Single in the City Read online

  And now I’m suffering from performance anxiety. Otherwise I’d walk straight through that door. For the record, despite the driver’s initial reluctance to welcome my business, he did drop me back at the bus stop that marked the beginning of this misadventure. In front of a perfectly nice-looking pub, olde worlde with an ivy-overgrown sign above the door. Red velvet curtains are drawn across the bottom of the little leaded windows, so I can’t see inside. I can hear a noisy crowd though. They’re laughing, sharing stories and jokes while I skulk out here in the drizzling afternoon. They’ve probably been friends for years, safe in that cocoon of companionship that I took for granted. I should be in there, instead of standing out here letting my hair frizz.

  I had a friend in college who loved to say: ‘If you can dream it, you can do it.’ It became my mantra. I assumed it was a pearl of wisdom from some great thinker, a philosopher perhaps, like Descartes. It turned out to be Walt Disney, which in no way diminished the wisdom of the advice. Anyone who can build a Magic Kingdom deserves to be listened to.

  But what am I supposed to do when I get inside (after scanning the room meaningfully as if searching for my friends)? I’d feel as conspicuous as a third nipple. Have you ever gone alone into a bar, or sat by yourself in a restaurant? I don’t mean fiddling with your phone to look busy while waiting for someone. I mean when they clear away the other place setting and leave you to converse with your cutlery. Having a built-in friend like Stacy meant I never had to. I didn’t even go through those first days and weeks of junior high, high school or college3 worrying that I wouldn’t have any friends. God, I may have just moved to a country where I won’t speak to anyone who doesn’t give me a bill at the end of the conversation.

  Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I can’t see inside without going inside. What if it’s a biker bar? Or a gay bar? Or they’re in the midst of a Nationalist Party4 rally? It’ll be dinnertime in four hours. I should save this adventure for tomorrow. Besides, it’s raining, and cold. And I have a pimple on my forehead…

  And my jeans are baggy at the knees, and it’s a Tuesday, and, and, and. Could I be more self-defeating? Think of the great pioneers of our time. Amelia Earhart flew solo all over the world. She disappeared doing it, but that was probably just bad luck. Walking into a bar alone can’t kill me. At worst, it’ll maim my self-confidence. Besides, Walt would definitely do it.

  Okay, pimple or not, I’m going in.

  At least there aren’t any obvious rally meetings, or bikers. The room hasn’t ground to a silent, suspicious halt at this stranger’s intrusion. In fact, it feels quite familiar. Happy groups of young professionals? Check. Heady blend of pheromones and beer soaked into the carpet? Check. Requisite loner propping up the bar? I don’t see anyone alone. Okay, maybe that’s me. Free barstool and a cute bartender to ply me with drinks? Check and check!

  ‘I’d like a beer, please!’ Cute bartender nods expectantly. ‘Er, a Stella.’ Thanks to the miracle of modern marketing, Stella has reached American shores, whereas Old Speckled Hen must be a wholly English brand. It sounds more like an entrée than a drink.

  ‘A pint or a Hoff?’ he asks.

  The Hoff makes beer? ‘Uh, the pint, please.’

  This isn’t bad at all. Safely seated, with a half-dozen magazines from the airport to give me purpose, I’m insulated from the glare of unwanted attention (read: pity). In fact, it’s perfect. If they haven’t noticed me, then I’m free to observe them in their natural environment. I’m like Jane Goodall living with chimps.

  It may have seemed like home at first, but now I see there are important differences. Living here may be like staring at those Where’s Waldo?5 books–the more you look, the more you see. The first thing I notice is that everyone is drinking beer from a glass. How civilized. I vow never to drink from the bottle here. Aside from the obvious hazard of chipping a recently whitened tooth (my Christmas gift to myself, and they do look fabulous), it’ll mark me out as a foreigner. I also notice that most of the men are wearing suits, so either they dressed up to come here or they’re drinking on the job. Even in my Michael Kors black wool belted trench coat that I got half-price last year, I’m a little underdressed. Or, to be more accurate, I’m overdressed. Because the third thing I notice is that the women are showing a lot more décolletage than I’m used to. Having come from possibly the most preppy part of the United States, a place where Ralph Lauren and Lilly Pulitzer6 are spoken of in reverential tones, this display of chesty flesh is unsettling. Tugging my top down in the vain hope that it won’t look so nunnish exposes an inch of skin below my collarbone. Sex-y.

  I’m sure I’m drinking too fast–it’s always a risk with a glass and a cute bartender intent on refilling it. And either the pub’s designers overestimated their clientele’s co-ordination or they thought only absurdly small people would heed the call of nature, because the ladies room is down a too-narrow flight of stairs way at the back of the bar. I’m getting drunk in London! Mom would have a stroke.

  ‘Sorry!’ a girl and I harmonize as I push the stall door into her. Hang on. Why’d she apologize to the woman who just kneecapped her? Come to think of it, that’s the second apology I’ve had from someone I’ve physically harmed. At the airport, I accidentally ran my suitcase into a woman’s heel and she said she was sorry, as if she’d carelessly left her foot on the floor to be run over. They shouldn’t be so sorry. It’s not like they’re responsible for global warming or Starbucks, or super-sizing.

  I’ve never seen such stalls. The toilets are fortressed with six-foot walls, real walls, not flimsy barriers with big gaps where they’re bolted together. Here, there’s absolutely no risk of spotting a stranger’s nether parts between the cracks or standing up only to make eye contact with the girl waiting in front of the sinks.7 It’s a superb experience. I enjoy knowing that it’d take a commando abseiling down the wall to get to me.

  I don’t believe it. My cosy little corner of the bar has been encroached upon. Some man has piled his coat on my chair. His coat! On my chair! I won’t be pushed around just because I’m by myself. He must have seen my glass there. It doesn’t matter that it’s empty, it’s obviously still holding my place. He and his friends have settled in like it’s their right to be in my little bar space. And my magazine is clearly–well, I put it in my bag to go downstairs. But even so, he saw me there five minutes ago. I will not be intimidated. No, sir. ‘Um, excuse me. I was sitting there.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry!’ he says. And I can see that he really is, terribly. He practically throws his coat on the floor to make room for me, shuffling his friends back a few feet in the process. Wow, he’s good-looking.

  Now I feel bad about saying anything. It was probably an honest mistake, and it is their country. ‘Um, you’re welcome to use my chair, for your coat, if you want.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He carefully arranges his coat over the back of the chair. Mmm, there’s a slightly spicy aroma coming from the wool. He keeps turning around to look at me. Either he’s afraid I’ll steal from his pockets or I’m better-looking here than at home. I’m not saying I’m ugly or fat or anything. In fact, thanks to genetics, I’ve got boobs and hips without having to shop in the section for ‘curvy’ girls. People describe me as ‘at-trac-tive’, with that little dip in the middle of the word that makes it sound like there’s a ‘but’ coming in the next breath. That’s probably because of my hair. It’s fuzzy dark blonde if you’re being generous and fuzzy light brown if you’re not.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he finally asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Hello, I’m Mark.’

  It’s happening. Someone outside the service industry is talking to me! ‘I’m Hannah. Why’s that good?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to get thrashed for chatting up another man’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Self-preservation.’ Does chatting up mean hitting on? I hope so.

  ‘Well, it is what makes the world go round.’

  ‘I t
hought love made the world go round.’

  ‘Maybe love makes self-preservation go round. Do I detect an American accent?’

  ‘You do. I’m from Connecticut.’ His bemused expression is not an uncommon reaction to the whereabouts of my home state. ‘It’s near New York.’

  ‘Ah. Visiting?’

  ‘Nope, I live here. As of a few days ago.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  He’s got those amazing dark-blue eyes and black eyelashes that I go nuts for. And full, Brad Pitt lips. He looks older, in his thirties, which is perfect because everybody knows that men need a big headstart in the race for emotional maturity.

  He raises his glass. ‘I’m glad to see that you’re upholding one of our great British institutions.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a quick learner.’ This beer really is going down smoothly. ‘What are the others?’

  ‘Fish and chips, cricket, and the seductive powers of the finest lovers in the world.’

  Mmm, a cocky, great-looking man. ‘I haven’t had fish and chips yet. And isn’t cricket just lazy man’s baseball?’

  ‘It’s blasphemy to say that about the greatest sport on earth. They can deport you for it.’

  ‘Psh! How is standing in a field all day a sport?’

  He ponders. ‘Cricket is a thinking man’s game. It’s like chess, with sunshine and drink.’

  ‘Is it as interesting as watching chess?’ I’d rather watch my nails dry.

  ‘It’s not even comparable. We spend days sitting in the sun, drinking and watching the game we love.’

  ‘So you’re in it for the tan.’

  ‘And the drink.’

  ‘Hmm, back to drinking.’ A theme is beginning to emerge here.

  ‘As I’ve mentioned, it’s one of our great traditions.’

  ‘That’s right, and something about being seduced by the world’s greatest lovers. Can I assume there are a lot of Italians in London?’

  ‘I am, of course, referring to the British gentleman.’

  I might be tempted to believe his description if he hadn’t been interrupted by a young man loudly referring to the television by that much-maligned female body part. ‘I have to say I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘Really? I’m sure it’s printed in the handbook.’

  ‘Is that required reading for American women on arrival? Maybe they’re out of stock in Terminal Five.’

  ‘I’ll ask my people to have a word with their people.’

  ‘You have people?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Ah, but you can make your own people.’

  Oh dear. My virtue, such as it is, is about to be seriously compromised. Though I have many strengths, keeping my pants on in the face of wit, let alone remarkable looks, is not one of them. Of course, the fact that I’m getting the prickly sweats, where my scalp goes hot and a shiny little puddle forms on my top lip, is probably not doing me any favours in the seduction stakes. Unless he prefers his women with a seal-like sheen. Unfortunately, my body regularly betrays me in such unflattering ways when I really want something.

  One of his friends asks if he wants another beer. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your friends.’ Of course I hope I keep him from his friends.

  ‘Let them find their own girls. So, where were we?’

  ‘You were telling me about the great British traditions.’

  ‘And about to buy you a drink. Fancy another?’

  Who am I to go against tradition?

  ‘So,’ he says over our full glasses, ‘here’s the obvious question, Hannah from Connecticut: why did you move to London?’

  ‘I was looking for a change.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s a bold change.’

  ‘Well, uh, I –’ Is this the time for warts-and-all honesty? Of course not. I can give him the whole story on our golden anniversary. ‘I came to a realization.’

  ‘It must have been some realization.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it…Have you ever woken up and wondered what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Hannah. Are you saying you black out often?’

  ‘Hah, hah. No. Well…sometimes. No, I mean I realized I was on autopilot. And I’m too young to be my mother.’

  ‘I understand completely.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course. You want to be a participant in your life.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘I think you’re brave to move.’

  ‘Or stupid.’

  ‘Quite possibly it’s the most stupid thing you’ll ever do.’

  Huh. And just when I thought this might be going somewhere.

  ‘But so what?’ he smiles. ‘At least you’ll have done it.’

  Exactly, at least I’ll have done it. This guy totally gets me. His insight, not to mention his gorgeousness, are doing wonders for his chances of seeing me naked…Who knows, I may have lucked out here. I could even be on the cusp of a fabulous relationship with the perfect man. An English boyfriend–Stacy’ll be so jealous! Though Mom’d never forgive him for moving me permanently across the ocean. And she’d hate me for raising her grandchildren so far away…

  Hold on. This is why I need Stacy close by. Finding Mr Right is supposed to be the icing on the cake for us, after we land our dream jobs, collect a fabulous circle of friends, see the world and generally be as amazing as Oprah insists we can. Aren’t I getting a little ahead of myself? I haven’t even found the car keys to get to the store to buy the Betty Crocker8 mix to make the cake. And I don’t bake, so technically I can’t even follow through with my own analogy. Besides, I hardly know this man. He could be a psycho. He might be a bum. He may be happily married with kids.

  Obviously I’m not going to let something as minor as a complete lack of information stand in my way. Subtle questioning can peel back the layers of this lovely onion. ‘So, aside from beer drinking, sun worshipping and cricket loving, what’s your story?’

  Or I could just chop it in half and see what’s inside.

  ‘My stah-ry?…Sorry, sorry! Actually, I really like an American accent.’

  ‘You do?’ This is hard to believe.

  ‘I do. I went out with an American girl once. I was absolutely head over heels in love.’

  ‘What happened?’ Hopefully she betrayed him, then dumped him, then died. As with vampires, it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes to the spectre of fabulous ex-girlfriends.

  ‘She married someone else.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not. We’d have made each other miserable.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ Because you love sex and she was frigid? You’re rich and generous and she didn’t like jewellery or fancy hotels?

  ‘I guess I thought she was a little neurotic. But I was very immature. When you’re young, everything is a big deal, isn’t it? That was an age ago. Now it’d probably be different. I wish her nothing but the best. What about you? Is there someone back home?’

  ‘Nope, I’m single. You?’

  ‘Would I be here with you if I weren’t?’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many men would.’ I’m a little breathless, definitely not used to guys this hot flirting back. Oh, I dream about them. I hope that they will. But they don’t…

  ‘I’m not at all surprised. Always remember, Hannah, most men are bastards at heart. We’re hard-wired like that. Are you working here?’

  ‘No, not yet. What about you? Where do you work?’…Dating has always been like convincing myself that my new half-price shoes are the best I’ll ever own. Deep down, I know that while the thrill of the discount is strong, they’re half a size too small and not exactly the right colour…

  ‘You’re intriguing, Hannah–a woman who doesn’t want to talk about herself. Every time I ask about you, you ask about me.’

  ‘Maybe I’d just rather talk about you.’

  ‘Flattery will get you very far indeed.’

  …‘So, as you were saying. Somet
hing interesting about yourself.’ Mark just might be the most comfortable pair of Jimmy Choos I’ve ever seen.

  ‘You’re like a dog with a bone. Something interesting. Well, I’ve worked my arse off over the last ten years to build my company. I started in my back bedroom with one account, which was a family friend, and a thousand-pound overdraft. I was so nervous at my first event that I was physically sick.’

  Why, whenever I ask about a man, does he think telling me what he does counts as interesting? ‘I see. Interesting.’ And why do I pretend it is?

  ‘Not really, but you’re kind to say so. I know what you’re asking. You want to know my deepest darkest secret.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘All right, since you asked.’ He’s gazing right into my eyes. ‘I’m afraid of being lonely. I don’t mean being by myself. I mean having people all around me, but nobody to connect with. I’m afraid of living my entire life like that, and I’m afraid of dying without ever having made that connection.’

  A man with feelings and fears, and the willingness to disclose both? Now that is interesting.

  ‘Incidentally, my other fear is to be taken advantage of by women who are only looking for a spectacularly endowed man with epic love-making skills.’

  Very funny…as long he’s not stretching the joke too far.

  Time flies when a sexy man plies you with drinks. Much later, the barman rings a big bell and shouts something.

  ‘Last orders,’ Mark says.

  ‘Is that for a big tip?’

  ‘Big tip?’

  ‘At home, when someone leaves a big tip, the bartender rings a bell.’

  ‘We don’t tip barmen.’

  Lucky Brits. If we don’t tip barmen, they ignore us for the night or spit in our next round.

  ‘It’s the call for last orders. If we want another drink, we have to place our order now. Would you like another pint, or a Hoff?’

  ‘What’s a Hoff?’

  ‘Hoff a pint.’