that,’ I say. ‘I won’t bore you with the details…Where’s The Dork?’
Her face goes gooey with happiness. ‘On the way. He just texted me. He had to have dinner with his sister tonight. She’s pregnant. Her name is Julie. She lives in Paris. She sounds really nice.’
I am shocked. This kind of babbling is entirely unlike Bloomie and utterly delightful to see. We smile at each other, but before we get caught in a sickly-sweet moment I quickly turn my smile into a manic, scrunchy-nose-frowny-pig grin and turn my face back into the kitchen…just as an utterly divine man walks in from the living room.
He’s very tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. And his eyes are locked directly on my scrunchy-pig face. Shit. I quickly try to set my face to pretty, but it’s too late. He’s already glanced over me and back to the group of people he walked in with. Good thing I’m not in the market to get attention from men, I say to myself.
Bloomie swings her legs back in. ‘Mitch’s cousin is here!’ she says to me. That’s Mitch’s cousin? I think. Mitch is blond and skinny. She hops down from the window sill with the careless aplomb of someone wearing jeans, and skips through the crowd shouting ‘Jake!’
I ease my way down delicately and decide, Dating Sabbatical or not, I can’t quite face meeting a good-looking man named Jake who just saw me looking like a pig and will therefore dismiss me without a second thought.
Instead, I turn to see what the current mixologist is up to. It’s Fraser, another old friend from university. He’s looking his usual prematurely middle-aged self in corduroy trousers and a slight belly, and is pulling Valrhona chocolate powder, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, full-fat milk and a bottle of brandy out of an Ocado delivery bag. We kiss hello.
‘Help me!’ he says. ‘How the bugger do I work this godawful contraption?’
‘It’s a blender, sweetie,’ I say. ‘Holy fatgrams, Batman, what the sweet hell are you making?’
‘Dessert cocktail. Had one on a date the other night. Ruddy nice, actually.’ Fraser’s dad was in the army and Fraser talks just like him. Gruff, with very abbreviated sentences and archaic curse words.
‘The cocktail or the date?’ I ask.
‘Cocktail. Date got blotto and threw up. Waste of a night, actually. Think I was boring her.’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘Not possible.’
It’s entirely possible, if he started talking about the history and structure of the British Armed Forces. He’s such a lovely guy, but this is probably the fiftieth bad-first-date story I’ve heard him tell.
‘She clearly has a drinking problem, Fraymund,’ I say, as we finish measuring in the ingredients and press blend. ‘Onwards and upwards. Now, what are you going to call that? The Muffin Top? The Spare Tyre?’
Fraser laughs. ‘I was going to call it the Dessert Cocktail.’
‘Good call,’ I say. We pour the thick concoction into the glasses and ring the large bell Mitch also bought specifically for these parties. (He takes them seriously. Did I mention that?) Everyone without a drink crowds round and takes a glass, and Fraser leads the toast (‘The Dessert Cocktail!’), then writes the name of the cocktail on a chart on the wall. It’s delicious, though—unsurprisingly—sickeningly rich. The crowd gives it a seven out of ten. I then show Fraser how to take the blender apart (‘Cripes, it’s like a ruddy rifle,’), blast it with the hose in the sink and leave it upside down on a teatowel to dry, next to the other blenders waiting for their next chance to shine. Fraser starts talking to two girls standing next to the chart about the merits of full-fat milk, and I collect all the used glasses in the kitchen and run them through hot soapy water.
‘This is far too complicated. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned drinking?’ says a voice behind me. I turn around and—you’ve probably guessed it, but it’s true—the scrunchypig-face guy is talking to me. What did Bloomie call him? Jake. I assemble my thoughts quickly.
‘This is drinking on a more evolved level. It’s taken years to iron out the kinks.’
During the last four seconds, I noticed a few more things about him. He’s about six foot three, I’d guess. Slightly crinkly-round-the-edges eyes. Teeth almost straight and very white. Eyelashes dark but not too long. Lips look like they get sunburnt a lot. In short, attractive as hell.
Go-go-Gadget mantra. Posture is confidence, silence is poise.
‘Looks like a slick operation to me,’ he says.
I nod nonchalantly. ‘The last remaining kink is that as the night goes on, the names and scores become hard to read. So we never really know who the winner is.’
‘Hmm.’ He looks over at the chart. ‘Well, I came prepared and I am ready to conquer.’
Fuck, I shouldn’t even need my mantra, goddamnit. You are on a Dating Sabbatical, missy. And remember Rule 3: no obvious flirting.
‘What do you have?’ I ask.
‘Passionfruit. Vodka. Pineapple juice. Ginger.’
‘How intriguing. Do you have a name yet?’
‘Let’s think of one as you help me make it.’ He looks over at me and grins. Fuck, I adore a bit of charming bossiness. No, really. I do.
‘OK.’
I busy myself chopping and scooping passionfruit into the blender, and he slices the rind off the ginger. Working side by side like this, we lapse into silence for a few seconds and I desperately try to think of something offhand and witty to say. All I can think about is how close he is to me and it’s making me feel all hot and tingly and flushed. Hey—stop that. I know what you’re thinking. Of course I won’t break the Dating Sabbatical Rules for the first guy I’m really, truly, seriously attracted to (in ages, by the way, like, years). Wait, why am I trying to think of something to say? Rule 3, damnit, remember Rule 3.
‘I need something,’ he says abruptly.
‘I’m sure we’ve got it. People bring every possible ingredient…I mean, someone even brought a puppy last time.’
‘A puppy? In a cocktail?’ he exclaims, turning to look at me straight on for the first time.
I nod up at him, trying to ignore the buckling feeling in my tummy. ‘It was tragique, but tasty. The mutt-tini.’ Is that obvious flirting?
‘Mutt-tini. Nice. I was going to say cockerspanieltail, but I can see I’ll have to improve on that.’ He grins at me and the buckling doubles. I feel like I’m sweating. Am I sweating? Suddenly, he spies Bloomie’s pestle and mortar. ‘Fucking bingo!’
He grabs it, throws the chopped ginger in and starts smushing it into a pulpy juice.
‘Honey!’ I say.
‘Yes, sweetpea?’ he shoots back.
I giggle. Foolishly. (Is that obvious flirting? No. Just politeness.) ‘No, HONEY. You need honey in this. With ginger.’
‘Gosh, you’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?’ Jake says admiringly.
