Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  I drained the rest of the bottle of wine and then started pawing through his cupboards, hoping for whisky but settling for a half-empty bottle of sherry that had turned decidedly vinegary. Bike Guy started in on a second joint and I lit up another cigarette.

  There was a moment, when he was racing around the room trying to find his Stone Roses LP, the fug of smoke hanging in the air and the buzz from the cheap sherry and secondhand weed exhalations swimming around my brain, when I was convinced I was at a party in the Sigma Chi basement in my sophomore year in college.

  But then, far below us in the heart of the house, I heard it. “Is that the baby crying?” I asked Bike Guy.

  He was still for a minute, and then nodded. “Yeah, that’s little Poppy all right. No worries, she’ll settle in a bit!” And with that, he turned up the Stone Roses a little louder, peeled off his shirt and led me over to the bed.

  September 29

  I’ve had a lot of walks of shame in my time, but nothing topped this morning. I left as soon as I woke up, carefully trying to extract myself from the tangled sheets without waking Bike Guy, dressed as quietly as possible and wrote him a little note before slipping through the door. It was 7 a.m., so I hoped I could creep away before the rest of the house was awake, but of course I ran smack into Oliver as I made my way down the stairs.

  “Morning!” he called. “Fancy a coffee? I’ve just plunged the cafetière!”

  “No thanks,” I stuttered. I peered past him into the kitchen and spied Jane spooning oatmeal into Poppy’s mouth. She gave me a smile and a cheery wave.

  “Did you sleep well?” she called. “Poppy was a bit of a grump last night—I hope she didn’t wake you.”

  “Slept like a log,” I lied. In actuality, I’d woken up every hour on the hour to Poppy’s howls. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Nice to meet you both! And, uh, have a good Sunday!”

  I hightailed it out the door before they could invite me to sit down with the newspaper and some baked goods. They were a very nice couple, but their domestic bliss made me all the more aware of the stink of weed and sex clinging to my skin.

  I got home and immediately put on my workout clothes: I figured a quick run would clear my head. I was still trying to process the night before.

  It turns out that sex with a forty-one-year-old isn’t all that different from sex with a twenty-four-year-old, particularly a forty-one-year-old who’s as fit as Bike Guy. He had the lean body of a swimmer and had obviously picked up a few tips from his ex-wife, as he knew his way around a woman’s body. But the whole living situation was too weird: if I was going to see him again, it would have to be on my turf. I felt like my very presence was corrupting poor little Poppy.

  I grabbed my iPod and was about to set off when I spotted an envelope addressed to me sticking through the letter slot in the front door. I slid it out and glanced at it, my stomach dropping to my knees as soon as I saw the handwriting. Dylan. I tucked the letter under a pile of magazines on the coffee table: I’d face it later.

  September 30

  Well, my month as an honorary call girl has come to an end. It hasn’t quite turned out like Pretty Woman, but it hasn’t turned out like Requiem for a Dream either, so I guess it’s been a success.

  Belle de Jour’s Guide to Men in Conclusion

  Belle’s attitude toward sex has been liberating: she’s very open about women wanting sex just as much as men, and she sees no shame in going after someone for purely carnal reasons. The open attitude she encourages exposed me to things I normally wouldn’t have tried, and while I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to look at a novelty Uncle Sam hat without feeling mortified for a long time, on the whole I think it was good for me. Did I mention I got laid?

  Works best on . . .

  Any man with a hard-on, though don’t necessarily expect him to call the next day. Any man who’s nervous about sexually aggressive women will probably run a mile. But it will almost certainly get you your man, even if it’s for a limited time only.

  To be used by . . .

  Women who want to broaden their horizons, sexually or otherwise . . . and who aren’t inclined toward jealousy.

  BOOK SEVEN

  MANNERS FOR WOMEN

  by Mrs. Humphry

  October 1

  “About time you learned some,” the bookseller grumbled when he looked at the cover of this month’s book.

  I’d interrupted him stacking leather-bound sets of Charles Dickens on a display table. I was interested to spot a surprisingly toned forearm peeking out of a rolled-up shirtsleeve in the process: so he didn’t just sit at his desk and make snide remarks all day, after all. Though it was definitely how he spent the majority of his time.

  I gave him a smirk and shoved my ten pounds at him. “The customer service in here is excellent, as always.”

  “I aim to please,” he said with a bow.

  “Well, your aim is terrible,” I said.

  He held my change in his hand for a minute as though he was weighing it up. “Look, sorry if I was a bit . . . forthright in my opinion the last time you were in,” he said finally, running a hand through his unruly hair.

  “More like rude,” I muttered. “Whatever, it’s fine. I know you think what I’m doing is stupid and you have a right to your opinion. Even if that opinion is wrong and pig-headed.” I lifted my chin in the air in what I hoped was a lofty and superior manner.

  “I was out of order. I just get so fucked off by all this sexual game-playing nonsense. Why can’t women behave like normal humans and cut out the bollocks? You know: boy likes girl, girl likes boy, they give it a go . . . just normal.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That never works. Take it from an expert: no one ever gets laid by being normal.”

  He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Ha! Please, you’re not capable of behaving normally.”

  An old lady browsing the erotica section gave me an admiring look. “Quite right, dear,” she said. “I was just telling him the other day—”

  “Stay out of it, Doris!” the bookseller bellowed. The old lady scuttled quickly out the door. He turned back to me. “Look, men are simple creatures. Women don’t need to cook up these elaborate plans or pretend to be something they’re not. We’re just happy when a woman turns up and doesn’t recoil in horror at the sight of us.” I took in his slim, straight nose and sharp cheekbones and rolled my eyes: I couldn’t imagine many women recoiling at the sight of him. At the sound of him, on the other hand . . .

  “Ha!” I scoffed. “Simple creatures? The next time I meet a man who says what he really feels and does what he says he’s going to, I’ll let you know, though we’ll all be too busy being encased in ice because hell will have frozen over. Until then, I’ll keep on with my research.” I held out my hand for the change.

  He dropped the coins onto my palm. “What utter, utter shite,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  “Well, thanks very much for your concern,” I said in what I hoped was my most withering voice, “but I’m very capable of looking after myself without your help or advice. I have everything under control!”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again, firmly.

  I grabbed Mrs. Humphry out of his hand and turned on my heel. “And another thing,” I called from over my shoulder. “Apology not accepted!” I slammed the door behind me, the bell jangling in my wake.

  A great start to the month, right? Now, without further ado, let’s get Victorian.

  Manners for Women was written in 1897 by a Mrs. Humphry, or “Madge of Truth” as she apparently liked to be known. It’s a guide to all things etiquette, and was indispensable for young middle-class ladies looking to break into aristocratic society.

  The idea of following a Victorian dating guide was daunting at first. Let’s face it, the Victorians weren’t exactly k
nown as party animals, and I figured most of the advice would be about how to avoid any flirtation or sexual contact with the opposite sex.

  But Mrs. Humphry is much more concerned with a young lady’s development into a well-rounded and socially acceptable person than she is with finding her a husband. I mean, obviously there’s a bit of that, but mainly she just wants to make sure that a woman doesn’t go around embarrassing herself by putting the family crest on her notepaper or showing too much shoulder at supper.

  Her attitude toward women is actually pretty benevolent, unlike some of the authors I’ve dealt with so far. “Can anything in the world be nicer than a really nice girl?” she asks in the opening line. When I saw that, I worried I was in for some more 1950s-style appeasement, but the rest of the paragraph put me at ease: “She is full of contradictions and often ‘set with wilful thorns’, but where would her charm be if she were plainly to be read by all comers?”

  So it looks like she doesn’t want a bunch of cookie-cutter nicey-nice girls, either. In fact, Mrs. Humphry is happy for me to live a freewheeling, physically active, professionally ambitious, socially exciting life. There’s a whole chapter on bicycling, for God’s sake! At least Bike Guy would approve of that much . . .

  Comforted by the thought that I could continue living a normal life, wilful thorns and all, I went back to the office and started Googling business card printers. Because a Victorian woman is nothing without her stationery.

  October 3

  Calling cards arrived today! I ordered them online on Tuesday and had them express delivered. The modern age is surprisingly convenient for the Victorian way of life.

  Mrs. Humphry has very specific requirements when it comes to a proper card. It must be a plain white piece of cardboard with one’s name in the center in copperplate italic characters, and it must be exactly 3.5 inches by 2.5 inches. That was it: no address, no phone number, no email (well, it was 1897).

  “Ta-dah!” I sang as I opened the box of 100 cards (I might have gone a little overboard on the ordering). I slid one across the desk to Cathryn. “What do you think?”

  Cathryn cast her discerning eye over the card and nodded her approval. “My granny used something very similar.”

  I felt a glow of achievement. I was well on my way to societal nirvana, but there was still work to be done.

  October 5

  Lucy and I spent the morning lazing around on the couch. Tristan was on business in Hong Kong for ten days, which meant she was actually living in the flat for once. It was nice: having the flat to myself had its perks, but I missed her company.

  We were discussing what I should do for Bike Guy’s upcoming birthday. He’d slipped it into conversation when I saw him last week, and while forty-two wasn’t exactly a milestone, I still wanted to do something nice for him.

  I read out the list of acceptable parties from Manners for Women. “Ascot, Lord’s, ball—Christ, who has room for a ball?—formal dinner party, boating . . .”

  “Oooh, boating! That sounds romantic!” Lucy purred.

  I thought about it for a minute. I wasn’t great in boats—my last experience resulted in capsizing a small sailboat in the middle of a still-polluted Charles River in Boston—but I did love the Thames, and the idea of gliding over it in a little boat sounded pretty great.

  I started Googling boat rentals in London and quickly realized that I couldn’t even afford a dinghy.

  “Well, that’s that idea nixed,” I said, tapping out a cigarette.

  Suddenly, Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Hang on! My cousin’s got a boat!”

  “I didn’t know you had a rich cousin!”

  “Well, it’s not quite a yacht . . .”

  “Oh? Is it, like, a speedboat?” I imagined myself careening under Westminster Bridge, wind whipping through my hair as we waved to Big Ben.

  “It’s more of a . . . canoe. You won’t be able to take it out on the Thames, though. Just Regent’s Canal.”

  I doubted a canoeing party was what Mrs. Humphry had in mind, and Regent’s Canal was best known for being filled with trash and the occasional dead body, but I had to make do with what I had.

  “Do you think he’d let me borrow it?”

  October 6

  Floating vessel secured, it was time to invite Bike Guy to his birthday boating party for two. Normally, I would have just texted something like, “Yo, me, you and a canoe next Saturday,” but my newfound manners demanded something a little more ceremonial.

  The instructions were clear: only a formal invitation, printed on plain white or cream card with embossed lettering, would do. I couldn’t stretch to another order with the printers, so I typed it up on the computer, printed it out and stuck it on some cardboard with a glue stick I’d found in the junk drawer. I thought it looked pretty good.

  Miss Lauren Cunningham requests the pleasure of Bike Guy’s company to boat on Regent’s Canal on October 12th

  R.S.V.P.

  I slipped it into the fanciest envelope that Ryman’s had, tucked it in my bag to mail tomorrow and poured myself a glass of wine the size of a watermelon.

  I poked my head into the living room, where Lucy was watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and painting her toenails. “Want a glass of wine?”

  “Ooh, yes please!” Her eyes were glued to the television, where a terrifyingly thin blond woman was screaming at a bizarre-world version of Demi Moore. “God, Kyle is such a cow!”

  I poured her a glass and handed it to her.

  “Thanks, babe. Oh, shit! I keep forgetting: I found something for you the other day when I was tidying up.” She started digging around underneath the couch cushions (Lucy had an interesting cleaning style). “Here you are!”

  I felt a little shock as I realized what it was. Dylan’s letter. It’s not that I’d forgotten about it, more that I’d hoped I could keep burying the knowledge of its existence in my consciousness long enough that eventually it would just disintegrate beneath the pile of magazines and cease to exist. But there it was, as clear as day: my name and address in Dylan’s strong, angular hand. “Fuck,” I said.

  “Who’s it from?” Lucy asked, eyes bright with excitement. “Someone exciting?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “It’s from my ex.”

  “Oooh. Even better! How could you have misplaced that? I’d have torn it open as soon as I’d got it if it was from my ex.” She flopped back on the couch. “He’s probably writing to say he loves you desperately and that he was a complete prat to lose you and he can’t sleep without you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Go on, open it! The suspense is terrible!”

  I slipped off to my room and lay down on the bed, glass of wine perched on my stomach in one hand and Dylan’s letter in the other. I couldn’t bear to read it under Lucy’s watchful gaze, though she made me pinky swear that I’d tell her all the juicy (or gory) details later.

  Lauren,

  So I’ve been doing this bike tour across the States (Meg probably told you). It’s strange out here—all the miles, all the asphalt, all the little middle-of-nowhere towns passing by—it’s like some version of heaven, or maybe hell.

  Most nights I lie out here under the stars and think about you and I try to tell myself, “Remember her leaving. Remember what her face looked like when she told you she wasn’t going to try anymore. Remember her walking out the door and not turning back to look at you as your heart broke. Remember that.”

  But the truth is, when I think about you, I remember the first time we kissed, in the rain, on the porch of that shitty apartment in Breckenridge. I remember how the rain was catching on your eyelashes. I remember the first time I realized I was in love with you, on our third date, when you tried to make tuna casserole because I told you it was my favorite food, and it was so terrible, but you laughed as you scraped it into the sink.

  I try to
remember your face when you told me you didn’t love me anymore, but all I can see is you on our wedding day. All I can see is you reciting that excerpt from the Velveteen Rabbit about how love makes us real.

  You made me real, Lauren. And I am resigned to the truth: I don’t want to remember you leaving. All is forgiven.

  I’ll love you forever.

  Dylan

  I let the letter fall on the bed and sat up. I needed a cigarette.

  October 8

  This morning, I found a postcard that had slipped under the doormat. On the front, a bunch of topless NYC firefighters posed in Times Square. I flipped it over and read the following message:

  Cunningham!

  I’ve been doing a good deal of research on the ground over the past few weeks and can confirm that you remain the sexiest American. Certainly the filthiest.

  Adrian xxxxx

  When it rains, it fucking pours, huh? I stuck the postcard to the fridge with the sombrero magnet Lucy had brought back from Mexico last year. I wasn’t sure which one was worse, Adrian’s rude little note or Dylan’s bleeding-heart letter. Both had left me feeling decidedly off-kilter.

  And no, I still haven’t thought about how I’m going to respond to Dylan’s letter, so don’t ask me. I can’t think about it yet. I just can’t.

  So what I’ve been thinking about instead is what to get Bike Guy for his birthday. We haven’t been seeing each other long, so I don’t want to go crazy, but the other day he gave me a bike that was lying spare in his shop—all polished and looking brand new—so I figured I should probably give him something for his trouble.

  Guys are always hard to buy presents for. Even though every man on earth goes around saying how easy he is to buy for (“You could get me anything and I’d love it!”), everyone knows that this is a big fat lie. Men are impossible to buy for: if you get them an item of clothing, they won’t like it or they’ll stain/rip it immediately; if you get them a book, they won’t read it; if you get them anything technological, it will be the wrong kind; and if you get them anything grooming related, they’ll be offended. It’s seriously a giant pain in the ass.