turned 25, following a long dry spell during which I had an excellent time and met no one I really fancied. At all. I had lots of flirtations, of course, and still went on a few dates—just to keep my tools sharp. When none of the guys tried particularly hard to keep seeing me after one or two (or three or four) dates, however, it was actually more depressing than if I’d actually liked them, if that makes sense. But I really liked Brodie. Damnit, he was cute, with perfect teeth, like an American. And he really made me laugh.
Clapham Brodie was a product manager, whatever the hell that is, and lived in Clapham. (Clapham is an area in South London that is popular with young people because it’s quite affordable, quite safe and quite nice…oh God it’s boring.) All his friends lived in Clapham, and every restaurant or bar he ever went to was in Clapham. ‘I will never leave Clapham,’ he said on our first date. ‘It is the centre of the universe.’ He was full of quips that tickled me, though looking back, I’m not sure he was joking about that.
So. Clapham Brodie. Very funny guy. He kept up a running patter of playful silliness that I adored. We had long, giggly dinners at Metro and the Pepper Tree, where he made up food voices (‘don’t eat meeeeeeee!’ squeaked pasta, ‘who are you callin’ chicken?’ barked stirfry—I know what you’re thinking, but it was funny at the time). We danced to 80s music in Café Sol on Fridays and bad dance music in Infernos on Saturdays (if we were drunk enough to consider it), and spent Sundays in the Sun pub, people-watching and making up voice-over conversations for strangers. I found him hilarious, if a tiny bit deluded about his own intelligence (he once corrected my pronunciation of hyperbole, incorrectly). And we never talked about anything serious, ever. I’m not a particularly serious person, so that was fine by me.
After a few months of what I considered to be a rather nice relationship, I heard him refer to me as ‘a friend…with benefits’ when he was talking to his mates in a bar. A cold chill ran over me, but I was too chicken to bring it up that night. (The ol’ fear of confrontation strikes again.)
‘How do you…uh, feel about, us, what’s going on with us?’ I asked his teddy bear Ivan the next night, as we watched DVDs in his bedroom. (Clapham Brodie liked to chat via the medium of the teddy.) ‘I am bear. I feel ggrrrrrrrrrrreat!’ growled the toy. (Ivan was Eastern European.) I glanced at Clapham Brodie. He kept his eyes on the TV. I decided to try again, in a silly way he might respond to. ‘Do you think…are we…you know, officially going steady? Like, swinging hands?’ I asked in an American accent that I hoped belied my hopeful tone. Clapham Brodie put the toy down and looked at me. ‘I was wondering when this would come up…’ he said, and promptly dumped me. If I hadn’t asked him, he would have let us keep wandering on for months. Friends with benefits infuckingdeed. Bastardo. I was quite upset about Clapham Brodie, I must admit. The ability to be silly is so attractive and rarer than you might think.
Shall I just tell you about Break-Up No.4 quickly? Go on, then. We’re nearly done in my Tour O’ Heartbreak.
Break-Up No.4: Smart Henry. A bit less than a year after Clapham Brodie, I met Smart Henry at a BBQ in Putney. (People who live in Putney have to bribe you to come and visit them by offering you food.) I was there with Bloomie, who was dating the BBQ host, a man now known as The Hairy Back. Smart Henry was The Hairy Back’s cousin. Smart Henry lived in Putney too, in a grubby little terrace. He was very tall and thin and scruffy, and always wore a battered tweed jacket that had belonged to his father, which made him look like a genteel English professor-in-the-making. Smart Henry seemed to have the perfect combination of indie cred (he freelanced for the NME and reviewed films and bands for the Guardian), genuine braininess (he had a degree from Cambridge) and politeness (he stood up when I approached the table, and always made sure I had a drink), with just enough silliness to surprise and satisfy (he’d frown at me when I teased him and say funny, mock-patronising things like ‘you’re smarter than you look’, or ‘that’s a spanking for you’). He always called me by my real name—Sarah—rather than Sass, which everyone has always called me, ever since I can remember.
Smart Henry was also older than me—32 to my 26—which was refreshing. Enough of these boys, I thought, I want a man. He was nonchalant about everything, and suggested cool, grown-up things to do—like see arthouse films, or go to new restaurants no one else knew about yet, or art fairs where we’d drink brandy out of his hipflask and make up faux-expert reviews. He was a bit serious and detached, but I put that down to age. I was happy.
Then just less than six months after we met (a record long relationship for me), Smart Henry announced he was moving to the States to go to Harvard for an MBA as he was ‘fed up with earning fuck all’ and wanted to ‘make some serious coin’. So he broke up with me, and I went home and cried.
Was I really devastated? I don’t know. Yes. I think I was. But I was tired. I felt like I’d been dating for decades. It seemed like they always really liked me until they got to know me. And each time I met someone new, I tried to be as positive and open and hopeful as I could be. Each time I got so damn fond of them and I’d wonder if I was falling in love. I thought they were having fun. I certainly was. (Though then again, I find it pretty easy to have a good time. It’s one of my better qualities.) But each time it went wrong.
Of course, over the years I also met a lot of guys who were almost great, with one fatal flaw. I don’t think I’m being too picky, either. Would you date someone who had a horrible snake-tongued kissing technique, or who ate with his mouth open, or talked about money all night, or admitted to an extensive Crocs collection, or who said stupid things like ‘Global warming, I’m not sure I believe in it’? (‘It’s not the tooth fairy,’ I replied. “Believing” makes no difference.’) Well, I wouldn’t. One date was enough. Sometimes I ignored them afterwards, sometimes they ignored me, whatever: a disappointing mistake is a disappointing mistake.
Oh, Smart Henry. I hope you’re making some serious coin now. You cockmonkey. If I’d only known what was ahead of me. The next guy was Rick.
I can’t bear to think about him right now. I just can’t. Anyway, I’m almost at work.
I get out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus and start walking up past Burger King to my little corner of Soho. I love it at 9.30 am. The streets are scuzzy, and fresh air mingles with the smell of last night’s sin, but the sun is shining in its absent-minded London way, and Soho looks all small and personal. Not big famous naughty Soho. My nice little Soho, with my favourite little hidden coffee shop, where they know what I like without me having to go through the whole ‘latte but with a bit less milk slash macchiato but with a bit more milk’ thing.
I work in a tiny advertising agency on a little road just near Golden Square, just around the corner from Piccadilly Circus. My first ever boss, Cooper, left the (big, glossy, soulless) ad agency we worked at to start it, and after a few months of witnessing the Machiavellian politics at the big agency, I scurried off to join him. It’s a fun job, not a real job like being a doctor or a teacher. But I like it. Anyway that’s all I’ll say about work for the moment. The only thing more boring than hearing about other people’s jobs is hearing about other people’s dreams.
‘I had the most bizaaaaaaaaaaarre dream last night!’ chirrups Laura as I walk into the office. She’s a Mac monkey—that is to say, a very junior designer. Very kooky, very sweet, constantly stunned and excited by everything.
‘Really?’ I say, turning on my computer and settling at my desk. I sit in the far corner, facing the room, back to the wall, so I can see everything that’s going on. If I slouch in my seat, no one can see me from behind my monitor. It’s the perfect place to hide on a day like today.
