The Dating Detox: A laugh out loud book for anyone who’s ever had a disastrous date!. Gemma BurgessЧитать онлайн книгу.
of sporting/relationship analogies.) She seems pretty happy these days—a bit quieter and less prone to silliness than she used to be, and we don’t see her as much as we used to, but happy.
‘Did you like Tray before he asked you out?’
Kate squints in thought. ‘I don’t know…I just thought he seemed very intelligent and sort of…kind. Kind and interesting to talk to. And I’d decided I wanted that in my next boyfriend. Yeah, I guess I did like him first.’
‘And sexual chemistry?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, all that too,’ says Kate quickly. ‘And you know, I really was intent on having someone kind. I’d met so many, uh…bastardos. Remember Dick the Prick? And The Missing Link?’
I start laughing. Dick the Prick was a guy she met when she first moved to London, but he cheated on her and she dumped him. The Missing Link wasn’t awful, but he wasn’t particularly nice either. He was thick and pretty.
‘So after all your bastardos you decided to proactively find a clever non-bastardo?’
‘Uh…yes.’
‘That’s just like me and…’ I pause for a second to remember his name ‘…Posh Mark! He was kind!’
And thick, I add silently. Fuck me, I’m callous.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure how well suited you and Posh Mark ever were. Tray and I have a lot in common. I enjoy his company. He’s very intelligent,’ she adds. Again.
Hmm. She sounds a little Stepford Wife-y and she’s not meeting my eye, but I decide to agree with her.
‘You’re right. Lucky you, darling. So important to have someone kind and intelligent.’
There might be something wrong here, but I’m not going to push it. Kate doesn’t talk about her feelings unless she wants to. She has that nice reserved thing going on; not in a cold way—she’d do anything for any of us. I think it’s shyness. You never know if she’s really great or utterly miserable until she wants you to. I wish I wasn’t such an open book. My mother can read my mood by how many rings it takes me to answer the phone.
‘How are you feeling about Posh Mark, anyway, Sass?’ says Kate. I rang her on Tuesday night and bawled, embarrassingly.
‘Oh, fine,’ I say truthfully. ‘He was, you know, a life raft. Better than drowning in a sea of self-pity and vodka.’
‘Nicely put,’ grins Kate. ‘So where’s off the list now?’
‘Eight Over Eight, because that was our first date place,’ I say, taking a thoughtful bite of my burger. ‘And Julie’s, because we used to go there for brunch when we stayed at his place.’
‘Are there any brunch places near your place that aren’t tainted by ex-boyfriends by now?’ Kate says, laughing. She professes to not understand why I refuse to go back somewhere that reminds me of someone who dumped me. Especially as the list is getting slightly ridiculous.
‘None,’ I reply honestly. ‘Pimlico is one big no-go zone for me these days. I may have to move.’
We move on to gossiping about people we know, and talk about the party at Mitch’s place tomorrow night. The guestlist seems to be snowballing, with lots of people I haven’t seen in ages. Yay. I siphon off the back part of my brain and leave it to go through my wardrobe and plan an outfit. We finish our burgers, pay the bill and decide to go outside to finish our beers with a fag.
‘God, I miss smoking,’ sighs Kate.
‘Mwhy mdya qvit?’ I say, talking with my cigarette in my mouth as I light hers. So classy.
She takes a drag and exhales happily. ‘Tray hates it, and he IS right. It does kill you.’
‘Yes, he is right. It does.’
There seems nothing more to say. See? Even saying his name halts conversation.
‘How’s the world of accounting?’ I ask.
‘Scintillating,’ says Kate crisply. ‘At least I’ll never be out of a job, no matter what happens to the economy.’
‘Why?’
‘Accountants are always needed. We’re like prostitutes. One of the world’s oldest professions.’
This, from Kate, is outrageous. She’s in a funny mood tonight. Funny odd, not funny haha.
‘Oh well, that’s good,’ I say, starting to laugh. ‘What are you doing on Sunday? I’ve probably got the flat to myself all weekend as usual, so we could have an all-day movie fest. We’ll start with Sixteen Candles, then Overboard’—did I mention I have a thing for Goldie Hawn? I totally do—‘then Dirty Dancing, then Pretty Woman, then 13 Going On 30. Holy shit, that film makes me cry.’
‘13 Going on 30 makes you CRY?’
‘Yes. Whenever Jennifer Garner cries I lose it. I don’t know what it is. I saw her cry on Alias once, and I had only just flicked over from another channel, so I had no idea what was going on, and I cried my arse off…though we could sub in Old School and end on a high. Marvellous film.’
‘Marvellous,’ agrees Kate happily. ‘Don’t you feel, though, that chick flicks are all the same?’
I splutter in mock outrage.
‘The SAME?’
‘Yah, you know…the same. They all kind of suck.’
‘So? Christmas kind of sucks and is always the same, too. Do you hate Christmas?’
Kate starts to laugh. ‘No…’
‘Actually, chick flicks DON’T suck. In fact, Katiepoo, the chick flick is a formula designed to satisfy, but always with small subtle variations. The girl is somehow identifiable. The guy is somehow unattainable.’ I start to warm to my argument. ‘There is fashion. There is a dancing scene. There is some kind of klutzy friend, though sometimes the heroine is a klutz too. Then somewhere along the line, there is a fear that he’s messed up forever and has to prove himself to her to win her love.’
Kate nods. ‘Yah. I picked the plot up. When I was six.’
‘In fact, forget Christmas. Chick flicks are like all my favourite things in life—burgers! Really high heels! Weekends in New York! Sexual encounters! Every single one is different, but has the same essential components and is—hopefully—equally pleasing!’
We both laugh. OK, we cackle. The two-beer buzz is delightful.
‘Uh…ladies. May I trouble you for a lighter?’
Deep voice. American. Male. Late 20s. I glance at Kate’s face, but she’s staring at Mr America behind me. I turn around, getting out my lighter at the same time.
‘Sure,’ I hand it over and he grins and lights his cigarette. Extremely cute, in a jock kind of way. Baggy pale blue jeans, Ralph Lauren Polo T-shirt, short floppy American-banker haircut. He must be fresh off the boat. American men wear very bad jeans till they realise every other man in London wears his jeans darker and tighter. Then they all buy Diesel jeans. (They never change their hair.)
‘Thanks,’ he leans back and exhales, a small smirk on his face. ‘So you like chick flicks as much as sex, seriously?’
‘It’s awfully rude to eavesdrop.’
Kate’s phone rings. ‘It’s Tray—back in a sec…’
Hmm, I have to wait for Kate and talk to Mr America. I could wait inside, if I was going to be really strict about this not dating men thing…But he’s so cute. Preppy, Ivy League and cute. Damn it, come on Sass, I chide myself. I should not be noticing this shit. I decide to finish my fag and put the Dating Sabbatical to the test. I run over my mantra in my head, more out of habit than need. After all, I’m not able to date him,