As I held back my unrequited love's hair while she relieved her troubled stomach all over the icy pavement, I reflected that this wasn't exactly how I'd hoped to spend my first Christmas in London.
The previous year, after months of interviews in secret, I'd landed a new job in the City. I celebrated by taking my work colleagues out for a curry - a kind of Merry Christmas/Happy New Job/Goodbye kind of thing. I'd sure miss that crew; they were more like family than my own blood.
My fiancée Julie however celebrated by getting spitroasted in our bed by my brother and best friend, at our New Year's party. While she was still wiping her face and gusset, I'd thrown a week's change of clothes, my wallet and passport into a rucksack and walked out of our flat and our life. I even left my phone behind; all it contained were memories I no longer wanted and numbers for people I didn't want to talk to.
Julie had been my first and only serious girlfriend. I'd been a bit of a loner at school, a nerd, but she'd found that sweet and attractive. She'd taught me everything I knew about women. I should have realised something was awry based on how much knowledge she had to teach, for a girl who insisted she was a virgin when we started going out and claimed to have been faithful.
Early January in London is cold and miserable, all the more so if you are alone. I was burning through my meagre savings staying in shitty hotels until I managed to rent a room - a box, really - next to a cheap flophouse in Earl's Court. Two by four metres; big enough for a bed, a fridge, a sink, and a dual-hob camping stove that eat through the electricity pre-pay cards. The floor sloped to one side, but luckily the carpet was sticky, so stuff didn't slide around too much; the walls paper-thin. The shared bathroom down the hall had black mould growing up from where the shower tray met the crudely-tiled wall. The underground trains rattled and rumbled below late at night and early in the mornings, but at least if there was a big gig on at Earl's Court I could leave my window open and pretend I was living my best life.
It was a shithole, but it was my shithole; nobody in that flat was going to screw me over.
At 3am that first night, with the working girl next door still screaming her fake pleasure, I looked at the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand, and realised that booze was no escape from loneliness and misery. I poured the rest down the sink, smothered my ears in my coat, and let exhaustion take me.
I met the prostitute in the hallway one afternoon. She apologised for the noise; I shrugged it off in my terribly English way. She promised to "make it up to me sometime" - I thanked her for the offer, and she slipped back into her room. I shuddered; I wasn't that desperate, yet.
///
So - New Year, new life.
Fortunately, the job was great. They were so welcoming, training went well, and the work was enjoyable. I started opening up, making a few new friends with the guys in my team, bonding over shared problems and the occasional beer.
But software engineering was almost exclusively a male field. To find somebody to date, I'd need to socialise more widely; but clubbing really wasn't my thing. When I heard that the Firm was setting up a choir, I jumped at the chance. I love singing; I'd often fill the empty evenings by sitting in the back of a draughty London church and listen to the choir, or hang out in the basement toilets of a pub to hear the musical theatre next door banging through the walls.
The choir had three times as many women as men. The odds were surely in my favour. But of all the eligible young ladies there, I only had eyes for one.
For Gabrielle.
Cute, bubbly, bouncy Gabby, full of fun infectious energy. A little bundle of joy, always enthusiastic. It lifted my heart just to see her across a crowded room. Choir practise quickly became the highlight of my week - getting ready for the summer shows; later in the year preparing old favourite carols mixed with numbers from musical theatre; rehearsing the occasional dramatic vignette to go between songs. Great fun, and a great networking opportunity.
We did a few gigs at small churches and theatres in the City. Venues with tiny backstage areas where we'd all be squeezed into a cramped storeroom space or such like, to put on our stage makeup and outfits. Quickly we became oblivious to each other, used to catching a glimpse of fellow choir members in various states of undress.
Or at least, everyone else seemed to be blasé about the situation. The memory of Gabby's toned, curvaceous body from behind in just her underwear could keep me awake at night for a week. She'd call me over to help her in and out of outfits; my hands would tremble as I pulled up the zips, terrified in case I caught her perfect skin, or on case she spotted me gawping at her breasts as we wrapped velvet or silk or linen over them.
We built a firm friendship through a shared love of the theatre. We'd gamble on cheap tickets and go see a midweek musical, hiding out in the gods and humming along to our favourites. I imagined myself sweeping her off her feet, like a proper leading man; but when it mattered most, the words wouldn't come to me. I was terrified of ruining our great friendship by bungling a romantic gesture, so pretended I was happy just spending time in her company - with a thousand others all around us.
We'd socialise in each other's circles: at the pub, going bowling, karaoke. Spending quality time together. My heart broke a little more each time she introduced me as her "friend", yet I couldn't bring myself to refer to her any other way when I reciprocated. We weren't dating, I lied to myself, knowing exactly that's how I thought of our relationship. Knowing she didn't feel the same.
At nights I'd lie in bed, losing the race to orgasm against the guys next door, as I thought of how she'd smiled at me, or brushed my arm.
///
"Are you coming to the Christmas Party?" Gabby asked after rehearsal.
I shook my head. The memories of my last festive party were still too raw.
"Oh, but you must! Everyone will be there!"
I mumbled something about having nothing to wear.
"Well that settles it. I'm going shopping with the girls on Saturday and you're coming with."
There was no arguing with her - which is how I found myself wading through department stores, arms weighed down by designer paper bags, as the girls giggled their way through dresses and leggings and lingerie, eager to seek my opinions. I tried to be as honest as I could, but frankly they were all gorgeous and there was nothing they could wear that would change that.
As they paraded around me, partially dressed, I realised that I had moved too slowly. Not only had I been friendzoned, they were sufficiently comfortable in my company and apparent lack of interest that it didn't occur to them to cover up or hide themselves from me. I'd been too gentlemanly to be considered a man; I was of no threat to their virtue.
You'd think it would be exiting, erotic even, to have a gang of sexy girls parading themselves in front of you? Checking if these shorts were too slutty, or this top revealed too much cleavage? What do you think Neil - is this outfit 'work sexy' or 'clubbing sexy'? I wasn't exciting if they just treated you as one of the girls. Or worse, like part of the furniture. If I wanted a relationship, I was going to have to find myself a new hobby.
They picked out a suit for me, a nice three-piece, with a suitable shirt and tie. It cost a week's wages, but they insisted on how dapper I looked and how it would turn heads. There were some nice guys in sales that had an eye for a sharply-dressed gent, they said.
