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

I splutter in mock outrage.

‘The SAME?’

‘Yah, you know…the same. They all kind of suck.’

‘So? Christmas kind of sucks and is always the same, too. Do you hate Christmas?’

Kate starts to laugh. ‘No…’

‘Actually, chick flicks DON’T suck. In fact, Katiepoo, the chick flick is a formula designed to satisfy, but always with small subtle variations. The girl is somehow identifiable. The guy is somehow unattainable.’ I start to warm to my argument. ‘There is fashion. There is a dancing scene. There is some kind of klutzy friend, though sometimes the heroine is a klutz too. Then somewhere along the line, there is a fear that he’s messed up forever and has to prove himself to her to win her love.’

Kate nods. ‘Yah. I picked the plot up. When I was six.’

‘In fact, forget Christmas. Chick flicks are like all my favourite things in life—burgers! Really high heels! Weekends in New York! Sexual encounters! Every single one is different, but has the same essential components and is—hopefully—equally pleasing!’

We both laugh. OK, we cackle. The two-beer buzz is delightful.

‘Uh…ladies. May I trouble you for a lighter?’

Deep voice. American. Male. Late 20s. I glance at Kate’s face, but she’s staring at Mr America behind me. I turn around, getting out my lighter at the same time.

‘Sure,’ I hand it over and he grins and lights his cigarette. Extremely cute, in a jock kind of way. Baggy pale blue jeans, Ralph Lauren Polo T-shirt, short floppy American-banker haircut. He must be fresh off the boat. American men wear very bad jeans till they realise every other man in London wears his jeans darker and tighter. Then they all buy Diesel jeans. (They never change their hair.)

‘Thanks,’ he leans back and exhales, a small smirk on his face. ‘So you like chick flicks as much as sex, seriously?’

‘It’s awfully rude to eavesdrop.’

Kate’s phone rings. ‘It’s Tray—back in a sec…’

Hmm, I have to wait for Kate and talk to Mr America. I could wait inside, if I was going to be really strict about this not dating men thing…But he’s so cute. Preppy, Ivy League and cute. Damn it, come on Sass, I chide myself. I should not be noticing this shit. I decide to finish my fag and put the Dating Sabbatical to the test. I run over my mantra in my head, more out of habit than need. After all, I’m not able to date him, so there’s no need to feel nervous. But he is kind of good looking.

‘Personally, I can get behind any John Hughes movie, so I’m with you on Sixteen Candles. But I’m not sure about Overboard.’

I look back at him like I’m surprised he’s still there. (Am I breaking Rule 3? Obvious flirting? Nah, this isn’t obvious yet.)

‘I heart Goldie Hawn. She’s brilliant.’

‘Sure, but give me Private Benjamin any day.’

‘Oh, I love that film! “Go check out the bathroom, it’s FABULOUS!”’

Mr America laughs. ‘Yeah, I can see that you’d like that line.’

I grin, and our eyes meet. He’s very confident. Sexual frisson, bonjour.

‘So…I loved your little speech there.’

‘The chick flick speech? I was just being silly…’

‘I like silly.’

Why can American men say lines like that and get away with it? It must be the accent. This one’s particularly cocky. It’s terribly attractive. However, I never know what to say back when someone’s coming on to me so openly, so I just smile and take a drag of my cigarette.

‘Could I get your number…perhaps we could have dinner sometime?’

I pause and smile. Shit. Time to put the Dating Sabbatical into action.

‘I know a lot of movies. I could quote ’em to you all night.’ He grins. Perfect teeth. Another attractive American trait.

‘I’d love to, but I’m not dating right now.’ (There, that was easy. Rule 1: no accepting dates, and Rule 5: talking about the Sabbatical is permitted in response to being asked out on a date.)

‘I don’t get it. You’ve got a boyfriend?’

‘No, I don’t. I’m just—I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘Did someone just break your heart?’

I laugh. ‘No! I’ve just…I’m…I’m not dating right now. I’m taking a break from uh, seeing guys.’

‘You’re gay?’ His tone is disbelieving.

‘No.’

‘You’re just…not dating.’

‘Yup.’

‘For how long?’

‘Three months,’ I say airily. ‘Possibly, probably, longer.’ I don’t want him to think he can line up a date for three months’ time. Especially since I’d probably say yes. Saying no to this date is hard enough as it is. (See? Dating IS an addiction. Thank betsy I’m detoxing. Every time I say no, it will get easier. Just say no.)

‘That’s, like, pathetic. Some guy must have really done a number on you.’

This riles me. ‘Oh, please. I’m just not dating right now.’

‘Hey! I’m not going to fight with ya about it!’ He stubs out his cigarette and throws two finger guns at me. ‘Your loss.’

He storms back into the bar just as Kate comes back. ‘That was Tray…I’ve gotta go home. What the hell happened there?’

‘Rejection,’ I say happily. ‘My first Dating Sabbatical rejection in action. His response was “YOUR LOSS”.’ I imitate the finger guns, adding a ‘peeyong’ shooting sound for good measure. Kate and I collapse with laughter and head down towards the tube.

Chapter Six (#ulink_7c0e7168-0827-5147-981f-88f455935b90)

Right. The morning routine. I snooze till a delightful 8.25 am, and then take a long lazy shower with no shampoo or conditioner as I want fresh hair for Mitch’s party tonight and a double-wash makes my hair flop like it’s pre-product-1972, brush teeth, scrub with exfoliating gloves and body wash, shave pits and legs, blah-blah, you know the rest already.

Today Outer Self is channelling Tough Nu Wave Cookie, so I throw on pointy blue shoes, skinny white jeans, a sleeveless black turtleneck and a black blazer. As I pop up the collar of the blazer and roll up my sleeves, I wonder if I look a bit odd and decide not to think about it. I realised a few months ago that I really haven’t changed my fundamental approach to dressing since I was 13. I pick a theme and keep adding things till I get there. (Favourite outfit when I was 13: DMs, black opaque tights, jeans shorts, a black belt with a peace sign buckle, a white T-shirt and a black blazer. Would definitely wear the same outfit now, minus perhaps the peace sign belt.) Brush hair vigorously to make the day-old grease look like shiny newness and throw it into a dishevelled chignon thing. Win the daily Battle Of The Brow. Inner Self is thus ready to face day two of Dating Sabbatical. I grab my lucky yellow clutch and run downstairs.

As I head into the kitchen(ette) to grab a banana and a tin of tuna, I see Anna curled up with her duvet on one of the 60s settees.