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

I don’t know why I just said drinkydinks. I’m sorry. I’m not quite myself today.

Andy leaves me alone for the rest of the day, talking instead to his art minions about Doom, or some other sociopathic computer killing game, and how good he is at it.

I try to work, but my mind keeps wandering. I’m sure that by now, you know what it’s wandering back to. Dumped again! Six times. Etc.

OK, let’s get it over and done with.

The man I caught shagging a Pink Lady.

Break-Up No.5: Rick. I didn’t even really fancy him at first, honestly. We met outside the Westbourne in Notting Hill one sunny Sunday afternoon in late summer two years ago. From that very first meeting, he pursued me with an intensity that was hard to resist. I mean, he really pursued me. Sarcastic texts, funny emails, more wordplay than you could shake your innuendo at, flirty flattery…As you can imagine, I was a bit of a skittish dater by this stage and tried hard to see the potential bastardo in any man. And I thought he was too slick, too arrogant, too charming, so I tried to stay away from him when I could, and was sarcastic and flip when I couldn’t. That seemed to interest him even more. His flatmate worked with Bloomie, and they were friendly and somehow we seemed to run into him a lot at bars and parties. Loads of women were always after him—I wouldn’t call Rick the most handsome man I’ve ever dated, but he had charisma. And he always made a beeline for me, which was flattering, obviously.

So, after about four or five months of Rick’s charm offensive, during the dark, endless depths of January when it’s really, really depressing to be cold and single, I said yes to dinner. We met up one Thursday at Notting Hill Brasserie, where the food and wine and ambience combine to make you feel important and happy and interesting, all at once. And we talked till they closed. It was the best first date I’d ever had. He bared his soul, and I bared mine, and I realised that what I’d thought was slick arrogance was just hard-earned confidence (he’d won several scholarships to school and university) and genuine charm. We found each other interesting, and funny, and smart—at least he kept telling me he thought that…I now think he was lying, of course. But I thought he was wonderful. We kissed, and sparks went off in my chest. At the end of the night he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I’ll call tomorrow. I’ll do better than that.’ He called me the minute I got home and we talked till I fell asleep. I was smitten. (I mean smote. No, smitten.)

For the first three months, I was in dating heaven. Rick was sharp and witty and worldly and attentive and all those other attractive things that make a girl flexible at the knees. But then, almost overnight, he started to, well, be not quite so nice. He stopped emailing and texting first (an absolute must, and yes I am a feminist, dash it, but all the same), and didn’t suggest meeting up as much as he used to—in fact, he would wait for me to gingerly bring up the subject and then say ‘let’s play it by ear’ to see if something (someone?) more exciting came up. He never asked how I was, or what I had planned that week. He’d ignore my call on a Thursday and not return it all weekend while I tried to remain positive and think, ‘It’s cool! He doesn’t have to see me! I love me-time!’ and then on Sunday afternoon would text me to come round for, well, not-particularly-interesting hangover sex and a DVD. Which he chose. So it was something like Sin City. Or Death Proof.

A bastardo, in other words. A Class-A bastardo cockmonkey that I should have ditched the minute he turned sour, like milk. But I didn’t. I tried to pretend I was fine and happy, and made excuses to my friends and myself: he’s working, he’s stressed. I felt him pulling away, dimming the addictive, warming spotlight of his adoration and I couldn’t bear it. We’d been perfect! He knew me, I knew him! I spent days and nights racking my brain, thinking how to make him go back to adoring me like he had at the beginning. I analysed every text and email, and hoped and hoped and hoped that everything would go back to being good. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve probably done it too. Everyone has one person they really lost their head over. And he was mine.

Why, you ask? Because I thought he understood me? Because I thought I understood him? Because of my immature, impossibly hopeful disposition? Because all my previous relationships paled in comparison? Because each successive break-up had left my self-esteem in tatters? Or because all my previous disappointments made me determined to hang on to this one potentially perfect happiness if I could?

I don’t know. There are a thousand possible reasons. None are really good enough.

And you know what’s even worse? Even during those six torturous weeks of him acting like this, we’d meet up once a week or so—me, sick with nerves obviously—and it would be bliss again. He’d apologise, blame work for being too busy to see me, we’d have a bottle of wine and talk and laugh and sparkle and I’d adore him more than I ever had before, despite the days of confidence-eroding worry beforehand. I’d feel totally secure, blissfully happy, utterly content. And it was during one of those nights when I told him I loved him.

I know! Don’t look at me like that. Trust me, I know I shouldn’t have said it.

I hadn’t planned it, it just popped out. It’s not the kind of thing I’d ever, ever have said if I’d been in the least bit in control of myself. I’d never said it to anyone else. Maybe I felt so happy and relieved that the sparkly secure feeling was there after a particularly long week with almost no contact from him. Maybe—probably—I subconsciously thought I’d prompt him to say he loved me too, and we’d go back to being sparkly all of the time. Who knows? The female brain is an annoyingly mysterious thing. Even to us. At the time I thought I meant it, by the way, but I realised pretty soon it wasn’t love…it was more like addiction.

And no, of course he didn’t say it back. He just smiled, and kissed me. (We were in his kitchen cooking spaghetti bolognese, which I hate but every boyfriend I’ve ever had thinks he can cook better than anyone in the world.) In a split second I realised he wasn’t going to say it back, because he didn’t love me, and never had. I wanted to run away and cry, but instead I poured another glass of wine and kept smiling. It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine. Just hang in there and be positive and show him what a good girlfriend you are.

And the next night was the ‘Come As Your Childhood Ambition’ party.

For weeks—months—afterwards, I kept getting hammered and crying. I honestly felt like I should look like a human raisin, I cried so much. I turned 28 just two weeks after he dumped me. That birthday was a real low point. Bloomie organised a dinner for me and I had to keep a tissue folded in my palm to mop up the tears that just burst from my face, even when I didn’t think I was crying. I then got as drunk as I could, threw up, and had to be taken home by 10 pm. God, that was a pathetic period of my life. I hate that me. I fucking hate her. After every other break-up I’d bounced back pretty fast, with the help of the magic trifecta of friends, clothes and vodka, ready to head out and have some fun again. But not this time. Recovering from Rick was like recovering from a debilitating illness. I needed liquids (vodka), darkened rooms (bars) and rest (vodka-induced comas).

I don’t even know why Rick affected me like that. He just did. It was—oh God, it was a car crash.

In comparison, the Posh Mark break-up was like skinning my knee.

Rick never called me to apologise, by the way. In fact, we didn’t even have the excruciating/satisfying/sad ritual of giving each other’s things back. His flatmate gave Bloomie my eye make-up remover and various underthings I’d left at his house. (He had left nothing at mine. He’d refused to stay over after a few token efforts at the beginning. Another bastardo sign, by the way. The home game advantage is huge.)

I’m really not a victim, though you probably think I’m an absolute basket case after everything I’ve told you. You know, I secretly wonder—and sorry for using you as a shrink, but I can’t afford a real one—if, after six months of rampant partying post-Rick misery, I actually went out with Posh Mark not because he was nice and wouldn’t dump me, but because I expected it to fail. At least if I didn’t like him that much, it wouldn’t hurt. Hmm. Bloomie calls those kinds of relationships ‘emotional blotting paper’: they prop you up after a relationship Hiroshima until you get enough time and perspective to recover and start thinking about dating someone you actually like. And waking up wrapped up in nicely-muscled arms is better than waking up alone. Sort of.

Oh fuck me, I can’t imagine doing it again. Or rather, I can imagine it, but I just can’t face it. It’s so depressing to think about. So many mistakes. And I don’t want to go through it all again. Meeting someone, liking them, going out with them for dinner, waiting to see if they’ll call again…it’s exhausting, and it never works out for me. I’m obviously romantically-challenged. I just…I want out of this game, I really do.

Chapter Four (#ulink_9e4c15b4-0ed7-5905-98d5-819eb68531d7)

At 5.30 pm, I leave work as quickly and quietly as I can—noting on the way out that today’s Urban Warrior sartorial theme clearly failed miserably and I should rechristen it Andy’s Urban Victim—to head down to meet Bloomie in a bar about ten minutes’ from South Kensington tube station. I’d like to get a black cab, but can’t quite justify it. (I spend an inordinate amount of time justifying the expense of black cabs to myself. My two go-to excuses are that it’s late so the tube could be dangerous—which it never really is within Zone Two—or that I’m wearing very high heels.)

On the number 14 bus on the way down the Fulham Road, I try to talk myself into being in a good mood. Despite the universe throwing every happy loved-up person in London in my path tonight (how can they all find love and not me? How can the drab little beige thing in front of me be calling her boyfriend to say she’ll put dinner on for when he gets home? Why, damn it, why am I unable to achieve that?), it’s not actually that hard. I’m cheery by nature, I love after-work drinks, I love Bloomie and I love the place where we’re meeting. It’s a restaurant called Sophie’s Steakhouse, but we only ever go to the bar part. It’s not quite a pick-up joint, but not all couples; not too rowdy, but not too quiet; not too cool and not too boring. In short, it’s the perfect place for the freshly single.

I push past the heavy curtain inside the front door, and see the usual young, rather good-looking West London crowd. There are some gorgeous men in here, as ever, though I know they’re probably a bit rah-and-Rugger-Robbie for me. A few floppy-haired Chelsea types in red corduroy trousers (where do they sell those things and how can we make them stop?), a couple of older business-type guys waiting alone in suits for wives or girlfriends, and I can sense, but not see, a group of five guys having an early dinner in the restaurant part, as they turn around to look at me as I come in. I know it’s only because, well, I’m female, but still. It’s gratifying. Especially today.

Bloomie is, as usual, about half an hour late, so I kill time reading the fun bits of the paper someone else has left behind (you know, the celebrity bits, and the movie and book reviews). As soon as she arrives we start as we always do: with a double cheek kiss and a double vodka.

Things move swiftly from there. I don’t want to get hammered tonight as it’s only Wednesday and payday isn’t for another ten days, but quite soon we start going outside for cigarettes (neither of us smokes, except in situations of extreme stress, like last night, or drinking, or, um, gossiping on a Saturday, or sometimes on the phone), which is a sure-fire sign we’re here for the long haul.

Before I know it, I’m slapping the table with one hand to emphasise my point (which point? Who can say? Any point! Pick a point, please) and making dramatic absolute statements that start with ‘I will NEVER’ and ‘There is no WAY’.

From drink one to two we talk about Posh Mark, from drink two to three we talk about Eugene (the extremely lovely guy she’s been dating for a few months. She calls him The Dork because who the sweet hell is called Eugene?), with a quick side-wind into talking about Bloomie’s recently-redundant-and-leaving-soon-to-travel-the-world flatmate Sara, from three to four we talk about the state of the economy. (Just kidding! We talk about Posh Mark and Eugene again. Obviously.) And then drink five hits. And the thoughts that have been percolating in my brain all day tumble out.

‘Bloomie. Bloomster. Listen to me. I can’t do it again. I can’t do it again.’

‘What? Drink?’ Bloomie is writing The Dork a text, with one eye closed to help her focus.

‘No—I mean, yes, I’ll have another drink…um, yes, a double, please. I can’t…I can’t date anymore, I can’t do it, I’m useless at it and I can’t do it.’ I’m hitting the table so hard to emphasise every point that my hand starts tingling.

‘Get a grip, princess.’

‘Seven years of this shit, Blooms. Six failed relationships. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want it all to go away.’

‘It’s seven years of bad luck, that’s all. Wait!’ Bloomie throws up her hands melodramatically. ‘Did you break a mirror when you were 21?’

‘I mean it…I can’t do it again. The whole dating thing is fucked. You see someone for ten minutes in a bar and they chat you up and ask you out, and boom! You’re dating, but how can you possibly know if they’re really right for you?’

‘Well, you hope for the best,’ shrugs Bloomie, with all the confidence of someone in a happy relationship.

‘No. I can’t bear it…The nausea, the hope, the waiting for him to call, the nausea, and on the rare occasions that everything is really good and he likes me and I like him, the nausea of waiting for him to dump me. As he will, because he always does, no matter who the fuck he is. I’ve done it too many times, and I look back on them all and feel so angry at myself for dating them in the first place…And have I mentioned the nausea?’

Bloomie looks at me and frowns.

‘Is this really about Rick? Because I swear to God, that guy was…’

‘No,’ I interrupt quickly. ‘Of course it is not. I am over him. I really think, I mean I know, I know I am over him.’

‘OK…’ she says doubtfully. ‘Why don’t you just concentrate on work for a few months and not worry about it? That’s what I did after Facebook guy and it was the best thing I could have done. And after Bumface. And The Hairy Back.’ These are her ex-boyfriends. She pauses.‘I always concentrate on work, actually.’ She starts to laugh. ‘Imagine if I hadn’t had such a shit lovelife! I’d never have had any promotions.’

I look at her and sigh. I’ve never had a promotion.

‘I am a failure at my job, Bloomie. Today was…’ I close my eyes. I can’t bear to think about work. I’ve told Bloomie about my inability to deal with Andy before, and she suggested ways to handle it, but I’m just not able to tackle things like she does. (I believe the technical term is ‘head on’.) ‘It’s nothing, it’s not worth even discussing. I should just quit my job. I’m so bad at it. I’m a failure! At everything!’ Oh, there goes the drama queen again. Sashaying away.

‘Hey. Come on. You’re great at your job,’ she says loyally, reaching a tipsy hand out for my shoulder. ‘Though I wish you’d be as ballsy with them as you are with us.’

I raise a doubtful eyebrow at her. ‘Being ballsy with my best friends isn’t exactly hard. It’s the rest of the world that’s difficult.’

‘I had a bad day too,’ says Bloomie supportively. ‘You know, this is the first time I’ve left work before 8 pm in a month. I hate it.’

She so doesn’t hate working late, but I’ll leave that. ‘Really? Are you OK? What’s happening?’ I take a sip of my drink. I’m hungry, but the drinks here are expensive, and dinner will have to wait till I get home.

‘Don’t you read the papers, darling?’ she says, laughing. I notice, for the first time, the bags beneath her eyes, and that her nails are uncharacteristically bitten. ‘It’s more that nothing good is happening…I just need to keep my head down and not lose my job.’