Love by the Book (18 page)

He feigned indignance. “How could you say such a thing? I'm honest to a fault.”

“One of many,” I said. “Now, do you want a Pimm's or a lime rickey?”

“Lime rickey, please.”

I returned with three more jam jars full of liquor (who was eating all this jam?) and sat down at the table, where Lucy was studiously ignoring Adrian and focusing on adding yet more rows to her sleeve.

Adrian sat down next to me and leaned in conspiratorially. “Not a fan apparently.”

I shrugged. “She's just protective of me.”

“I'm sure you don't need protecting from me.”

I took a sip of Pimm's and changed the subject. “How are the moving plans going? Are you still set on invading America?”

“Afraid so. Plane ticket booked for next month.”

I felt a stab of sadness in my gut. Even though he was a complete dick most of the time, I sort of hated the idea of not having him around.

He slung an arm across my shoulder. “Don't look so sad, Cunningham. We'll always have Clissold Park.”

Last January, when we were dating (or whatever we were doing), he and I had spent an afternoon building a snowman in Clissold Park after a freak snowstorm hit London. I didn't know if I should feel touched that he remembered or annoyed that he was now teasing me about it.

I brushed his arm away. “I just feel bad for all my poor countrywomen. There should be a national health warning, like there was for bird flu. Women should be vaccinated to protect against you.”

Adrian looked smug. “I've got an English accent: the women of New York will throw me a welcome parade. Anyway, I've got to run. There are huge swathes of twenty-two-year-old women here who I've not yet slept with, and I'd be doing them a disservice if I didn't give them the opportunity.”

“Don't let me keep you from the lucky ladies.”

He kissed me on the cheek, paused for a moment and leaned in again. “You look good a bit muddy, Cunningham,” he whispered in my ear. “I always knew you were filthy. Let's have a proper good-bye before I go. I'm having a little soirée to see me off—you should come.”

I swatted him away, trying to ignore the tingling between my thighs. “We'll see,” I said, in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. “Good-bye, Adrian.”

“Good-bye, Cunningham.” He turned to Lucy and gave her his most winning grin. “Good-bye, Lucy! A pleasure as always! And do take good care of this one for me, will you?”

“Better than you,” she said, shooting daggers at him.

He bowed with a flourish and kissed both our hands before turning away. As much as I'd miss him, it would probably be a blessing to have him safely ensconced in New York City and far away from me.

With Sleepy Eyes off in the land of Oz, I needed a new
1950
s dating partner. I revisited the section on suitable suitors.

One thing was for sure: this book was a big fan of homogeny. When posed with questions about dating people with differences in ethnicity, nationality, class or religion, the author's answer was always the same: it's probably best to stick with your own kind.

Brushing aside my intense discomfort with this level of xenophobia, I figured the best way to put the advice into practice was to do something I'd avoided for a long time and date a fellow American.

Don't get me wrong, I love Americans. Fondness for guns and crazy politics aside, they're some of the earth's best people: hospitable, funny and kind. There are moments when I'm at the checkout counter at a grocery store in London, being glared at by a sullen teenager as he whacks my eggs too hard into the bag (not a euphemism) and I would give my right eye for someone to tell me to have a nice day.

But dating them is another kettle of fish entirely. There are so many complicated, unspoken rules involved in American dating, and everyone is always trying to trade up on their original investment. It's like the sexual equivalent of
Homes Under the Hammer
. Not to mention the fact that most American men can't dress their way out of a paper bag. I don't know who this Docker guy was, but he has a lot to answer for.

Anyway, I didn't have all that much experience dating Americans. There were a few dalliances in college, but I don't think I'd describe making out with someone in the broom closet of a fraternity house a date. There was Dylan, of course, but we'd known each other since we were kids, so we never really went through the whole “dating” thing—it was more just hanging out with friends and then having a quick fumble on the car ride home. None of which had prepared me particularly well for the world of adult dating.

Still, I was starting to understand the appeal of dating a fellow American: a familiarity with the nineties
TGIF
line-up on
TV
and an appreciation for Kraft macaroni and cheese were things that no amount of properly fitted trousers or charming accents could replace. These were my people. It was time I gave them another shot.

Finding a dateable American in London was another matter. Apparently there were swarms of us here, but I didn't know one single American guy. As with so many other things in life, the answer was just a Google search away, which is how I ended up signing on to YoDate.

I know. YoDate. Doesn't sound promising, does it? But it's the biggest American ex-pat dating community in the world, and there are apparently almost ten thousand eligible American men in London signed up to it. Sorry, not men: bros. All of the guys on YoDate were categorized as “Bros.”

I set up an account in the “Hoes” section (I don't think that needs clarification, does it?) and I was up and emailing Brads and Justins and Scotts like there was no tomorrow.

The next day, my inbox was flooded with messages. Sorry, not messages: sup'dates. That's what they called emails on YoDate. I almost unsubscribed when I saw it, but Cathryn dissuaded me.

“The name isn't a reflection on the men, Lauren, just the site they're on.” She was loading paper into the printer with military precision as she said this. “And you're on it now, too, so you can't judge them too harshly.” She shut the paper drawer with a decisive click.

As always, she had a point. I clicked on the first email and skimmed it, deleting it as soon as I got to the words “country music fan.”

I screened out a few other candidates—a born-again Christian, a Fox news viewer, an
NRA
enthusiast—with Cathryn offering commentary over my shoulder.

“What on earth is wrong with that man?” she asked, pointing to a freshly scrubbed Ivy League type. “You've gone right past him!”

“His favorite book is
The Fountainhead
.”

“So? Isn't that quite popular? I'm sure I saw it in Daunt's the other day.”

“Yeah, it basically means he's a fascist.”

“I don't think Daunt's would be displaying fascist literature—”

“Next!” I yelled.

“Quiet!” Cathryn hissed, looking pointedly at our boss's door.

I kept scrolling until my eye caught on a pair of mischievous dark eyes.

“Him,” I said, pointing to his photo icon.

Cathryn peered over my shoulder. “Yes, he's quite handsome.”

I took in his close-cropped black hair and stubbly beard. His tag name was Frisco.

I gave Frisco a gentle virtual nudge—a “high five” in YoDate terminology—and hoped it would prompt him to get in touch.

It was the end of the day, and Cathryn and I were knee-deep in planning the sponsors' conference; it was all we were thinking about. Well, all she was thinking about. I had a few other things on my mind, particularly when the email pinged into my inbox.

“He's emailed!”

“The caterer? Has he signed the contract?”

“No, not him—Frisco! He just sup'dated me!”

“The one with the nice eyes? What does he have to say?”

“He wants to take me for dinner and cocktails.”

“Dinner and cocktails! Is that how you Americans date? I don't think Michael took me for dinner during our first year together!”

“Yeah, dates tend to involve food in America. I guess it's the lack of pubs or something.”

“Well, it all sounds very promising.”

I sent off a quick email to Frisco suggesting some free evenings. Maybe dating an American again wouldn't be so bad after all.

Tomorrow is my dinner date with Frisco. In preparation, I spent my lunch hour Google-stalking him.

Don't act like you don't do it, too.

Actually, it's encouraged by the book! Well, sort of. The book recommends that, should a stranger ask you out, you should “ask around the neighborhood about his reputation” before going out with him. Surely, with the collapse of local communities and the rise of globalization, the contemporary equivalent of “asking around the neighborhood” is looking up someone on the Internet, right?

From his profile I knew his full name and his home state (California, obviously). I pride myself on being an excellent Googler—it's definitely in my core skill set—so within a few minutes I knew where he went to high school and college, his last three addresses, and had access to about a hundred photos of him through his (not privatized, the fool) Facebook page.

I spent ten minutes flicking through his Flickr (was that little blond woman an ex-girlfriend? What about the brunette? And, holy shit, was that his pug??). I forced myself to click away before I became overwhelmed with unwarranted pangs of intense jealousy and/or lust.

I scanned through the rest of the results and kept seeing references to something called Catify. I clicked on a link to Wired and started reading, coffee dribbling down my chin.

In
2011
, he invented an app that could superimpose an adorable cat face onto any photo. I vaguely remember the frenzy it caused when it first came out. “Kitty me” became a popular catchphrase and celebrities everywhere released kittied photos of themselves on the red carpet and on film sets. Heads of state even got in on the act, kittying photos of their meet and greets. And then, at the height of the kitty-craze, Facebook bought the app for one point three billion dollars.

ONE POINT THREE BILLION DOLLARS, PEOPLE
.

I clicked on another link: there was Frisco giving a
TED
talk about technology and self-expression.

Another: a photo of him shaking hands with Bill Gates.

I stood up from my desk and told Cathryn I was going out for a cigarette.

She eyed me suspiciously. “Are you all right? You've gone pale.”

“I'm fine. I just found out that I'm going on a date with a billionaire.”

Outside, I took a long drag and thought about my predicament. So Frisco was a billionaire, but I had to pretend that I didn't know that he was a billionaire when I met him tomorrow because if I mentioned it, he'd know that I was Google-stalking him and that would be gross. The first rule of Google-stalking is that you can never let on that you already know everything about the person you Google-stalked, even though everyone Google-stalks everyone these days.

I imagine things were much simpler in the fifties. Hearing some neighborhood gossip is substantially different to seeing a photograph of your date palling around with Bill goddamn Gates.

I was going to have to be on my A-game for this one. But how was I supposed to prepare myself for a date with someone psychotically rich? I had no experience with these sorts of things. What if there was a whole rich-people etiquette I knew nothing about? What if they somehow used their cutlery differently from me? What if he took me somewhere scary and fancy where they scraped the crumbs off the table with one of those silver things?

I needed someone who could guide me through this new rarefied world. I walked back into the office with a purposeful stride.

“Right,” I said, perching myself on the edge of Cathryn's desk, “I need your help.”

I was primed and ready for my date with a billionaire. Cathryn had taught me all about the correct order for silverware usage (work from the outside in, apparently) and the correct way to be seated at a table in a small fancy restaurant (wait for the maître d' to pull out the table, then sit down and allow him to shove the table back in place. Seems more complicated than just pulling out the chair . . .).

I was expecting Frisco to pick some extortionate two-Michelin-star restaurant that served only foams and essences, so I was a little confused when he sent over the address of a place in Kentish Town.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find a slightly grubby Ethiopian restaurant. I'd never had Ethiopian food before, but I remembered from an episode of
No Reservations
that you were meant to sit on cushions on the floor and eat with your hands. I suddenly regretted wearing the tasteful shift dress I'd borrowed from Cathryn.

I walked in to find Frisco waiting for me by the door. He looked just like his photograph: piercing eyes, deep dimples and stubble so perfect it looked Photoshopped. Instead of a well-cut suit, he was wearing a pair of board shorts and an old Pixies T-shirt.

I tried to sit on my cushion as elegantly as possible, though I was sure all of the restaurant had caught a glimpse of my Addis Ababa.

I launched straight in with flattering conversation, as per the book's instructions. “Wow, what a hidden gem! How did you find this place?”

Frisco shrugged. “I spent some time in Addis Ababa a few years ago, and a friend there told me about their cousin's place in London. I made it my first stop when I got here and I've been coming ever since.”

No concierge service, then. In the end, he ordered for both of us, and a bunch of unpronounceable but delicious dishes started appearing on our mat. He showed me the best way to eat it, scooping up the spiced meat with pieces of flatbread, and didn't seem too horrified when I dropped a handful onto my (thankfully napkinned) lap.