The Gin Lover's Guide to Dating: A sparkling and hilarious feel good romantic comedy

by Nina Kaye

  As the white makes contact with the black, my body floods with relief. My trained eye can instinctively see that I’ve slammed it.

  ‘Yesss!’ I throw my hands up in the air triumphantly as the black ball disappears from sight.

  But my celebration is premature. The white ball, having ricocheted off the cushion, courses back down the table and to my horror, vanishes into the pocket right in front of me, my win cruelly snatched away.

  ‘Nooo!’ I fall to my knees, hands clutching my head in dismay. ‘No. No. Nooo!’

  Why did that have to happen? I had won. I was on my way up.

  ‘Bad luck.’ Josh appears above me, grinning, and helps me to my feet. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t feel like a winner. It’s a bit of a non-event really.’

  I stare at him mutely, a thousand jumbled thoughts coursing through my mind.

  ‘Hey.’ He laughs. ‘It’s just a game. You played well. That was just pure bad luck. Don’t take it so hard.’

  ‘Sure.’ I drag myself away from the torment circling in my mind and force a smile. ‘I know that. Just a game.’

  ‘I say we call it a draw.’ Josh drapes his arm around me casually. ‘Or we could void it and have a rematch?’

  ‘No.’ I shrug him off. ‘Don’t go soft on me now. The rules clearly state that you won – fair and square.’

  ‘OK, well don’t say I didn’t offer,’ Josh teases me, oblivious to my inner torture and the significance of the loss for me. ‘Guess we’d better get back.’

  As we wander back through the staff corridor together, Josh chats away merrily, dissecting every moment of our game like an overenthusiastic football commentator. I nod along, pretending to listen attentively, but my mind is elsewhere. Is it a sign?

  I didn’t lose because I didn’t try hard or play well, it simply came down to bad luck. Just like everything that’s happened in recent months with my career. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Sure, I’ve set up my blog. I might be getting great feedback from my existing subscribers. But I’m yet to make any money. What if it doesn’t take off? What if I fall victim to bad luck there too?

  ‘Liv? Did you hear me?’

  ‘Oh… err… sorry, Josh.’ I give my head a little shake to bring my focus back to him. ‘I missed that. What did you say?’

  ‘I was asking if you wanted to catch a drink at a late-night bar after work. I’ll be finishing about the same time as you tonight.’

  ‘A drink… I don’t think so, Josh. I’m really tired today.’

  ‘You’re not still upset about the game, are you?’ He jabs me playfully in the ribs.

  I look at him, momentarily irritated. He hasn’t the slightest clue. He’s just oozing charm as usual, but not even attempting to tap into how I’m feeling. But then, how could he? He’s not a mind reader. He couldn’t possibly have known about how big a challenge I set myself there. And he has no idea about my past. We still barely know each other. That’s just not fair, Liv.

  ‘It’s not that.’ I reach out and take his hand. ‘I just felt a bit more tired than usual this morning and it’s catching up with me again. How about tomorrow instead? I’m off, and you said earlier you’d only be working till six. We can have a proper evening out together.’

  ‘Great thinking.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘Although I’d have liked to do both. I’ll probably see you later when I’m doing my rounds, but as I won’t be able to speak to you properly, I’ll give you your goodnight kiss now.’

  He pulls me towards him and kisses me gently but firmly on the lips, then lets me go. ‘See you later, Liv.’

  ‘See you.’ I smile shyly at him, now tingling all over, all doubting thoughts completely forgotten.

  Chapter 19

  Picture the scene. Early evening. Low lighting. A smooth funky beat. The smug, indulgent feeling from having found a peaceful haven for an intimate drink on a Thursday evening – away from the parched, alcohol-seeking packs of workers.

  She is stunning. He is super-hot – and irresistibly charming. Two beautiful people have found each other, and to them nothing else exists right now. They are each other’s worlds.

  Delivering two perfectly prepared French 75s to their table (a divine combination of gin, champagne, lemon juice and simple syrup – a drink of perfect elegance to match their own), my presence is barely noticed.

  I watch in awe, totally beguiled, as I mix drinks for another table. Even the consistently satisfying scent of the Pear Drop Fizz I’m mixing (a fruity combination of pear-infused gin, cava and simple syrup, garnished with a cinnamon stick), barely impacts as I’m gripped by this Hollywood-esque scene before me. Are they famous? Or just ludicrously rich? They drip with style – the highest-end designer pieces on display like Christmas tree baubles. They look perfect, they act perfect, they move perfectly together. Their interactions, totally in tune, are fit for the big screen.

  But it’s almost too perfect. As I continue to scrutinise them like they’re lab rats, something doesn’t seem quite right. He is attentive, far beyond normal confines. She is almost theatrical in her show of self-elegance and irresistibility. Like she’s teasing him, keeping herself just out of reach. He’s trying to connect with her on an emotional level she’s refusing to accept.

  Just as I’m becoming consumed with frustration at not knowing what’s really going on, I’m rewarded with the plot twist. In walks another woman, equally dazzling in her appearance and demeanour. He looks up, freezes. Now it’s a very different movie. The cheating rat has been caught. And there’s no doubt about it: he’s been set up. I’m almost reaching for the popcorn as the scumbag is outed, despite his best – but hopeless – efforts to explain things away.

  The story ends with a predictable but satisfying finale, with not just one, but both untouched drinks thrown in his face, and two victorious women marching away together, arms linked in a clear display of unity. All that is left is a rather wet and sticky shamefaced idiot, and a mess that, in this case, I don’t mind cleaning up one bit. My only reflection is the ironic thought that, although with them in spirit, I can’t help thinking it’s such a waste of my lovingly made drinks.

  This week’s recommendation is an easy one. It’s got to be the gin twist – made from gin (obviously!), lemon juice, sugar and hot water. Not just because of the unexpected developments of this tale, but also for its warm and satisfying character – a lot like the feeling of sweet revenge. And like cheating scumbags, it’s a drink that has been around for a very long time.

  Looking forward to your verdicts!

  ‘It’s another stonker, Squirt.’ Dylan hands my laptop back to me, picks up his roll-up cigarette and takes a long drag from it, before exhaling with smoke rings. ‘Nice one, getting it out so quickly.’

  It’s 5.30 p.m. the next day, and we’re sitting on my balcony, despite the bleak, dense sea fog that’s crept in from the Forth Estuary. The air is close and damp; tiny microscopic droplets of water seem to just hang there like unwelcome insects. After reviewing the draft version of my second post that morning, it’s now finished and published on my blog site.

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m immensely pleased with this feedback from him. ‘It’s not got as much humour in it as the last one, but I think that’s OK. It’s still telling a story.’

  ‘It made me laugh.’ Dylan shrugs. ‘I think it’s great. How are your stats doing?’

  ‘I’ve reached three and a half thousand subscribers with this new one already.’ I puff myself up proudly. ‘Can’t believe it.’

  ‘I can,’ says Dylan. ‘My contacts are good. And so is your writing. You’ve created a great “bus-home-from-work” read. Chuck those out twice a week and you should build and keep a decent following.’

  ‘How long will it be till I start making money from it, though? I’m really conscious of time.’

  As I say this, my stomach churns uncomfortably, my symbolic loss at pool the evening before still fresh in my mind. I’m not just looking for financial reassurance, I’m look
ing for reassurance that my whole blogging project will actually succeed.

  ‘I know.’ Dylan throws me a protective big-brother-style look. ‘Me too. It’ll take a bit of time. And there’s no guarantees on how much you’ll earn from it. You’re probably gonna have to top up your income some other way – hopefully just for a few months – while your blog takes off. The money you make should grow, but it’ll start pretty small.’

  ‘Not what I needed to hear.’ I chew my lip anxiously. ‘The tips at the bar are way better than I expected, so that’s a help, but how am I going to come up with yet another way to earn extra cash?’

  ‘You don’t need to.’ Dylan gives me a pointed look. ‘There’s some easy cash to be made, here in your apartment.’

  ‘What do you mean… oh, right. My designer gear.’ I grudgingly mull this over for a few moments. ‘You know what, I’ll do it. I bought that stuff when I was living a different life. I’m not so attached to it anymore, and I barely have a social life.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ Dylan takes a puff of his roll-up. ‘You’ll make a tidy sum with that stuff – you have enough of it. Look it out and I’ll get it on eBay. Hopefully that’ll plug your shortfall until your blog starts to make you some decent money .’

  ‘And you think it will?’ I seek his reassurance once more.

  ‘It’s a gamble.’ Dylan stares out into the pea-soup fog soberly. ‘Always was. But what other option do you have? Depends how quickly your subscription rate rises – so far, it’s looking pretty good – and how many of your readers use the links on your site. I’ve already set up the pay-per-click advertising, but that won’t earn that much in itself. Now that you’ve done a couple of posts and have a bit of a following, I think we should sign you up to do some affiliate advertising too.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘You add hyperlinks to words in your posts. When your readers click on them, they’re redirected to other sites where they can buy stuff. The sellers pay you a commission if your reader buys from them.’

  ‘I see.’ I scratch my head, trying to make sense of what Dylan is saying. ‘But how could I do that with my site?’

  ‘What are the possible links to your blog?’ Dylan asks. ‘For example, you could do affiliate advertising with a specialist drinks provider. If people click through and buy gin, or other ingredients for their cocktails, you get a commission.’

  ‘Right… I get it.’ I perk up. ‘So, what about… maybe… a retailer of romcoms – like books or movies? Because I tell stories, don’t I? About dating.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Or… how about… online dating sites?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Dylan stubs out his roll-up. ‘They have potential. You’d earn a decent commission if your readers signed up with them.’

  ‘Great. Let’s do that then.’ I’m encouraged by this. ‘By the way, how’s your own online dating going?’

  ‘Found it a bit weird at first,’ says Dylan. ‘But I started chatting to someone yesterday on it, so we’ll see how that pans out.’

  ‘That’s exciting. What’s she like?’

  ‘Hot.’ He grins wickedly, putting on a pervy-old-man face. ‘That’s enough for me.’

  ‘Euch!’ I screw up my own face in disgust. ‘I’m glad I’m not her. Well, good luck. And thanks, Dylan, for all your help. Really.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Squirt.’ He slaps me on the shoulder affectionately. ‘Now, are you gonna feed me or what?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ We get up and head inside to the kitchen, glad to get into the warmth. ‘I’m not eating though. I’m going out. But I’ll make you a sandwich.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Is that with loverboy?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ I redden as I take cheese and ham from the fridge. ‘He’s taking me for dinner. At a really nice restaurant.’

  ‘Best way to get a girl in the sack.’ Dylan chuckles. ‘He must make decent money then. His pocket money probably wouldn’t cover that.’

  ‘He won’t be getting me in the sack. I guarantee that.’ I tut at Dylan’s chauvinistic behaviour. ‘And what on earth are you talking about pocket money for?’

  ‘You know, because he’s still a child – gets pocket money from his parents.’ Dylan grins at me, enjoying his own humour.

  ‘Oh… see you…’ I point the knife I’m using to butter the bread at him, then put it down as I realise what I’m doing. ‘Just drop that. Unless you want to be responsible for me dumping the guy. I’ve had enough of an issue with our ages, without you throwing in more grenades.’

  ‘Hey, chill.’ Dylan holds up his hands in surrender. ‘I was just kidding. You know that. I’m well happy that you’ve met someone. About bloody time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. What does it matter how old he is? As long as he’s in big-boy pants, what’s the issue?’

  ‘Dylan!’ I wail.

  ‘Aww, sorry.’ He laughs guiltily. ‘I couldn’t resist. I’m done now, I promise. I’ll go set up those advertising affiliations for you.’

  ‘Probably a good idea.’ I eyeball him as he legs it to the other side of the room and disappears behind my laptop.

  A couple of hours later, I’m slipping into a chair at The Gatehouse, an upmarket restaurant in Duddingston Village, near Arthur’s Seat. Opposite me is Josh, looking heart-stoppingly handsome in fitted jeans, a shirt and a tweed dinner jacket.

  ‘You look incredible.’ He grins proudly across the table.

  ‘Ditto.’ I raise an eyebrow in what I hope is a sultry way.

  It appears to have the desired effect, as Josh’s expression shifts to one of hungry lust.

  ‘So…’ He clears his throat, trying to compose himself. ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘A few times,’ I say without thinking. ‘I’m pretty well versed in Edinburgh’s best restaurants.’

  ‘Right.’ He gives a low whistle. ‘Used to the high life then. Better take note of that.’

  I silently kick myself for letting my materialistic side show through. That’s not who I am anymore, not who I ever really was. From Josh’s reaction, it’s clear that this isn’t his regular type of place. He’s done this to impress me, which is really sweet.

  ‘What kind of places do you usually eat at?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t eat out that much.’ He shrugs. ‘But when I do, it’s normally Italian, a steakhouse, that kind of thing. I just prefer a more relaxed atmosphere.’

  ‘I get that.’ I think back to all the pretentious places I used to eat in with my work crowd.

  ‘I’m guessing you got your taste for the finer things in life growing up.’ Josh grins across the table at me.

  ‘What?’ I’m thrown by this assumption. ‘No. Nothing like that. I didn’t… when I was growing up… I was…’

  I tail off, suddenly feeling like a cornered animal, unsure where to go with this. I don’t want Josh to think I’m some kind of pretentious snob with a spoiled upbringing. But I can’t bear the shame of him knowing how I really grew up.

  Thankfully, he’s already moved on to a new topic of conversation.

  ‘So, what do you think of Aaron?’ He pours us each a glass of water from the carafe on our table.

  ‘Aaron?’ I try to hide my relief. ‘I think he’s great. A bit awkward obviously, but he’s bailed me out of a hole more than once now. I owe him a lot.’

  ‘Oh, how so?’

  I realise I’ve inadvertently strayed back into dangerous territory.

  ‘Actually, maybe I’m over-egging it.’ I wave my hand dismissively. ‘What about you, what do you think of him?’

  ‘I think he’s a great guy too.’ Josh nods in agreement with himself. ‘A bit difficult to chat to, but he’s a brilliant boss. Really into helping people get on.’

  Before I can assert my own agreement, an immaculately dressed waiter appears at our table, with freshly baked bread rolls and sea-salted butter presented on a dark grey slate. He takes our order, and
we dive straight into tearing and buttering our rolls. I take my first bite of the delectable warm, crusty-on-the-outside, soft-and-fluffy-on-the-inside bread roll with creamy, salty butter. Like it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life, it triggers an unwelcome pang of longing for my former life. I quickly and forcefully shut this down.

  ‘Yes, Aaron’s definitely one for helping people.’ I revive the thread of our conversation. ‘It’s good there are people like that in life, what with the gap between the rich and the poor continuing to grow. It’s not exactly opportunities for all.’

  ‘Mmm, totally.’ Josh nods in agreement, but doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘And don’t get me started on the rates of child poverty and food bank usage. In this country. It almost makes me want to emigrate.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He puts on a disapproving face, while chewing on his bread roll. ‘Shameful stuff.’

  I wait to see if Josh will say anything further, but once it’s clear he’s not going to engage with my political dialogue, I steer the conversation onto a lighter subject.

  We chat away easily over dinner, mostly talking about the hotel and sharing flirty banter, seizing any opportunity for physical contact. The chemistry between us is so intense that we barely pay any attention to our extortionately priced food. Every time Josh’s hand or leg touches mine, it’s like a bolt of electricity; I’m so hypnotised by him that I’m completely powerless to his charm offensive.

  At the end of our meal, once Josh has settled the bill, he excuses himself to visit the gents, and I finally snap out of my trance. I realise I’ve drunk too much again, and I need to be careful. The way this evening is going, Dylan’s prediction will be absolutely right. And it’s just too soon for that.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Josh asks as he returns.

  ‘Yes, sure.’ I get up from my seat.

  As we leave the restaurant hand-in-hand, thanking the staff as we go, I’m aware of quite a few women in the room watching enviously. It doesn’t surprise me at all; I’d probably do the same. There are hot men, and then there’s Josh. I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s nice to have something (or in this case someone) everyone else wants, but that means there’s plenty of competition waiting to steal him away.