May 13th 2004
So, how successful is the book of flirting? Well, it's day twelve and already I'm paying a visit to the Last Resort. I wanted step-by-step instructions on how to flirt but instead I've been asked to imagine I'm an animal and to flirt with no one else bar myself. When you've been single for as long as I have, that novelty has well worn off. So tonight I threw away the rulebook and headed to the gym. It was time to get me some sex with the ex.
Ordinarily, when it comes to desirability, Nick wouldn't have made it into the top five on my list of exes but he does have one advantage over all the others; I know where to find him. And just like a decade ago, I managed to wander out of the gym at the same time as Mr Spontaneity came off the squash court.
Me: Hello stranger, fancy meeting you here.
I can't remember his answer, as I was busy trying to recall the order of service for the flirting techniques. As we chatted I smiled, dipped my head, looked down, looked through my eyelashes, smiled some more and amazingly it worked. Before long we were in the bar mirroring our moves, laughing and chatting, oblivious to everyone. And I was definitely on for getting laid, which I'd like to think was thanks to my being a flirting queen. Either that or he'd read the slogan on my t-shirt. I bought it when I skydived for charity. 'Fancy a Jump?' it read, and he took it literally.
Back at my place, I went through the usual charade of making coffee, up to the point where I asked whether he took sugar – oh no, what other things about him have I erased from my memory! – when he cut to the chase.
Him: Let's go to bed.
Me: Who said anything about us sleeping together? There's only coffee on offer, tonight.
He didn't answer. He grabbed my hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me. For a long time.
Him: Let's go to bed
So I followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom, all the time wishing I'd put a couple of large brandies in those Diet Cokes he plied me with in the bar at the sports centre. I was in desperate need of some Dutch courage.
Me: I just need to use the loo.
With just a flimsy plasterboard wall between the toilet and my bedroom I put masses of toilet tissue down the pan before sitting down to do a wee and simultaneously say a prayer. After a quick wash of my hands, a last check in the mirror I took a deep breath and entered the bedroom, hoping he'd either fallen asleep or done a runner.
No. He'd busied himself lighting the three novelty candles displayed on the dresser, taken off everything except his boxers and was now lying prone on the bed, hands behind his head, waiting for me to come in and remove my clothes – Why, oh why, hadn't I thought to take them off in the bathroom and come back in just a robe?
We'd always been very competitive, him and me. Once I'd challenged him to take part in a 10K race with me, because I knew he would sprint ahead but wouldn't have the stamina to keep it up. Sure enough, I was waiting for him at the finish line, having already changed into my tracksuit, rattling my car keys in mock frustration at having been kept waiting.
