I probably couldn’t even read them if I got the damn sheet out of my clutch, but I’m pretty sure I’m close to breaking them. I look over and see Robbie in the kitchen screaming ‘BEER BONG!’ I’ve got to get out of here.
‘Can I come?’
‘Of course! But, like, I’m really leaving now. No long goodbyes.’
‘I’m ready. I’ll text Bloomie goodbye,’ I nod. I look up at Jake. His eyes aren’t smirking anymore. ‘Uh…bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
We carefully step around an Irishman doing an impressive routine with an invisible hoop, over Mitch, who’s passionately snogging the white jeans girl, and head out the door.
For the first time in what must, realistically, be years, I’m not waking up the day after a party thinking about the guy who asked me out last night, the guy who dumped me, or the guy next to me. I’m not nursing a sad heart, hoping for a text, or waiting for a kiss. I’m not planning what to wear if he—whoever he might be—asks me out, or dealing with someone else’s hangover.
I’m just lying here, all by myself, in the middle of the bed, arms and legs reaching to each corner like a starfish, stretching and sighing happily.
I weigh up the benefits of getting tea and toast to bring back to bed versus the effort required, and decide it’s worth it. I only have minor desert-floor mouth and, in fact, don’t feel too bad at all. Sleeping for eight hours can cure anything, seriously. I’m back in bed, starfishing and munching, within a few minutes.
This is great.
Of course, I can’t lie. After a few minutes of happy contented-ness, I am kind of thinking about Jake. I’m kind of thinking about the fluttering in my stomach when I was standing next to him in the kitchen.
You know, here’s all it comes down to: he is possibly the sexiest man I’ve ever met. I mean, really. And perhaps it’s all Kate’s fault for talking about fancying someone, because I haven’t been attracted to someone like that in years. Maybe ever. I normally evaluate the attractiveness of a guy in a sort of detached way, ie, nice hair, bad shoulders, good teeth, etc. But last night was different. I reacted to Jake like a chemical thing exposed to another, um, chemical thing. (Fill in the blank. I can’t.) I had a genuine tingly feeling every time I was near him. I have a mild tingly feeling just thinking about him now.
My phone beeps.
Breakfast, the usual place, at 11 am?
From Bloomie. Yay, she’s taking Saturday off work, for a change. I reply.
See you there.
I wonder whether he was teasing me at the end of the night about my Dating Sabbatical.
But—and here’s the best part—I don’t wonder if he’ll call. He can’t, since he doesn’t have my number. I don’t want him to, since, after all, I know very well it’d go wrong in the end and I’d be dumped and miserable, again. I can’t break the Dating Sabbatical, especially not for a guy like him. He’s too arrogant to be really nice and too smartarsey to not be a bastardo. When I remember all that, Jake flits out of my mind as easily as he flitted in, and I feel at ease and in control again. I smile smugly. I have outwitted the first stumbling block to the Dating Sabbatical. High-fives to me.
My thoughts turn to the weekend stretching ahead. I’ve got a stellar Saturday planned: coffee with Kate and Bloomie and a tour of the vintage stuff on Portobello Road, followed by a walk across Hyde Park with coffees and an intense inspection of H&M and Zara in Knightsbridge. That should do us for a few hours. (Never attempt Topshop on a Saturday: only the Oxford Circus one is any good, really, and it’s colonised by gangs of petrifying teenage girls.)
Shower, soap, shave, scrub, dry, moisturise…I’m feeling kind of smug and pleased with myself, and so decide to take tranquil inspiration from Manhattan Mommies. I wear caramel quilted ballet slippers, white jeans, a gold belt, a white vest and a caramel cardigan. (Isn’t it strange how everything I wore on Wednesday felt perfect, but would be so wrong today?) I tie the silky (polyester) scarf through a little loop on my lucky yellow clutch for a bit of flair. Hair is clean and straight. My eyebrows do exactly what I tell them to. Outer and Inner Selves are serene and content, walking hand in hand down Madison Avenue.
On the way to Notting Hill I get a text from Mitch.
Did you get the number of the bus that hit me last night?
I reply:
Don’t call her a bus, darling, she seemed lovely.
Mitch texts:
Harhar. Joe wants your number. I know from last time you fucking crucified me that I’m meant to ask you first so I am. Reply asap I’m not your sexretary
I reply:
No. I’m not dating at the moment.
I think for a second, and then text again:
PS Which one was Joe anyway?
Mitch texts:
A&Fitch tshirt
I reply:
Oh God no. No no. Talk later dude. Thanks for last night.
Hmm, how odd. I wasn’t nice to that guy and yet I made enough of a good impression for him to pursue asking me out? Weird. My phone beeps again.
Hey trouble. Ant here. Wld U like to go 4 a drink 2moro night? :-)
Ugh, txt spk is almost as creepy as monobrowed Ant. What the hell? I think for a few minutes and then reply:
Hello Ant. I’m flattered, but unable to, due to aforementioned Dating Sabbatical commitment.
Ant texts:
Come on. A drink isn’t a date.
I reply:
I’m sorry. I can’t. I took a sacred vow.
My phone rings. It’s Ant. I hate it when people ring just after texting you. I’m not sure why it’s so rude, but it is. I turn it to silent and jump off the No. 52 bus. I am so excited about today. I’ve got £150 in my purse, earmarked to burn on clothes. That’s quite a lot when you’re shopping at H&M and Zara, you know. (Do not speak to me of credit cards. I got into several thousand pounds of debt at 23—£4,893 to be exact—and, after a huge and nasty kerfuffle with my bank and my parents, it took years to pay off. Even thinking about that makes me feel sick. So I prefer to just not think about the whole money thing. That’s why I never open bank statements.)
Kate’s already in our favourite booth in our favourite little Westbourne
