Brunch with a middle-aged toxicologist: “It’s amazing how easy it is to poison someone undetected. I’m surprised more people don’t top their spouses with a bit of strychnine in the old morning cuppa.”
Lunch with a systems analyst: “When I first saw you, I thought you were my mum. It was a lovely surprise.”
Coffee with a cameraman: “Call me old-fashioned, but I think a lady should always be told she’s beautiful. Saying ‘Show us your tits,’ is just another way of saying that.”
Coffee with a sweaty man in a too-tight Dungeons and Dragons T-shirt: “My tongue is stuck.”
Coffee with a tidy-looking computer software engineer (before taking my outstretched hand on meeting me): “When did you last wash your hands?”
Dinner with an extremely well-dressed businessman: “What I’m always telling the Jewish guy I work with is, say what you like about the Holocaust, it did get them to the promised land one way or another, eh?”
Second dinner with an electrical engineer: “Right, so an engineer and a mathematician were locked in their rooms for a day with a can of food but without an opener. At the end of the day, the engineer is sitting on the floor of his room and eating from the open can—he threw it against the walls until it cracked open. In the mathematician’s room, the can is still closed but the mathematician has disappeared. There are strange noises coming from inside the can . . . When it’s opened, the mathematician crawls out saying, ‘Damn! I got a sign wrong . . .’” Several beats pass. “Get it?”
Drink with an underfed milk-float driver (setting a bag down on the table when he arrives and gesturing toward it as he sits down): “Sorry, it’s just a few frozen rats for my snake.”
Drink with a junior advertising executive wearing a bowler hat: “I mean, culture should just be, like, META, you know? Like, we should just be taking existing archetypes and smashing them up! Like, BAM! You know? . . . Fuck, what were we talking about again?”
Drink with a ponytailed aromatherapist (as he pushed an iPhone filled with photos of Japanese bondage across the table toward me): “I think I could really help you explore your sensual boundaries.”
Good Lord. What a ragtag bunch of weirdos and creeps. What did people think of me, sending them my way? Did they really think I was that desperate? Or did they lump me in with the rest of the weirdos and creeps? Fuck: was I a weirdo or a creep? If I had to choose, I guess I’d go for weirdo, but neither category particularly appealed. I’d rather take option three: a nice quiet night in with a vibrator.
To make matters worse, my phone was still ringing constantly and my voicemail was reaching its full capacity, overflowing with messages from mouthbreathers describing increasingly disturbing sexual fantasies. It turns out that I’m only two degrees of separation away from a bunch of very perverted souls. Thankfully, I hadn’t had any more callers at work, but it seemed like only a matter of time. I was starting to think I might have to change my number.
I climbed into bed with a glass of whisky as soon as I got through the door, determined to sleep off the memory of the day.
December 1
Thank the Lord above, November is finally over. I spent much of the day nursing my trauma-and-whisky-induced hangover and only started to feel human again after a long run and a hot shower. Oof.
Find a Husband After 35 in Conclusion
This whole book really fucking depressed me: it’s all about lowering your standards, swallowing your pride and rearranging your entire life in the hope that it might snag you a man. The whole thing felt forced and decidedly un-fun. Sure, there was no shortage of prospective partners, but only weirdos and creeps respond to this level of desperation. If this is what it takes to find a partner after a certain age, well—give me spinsterhood any day.
Works best on . . .
Weirdos and creeps. Seriously, if you want to maintain any dignity, avoid this book. If you want to put yourself at serious risk of finding a stalker, be my guest.
To be used by . . .
I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but I guess if you’re looking for quantity over quality (and don’t mind sacrificing your dignity in the process) this book could be for you.
• • •
I closed my notebook and lit a cigarette. I felt jaded. Deeply jaded. What exactly was I doing to myself? What was I trying to accomplish by offering my sex life up like a sacrifice on the altar of gurus, misogynists and lunatics?
The whole point of the project had been to find new, interesting, non-psychopathic people to have sex with on the regular, but the results didn’t add up. Sure, I managed to meet a few decent guys in the process, but I didn’t feel like I was any closer to unlocking the mystery of the male mind, and I definitely wasn’t getting laid very often.
I couldn’t stomach one more ridiculous piece of advice, one more awkward dinner or one more moment of deflation at the end of an evening. I couldn’t stomach the emotional ride anymore: the anticipation on the way up, the hope and excitement during, and then the inevitable plummet back to earth. If going on all these dates and following all this crazy advice wasn’t fun anymore, what was the point?
I started the project because I thought I was terrible at dating. Eight months on, I didn’t know that I was any wiser about men, but I knew I was fed up trying to mold myself into something or someone I thought they might like. I was a free agent now—and it was time I started living in my own reality, even if the idea of it was still scary as all hell. I didn’t need a crutch: it was time to stand on my own two feet.
I stubbed out my cigarette. I’d made a decision.
As of tomorrow, no more dating guides. In fact, no more dating. Instead, I’d do all the things I’d been wanting to do—should have been doing—during the time I spent going on terrible dates. I’d go for long runs, make myself decent dinners, read books I actually wanted to read, focus on building my career, spend evenings in the bath with a bottle of wine and a pack of Marlboro Lights—anything I wanted to do, I’d do.
Fuck this shit: I was going to date myself for a while.
December 2
I woke up this morning full of determination. Time to clear house.
Before I left for work, I got together all of my dating guides and stuck them outside on the curb, where hopefully they’d be used as toilet paper by a tramp.
Lucy was moving in with Tristan in a month, so I had to sort out my living situation. I’d been planning on getting another roommate to replace her, but my newfound burst of independence made me think about finding a studio to rent instead; I’d never lived on my own and it felt like something I should do. I made a few calculations and, if I stopped buying lunch, cycled everywhere and never allowed myself to set foot in Zara again, I could just about afford a shoebox in South Tottenham. I sent a few emails to real estate agents on my lunch break and felt a swell of excitement at the prospect of having my own shitty little bolthole.
I worked late that night, trying to clear the backlog from the past few distracted weeks. When I told Cathryn that I was quitting the project, she looked at me with a mixture of pride and relief that almost alone justified my decision.
By the time I got to the bookstore, I found a drawn shade and a locked door. I checked my watch: three minutes after closing. “Ah, fuck,” I muttered to myself. It had begun to drizzle and I was digging around my bag for an umbrella when the shade flew up and the bookseller’s face appeared in the window.
“Jesus!” I yelled, leaping back in surprise. He looked at me for a long moment and then held up a finger and started fumbling with the lock. The door opened and he ushered me inside.
I was confused—and a little scared—by this act of kindness, and immediately started apologizing profusely.
“Sorry! Sorry! I know, I always turn up at closing time and you’re about to shut and it’s really annoying—you don’t have to tell me. I promise I’ll be super fast!”
> I turned to see the bookshop owner still standing by the door, staring at me as if seeing an apparition. “You’ve come back,” he said. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and what appeared to be a completely intact cardigan. I’d forgotten how handsome he was when he wasn’t scowling.
“Yep!” I said, charging past him to the literature section.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he muttered.
I couldn’t tell if this had been a hope of his or a fear; after all, I was probably helping to keep him afloat with all my guide-buying, even if I did so obviously insult his delicate literary sensibilities and occasionally have emotional breakdowns in the middle of his shop.
“I bet you missed me something terrible, huh?” I said as I searched through the stacks. I glanced back to find he’d turned a slightly pink color. His hair had grown longer and was now curling wildly in pretty much every direction. He looked different, somehow. Happier, maybe.
“How was your trip home? Did you get everything sorted out?”
“Yep, all fine now, thanks. And thanks for . . . uh . . . looking after me. Sorry about that.”
“My pleasure,” he said. I searched his face for any hint of mockery or sarcasm, but couldn’t find any. It was unsettling.
“I got your card,” he said with a grin. “Happy belated Thanksgiving to you, too. I would have replied, but my plumber is a big old bugger and I didn’t think you’d fancy him.” Ah, there was the mockery!
I waved my hands in the air, hoping it would somehow dispel my mortification. “Oh God, that. Yeah, sorry about that. I was following this crazy Harvard business school guide and the author made me do it. Anyway, that’s done now, so you can throw it out. Actually, the whole project is done.”
He raised his eyebrows. “But what about your devotion to science?”
“I decided that I’m more devoted to myself, so now I’m just doing whatever I want. Speaking of which, I’ve come with a list: can you help?”
I held out the piece of paper I’d torn from my notebook earlier.
“Persuasion, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Moll Flanders . . .” A smile spread across his face as he read out the titles. “Excellent choices.” He started rocketing around the store, collecting books from various shelves and balancing them in his arms. When he’d finished, he placed the towering stack on the desk and nodded at it. “That’s everything.”
I was stunned by his helpfulness, but knew better than to comment. Instead, I walked over to the glass case and pointed at Black Beauty. “Any chance you’re willing to let this one go yet?” I figured I’d be saving a bundle on dinners, drinks and depilation now that I was dating myself exclusively, so might as well treat myself.
He glanced at the case and shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“Ah well,” I said, “a girl’s got to try. I’ll just pay for these and get out of your hair. I read your book, by the way. The Age of Innocence.”
He kept his eyes focused on the counter as he wrapped my purchases up in brown paper. “Oh, yes?” he said. “And what did you think?”
“I loved it. Ellen is such a great character—so vibrant and full of life.”
“I agree,” he murmured. “I think she’s quite wonderful.” He held my gaze for a minute before we both looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Well, I should be going. Thanks again!” I grabbed the package of books off the counter and hustled toward the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice how furiously I was now blushing.
“I’m glad you came back,” he said quietly, following me to the door. He was about to close it behind me when he pulled it back open and stuck his head around. “Don’t leave it so long next time.”
I smiled. “I won’t. I’ve got plenty of free time now.”
I walked toward the tube, clutching my bag of books to my chest and feeling as liberated as a little bird. I had an empty flat that night, a couple of box sets to break in to, a bunch of new books and a fridge full of chocolate mousse and gin. Being unattached definitely had its perks.
December 7
Ah, my first dating-free Saturday. I went for a long run before taking myself to Ironmonger Row for a steam and a sauna. After being pummeled by a large Turkish woman for three-quarters of an hour, I got back to the flat and had a coffee and a slice of cake before cocooning myself in a nest of books and magazines, Ani DiFranco blaring on the stereo. So far, this dating myself thing was amazing.
I was about to make myself another cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. It was a bike courier, holding out a parcel wrapped in brown paper addressed to me. I retreated to the couch to open it. Inside was a first-edition copy of Black Beauty. I ran my fingers over the purple embossing, admiring the softness of the brown leather cover beneath my hands. Tucked between the pages was one of my Program RSVP cards, a note scrawled on the back:
Something to add to your reading pile. Xx
Something clicked inside of me. I wanted to run straight out the door, hail a cab and throw myself into his arms, but if there was one thing I’d learned over the past year, it was that it was important not to rush things. The real beauty in life came from savoring the in-between bits, the anticipation and uncertainty and suspense. The important things would wait: this moment was all mine.
I settled down in my couch cocoon and read the book from cover to cover, savoring every word and only pausing to make more coffee or smoke the occasional cigarette. It was just as good as I’d remembered.
It was dark by the time I’d finished. I slipped the book in my bag and set off into the London night.
When I got to the shop, the door was locked but I could see a dim light coming from the back room. I knocked once, softly, and felt the nerves flutter up inside me.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time. I knew I could always come back tomorrow, but I was gripped by a sense of urgency. I had to see him.
On the third knock, I heard footsteps, and then the bookseller’s face appeared in the window. We smiled shyly at each other through the glass, and then he opened the door.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello.”
We stood there for a moment, both on the threshold, neither of us certain where to begin.
“I . . . I wanted to thank you for the book,” I said. “It meant a lot to me. I know you were attached to it.”
He shook his head. “It shouldn’t be kept under glass like that—it should be loved. It belongs with you.”
“Well, I promise I’ll take good care of it. And you can have visitation rights—we can share partial custody.”
He smiled. “I like the sound of that.” He paused as if searching for the right words. “I . . . I know this might sound a bit mad, but . . . he reminds me of you.”
I was confused. “Him who?”
“The horse,” he said. “Black Beauty.”
“I remind you of a horse?” I said incredulously. This wasn’t working out the way I’d planned.
“Sorry, I know that sounds weird, and it probably came out all wrong, but . . . yes. Not just any horse. That particular horse.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I should probably be going now . . .”
“No, wait!” he said, pulling me inside. “It’s just—Black Beauty is so full of life, so brave, so . . . so fearless. That’s why I always loved the book so much—it represented everything I admired. And you . . .” He placed his hands gently on my arms. “You’re it. You’re fearless.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, laughing awkwardly. “I’ve done some pretty cowardly things in my time.”
His eyes locked onto mine and I felt my breath catch in my throat. “I think you’re extraordinary,” he said. He slid his hands onto my waist and I felt a shiver run through me. “What do you say—how would you like a lifetime supply of free books?” he asked, waggling his eye
brows suggestively.
“Well, when you put it like that . . .” I said, wrapping my arms around him.
And there, among the stacks of dusty old books, he kissed me and the world fell away.
Three Months Later
(Journal forgotten due to sexual bliss)
Name: Callum (i.e., The Angry Bookseller)
Age: 32
Occupation: See above
Nationality: Scottish
Description: Auburn-haired, green-eyed, cardigan-wearing, very handsome when he smiles
Method: Rancor, sarcasm and capriciousness
Result: Unmitigated success
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader (or person who flips to the back of a book before finishing it, in which case, Hello, Kindred Spirit!),
Far back in the annals of time (2009), I made the decision to turn my love life into a sociological experiment. I can’t remember where the idea came from; I just woke up one morning and there it was, lying fully formed on my pillow, waiting for me. Like Lauren, I was fed up with men assuming that I was desperate to settle down and bear their children just because I’d spent a couple of nights in their company, so that certainly influenced my decision to start the project. I’d spent so much time running around London bleating about how noncommittal I was that it was starting to feel like a bit of a . . . commitment. So when the idea of following the experts’ advice on dating came to mind, I figured it would be a good way to find out if it was me from which men were fleeing, or just my approach. To make things more interesting (and perhaps to legitimize what might be construed as a sign of mental illness), I decided to write a blog about it, too. I went out and bought my first dating guide (The Rules) the next day.
Four months on and four books down, I’d written forty-two posts, gone on twenty-three dates, drank God only knows how many drinks and alienated approximately half of London’s single male population. I’d signed up to two different dating sites—Match and My Single Friend, the inspiration for the fictional Castaways and YoDate—and been on several blind or almost-blind setups. I also somehow managed to meet the love of my life. All in all, not a bad way to spend a summer.
Love by the Book Page 30