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‘Yes.’
‘Was he any good?’
‘Truthfully, he was singing in the wrong register.’
‘So he sucked? Come on, gloves off.’
‘He was … not good.’
‘So when he rejoined you, you said … what?’
‘You don’t really think I was going to tell him how bad he was!’
‘There are ways, and there are ways.’
‘Whatever “ways” there are, they’re not my ways, are they? I’ve clearly been doing things the wrong way my entire life.’
‘Hey, enough with the italics! Just tell me what your “way” was on Saturday night.’
‘I told him he was brilliant,’ she mumbled. ‘As anyone with a modicum of … of politeness in their character would have done.’
‘His mother, maybe. No—don’t argue.’ He started sketching again. ‘Rulebook: excessive politeness does not a memorable date make. It’s the same in principle as agreeing with everything a guy says.’
‘Okay, but he didn’t seem bored.’
‘Turn a little to the left, but keep looking at me.’ Pause, while he looked between her and his sketch. Then, super-innocent: ‘So he called you on Sunday, I suppose, after you were so obliging as to sing his praises and agree with everything he said?’
‘No, but I didn’t really want him to. And anyway, they never call the next day, do they?’
It was a rhetorical question, but David answered it anyway. ‘Yes, Sarah, they do. If they’ve had a great time and they want to have another one, they call you the next day. Sometimes they even call you later that night.’
‘Or text?’
‘Or text.’
‘Like you texted me?’ she said, and laughed.
Pause, and then David batted that away. ‘Yeah, don’t get too puffed up in your own conceit there, bluebell. It’s Craig who should have been doing it. Craig, your date.’
‘Well, Erica never seems bothered by it when they don’t call straight away.’
‘Who’s Erica?’
‘Erica Wilder. One of my two best friends. Lane’s housemate. She’s a flight attendant.’
David’s eyes widened appreciatively. ‘A flight attendant?’
‘What is it with guys and flight attendants?’
‘It’s a women in uniform thing.’
‘More like a mile-high club fantasy.’ She took a giant sip of wine. ‘Before you get carried away, I’ll tell you what I told Adam: Erica has a boyfriend. And about a hundred guys waiting in the wings hoping Jeremy drops dead.’
‘Adam? And Erica? I thought he wanted Lane.’
‘Long story, which I am not going to go into.’
‘Well if Erica could get your brother’s eyes off Lane after what I saw of him at the gallery last week, she must be something else. And you’re telling me there’s nothing special about flight attendants?’
‘It’s not about her job. It’s about …’ waving her wineglass ‘… her.’
‘Beautiful, is she?’
‘Very.’
‘Smart and confident and classy?’
‘Very.’
‘Experienced with men?’
‘Very.’
‘And these men swarming all over her never call her the next day?’
‘I … She … They … Hmm …’ She frowned, like she was trying to pull up memories. ‘Maybe it’s that she doesn’t always take their calls.’
‘Ah, now that’s quite different.’
***
David could tell the moment the implication sank in because her eyes bugged out. ‘That means they just don’t call me the next day. Or even the day after that. Or in Craig’s case, four days after! Well if that doesn’t totally … totally … Oh!And those dimples of yours are not helping me feel better about it.’
‘You’ve really got it in for my dimples tonight. Most girls like them.’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she said darkly.
‘You don’t like them?’
‘Not tonight, I don’t.’ She looked at him. ‘And there they go again! Indenting, in that infuriating way.’
‘So tell me, bluebell, dimples aside, are you sticking with me, or are you going to sack me as your adviser and hire Erica the paragon of feminine pulchritude?’
She pursed her lips for a long, thoughtful moment. And then she said slowly, ‘Erica’s advice usually ends with her saying there are plenty of fish in the sea, so get out my rod and reel.’
‘Good advice, if you’re angling for a cyclothone.’
‘A what?’
‘A cyclothone. The most common fish in the sea. They’re everywhere. But you see, I don’t think you want an everywhere fish, bluebell. You want something like a Fan Caulofrino Fin Fish—very hard to find, but once it’s attached to a female, it’s hers for life.’
‘Hers for life,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I like that. It’s exactly what I want. Someone for life.’
‘And now that you’ve let me compare your future husband to a truly hideous-looking fish, I think it’s time we talked about the negs.’
‘The what?’
‘The negs. You’ve heard of guys negging girls, right?’
‘No.’
‘But I’ll bet it’s been done to you, even if you didn’t know it was happening. Guys do it all the time to good-looking girls, trying to take them down a peg or two in the hope of getting laid.’
‘Charming.’
‘Actually, it’s pathetic, but it seems to work.’
‘Example?’
He put his sketchpad down. ‘Say we’re in a bar …’ Walking towards her. ‘And I come over to you.’ Stopping in front of her. ‘I’m nervous as hell, because you’re a ten and I’m barely scraping a seven on a good day. So I might look at your hair.’ Looking at her hair. ‘And I nod, as though to say, Not bad. Not good mind you, but not bad. You’re starting to think there’s something wrong with your hair. But then, I say, “Nice,” and you’re feeling better. Maybe even starting to preen. Until I add, “You’re doing the two-tone hair on purpose, right? Blonde with black roots? I didn’t know the 1980s Blondie thing was back in fashion, but you go girl.”
‘And voila! You’ve been negged. You’re going to speak to me, and it’s not because I gushed about your pretty blonde hair, but because I rearranged our relative social values. I’ve indicated you’re not that special. I’m saying that even though twenty other guys have been kissing your tush all night, I’m not going to. I’m not responding like all those other guys—therefore I have a power those other guys don’t. You want to know why I’m not tripping over my tongue for you. You’re wondering how you’re going to get me kissing your tush like everyone else.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not wondering if my dark roots are showing, since I’m a natural blonde.’
‘Maybe you’ll tell me that … but that still means you’re talking to me, doesn’t it?’ And then he smiled, and his eyes dipped to just below where the ruching of her dress finished, low on her belly. ‘Natural blonde, huh?’
She looked where he was looking and her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh. My. God.’
Up came his eyes, brimming with silent laughter. ‘See? The conversation is begun, whichever way you want to play it.’
‘I need to see this in action.’
‘Any nightclub, any bar, any weekend, you’ll see it. And the thing is Sarah, you can turn the tables and do it yourself. In fact, I want you to do it. To try it, at least.’
But she was shaking her head vehemently. ‘Sorry, I can’t see myself talking about a guy’s pubic hair, even tangentially. Not going to happen. I need another example.’
‘Okay. Craig’s fedora—God, the options! But we’ll do an easy one. Something like, “My grandfather always told me gentlemen only wore hats outside—is this a new thing, wearing them indoors?” See? It doesn’t have to be vicious, just something to show him that you’re not going to fawn all over him. Once he knows he has to work to get you, he’s invested. He’ll be plotting to get you out on another date, calculating how soon he can call you.’
‘Hmm, I think I get the idea,’ she said, but she sounded doubtful.
He was close enough to smell her, now. To touch her. To … taste her. What would she do if he licked her, just below one of her ears, where the delicious scent she was wearing would be warm and heady?
Jesus! Where had that sprung from? No licking allowed.
He hightailed it back to his sketchbook, flipped to a fresh page, and started drawing hard enough to tear through the page. He rubbed a thumb over the tear, as though that would smooth out his own sudden edge.
‘But it seems a terrible way to live, hurling insults at each other,’ she said.
Time for a fresh page, some lighter pencilling. ‘You don’t live like that—it’s just how you meet. And the goal isn’t to insult someone. It’s just a way of piquing a little interest where you might otherwise have struggled to be noticed. Once you’ve hooked your fish, you can pack away the bait and start to get to know the other person.’ He looked down at his sketch, then back to Sarah. ‘Face me straight on. Yes, good.’
‘I just can’t quite believe that tactic could really work.’
‘Then I guess I’ll have to prove it to you. What are you doing Saturday night?’
‘Having a drink with Erica, and I can’t not go because she’ll smell a rat.’
‘Oh, I want you to go! The legendary Erica is the perfect target.’
‘Perfect tar—?’ She stopped, looking confused … and then suddenly not. ‘Oh! No! No, you’re not going to neg Erica?’
‘Sure am.’
‘In front of me?’
He was sketching again. ‘No point otherwise.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘If it doesn’t, I’ll buy you a bottle of Passion Pop.’
‘Ha ha ha! Anyway, we’ll never know because, I can’t let you try. Not with Erica.’
He stopped drawing and looked at her. ‘Because …?’
‘Because of Lane. Not that Lane is going to be there, but Erica knows who you are and she’ll tell Lane. And I …’ She shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘I still haven’t worked out how to tell Lane what’s happening here.’
‘But I’ve never met Erica,’ David said—and then the truth dawned. ‘Wait! Are you telling me I’ve been discussed between the three of you as a potential lover for Lane?’
‘Well … yes. But in a highly complimentary way.’
He started laughing. ‘If I’d known Lane was that interested, I’d have moved faster and nailed her.’
‘It’s not funny, you … you …’
‘Bastard?’
‘Beast.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Animal. Swine, rat, skunk, dog.’
‘Going the whole barnyard are we?’
‘Brute, monster—’
‘Aaand I think we have it covered.’
