Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  “You know what they say: some of us are born for greatness . . .”

  “Are you quite sure you’re up for this? Your psyche aside, we’ve got so much on at the moment. The summer late openings are starting in less than two weeks and you’ve got to iron out the guest list.”

  “Oh, please. I’m American—you know how efficient we are. We love working! Not as much as the Germans or the Chinese, but pretty close.”

  “Well, then, what about your psyche?”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. It’s meant to be fun! And informative, of course.”

  I saw her vacillate and knew I had her. “It does sound interesting. I’ve been with Michael for so long I’ve forgotten all about various dating etiquettes, so I’d quite like to see what happens.”

  “Excellent. So, who’ve you got for me?”

  Cathryn proceeded to tell me all about one of Michael’s coworkers who was apparently good-looking, well-mannered and, importantly, single. Like Michael, he did something in finance that I didn’t understand but suspected was destroying our economy while making him a shit-ton of money. I’d never gone out with a banker before but time was of the essence, so I put aside my concerns about capitalism and agreed.

  Let’s call him Top Hat, as it reminds me of Monopoly. I filled his details into my notebook.

  Name: Top Hat

  Age: 31

  Occupation: Investment Banker

  Nationality: Irish

  Method: The Rules

  “This is fantastic. Thanks! Can you try to set something up for this Friday? I need to get cracking.”

  “I’ll talk to Michael tonight.”

  And just like that, I had my first test subject.

  April 4

  I hadn’t spoken to my sister in over two weeks, which was unheard of for us, so when Meghan’s number flashed up on my cell phone during my lunch break, I dropped my sandwich and picked up the phone.

  “I have come up with a new life plan,” I said breathlessly. We’d never been much for saying hello.

  “Oh Lord. You haven’t found God or anything, have you?”

  “No, nothing that serious.” I filled her in on my plans for the dating project, ignoring her frequent snorts of disbelief. I knew convincing Meg would be tough, but I wasn’t quite prepared for her ire.

  “I thought you called yourself a feminist,” she scoffed.

  “I do! And actually, if you think about it, this is an act of feminist rebellion.”

  “In what way is following a bunch of bullshit, probably misogynist dating guides a feminist act?”

  I had to think quickly. While I do consider myself a feminist, I had to admit that I didn’t put much thought into the mechanics of it. “By . . . um . . . infiltrating the enemy! Getting behind enemy lines! By using my archetypal feminine wiles to penetrate the male psyche for the betterment of women everywhere!”

  Meghan laughed. “Kid, it’s okay. Just admit you’re doing it to forget Dylan.”

  I felt indignant. “Dylan has nothing to do with it! Dylan is the past, Meg. This project is my future!”

  I heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “Whatever you say. Just look after yourself. The last thing I want is for you to go changing yourself for a bunch of pale English guys.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m in complete control of the situation.”

  “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse . . .”

  I walked back to my desk and picked up my sandwich and my dog-eared copy of The Rules, brushing aside Meghan’s words of caution.

  April 5

  Date night arrived surprisingly quickly. I’d been boning up on The Rules all week but I was still nervous about a couple of points. Rules girls aren’t allowed to pay for anything on dates, as apparently being financially independent might undermine their creature-unlike-any-otherness. I am a big believer in splitting the bill, so I knew that letting him pay for everything was going to make me uncomfortable.

  I was also supposed to end the date quickly, after just two drinks. I have a penchant for nights out that last way longer than advisable, so I suspected this would be tricky, too.

  I wasn’t allowed to suggest anything about the date, so I left him to choose the place. I was secretly grateful for that particular rule as I hate choosing dating venues and activities; all the venues I know are old-man pubs, dive bars and my bedroom, and the only activities I think are suitable for dating are drinking, smoking and having sex. I’m not even sure about dinner.

  He chose a swanky-looking prohibition-style bar in Soho. The Rules encourages you to, and I quote, “wear sheer black stockings and hike up your skirt to entice the opposite sex.” As it was a Friday-night date and I hadn’t wanted to turn up to the office looking like I was moonlighting in a Mayfair brothel, I ran home after work, chucked on the nearest and smallest dress I could find, had a cigarette on the balcony and then ran out to meet Top Hat.

  The bar was hidden away from the road and pleasingly secret-looking, with a discreet little doorway demarcated only by a lantern outside. Those places usually make me intensely nervous because I worry that I won’t find the door and will wander around like Moses in the desert or, worse, I will find the door but be turned away for not being cool and interesting enough.

  Thankfully, Top Hat had allayed both fears ahead of the date by giving me explicit directions via email and by assuring me that my name was at the door. Two points for him.

  Despite all of these assurances, I was still a wreck when I walked up to the maître d’ and explained I was meeting a blind date; he looked at me knowingly and guided me down the stairs.

  “Thank Christ,” I thought. “This man knows who Top Hat is! He must have told the maître d’ when he came in. That’s kind of sexy . . .”

  He proceeded to lead me over to the bar, where a classic tall, dark and handsome was seated with what looked like an old-fashioned.

  “BINGO!” I thought.

  The maître d’ left me there with a wink.

  “Top Hat?” I said. (Of course, I didn’t really call him Top Hat, but for the sake of my test subject’s anonymity, I’ll refer to him as such.)

  “No,” the tall, dark and handsome said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I’m meeting someone and the maître d’ led me over here.”

  He took a long look at my very short dress. “My wife will be here any minute and she won’t be very pleased if she sees me talking to someone like you.” He took a business card out of his pocket. “I work away from home a few nights a week, though, so have your boss get in touch with me about the details.”

  “I think we’ve got our wires crossed. My boss works at the Science Museum.”

  He looked vaguely annoyed. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with the lingo.”

  “Hey, buddy, I’ll have you know—”

  “Lauren?” called a voice behind me.

  I turned around. At a small, tucked-away table sat a slim redheaded guy waving at me cautiously.

  What a relief. I gave the man at the bar a dark look, tugged down the hem of my dress and weaved my way over to Top Hat.

  We awkwardly kissed on the cheek and I carefully maneuvered myself into the chair next to him. He was cute. Not tall, dark and handsome cute, but boyish and kind-looking. I made a mental note to bring Cathryn a bar of chocolate on Monday.

  “Grand!” he said. “Here we are! What would you like to drink?”

  We ordered martinis and he told me a bit about himself. He’d moved over from Ireland six years ago for work and was now living in Hammersmith with his brother and cousin.

  “. . . and that’s how I ended up over here! Sorry, I’ve been yarking on for donkeys’ years.” He took a sip of his drink and nodded toward me. “And how did you end up on this glorious isle? Did you come for the weather or the
customer service? It’s usually one of the two.”

  I let a loud laugh escape before catching myself and arranging my features in a way I hoped would look demure. “I came over for work.”

  “That’s right, you work with Cathryn at the Science Museum! Lovely Cathryn. She’s a cracking girl. What are you lasses working on at the moment? Anything of great import?”

  Actually, we were about to launch a series of after-hours, adults-only events that Cathryn and I had been working on relentlessly for the past six months. But that would have been giving away too much, so instead I shrugged and said, “Not really,” and took another sip of my martini.

  “Right, just ticking along then?”

  I smiled and looked down at the table. I felt like I was doing a Helen Keller impersonation.

  Top Hat looked momentarily deflated, then threw himself back into the conversation with renewed gusto.

  “I’m working on a big to-do with Michael at the moment. We’re off to Tokyo next week—did Cathryn mention that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, we’re off on Tuesday for a fortnight and I plan on eating as much Wagyu beef as I can fit down my gullet. It ought to be a laugh. Have you been to Tokyo?”

  “Yes, once.” In fact, I’d spent six months teaching English there after I graduated from college. I loved it.

  “It’s a fantastic place, isn’t it? It’s mad! Just totally mad! But in the most brilliant way. When did you go?”

  “A few years ago.”

  “And what was your favorite bit?”

  “Eating blowfish!” I wanted to say. “The one that kills one in every hundred people who eat it! I ate it and stayed up all night waiting to see if I was going to die. But I didn’t and it was awesome!” Instead, I just shrugged again. “I couldn’t really say.”

  “Did you see anything completely crackers? I’m desperate to see one of those robot bartenders they have in some of the flash places. Did you see one of them?”

  “Yes! And I saw one of those vending machines that sell girls’ used underwear!” I wanted to scream. “It was so amazing and so weird and so gross and I took a billion photos of it so I could show everyone!” Instead I said, “No, just the usual.”

  Top Hat smiled wanly and stared into his drink. I was losing him, I could feel it, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  Unsurprisingly, the conversation dried up after that. I couldn’t do anything to fill the long silences, as the book forbade me from introducing any new topics of conversation. So we sat there and sipped our drinks, Top Hat occasionally offering up a few questions and me murmuring monosyllabic responses. It was excruciating.

  Thankfully, the end of the night came fairly quickly, as I had to leave after the second drink. After my last sip, I glanced at my watch and said what I’d been dreading having to say: “Well, this was really great, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Top Hat looked both confused—it was only 9:35 on a Friday night—and relieved. “Oh, right then,” he said. “I’ll just get the bill.”

  The bill arrived and I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching for my bag. I felt the least I could do was pay my fair share for this disaster, but instead I had ruined some poor guy’s night and now he was going to have to pay for it.

  Thankfully, Top Hat pulled out his credit card without so much as batting an eyelid. He probably just wanted to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.

  We left the bar (with me pausing surreptitiously by the door so he was forced to open it for me) and Top Hat gallantly walked me to the nearest tube station.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening!” I trilled.

  “It was great craic. Sorry you’ve got to scarper.”

  “Well, like I said, big day tomorrow!” I cried. “Goodnight!”

  I made a mad dash into the station and then snuck out the other exit to have a calming cigarette.

  “Christ, that was hard,” I muttered to myself as I took another drag. I pulled my coat around me, suddenly conscious of the fact I was standing on a street corner in Soho dressed in sheer black stockings and a tiny black dress. I ground out my cigarette beneath my heel: I’d already been mistaken for a prostitute once tonight and I didn’t want to stick around for another invitation.

  I turned to walk into the tube, perking up at the realization that I’d be home in time to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm on Channel 4. At least Rules-style dating wouldn’t interfere with my TV-watching schedule.

  “Lauren?”

  I turned around to see Top Hat leaning out of the window of a cab.

  “Oh, hello again!” I said, struggling to regain my air of elegant demureness.

  “Do you want a lift? I’m going to listen to the deedley-deets with some mates in Shoreditch. I could drop you on the way?”

  Deedley-deets? I couldn’t help myself: I had to ask a question. “What’s a deedley-deet?”

  “Irish music! You know, it’s all deedley-deets and that. Come along if you like!”

  “No thanks.”

  “Oh, right—you’ve got that big day and all. Well, can I at least give you a ride home?”

  I pondered this for a moment, thinking about what The Rules would do. I suspected they would frown upon it, but the April chill was currently blowing through my sheer stockings and a couple of older guys were leering at me from the doorway of a porn shop, so I nodded and jumped in the back.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “No problem at all.” Top Hat looked at me for a moment and then said, “Do you mind if I ask if you’re feeling yourself tonight?”

  Argh. It was too grim. He thought I was terrible. I forced myself to smile politely. “Yes, I’m feeling fine, thank you.”

  “It’s just that you seem very . . . quiet. I hope I’ve not said anything to offend you? I can be a mouthy bugger so just give us a slap if I have!”

  “Of course not!” I said. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman.” I crossed my ankles and gazed at his left earlobe, determined not to make eye contact. He was being really nice, and he was so boyishly handsome in that slightly fey Irish way I loved so much . . . I was sure I would lunge if I looked at him straight on.

  We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I stared out the window, watching the streets whiz past me and willing the cab to beam me directly into my living room.

  “This is me!” I said as the taxi pulled up to the curb off Old Street roundabout. “Thank you again for a lovely evening!” I leaped out of the taxi and ran (well, wobbled—I am the worst at wearing heels) into the entrance of my building. I didn’t look back.

  As I turned the key to the front door of the apartment, an icy chill ran down my spine. “Oh God,” I thought, “I didn’t even offer him money for the cab!” Of course, I wasn’t supposed to, according to The Rules, but I still felt a rush of shame. “He must think I’m the biggest bitch on the planet.”

  I poured myself a large glass of wine and took it out onto the balcony. The apartment was empty; presumably Lucy was off having fun somewhere, drinking and making out with boys and staying out past 10 p.m., unencumbered by the confines of Rules life. How I envied her.

  If I’d been left to my own devices tonight, two martinis would have led to a couple of bourbons, and the night would have ended with us grappling in a drunken make-out session in a dark corner of a dive bar on Hanbury Street.

  That’s what I loved about being single: going on little adventures with a relative stranger to whom you’re suddenly desperately attracted; bizarre, off-track conversations about your favorite breed of dog, or who would win in a fight between New Kids on the Block and One Direction, or whether or not Michael McIntyre makes the world a worse place; mad hunts for booze and cigarettes; the feeling that the night is slipping away from you and trying to grasp on to it and haul the cover of dark over you for as long as
possible. I loved the giddy feeling of waking up in bed the next morning, fuzzy and headachy but mainly really, really happy, still high on the sense of possibility from the night before.

  Instead, I was home at an absurdly reasonable hour, having forced a perfectly nice man to spend a brief evening in my extremely boring company and not offering a penny of my own money as compensation. I felt deflated and kind of gross.

  This was going to be harder than I’d thought.

  April 13

  A week had gone by without any word from Top Hat. It had taken all of my willpower not to send him a text thanking him for the drinks and apologizing for not offering any money for the cab, but if I had done that, I’d be going against several rules in the book.

  Michael had left for Tokyo with Top Hat and Cathryn hadn’t heard any feedback about the date. I cringed to think what Top Hat would say about me; he was probably berating Michael for sending him on a date with such a frigid bitch. It was pretty humiliating, but I guessed I was going to have to prepare myself for that kind of thing now that I’d handed my love life to the experts.

  Lucy and I had gone for our Saturday-morning run and our weekly shopping trip to Superdrug afterward, wandering around the aisles like a couple of zombies who were really interested in nail polish. I was standing at the checkout, paying for an electric blue liquid eyeliner I was very excited about, when I felt my phone buzz.

  I pulled it out of my bag and looked at the screen. I had a missed call. Six, to be exact. All from Adrian.

  It had been a while since I’d heard from him. Six weeks, maybe longer. I’d given up and assumed he had retreated to the Island of Lost Men, where he was playing Championship Manager with all the other guys who had suddenly evaporated from women’s lives.

  But apparently he was off the island. And now, as I stood in the middle of the shop and stared down at the little blinking cursor on my phone, I was faced with a conundrum: to Rules or not to Rules?

  “Adrian called,” I said, grabbing Lucy’s arm as we walked out of the store. “Like, six times. What should I do?”