Age, Sex, Location

by Melissa Pimentel

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Mobile, eh? Whatever happened to your plain old cell phone?’

  ‘Sorry, force of habit.’ I dug around in my bag and could only come up with an eyeliner and one of my Victorian calling cards. I scribbled my number on the back and handed it to him. ‘Watch out, it might smudge. It’s kohl.’

  He looked at the number and then flipped it over to see my name embossed in gold. ‘Shit, you’re fancy now, huh?’

  ‘They’re for work,’ I said quickly, hands flapping towards the card in his hands. ‘I’m just as un-fancy as ever.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘It was good to see you, Lauren.’ He nodded towards the box of tampons and his smile widened. ‘I’m glad you were – uh – unprepared.’

  I smacked him on the arm. ‘This is a dangerous time to tease a girl, you know.’

  We looked at each other and, for a split second, it all came back to us. We came back to us. And then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I turned to find a minuscule elderly woman clutching a handbag. She beckoned me to come closer and whispered, ‘Would you help me get one of those down from up there?’ She pointed discreetly to a bumper pack of adult diapers balanced precariously on the top shelf. She peered around me and saw Dylan lurking in the background. She pressed her finger to her lips. ‘Sshhh!’ she said, nodding towards him.

  I heard Dylan chuckle quietly behind me and turned back to see him walking away. ‘See you later,’ he called from over his shoulder. ‘Tell your folks I said hello. I’ll call you in the next couple of days!’

  I handed the old lady her Depends and immediately high-tailed it over to the health and beauty section, where I pulled every face mask, hot roller, body lotion, epilator, loofah, salt scrub and volumizing mousse into the basket alongside the tampons. If I was going to have to see him again, I was going to make damn well sure I looked good this time.

  Which is why I’m now locked in my parents’ bathroom, covered in Nair.

  As I’ve got some time on my hands and as it’s the last day of the month, I guess it’s time for a little round-up of Manners for Women, even though it’s been a sort of truncated experiment. Still, I think I managed to squeeze a lot in: there was a canoe, embossed stationery, a full roast chicken …

  Manners for Women in Conclusion

  Mrs Humphry wasn’t nearly as restrictive as I thought she’d be, and basically didn’t seem to care what I got up to as long as I did it with excellent manners. And I think we can all agree that I have an innate knowledge of proper social etiquette.

  Works best on …

  Bike Guy seemed completely nonplussed by my Victorian ways, though that might have been down to all the weed he smokes. I’m pretty sure I could have revealed myself as some sort of shape-shifting dragon, or a Republican, and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. I can’t see it working particularly well on the more skittish man – I can imagine Adrian getting the hell out of Dodge if I presented him with a formal invitation to a boating party. Still, I think the enforced propriety – and the general sense that I was doing things correctly in the eyes of society, albeit outmoded society – was strangely reassuring. Plus, I got all that nice stationery.

  To be used by …

  Women who love customized stationery.

  Book Eight: To Hell with the Books Already

  1 November

  I spent the morning browsing my favorite used bookstore in Portland, hoping to find a guide for this month. I was determined not to let the project stall despite my brief American adventure; at this point, it was the only thing keeping me sane.

  After discarding countless Rules copycats and weird cosmic ordering books, I finally found it: Find a Husband After 35 (Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School) by Rachel Greenwald, MBA. How could I not try this book?

  I bought it immediately, jumped in my car and drove home, where I locked myself in the study with the book and a jumbo-sized box of Junior Mints. According to the introduction, I was about to embark on something called ‘The Program’, which was ‘a combination job search and strict diet: there are commitments, sacrifices and rules involved’. I groaned. I missed the Victorians already.

  The more I read, the more terrifying the prospect of being single at thirty-six became. Because, apparently, even if you’re the most successful, attractive, socially engaged thirty-five-year-old around, once you hit thirty-six, the party is officially over.

  You’re on the shelf. Like, way up on the shelf. The top shelf, where it’s dusty and only reachable using one of those wobbly little step stools. The vast majority of men have been fished out of the sea and those still obliviously swimming along will only be caught by the cleverest of women, women who have made finding a husband their number-one priority. Have a fulfilling career? If there aren’t enough men at your workplace, you should probably quit. Own your own home? If your neighborhood isn’t teeming with eligible bachelors, sell up and get out!

  What I’m saying is, you’re probably fucked. At least, that’s what Rachel Greenwald, MBA, is saying.

  I decided to take a Diet Coke break and walked into the kitchen to find my parents giggling like a couple of teens who’d just huffed a whole lot of glue. I stopped in the doorway for a second and watched him pinch her on the ass, watched her swat him away and collapse into another fit of giggles, and I thought: this is nice. Marriage is nice. Stability is nice. Home is nice.

  I was going to be twenty-nine soon. Most of the people I went to high school with were on their first child by now, spreading softly and contentedly into domestication.

  I had the domestic dream once – a handsome, handy husband and a little clapboard house. According to Rachel Greenwald, I’d achieved the ultimate goal. If her book was any indication, there were lots of women who were desperate to fill my former wifely shoes. They were willing to consider leaving their jobs and moving to a different city in the hopes of finding a stable, committed relationship. They wanted exactly what I’d thrown away.

  The truth was, each day that passed here, I started to wonder more and more why I’d left Portland and everything that came with it. It was a sweet little town, comforting and kind, and filled with people who I loved. People who loved me. What was so wrong with that? Maybe London, Adrian and this whole ridiculous dating project had just been a fevered dream I was destined to wake up from.

  Tonight, just as I was about to go to bed, my phone flashed up with a text message from Bike Guy.

  Did I ever tell you that you give great head?

  I threw the phone across the room. It was flattering, sure, in a really weird way, but it also made me feel kind of gross. What was I doing with my life that a forty-two-year-old almost-homeless man was texting me about my blowjob prowess while I sat in my childhood bedroom, trying to figure out what I was going to say to my ex-husband when I saw him?

  I picked up the book and studied its cover. Maybe the idea of finding a husband wasn’t so bad, after all. Particularly as I already had a perfectly good one lying around here somewhere.

  2 November

  After a slightly stilted breakfast with my mom, who I was both desperate to tell that I’d seen Dylan and also desperate not to in case it set off a deluge of hopeful questioning, I threw on my running gear and headed over to Meg and Sue’s. I let myself in and helped myself to a banana from the fruit bowl while Harold noisily sniffed at my shins. I knelt down and gave him a good scratch behind the ears.

  I heard Meghan moving around upstairs. ‘That you, kid? Be down in a sec!’ she called. ‘Just putting my running stuff on!’

  Meghan came crashing down the stairs, holding her sneakers in one hand and Harold’s dog leash in the other.

  ‘You ready?’ she said, pulling on a sneaker.

  I filled Meghan in on the tampon encounter during our run, Harold yapping at our heels. It was a beautiful day: blue-skied, autumn crisp and unseasonably warm. We looped around the Eastern Parkway and finished up at
Back Cove. Meg let the dog off his leash and we watched him chase after flocks of seagulls, stretching our legs out under trees with branches still heavy with leaves in brilliant reds and yellows.

  I lay down on my back and stared up at the sky through the canopy.

  ‘What are you going to do about Dylan?’ Meghan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, picking nervously at a clump of dirt. ‘I’m starting to think I made a mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, turning towards me and propping herself up on her elbow.

  ‘I wonder if I should … if we should get back together.’

  Meghan sat up and looked at me like I’d gone crazy. ‘Why the hell would you want to do that?’

  ‘It’s just – I feel like I had what everyone wants and then ran away from it. What’s wrong with me that I don’t want what everyone else wants?’

  ‘A more pertinent question would be: why do you think you should want what everyone else wants?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m reading this new guide and it’s all about how finding a husband after thirty-six is, like, impossible and –’

  ‘Uh, I’ll stop you right there. Why are you taking these guides seriously? You know as well as I do that they’re bullshit. Now, what’s really going on?’

  I shrugged. I could feel my throat constricting with unspent tears. ‘I feel like I’ve let everyone down by running away like that. I’m such a fucking wimp.’

  Meg grabbed my chin. ‘Hey, look at me. You are the bravest person I know. You were unhappy so you left everything behind and started a completely new life for yourself. Do you know how amazing that is?’

  ‘It sounds pretty chickenshit to me.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. So many people in your position would have just stayed where they were and been miserable forever. But you had the courage to walk away from it.’

  ‘But look at you and Sue! You guys went through a rough patch, but you’re working through it. Maybe I left too soon. Maybe I should have tried harder.’

  Meghan stroked my hair. ‘Don’t you think the fact that you weren’t willing to stick it out is proof that it wasn’t right between you and Dylan?’ She sat up and faced me. ‘Sue and I are willing to work on things because we both know that we want to spend the rest of our lives together. Can you honestly say that’s how you felt about Dylan?’

  I thought for a minute, remembering Dylan’s kind eyes and the way he used to kiss the tip of my nose before bed every night. ‘I loved him, Meg.’

  ‘I know you did, kid. But I don’t think you loved him completely. That’s not a criticism – it’s just a fact. You did the right thing by leaving. Just because you had something that other people want doesn’t mean it has to make you happy. You’ve got to make your own happiness.’

  I nodded. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t let go of the fear that had set into my bones since coming home. ‘But … what if I end up alone?’

  She put her arm around me and squeezed. ‘There are worse things to be than alone.’

  I thought of my last weeks with Dylan: the stilted suppers, the endless bickering, the simmering resentment, the cold freeze in the bedroom … she had a point.

  ‘So, what are you going to say to him?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ I said, plucking a handful of grass and tossing it in the air. ‘Meet him for a drink, let him tell me what an asshole I am for an hour, come over to yours and get shitfaced. That’s the current plan at least.’

  ‘He’s not going to tell you you’re an asshole, kid. Well, at least not for a whole hour. He’s a good guy. He just wants to know what the hell happened.’

  I heard from Dylan later that afternoon: drinks on Tuesday at the Old Trawlerman, 7 o’clock.

  3 November

  I was wandering around the aisles of the closest twenty-four-hour grocery superstore, mindlessly chucking a pack of peanut-butter Oreo cookies into the cart and still mulling over yesterday’s conversation with Meghan when my phone rang: it was Lucy.

  She started speaking as soon as I picked up. ‘Lo, I have some shocking news.’ Her voice was high and breathy, like she’d taken a break from a panic attack to give me a call.

  ‘Have we been robbed?’ I asked. I’d been waiting for us to get robbed since the day I moved in. It wasn’t exactly the most salubrious apartment building in the area.

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. It’s … well … oh my God, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but …’ Her voice was getting higher and higher.

  ‘Lucy, for chrissakes, spit it out!’

  ‘Lo, I’m getting married!’

  ‘What the fuck?!’ I screamed. A woman with two toddlers tucked in the front of a shopping cart stopped to give me a dirty look.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re getting married?’ I hissed.

  ‘Tristan proposed last night! Oh, Lo, it was amazing! He took me to the top of the Shard and there was champagne and roses and he was like, “Look across the river,” and when I did, that funny-looking building, what’s it called …’

  ‘The Gherkin?’ I offered.

  ‘No, the other one. You know – the funny trianglish one that melted cars.’

  ‘The Cheese Grater.’

  ‘Yes! The Cheese Grater was all lit up and the windows spelled “Marry Me Lucy!” Can you believe it? I felt my legs go and when I turned around, Tristan was on one knee and holding out the most enormous diamond you have ever seen! I’ll send you a photo – it’s on my Instagram. Isn’t it incredible?’

  It was incredible, all right. I was happy for Lucy, I really was, but there was something faintly depressing about hearing of a friend’s engagement spectacular when one has just run into one’s own ex-husband buying tampons. It really takes the shine off one’s perception of one’s life, particularly when one has recently been ruminating on one’s future of loneliness and desperation.

  Still, I rallied. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault that Dylan had found me in the tampon aisle, and Tristan was a great guy and I was sure he’d treat her well (especially if she put him in Aunt Dorothy’s Cupboard regularly). They would be happy together, and that’s all that mattered.

  ‘I’m really happy for you, Luce. I can’t wait to see a photo of the ring.’

  ‘Wait till you see it in person – it’s a stonker! Speaking of, when are you coming home, babe? I miss you! We’re going to have a little engagement do on the sixteenth so you have to be back for that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  So Lucy was getting married to a gazillionaire and would soon be moving from our little flat into an enormous penthouse in West London, where she would spend her life flogging him into their happily ever after.

  And here I was, contemplating a bag of chocolate-covered pretzel pieces while wearing my dad’s old tracksuit, mentally preparing myself for meeting my ex-husband.

  5 November

  I tried to slip out of the house unnoticed, but my mom heard me rummaging around in her purse, looking for the car keys.

  ‘Are you going over to Meg and Sue’s?’ she asked, bustling into the kitchen.

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nope.’

  ‘You girls going out for dinner then? Maybe to Sangillo’s? See who you run into?’ Her voice sounded innocent, but she was eyeing me shrewdly. The game was up.

  I sighed. ‘I’m going for a drink with Dylan, Mom.’ She let out an involuntary squeak. ‘I ran into him at the drugstore the other day and I said I’d have a drink with him. I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t want to get you excited.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything!’ she said, even though her eyes had gone all misty and hopeful. She gave my arm a squeeze. ‘Just tell him we said “hi” and that he’s always welcome here.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not sure how helpful that would be.’

  I drove down to the docks, parked behind the railroad museum and walked over to the Old Trawlerman. I hadn’t been there since high school �
�� it was the only place in town that didn’t check ID – but it hadn’t changed a bit. The same weather-beaten locals were lined up at the bar. It wasn’t Sangillo’s, but this place had its own ghosts. I scanned the room for Dylan and, when I didn’t see him, I ordered myself a bottle of Bud and sat down at a table in the corner. I had successfully peeled off three-quarters of the label when I saw him walk in.

  He looked good. Better than in the drugstore. He was wearing a thin gray T-shirt and loose Levi’s, and had obviously made some effort to tame the mess of blond curls on top of his head. An involuntary little rush of comfort washed over me when he spotted me, and for an instant I thought: maybe I could. I waved, but instead of coming over he nodded and headed to the bar, where he greeted the bartender with an elaborate handshake and started talking to him enthusiastically.

  So it was going to be like that.

  Finally, after six solid minutes of bar chat, two elaborate handshakes and one apparently free bottle of beer, Dylan sat down across from me. His face was a blank – he must have been preparing for this since the tampon encounter.

  He took a swig of his beer and finally looked at me. ‘How’s your family?’

  ‘Okay. Mom’s heading up some campaign to save the Grasshopper Sparrow and my dad has basically retired to focus full-time on yard work. You know, the usual.’

  ‘Good to hear.’ He took another sip and looked at me squarely. ‘So I guess you’ll be heading back to London in a few days?’

  My flight was booked for Friday, but the idea of actually boarding it seemed sort of inconceivable. I shrugged and said, ‘I guess.’

  We were silent for a moment. I fiddled with my hair and wondered if my eyeliner had drifted up to my eyebrows; I couldn’t remember ever being this nervous in front of Dylan, not even when I passed him our first note back in junior year of high school. I lifted my beer to my lips and took a drink, spilling at least a third of it down my shirt in the process. We both cracked up.