The Dating Detox: A laugh out loud book for anyone who’s ever had a disastrous date!

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 Grove café when I finally get there at a few minutes past 11 am, and so is my large latte-with-less-milk-slash-macchiato-with-extra-milk. A triple espresso is waiting for Bloomie, who turns up 30 seconds after me. Hot damn, Kate is a planner.

‘You look natty!’ exclaims Bloomie. She is looking extremely pretty this morning: very pink of cheek and bright of eye. Lots of sex, I expect. (Mmm. Sex. I’ll think about that more later. I’m going to miss it. Why was I so phenomenally attracted to Jake? Is it my body just being annoying, as it knows it can’t have any action at the moment? It’s quite unlike me. Hmm.)

‘Thanks sweeeedie,’ I say, sliding into the booth and pulling my coffee towards me. ‘How did we all pull up today?’

‘Smashing, actually,’ grins Bloomie. ‘I had to make it up to Eugene for the work call last night.’ She stretches and yawns. ‘I can comfortably say I excelled myself.’

‘Ew,’ I say.

‘Fine,’ says Kate, scanning the menu.

‘I don’t know why you’re reading that, Kate, my girl,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously going to have a BLT with a pint of English mustard on the side.’

‘And you’re obviously going to have a plain ciabatta with your utterly minging Parma ham,’ she retorts, folding it with a flourish. ‘Oooh, that reminds me.’ She flips open a diary to the ‘notes’ section (does anyone actually use that section?) and writes down ‘ciabatta’ on a multi-columned list.

‘What’s that?’

‘Supermarket shopping list.’

‘Is that in order of aisle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Can we order, darlings? Dying here,’ interrupts Bloomie.

We order. Bloomie fills us in on what happened at the party after we left—all hell broke loose; apparently that Irish crowd are chaos merchants when it comes to houseparties—and I tell them quickly about talking to Jake last night, skipping over the tingly attraction part and making sure to add that I am definitely not interested due to the wonderful, wonderful Sabbatical, and about waking up this morning and feeling so happy to be in bed by myself. I also tell them about the texts today. On cue, my phone beeps.

From a mystery number:

Robbie here! Hope you don’t mind but Mitch gave me your number! Would you like to go for a drink on Tuesday! We should catch up! I’ve missed you’re laugh!

Ugh. Fucking Mitch giving my number to ex-fucking-boyfriends. And his grammar is appalling. I show them and delete it without replying, and then show them Ant’s text.

‘I barely spoke to him,’ I say, mystified. ‘I think he’s a dick.’

I tap a quick text to Mitch:

I said don’t give out my number! The curtain pisser is stalking me!

From Mitch:

He’s with me now. Took your no. without asking me. And he just read that text harhar.

Kate and Bloomie collapse with giggles.

‘Screw him,’ I say. ‘He dumped me five years ago.’

‘Right on, sister,’ says Bloomie supportively. ‘But you were so obviously just killing time with him…’

‘I was?’ I say. I don’t remember that.

‘You never answered his calls when you were out with us, remember…? Maybe I’m wrong, I just didn’t think you were that smitten.’

‘Hmm,’ I say. That’s interesting, I don’t remember that. Nonetheless, he did dump me via text. And he’s nowhere near as cute as he used to be. And I’m on a Dating Sabbatical and not interested. ‘Why the hell is sleazy Ant trying to ask me out, though? And some Billy guy wanted my number…’

‘Simple economics,’ says Kate, the accountant. ‘It’s supply and demand. You are not available, so demand for you is high.’

‘No, no. It’s her pheromones. She is giving off some crazy look-but-don’t-touch, hey-big-boy aura. That’s what it is,’ says Bloomie.

‘Are you still drunk?’ I ask her.

‘Probably,’ she nods, sipping her espresso. ‘I adore Jake, by the way. He’s just the kind of man I can see you with.’

I’ll ignore that. She’s a bit too direct sometimes. ‘How come you know him and I don’t?’ I ask.

Bloomie thinks. ‘Skiing that March when you had to work, I guess. And he was at that party at Fraser’s that you didn’t go to—the one just after you and Rick broke up, when you couldn’t get out of bed.’

I’ll ignore that, too.

‘He moved here like a month ago or so.’

‘Where from?’

‘Edinburgh, maybe? I don’t know.’

‘He doesn’t have a Scottish accent, though,’ I muse. I catch Bloomie throwing Kate a knowing look.

‘Why don’t you ask him all these questions? Mitch could arrange a set-up,’ she smiles.

‘Well, unfortunately I’m on a Dating Sabbatical and therefore not interested,’ I say airily.

‘Very unfortunate!’ agrees Bloomie with a grin, which turns into a yawn. ‘I’m fuuuuh-king shattered.’ This is an imitation of Posh Mark. Bloomie loved his accent so much. ‘Saahriouslaah.’

‘You cannot imitate my ex-boyfriends when I am on a Dating Sabbatical,’ I say firmly.

‘It’s not in the Rules,’ says Bloomie. ‘Tragic’lah.’

Kate dunks the whole of the end of her BLT in the English mustard, and says quietly, ‘I have something to tell you guys.’