leper! He did say that he wanted to see you again, so he must fancy you.’
‘Maybe he just wants an American buddy,’ I said, throwing myself back on the couch in despair.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, finishing another row on her giant sleeve. ‘Men don’t want to be friends with women.’
16 August
I’d heard from Frisco the morning after my debrief with Lucy, and we’d gone on a second date on Wednesday. He’d been just as dreamy and just as chaste as the first time.
But this morning, I woke up to a very exciting text from Frisco.
Frisco: Wanna hang out tonight?
I jumped out of bed and did a small dance of joy before responding.
Me: Sure. What did you have in mind?
Pleasesaysexpleasesaysexpleasesaysex …
My phone bleeped happily.
Frisco: Why don’t you come over to my place? I’ll make dinner and we can watch a box set.
I let out a little whoop: dinner at his place – sex was pretty much guaranteed.
Me: Sounds good. I’ll bring the beer.
I spent the next twenty minutes agonizing over my choice of underwear.
As is always the way, all my good stuff was in the wash so I had to hand wash my favorite Coco de Mer set (bought on sale when drunk after a work event last year) and, despite my best efforts with the hair dryer, left the house in a slightly damp bra.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything at work.
‘… so are you okay to compile the figures? Lauren? Hello, Lauren?’ I looked up to see Cathryn watching me with a mix of concern and exasperation.
‘What? Oh, sorry. I wasn’t really listening.’
‘The figures, Lauren. For the sponsorship deal?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sure, of course, I’ll send them over.’ I started to pull up the Excel spreadsheets, but was struck with a thought before I had the chance to press send. ‘I mean, maybe he’s just a gentleman, right?’
‘Who? The client? I wouldn’t say that, not after the way he looked at my bum last week.’
‘No, Frisco! Maybe he’s just old-fashioned, you know? Wanted to wait until the third date before making a move. He probably just respects me, right?’
Cathryn sighed. ‘Could be. I really don’t know, Lauren.’
I nodded decisively. ‘I’ll bet that’s what it is.’
‘I certainly hope so. I don’t think I have the strength to deal with you like this much longer.’
It took me eons to get to Peckham, so I was running seriously late by the time I staggered to his front door carrying two six-packs of Sierra Nevada and a lemon drizzle cake I’d impulse-bought from Gail’s.
Dressing ‘appropriately’ for hanging out and watching TV proved way more difficult than dressing ‘appropriately’ for anything else; I’d settled on a pair of loose-fitting, faded jeans from my Portland days and an old Billy Idol T-shirt. I was hoping the effect was ‘effortlessly sexy’ and not ‘effortlessly homeless’. It had been sweltering on the bus and I was covered in a thin layer of sweat and grime.
I was greeted first by a scruffy, aproned Frisco followed by a waggy-tailed pug and a waft of delicious cooking smells, all in quick succession. It was like walking into a version of heaven created specifically by my vagina.
‘Hey!’ Frisco gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Come on in! You brought Sierra Nevada! Good call.’
‘I aim to please. Who’s this little guy?’ I knelt down and scratched his wrinkly little head. The dog responded by rolling over on his back and wiggling around on the floor. If only Frisco was as easily enticed.
‘He’s just showing off for the ladies, aren’t you, Billy Budd?’ Frisco scooped up the pug in one arm. I was overcome with the desire to be a dog so I could be scooped up in the other.
‘Billy Budd?’ I asked. ‘Like, as in Melville?’
He laughed. ‘Yeah. He’s got this crazy squint when he gets excited, so I thought he looked like a sailor. Don’t you, Budd?’ He gave Billy a scratch behind the ears and his little face scrunched up. I had to admit, it was pretty accurate.
‘So what’s cooking?’ I asked, following him down the corridor into the big, open-plan living space. ‘It smells amazing. Your place is great, by the way.’
It really was. There was art on every wall in the living room – real, honest-to-God interesting art, not just a poster for The Godfather stuck on there with Blu-tack. There was a yoga mat rolled up in the corner of the room next to a photo of Bikram Choudhury and various knick-knacks from around the globe, and there was a plant that was actually still alive on the windowsill.
He led me through to the kitchen, which was tiled navy and white and spotless, despite the fact that several pots and a casserole dish were quietly bubbling away on the stove.
The whole place felt like a sitcom set.
He gestured towards the casserole dish. ‘Are you okay with eating fish?’
‘Love it.’ I didn’t, not really, but I wasn’t about to tell that to this dream man in an apron.
He opened a couple of beers and handed me one, and we talked while I watched him cook. Seeing him wield a wooden spoon was unbelievably arousing: it was like watching some sort of domestic striptease.
Billy danced between the two of us, begging for bits of food and presenting his belly for scratching. I wasn’t sure which of the two I was more in love with.
I’d had a quick flick through the latest issue of Wired last night, so I was primed with what I hoped would be a few techy tidbits to drop into conversation.
‘So,’ I said casually, ‘how about those bitcoins, eh?’
Frisco looked up from the stove. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re just … crazy, right?’
He frowned slightly and turned back to stirring. ‘Not really. It’s just another form of currency. In five years’ time, we’ll all be using something similar. The concept of individualized national currencies is virtually dead.’
Shit. I had no idea what he was talking about. Time to try another tack.
‘You know, I tried Snapchat the other day,’ I said. ‘I sent a few photos to my sister, but they kept getting deleted after she’d looked at them.’
‘That’s the point,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘They’re meant to self-destruct so there’s no incriminating evidence. That’s why teenagers love it so much.’
‘Oh.’ Great, forty minutes trying to learn about the digital age for nothing. I gave up and concentrated on petting the pug.
We sat down to eat and he put a series of increasingly amazing-looking vegetable dishes on my plate, topped off with a steamed fillet of cod.
I took one bite and almost passed out. It was incredible.
‘This is probably the best thing I’ve put in my mouth in a long time,’ I said, eyebrow raised suggestively. I waited for him to react to the innuendo, but he just serenely speared a piece of asparagus. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
He shrugged and then bent down to feed Billy a scrap of fish. ‘I’ve always loved to mess around in the kitchen.’ I choked on a piece of roasted cauliflower before recovering myself. ‘It’s actually why I decided to come to London.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s a long story, but I came here via Greenland.’
‘Greenland? What the hell were you doing in Greenland?’
‘I went to a conservation forum in Greenland a few years ago. We ended up on a trawler with these fishermen who’d dedicated their lives to sustainable deep-sea fishing. These guys take it seriously – I mean, they’re out there in blizzards and storms and all kinds of weather. Really inspiring stuff. But the best part was when this Icelandic guy on the boat gave me some hákarl.’
‘What’s hákarl? Some kind of psychotropic drug?’
Frisco laughed a deep, dimpled laugh. ‘No, it’s pickled shark.’
‘Why the fuck would you want to pickle a shark? Unless you’re Damien Hirst, I guess.’
He frowned. ‘It’s actually a delicacy in Iceland. It was an honor for me to share it with him.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be – I didn’t know about it either. But as soon as I tasted it, I knew that hákarl was my destiny. I went home, sold the business and moved to Iceland. I spent a year studying with some of the greatest hákarl producers in the world, learning all the tricks of the trade. I’m now a level-three hákarl master.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, not knowing if that was the correct response. ‘How did that lead to London? I didn’t know there was a great demand for pickled shark here.’
‘Yeah, but there’s such an incredible food scene,’ he said. It was true: you couldn’t sneeze in central London without spraying on someone selling pop-up artisanal hot dogs or snail gratins out of a truck. ‘There’s no better place to bring hákarl to the masses. I’ve been curing my own batch for the past four and a half months, and in two weeks I’m going to open my own hákarl stall in Broadway market.’
I nodded. So pickled shark was this guy’s one true love. What chance did I have?
I remembered the book’s advice: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. ‘Can I try some?’ I aske
d. I didn’t think I liked the sound of pickled shark, but I was willing to try it for the sake of ‘sharing his interests’.
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, it’s still curing. You can’t eat it until it’s had its full pickling time.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, feigning disappointment.
‘I can show you where the strips of shark are hanging, though.’
‘I haven’t had a better offer all year.’
I followed him into the basement where, lo and behold, a truly ridiculous amount of shark pieces were hanging up, all emanating a special blend of moldy cheese, athlete’s foot and death.
‘Ohmygod,’ I said, resenting the exhalation because of the inhalation to follow.
‘Amazing stuff, right? I mean, this is the smell of LIFE!’ He took a deep breath and grinned.
I nodded maniacally and valiantly fought off my gag reflex.
‘You should come down to Broadway market when I open the stall. Get a taste of the real thing.’
I took a quick gasp. ‘Mmm-hmm!’ I spluttered.
‘So, now you’ve seen my baby. Ready for a cigarette and a DVD?’
I nodded again and ran up the stairs after him, getting a lungful of fresh air into me just before I started to black out.
Three episodes of Justified and nary a hand held or a thigh grazed later, I saw Frisco stifle a yawn. It was the moment of truth: could I stay or would I go?
I got up from my side of the couch and stretched in what I hoped was an alluring way. ‘Well, I guess I should get going … ?’ I let the question dangle in the air for a minute, like so much pickled shark.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty beat myself,’ he said, running his hand over his stubbly chin.
My heart sank, but I wasn’t yet defeated. I leaned over his lap, ostensibly to give Billy a scratch but really to give Frisco the chance to look down my T-shirt.
He leaned away and gave Billy ample scratching room, which the dog appreciated and I did not. My little light of hope was flickering.
‘Okay, well, thanks for dinner. It’s my turn next time.’
Age, Sex, Location Page 16