After a less than half-hearted laugh and taking the weight of two heavy shopping bags in one hand, Molly replied, ‘No. A big N-O. Sorry, Mum. Better make the most of Sam’s wedding – it might be the only one you ever get your clutches on.’
‘Hmm.’ Cleo only gave a thoughtful sound when Molly expected her to jump in with a healthy maternal rebuttal, along the lines of, ‘Of course you’ll get married, darling! Any man would be lucky to have you.’ Molly’s heart experienced just a tiny hollow ache.
‘We’ll have lunch before the fair. And if you get, you know, bored on Valentine’s Day, just give me a call. I could pop into town and we could grab a bite?’
‘Mother!’ Molly’s heart went from hollow to full and red-hot with rage. ‘I don’t need a pity date! I have something to do but it’s just with friends. I’m fine.’ Her temperature reduced. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
‘I just worry about you, Pops. Anyway, must dash – dinner at the Ivy with some bore or other. Love you, darling.’
Cleo rang off, leaving Molly to struggle home with two bulging plastic bags, and with the niggling feeling something was missing in her life.
* * *
Molly sat alone at a full bench in East Dulwich’s best noodle house, Chop Chop Suey. On either side of her were two big, busy and very loud parties of chatty female friends. The brunette was conspicuous as a loner in a bustling restaurant, without a dining companion to shout at over the long wooden table, staring at her lap and casting furtive glances at the door every now and then. A sympathetic waiter hovered by the empty spot facing her.
‘Another beer?’
Molly looked up from her BlackBerry, held on her lap. ‘Oh, no, thanks,’ she replied with a distracted and slightly weary air. ‘I’m fine. Just fine.’
With an unimpressed shrug, the waiter was gone.
Molly shut her eyes, and took a deep breath. She let her mind go blank, pushing out thoughts that would just niggle and bother her. She tried to push everything out.
‘Mols?’
Molly opened her eyes just a fraction, into a mole-like squint. ‘Hey, John.’
‘What are you doing?’ he whispered under his breath.
‘Having some noodles,’ Molly replied, also in a whisper.
‘Why?’
‘Because they taste nice. Why are you whispering?’
‘I don’t know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was just walking by and saw you through the window, on your tod. Are you waiting for someone? Is Patrick on his way?’
‘No,’ Molly rested her phone on the table, its screen showing line after line of typed notes. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘He just mentioned … never mind. So, do you want some company?’ John gestured to the empty space of flat bench in front of him.
‘Not to sound like a right cow-face, but I kind of need to be alone.’ Molly dipped her head on one side and gave a friendly grimace.
‘Ahhh, feeling a bit low?’ John did his best ‘understanding face’ and mirrored Molly’s dipped head to the side.
Molly gave a snort of laughter. ‘No! I’m super, thank you very much. Just doing a bit of,’ she then mouthed the word silently, ‘eavesdropping.’
‘What?’ John was obviously not a talented lip-reader.
‘Eavesdropping,’ Molly growled quietly through gritted teeth.
‘Huh?’
‘Eavesdropping!’ she finally blurted out, as the chatty women next to her all fell silent and narrowed their eyes in Molly’s direction.
John ducked quickly down onto the bench to dodge the evils coming his way. ‘What’s all this for?’ From the upside-down-BlackBerry screen he could read: Commitment – recurring issue … Not too bothered about six-packs … wary of smooth guys.
Molly dropped into a whisper again. ‘Market research. Learning what our target audience really want out of relationships. Jose and Rach and I can well guess, but you guys might benefit from hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth. So to speak.’ A female diner at the next table shook her hair as she whinnied with laughter at something a friend had said.
‘But—?’ John was still sliding down into a quicksand of confusion.
‘Check out the two studs having a quiet bromance dinner over there,’ Molly nodded her head down the restaurant’s length, to the bench along the far wall. Kurt and Simon both had their heads bent over steaming piles of noodles in conspicuous silence, their ears strained to the conversations flying back and forth just inches away. John could just spy Kurt’s iPhone glowing from its place resting on his thigh as Kurt tapped out the odd note to himself.
‘Clever.’ John nodded with reverence. ‘Find out what they really think, no holds barred. Painful, but clever. Well, I’ll leave you to it, Mols.’ As he walked away he paused briefly and said over his shoulder, ‘but let me see those notes though, eh?’
* * *
As Molly typed up her scouting party’s findings later that evening with a glass of two-for-one white wine at Sam’s laptop, she felt a real pang of longing for her little bro. As phrases like ‘he had no clue whatsoever’, ‘I’m sure he never meant to annoy the hell out of me’ and ‘sometimes I just wanted to throttle him with his own football-boot laces’ flew from her fingers onto the keys, she couldn’t help but think of Sam. She’d had four postcards now in the threeish months he and Iris had been travelling, and a couple of emails here and there (mostly she sensed Iris had forced Sam into the Internet cafe chair to send them, because there was always p.s. from her at the end about something wedding-y). Normally, if Molly had a new plan or exciting idea, Sam would be one of her inner circle that she’d blab all the details to. But he wasn’t here. And she was beginning to realise that he had his own inner circle now, with just the two members. Molly not being one of them. It was natural and right and great for him, but a little soppy side of her felt that loss in the dusty corners of her heart. Her mind flicked to Ryan and that awkward few minutes at the airport. He’d obviously found himself a new inner circle, too.
Molly jiggled her shoulders as vigorously as a carnival queen and mentally tipped the bad vibes out of her head. What was she thinking? She might miss Sam, but now she had a whole new troupe of men in her life – and they all needed her help. Her bootcampers were Molly’s new inner circle. She needed to be at full strength to do them justice and having a pity party wasn’t going to get things done. Molly minimised her research document and opened up the membership spreadsheet. Already twenty-five members! That was definitely something to be proud of. Kurt had roped in four guys from his Saturday football team and along with her three founding guinea pigs, the word had spread to eighteen other eager souls, some from the gym. A lot of the members just wanted the text and email service to give them practical, relationship-saving advice, but many others had signed up for the whole shebang: one-to-one sessions on pulling and dating techniques, full body detox and toning, wardrobe consultations and restructuring, and anything else she could think of to help them out. Well, and charge a fair fee for, of course.
February was already here, barging rudely into the year. The month dreaded by all singletons. With a day that suddenly pops up in your calendar with all the emotional and cultural significance of a royal wedding, but without the great hats: Valentine’s Day. A few of her bootcampers had expressed some anxiety about being dateless on the night itself, so Molly had craftily come up with a plan that did them all a favour. She was going to take her boys speed-dating.
Josie’s regular speed-dating haunt was in a trendy railway-arch-type bar near London Bridge. Well, underneath London Bridge to be precise. It was dark, it was atmospheric, it was super-cool – save for the occasional rumble of a train overhead, it was the ideal pulling territory. Josie and Rach had been together a few times now, though they couldn’t drag Molly there for love nor money. It wasn’t that she didn’t approve of speed-dating. OK, so occasionally those lined-up little tables and sweaty faces made her think of battery hens, just waiting for Jamie Oliver to r
escue them. She just knew a more relaxed bar environment was her ideal stalking ground, when she had time to date, which she didn’t. But speed-dating would be a great way to get her blokes on the road to relationship recovery. They could test out all they’d learnt so far in short, sharp bursts and with plenty of ready and willing girls in supply.
Before she could marshal them all on the number 40 bus up to London Bridge, though, there was still some drastic work to be done on the bootcampers. Although Molly had given the hapless men a good grounding in the basics of romantic interactions, there was still a way to go on those crucial first impressions. Rachel needed to give them all a good Gok Wan going over to make sure they came over as studs rather than sloths. Josie didn’t have long to do something about those protruding guts and flabby chins, either. It was all stations go go go.
* * *
A week later, Rachel was in sheer heaven. She’d had dreams of fashion Nirvana before, of course – Willy Wonka-type landscapes of Kurt Geiger heels hanging off bushy trees in berry colours, vintage dresses, all in her size, flapping from a washing line as cocktail rings sparkled from the centre of shiny poppy heads. But this scene in front of her was way better: it was real. It was a Sunday after five and the floor of Taupe was swarming with 20- and 30-something men, each one hanging off her every word. Rach had orchestrated a fashion show in her own store, to turn these Burton no-hopers into Savile Row wannabes. In other words, Rachel was going to sell a truck load of V-necks today.
Rach kicked off her midnight blue suede ballet pumps and hopped up onto the brown leather armchair. Martin would never know. With a rousing few claps, she signalled the attention of the waiting all-male crowd. ‘Gentlemen! Hello and welcome to Taupe. This might not be your usual sort of place to shop,’ – she eyed one of Kurt’s teammates who was head to toe in Kappa – ‘but we have something for everyone, and something for every kind of date. We’re going to run through some staple outfits today which I have hand-selected to appeal to the lady you have your eye on. Don’t be scared if you see a look or a garment that you think is beyond you – this is the time to try new things, take new chances, get a new look. Without further ado,’ Rach took a deep breath, ‘let’s work that catwalk!’
There was an American whoop from the back of the room and Rachel mentally thanked Josie for that – the assembled manly jaws with varying degrees of stubble had all dropped when Rachel said the man-unfriendly word ‘catwalk’. She needed to get them back on side.
Molly winked at her from across the room and did a cheery thumbs-aloft in support. ‘You’re doing a cracking job!’ she mouthed. Rachel smiled and reminded herself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and she better get stuck right in. It was like finding a secret backdoor into Harvey Nicks on sale day before they opened the doors to the marauding public.
* * *
The first outfit was an all-round casual number. John popped out from behind the changing room curtain in well-fitted dark blue denim jeans, a white T-shirt that was miraculously not too baggy but not too tight and a checked cowboy shirt rolled up to the elbows. He’d agreed to help out as a model to continue to join in the bootcamp lessons payment-free. As any founding bootcamp cadet and an inspiration for this whole set-up, Molly wouldn’t dream of charging John a penny, but she was hardly going to tell him that when they were in need of a free male model.
With a shy smile that was halfway to a wince, John stepped onto the long black carpet that was standing in for a catwalk. Rachel cleared her throat before talking the bootcampers through each piece.
‘Right, first we have John. John is wearing … John? You have to walk up and down a bit.’
With a sigh and a slightly sunken set of shoulders, John walked slowly down the carpet, with twenty or so blokes watching him, also feeling just as weird.
‘Lovely, and just a turn at the end? Fab—I mean, well done, mate.’ Rachel finished quickly. ‘So, John is wearing straight cut jeans. I wouldn’t advise trying skinny cut unless you’re in an actual Indie band or you’re twelve. It’s a hard look to pull off and – to tell the truth – not a very attractive one. As well as the jeans, John is wearing a good quality white T-shirt.’
John did a stiff catalogue model sort-of pointing gesture at the hem of the T-shirt.
‘It really pays to invest in good basics – a cheap T-shirt may mean you have more spare cash for beer in the short-term but it will go grey and thin in no time, leaving you looking just as cheap as your T-shirt. It may give the impression to the ladies that you’re cheap deep down, too, with the bigger things. And that, my friends, ain’t sexy. Now, have a good look at the way John’s sleeves are rolled up.’
Twenty heads craned a look at the shirt sleeves turned up to just below John’s elbows.
‘Now this may seem like a bonkers bit of a detail but please listen. Rolled sleeves are so hot. This isn’t a fashion, this is a universal truth: women go weak at the knees for a flash of a forearm.’
‘I hear you!’ a bold American voice hooted out from somewhere in the back.
Rachel continued through her grin. ‘It’s like a Victorian throwback gene or something – we just see that soft pale bit of skin on the underside of the arm and then where it meets the manly, sometime hairy bit of skin on the other side, and just a suggestion of muscle, and whoosh! We’re goners. Get your arms out for the girls, and you can’t go wrong. Just a few neat folds up to the bend in your arm and women of all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds will go gaga. I guarantee it. If it doesn’t happen for you then I will eat a Philip Treacy.’
When Rachel didn’t even get one smile of recognition, she remembered her audience. ‘A hat. I’ll eat a hat. Anyhoo, a nice cowboy shirt like in flexible colours like grey, blue or red, brown and cream can be worn to all sorts of dates: Sunday lunch in a pub, a cinema trip, a not-too-fancy restaurant meal, meeting her mates over a few drinks. It says that you’ve made an effort but you’re not an arrogant arse. Again, arses aren’t sexy.’
There was some disconcerted mumbling in the ranks.
‘Well, actual arses are sexy but men being arses isn’t. Um, next model please!’
John gratefully hot footed it up the carpet catwalk and back into the changing room. Out of the next-door curtained booth came Rob, one of Kurt’s footballing mates and one of the most enthusiastic bootcampers so far. He’d actually volunteered to help out with the modelling and Molly found his lack of the usual male embarrassments really refreshing. In the one-to-one she’d had with him not long ago, he’d even taken comprehensive notes! She was impressed and secretly imagined Rob being one of their top success stories in months to come. Maybe when the website was fully expanded she could have a page dedicated to the happy endings – bootcampers with the partners of their dreams. Molly could just picture Rob there now, beaming down from the screen with a gorgeous girl by his side, his honey-blonde hair catching a beam of sunlight as they frolicked on a beach. She’d put even money on it. Though the beach location was optional.
After Rob had energetically gambolled down the catwalk in a ‘meet the parents’ outfit (charcoal grey weighty linen trousers, black V-neck jumper, camel leather loafers), Molly called time for a break and the men all breathed a communal sigh of relief as they got to shuffle into groups and talk about sport for a while, rather than sportswear versus leisurewear (whatever that meant). The three camp privates huddled for a catch-up.
‘Hey! So this is going well, huh?’ Josie bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, as if about to lead a class.
‘Yes, you are rocking their fashion-less worlds, Private Fab! It’s all going so well. I’m speechless.’ Molly hugged her gorgeous friend and squeezed her hard.
Rachel blinked. ‘Didn’t you think I’d be able to pull it off?’
‘Of course I did. It’s just this sort of leadership … management thing is more my forte, whereas you’re good with the colours and shapes and stuff.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’ Rachel
folded her arms.
Molly waved her hands in a flap. ‘No, no, no! You know I am in awe of your super-amazing, unique, incredible, life-changing fashion skills. I always have been and I always will be. Do you believe The Colonel?’
‘Yes.’ Rach’s stern face cracked a little bit, letting some of her usual sunshine through.
‘Good, I don’t like tension. Unless it’s muscle tension.’ Josie clapped her hands. ‘What’s next?’
‘We’re going to workshop cardigans – the secret weapons.’
Josie gave a squeal of delight. ‘Oh my god, are they, like, that lovely soft grey?’ Rach nodded. ‘There’s going to be a stampede at the speed dating!’
Chapter Twenty-One
Molly fruitlessly tried blow-drying some volume into her hair. Nope, not today. No matter how many hairbrushes she bought and whatever sea-salt sprays with added hemp seed extract that she pumped onto her tresses, she ended up with hair just as flat as before, if a bit stickier.
It wasn’t that she wanted to look good per se, but she wanted to set the tone for the cadets, as any good military leader should. If she went on parade with a grubby boot or skew-whiff epaulette, how could Molly dare bark reprimands at a scruffy soldier? It was her responsibility to lead by example. So Molly jiggled her cleavage a little in the mirror, to get it at optimum height, checked for VPL, sprayed on some Marc Jacobs Daisy perfume and deemed herself ready to date at speed. She had her best black cure-all top on, which went just low enough, and extremely tight jeans. Her internal organs were feeling the effort made.
As Molly deliberated between black slingbacks and red wedges, the buzzer went. John had been holed up in the bathroom for what seemed like an entire football match, but not doing much by the sounds of it. Pushing her worry for him to the back of her mind temporarily, she went to the door release button and pressed ‘speak’.
The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp Page 16