Single in the City Read online

Ah, I get it.

  The bouncer is sweeping the night’s debris over my shoes to let me know I’m welcome to stay as long as I’d like. ‘I guess we’d better go.’

  ‘Probably so. Do I get to see you again?’

  He wants to see me again! If I play my cards right, he may even want to see more of me tonight. Which means I’d better not take my usual approach. British men might not appreciate Jeremy Paxman’s assertiveness when it comes to conquests. ‘Sure, I’d like that, only…’

  ‘Only…you really do have a boyfriend, and he’s a bodyguard with a jealous streak and a fondness for assault weapons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only…you’ve sworn off men?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  …‘You fear I like men?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Hannah, those are the only acceptable reasons not to see me again.’

  ‘What if I don’t like you?’ This is technically possible. Not true, but technically possible.

  ‘Ah, but you do like me.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You’re holding my hand.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ That is rather watertight evidence.

  ‘So…?’

  So, the only phone where I can be reached is in the hotel hallway beside what might be a needle-exchange bin, and I barely remember how to get back there, let alone what it’s called. ‘This is embarrassing, but I don’t know the name of my hotel.’

  ‘Do you remember where it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Sort of. These streets all look the same–buses, taxis, people and shops selling something called doner kebabs.

  ‘Then I’ll walk you there.’

  Hand in hand we walk, and walk. After the second time around the block, I can faithfully report that my hotel isn’t there. Luckily it is on the next block. I may seem to be better-looking in the UK but there’s only so much patience a guy I just met can be expected to have.

  I’ve just had a sudden terrible thought. What if he’s a bad kisser? This amazing streak of beginner’s luck may be about to end in tears. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but a man this good-looking who can’t kiss would be tragic, like ordering the double-chocolate fudge brownie only to find out that it’s not moist and delicious at all. The moment of truth has arrived. Mmm. He’s off to a good start, hand stroking my hair. Deep eye contact tempered with cheeky smile, so not creepy. The lean-in. Ahh. He’s a good–no, he’s a great kisser. Rule Britannia!

  So much for turning over a new leaf. I want him upstairs with me. I wonder if English girls put out on the first date. Can this be considered a first date? Am I sabotaging my chances with this amazing man for instant gratification? No doubt my answers will differ in the sober light of morning, but right now they are: don’t know, no, don’t care, in that order. The landlady mimes her opinion of my imminent promiscuity as I lead Mark upstairs. See last answer for response to her look.

  I admit it. I’m on the alert for cultural differences. Mark is, after all, the first non-American I’ve ever been in bed with. Things seem to be moving rather fast, though I can’t really blame that on his nationality. I’ve slept with men who timed sex to coincide with the commercial break in the middle of SportsCenter’s 11 p.m. broadcast.9 I’ll choose to believe that Mark just can’t keep his hands off me. A little self-delusion can be a great comfort. Besides, he might even be the sexiest man I’ve ever kissed. Can you blame me for wanting more and more and, yes, please, more?

  Within seconds of hearing him come my mind is in fifth gear. For the record, yes, we’re face to face. I just have a thing about making eye contact while his are rolling back in his head. I feel a guy should have a little privacy at times like these.

  My concern that sex wouldn’t translate across borders is unfounded. No major surprises–condoms obviously work the same and he didn’t make any weird noises or apologize for anything (as I feared he might, given his culture). But I don’t know why I can’t just live in the moment. I’m lying beside a perfectly gorgeous man, one I’m confident I can encourage into a repeat performance, and I’m already analysing the night. Worse, now I’m thinking about how pathetic it is that I’m analysing the night when I should be enjoying all the nakedness in my bed. The most important thing is not to say anything stupid. It’s not easy. The silence is killing me. Is he sleeping? No, he’s looking right at me. Does he want me to say something? He’s smiling. I smile back. I should say something. Something breezy and casual. Definitely don’t ask him any questions. Guys hate that. Just be casual, say something fun and confident. And not desperate. ‘That was great. Let’s do it again.’

  He laughs, and kisses me.

  Occasionally, when the stars are aligned and the gods smiling upon me, I do say just the right thing.

  2

  When Mom tearfully said ‘Have fun!’ as she kissed me goodbye at the airport, she probably didn’t mean ‘Get drunk and have sex with a virtual stranger’. But what fun it was!

  ‘Stacy, I met someone!’ Whether I’ve just paid half-price for perfectly fitting jeans or just had sex with a perfectly fitting man, saying it out loud always sweetens the experience.

  ‘Hannah, it’s three a.m. here. Was it the Queen?’

  ‘No, a guy.’

  ‘Prince William?’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Not Jude!’

  I wish. All Hugh, Orlando or Jude sightings are to be instantly reported; physical contact documented on film when possible.

  ‘No, his name’s Mark. He’s English, and he’s so gorgeous you can’t even imagine. I met him in the pub yesterday and we talked for hours. Stace, he’s so funny, and not just joke-cracking funny either, wittily funny. Stace? You still there?’

  ‘Mmm, yes. Just trying to unstick my eye.’

  ‘Mascara?’

  ‘And two sets of lashes.’

  There are few women who can get away with fashion statements like these. Stacy tries most new styles (she must have embraced ladylike vamp last night). Blessed with a figure that’s flattered in every look from Kate Moss to screen siren, she exercises her creativity the same way a decathlete trains for his competitions. That is to say, with intense dedication to the widest range of endeavours. Sometimes being her best friend does me no favours. It just encourages me to think (wrongly) that I can pull off the same styles.

  ‘He sounds great, Han. See, I told you it was gonna be fun. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Not quite nothing. I’m living in a hotel, and I don’t have a job.’

  ‘Well, go find one.’

  ‘Just like that!’ I don’t mean to snap but Stacy’s can-do attitude sometimes grates

  ‘How do you expect to get one if you don’t look?’

  ‘Who says I’m not looking?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And when you do, then you’ll find one. Hey, did he sound like a prince?’

  ‘Come to think of it, he did.’ Funny that I didn’t have trouble understanding him. Isn’t that odd? Maybe my near-religious devotion to Four Weddings… and Love Actually has made me immune to certain British accents. Though if I met someone from one of those gangster films, or Trainspotting, I feel sure I’d need an interpreter on hand.

  ‘When are you gonna see this guy again?’

  ‘His name’s Mark. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I wonder if the three-day rule applies there.’

  I hope not. ‘He doesn’t have my number, but he knows where I am. You don’t think it was too slutty to sleep with him on the first night, do you?’

  …‘You slept with him?’

  Didn’t I mention that? ‘Well, yeah. You should see this guy, Stace, totally sexy. And he gets me.’

  But the saboteurs are descending even as I say this. Why should something that feels so physically good feel so emotionally bad? Apparently there are women who naturally feel no self-loathing after a one-night stand. I’ve never met one, but urban folklore says they exist. And let’s
be honest, this was probably a one-night stand. It doesn’t matter that I’ve mentally picked out china patterns and fretted about where to raise our kids. He didn’t exactly propose. Come to think of it, he didn’t exactly say he wanted to see me again. Of course he won’t want to see me again, except maybe for sex. Guys don’t fall in love with easy girls. It’s a simple application of scarcity value theory (I took an econ course with Stacy sophomore year so we’d both be done with class by lunchtime on Fridays). When we give in, men think we’re not worth the effort and we become unworthy of their affection. Yet when they jump into bed with us, we think they’re keen, thus making them more desirable. We aren’t from different planets; we’re from different solar systems.

  ‘You used a condom, right?’ Stacy asks, breaking into my self-abusive reverie.

  ‘Huh? Oh, yeah…But was it too soon?’

  ‘In what sense? Hasn’t it been a while?’

  Thanks, Stacy, for reminding me that the most excitement my mattress has seen in the last six months has been a weekly change of sheets. She’s right though. In what sense? I know that I wouldn’t pass up a no-strings-attached adventure just because it’s doomed to end. The question is whether our impromptu naked Olympics sealed my fate as what’s-her-name, literally the one-night one-night stand. I’d hate to think I’ll never have another shot at the gold. ‘I mean was it too soon to sleep with him. Do you think he’ll get in touch again?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re more sophisticated in Europe. You know how the French are always sleeping around and then claiming that it’s part of their national identity. Wait, where’d it come from?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The rubber.’

  ‘Uh.’ Where had it come from? This kind of attention to detail makes Stacy the perfect confidante. If conversation surgery existed as a profession, she’d be a specialist. ‘He must have had it with him.’

  ‘What, like in his wallet?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. Why?’

  ‘That’s awfully prepared of him.’

  ‘Maybe he was a boy scout.’

  ‘Maybe he likes to have sex with a lot of women.’

  Sometimes talking to Stacy is a double-edged sword.

  It’s remarkable how a little sex can change your outlook. Becoming gainfully employed just moved to the top of my priority list. Without a job, I’ll have to go home in a month, a failure living five time zones from the one man who offered to see me naked in the better part of a year. Granted, the little stamp in my passport says I’m not supposed to work, but given that I’m college educated, I have experience, I speak the language…

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your CV. May I have your CV, please?’

  ‘My CD? I don’t have a CD.’ Does she think I’m a rapper or something?

  ‘Please detail your work experience on the form.’

  ‘Why don’t I just give you my résumé?’

  She looks it over. She looks me over. She’s not impressed with either of us. ‘You haven’t fully listed your education.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I didn’t go to grad school.’ I won’t be bullied by an employment agency receptionist, not while wearing my most confidence-building suit (black Ralph Lauren boiled-wool skirt suit with fishtail pleat and patent skinny belt. It’s perfect with my moss-green knock-off Jimmy Choo kitten heels with tiny studs–they’re comfortable as long as I scrunch up my toes when I walk).

  ‘Where did you do your sixth form?’ she asks. My bewilderment must be obvious. ‘College?’ she tries.

  ‘University of Connecticut.’

  ‘That’s university.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You haven’t listed your GCSEs.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your high-school grades.’

  ‘They’re right here.’ They should really screen their receptionists more carefully for reading comprehension.

  ‘Are those your A-levels?’

  ‘Well, they’re not all As.’

  Her sigh says she loves this kind of variety in her job. ‘We need the grades from the papers you sat at sixteen.’

  ‘Do you mean my middle-school grades?’

  ‘Perhaps. Employers will want to see all your grades before university.’

  If you say so. In kindergarten I excelled at naps and snack-time, rose to top of the class for colouring inside the lines and always remembered to raise my hand for the bathroom before I wet my pants.

  ‘And please fill this out as well.’

  Name, okay. Address, I’ve now memorized. Previous position, PR Junior Account Executive (glamorous-sounding, I know). Age and marital status…What are they running, a dating agency? There’s no box for none of your business.

  ‘Now, if you’ll just stand against that wall.’ The camera’s flash temporarily blinds me. This can’t be a coincidence; the guy at the first agency did the same thing. I told him to fuck off in plain English (that translates perfectly, by the way) and stormed out.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘It’s so we can put a face with the name. We have a lot of candidates and find this is a good way to be sure we give them personalized attention.’

  I’m such a fool. I’ve happily contributed my bodily fluids at home to prove that I don’t have any illegal habits, and yet I freak out about having my picture taken. I fear my sense of employee rights is out of whack. Maybe I should send a snapshot to the first agency to make amends.

  I know I have no choice if I want to find a job, but I absolutely hate having to go through this process. I’m terrible at selling myself. Even my college’s recruitment drive failed to unearth a willing employer, and we all know complete losers who’ve managed to get hired that way. Naturally I’d prefer to blame someone else, but I know that my own laziness plays a part. Evidence: my one and only real job resulted from a friend introducing me to her boss in a bar. And don’t get me started on my dating record. Being an opportunist at heart (in the positive, non-bottom-feeding sense of the word), I tend to settle for the good-enough that comes my way. It’s worked pretty well so far. I think that the Taoists are on to something (I once dated a t’ai chi instructor, so I know a little about it). They believe that the universe works harmoniously and when man exerts his will against the world, that harmony is disrupted. Which can’t be a good thing. So maybe I’m not lazy, I’m simply the unwitting disciple of an ancient Chinese philosophy.

  I’m not suggesting that I’ve never been motivated to exert my will against the world. There are women still nursing wounds from past sample sales. But fashion and sex aside, little has the power to overcome my natural inertia. Until now. There’s no settling for second best here. Either I find a job or I go home with nothing but a stamp in my passport that cost me 5,000 dollars. That’s not much of a choice, so here I sit in the reception area of about the 7,000th agency, hoping for a miracle.

  ‘Hi, I’m Chloe,’ says the young woman sticking her hand out in front of me. ‘Come through, please.’ She’s really pretty. And even without the ability to label spot here, I can tell that she’s very stylish. She’s got long, straight honey-blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin. London seems to grow more than its fair share of dewy-skinned blondes. It’s not quite Sweden, but I find it demoralizing nevertheless. A petty girl might say that most of this golden hue is chemically induced, ergo, the carpet will rarely match the curtains. But that’s no comfort when you realize that men don’t know a broadloom from a valance. What’s more, they don’t care.

  ‘So you come from Connecticut,’ she says, glancing at my résumé.

  ‘Uh-huh. Have you been there?’ As I’ve mentioned, this is a stretch. Nine out of ten people outside the US can’t point to Connecticut on a map. Five out of ten Americans have a hard time finding it.

  ‘No, I’ve only been to New York City.’

  ‘I like New York. I used to get down there a lot. There’s so much going on.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ she confides,
‘I really go for the shopping.’

  ‘Me too!’ Here is a kindred spirit, not afraid to admit that Missoni is more interesting than the Met.

  ‘There’s that shop down by the World Trade Center site –’

  ‘Century 21!’ What are the chances that this woman, from a different country, knows my favourite store on the planet?

  ‘That’s it! The designer section is incredible.’

  ‘I love the jeans. So cheap!’

  ‘Especially in pounds. And the cashmere –’

  ‘What about shoes?’

  ‘IT’S AMAZING!’ we chorus.

  We observe a moment of silence to give this cathedral to discount shopping the respect it deserves. Without wanting to get ahead of myself (which I’ve been known to do), Chloe could be my new best friend in London.

  Within about two minutes it’s obvious that I’m unfit for most of the jobs she’s trying to fill, so I can’t really hold it against her when she starts making small talk. Interview over, I guess.

  ‘How long have you been in London?’ She’s more relaxed now that we’ve established she isn’t going to find me a job.

  ‘Just over a week. It’s harder than I thought.’

  ‘I lived in France for a year, so I know what it’s like.’

  ‘Did you…did you feel like everything was very foreign?’ Yes, I realize how stupid I sound.

  ‘Huh, I did. I spoke a bit of French, but living there was a completely different story.’

  ‘No kidding. I thought I spoke the language here but…I guess I didn’t expect you all to be so different.’

  ‘Really? Different how?’

  Uh-uh, I’m not falling for that. No doubt it’s intriguing to see how others perceive your culture, but surely I’m not qualified to pass judgement on the English. I’ve been here about five minutes…On the other hand, a fresh view is often illuminating. After all, we don’t realize we’re loud until some soft-spoken European, cringing and clutching his bleeding ears, points it out to us. But on the other, other hand, telling Chloe that I think her people are scantily dressed alcoholics probably isn’t the best way to cement our friendship.

  ‘It’s all pretty different.’