Low Expectations (7 page)

The pretentious clientele were all staring at me with a mixture of shock and amusement. I ran to the toilets, not having fully processed what had happened but filled with dread. I pulled out clump after clump of what looked like balls of charcoal with hair strands sprouting out of them. The smell was atrocious.

After that debacle, the evening rapidly deteriorated. Grateful though I was to have been merely humiliated in
front of the sexiest man I had ever dated and not gravely wounded, this sort of thankfulness cannot restore a mood. I tried to laugh it off, but the pressure was too much. After a restorative whiskey and both inane babbling (on his part) and shocked silence (on mine) I opted to bolt for a taxi. I could barely mumble goodbye. Oh God. I will be forever known as The Girl Who Set Her Hair On Fire. I am a budget dating-disaster version of Lisbeth Salander.

Oh well, I have to look on the bright side. I had a smouldering – ha – kiss with a very beautiful, very hairy man, who might conceivably call me again, if only out of pity. I am not burnt or bald. I am memorable. I did not cry publicly. I have an excuse for an expensive haircut. I did not projectile phlegm.

It is with astonishment and tentative delight that I receive a text from Beardy the following Saturday, inviting me round for dinner. After my fiery performance, I suspect it can only be a booty call wrapped in the pretence of romance. He will most likely pounce after the first course – assuming that he provides a starter, main and dessert. If he serves a plate of fish fingers I will immediately know where I stand.

A full week of silence is usually the death-knell for any budding romance, so I think it best to proceed with caution and guard the lowest possible expectations for the night to come. It is possible that he has had a last-minute cancellation from one of his many hipster concubines. English boys can be so relentlessly ugly that it's safer and less painful to
assume from the beginning that the good-looking ones have a longstanding harem in place. If after several months of dating you have been suitably fabulous and undemanding, he will with any luck have become sufficiently lazy or fond of you to consider your installation as The Official Girlfriend.

Impulses to voice insecurity must be quashed with the swift annihilation usually reserved by American armed forces for insurgents in the Middle East. A serene, Stepford-girlfriend mask will be carefully held in place until the moment that you actually catch him
in flagrante delicto
with some tattooed seventeen-year-old in a Hervé-for-Topshop bandage dress.

This can't of course be true of every good-looking man in London, but from my personal and vicarious experiences it often proves accurate. What the less fortunate boys might lack in good looks, they often make up in wit and charm; there are certainly plenty of men in London capable of panty-dropping prowess armed only with their intellect and a wonky smile. However, that is also no guarantee of integrity or fidelity, so why not risk being heartbroken by someone who looks like a heartbreaker rather than someone who looks like the back end of a bus? It's less of a slap in the face when they cheat on you if you've felt all along that you probably don't deserve them.

So, with these thoughts in mind, feeling rather depressed about the whole venture, I accepted his offer of dinner. It is sure to be some simple Italian dish that he will insist is his speciality but will taste as if he got it out of a tin, as that is the
origin of everything save pasta. Why English men think that the ability to wield a can-opener and boil linguini mystically transmogrifies them into a chef is best left unquestioned. According to my mother, any effort a man makes on your behalf should be fawned over. She believes it is possible to train men, like dogs, to do your bidding with the power of positive reinforcement. This can take the form of excessive praise, cow eyes, feigned personal incompetence for whatever task they are currently engaged in, applause for simple feats and blowjobs for difficult ones.

This didn't prevent my father from descending into a middle-aged stereotype when he ran off with Vitoria, a twenty-six-year-old Brazilian acting as nanny to our neighbour's children. Presumably she was even more experienced at slyly controlling tactics, having been surrounded by small boys. At any rate, I resolve to be flattered and impressed by whatever watery disaster awaits me.

I carry on with the task at hand, namely, updating my CV. I've decided to get some shifts at a pub rather than continue being a freelance waitress at random events. The whole appeal of working for these high-profile parties was that you could supposedly fit them around your schedule, working as little or as often as you like. In practice, it means that the managers ring you every day you are not already booked to guilt-trip you. They are permanently understaffed due to their own idiotic policies.

There is nothing worse than being woken regularly at 9.02 a.m. by Harried Henrietta snapping, ‘Yes, well, we'd all rather be doing something else wouldn't we, but we can't, that's what responsibility and commitment to good service is all about. We need at least ten more people for this wedding, you should be honoured that you have been called; it's a chic celebrity affair at a secret location. And also, you actually owe us now – this is your second non-standard attire fine. For each offence, there is a £5 standing fee. Black ballet flats are not black pumps and thus fall short of our uniform requirements.'

Just from her voice, you can tell she is somewhere in Fulham wearing a gilet and Hunter wellies, daydreaming of her horse as she twiddles blonde extensions paid for by her wealthy boyfriend Tibur.

Tempting reluctant staff into extra hours by dangling the dubious carrot of proximity to fame is at best uninspired. The only way I could possibly be swayed is by the presence of one man (Nicolas Cage). At any rate, it is more likely to be someone entirely irrelevant to the whole of humanity, like Gordon Brown. However, I'm afraid this morning after fielding three such calls, irate and nursing a hangover, I finally told her to take my promising career as a waitress and fuck herself with it. I will miss the canapés.

*

I march into the fresh autumn air, free of my burdens. My plan is to hand out CVs to every pub imaginable before meeting
Beardy at his flat in Bethnal Green. I'm wearing a simple outfit appropriate for both job- and man-hunting: sheepskin coat, white vest, deconstructed Vivienne cardi, skinny jeans and five-inch lace-up boots. My hair, after the disaster last week, has been freshly layered and, though shorter than I prefer, has a certain Joan Jett After-The-Mullet-Years quality. Today, I will charm bar staff and Beardy alike into swooning submission.

This feeling is difficult to sustain after going into twenty bars, all of which are fully staffed, to be fobbed off by managers who nod robotically before, I'm sure, chucking my CV straight in the bin. I soldier on, taking circuitous routes on side roads in the hopes of finding someplace so mystifyingly located that I will have minimal competition.

Finally, I come across a pub in Haggerston that appears to be finishing a recent renovation. There's some scaffolding on one side and it is just the chicer side of shabby. The traditional Victorian brick façade appeals to me, as does its name, The Pissed Newt. Besides being a state I find myself in on a tri-weekly basis, ‘newt' is a humorous word to say, though there is not much opportunity to do so outside of medieval apothecaries.

‘Hello! I'm Georgie … it looks like you're just opening – I was wondering if you need any staff at the moment? I'm looking to work part-time and to start immediately,' I smile at the man behind the bar, a weather-beaten type with kind
eyes, a wide grin and ‘MUM' tattooed in giant gothic typeface on his upper arm.

‘We've been open for over a year, love, but we've only just found the dollar to do the place up … and there's always work here for a pretty lady,' he smiles, eyes twinkling in a friendly manner.

I laugh and twirl a lock of my hair excessively, which I immediately regret, but am forced to work to comic effect once I've started. Nothing is weirder than suddenly abandoning a faux-flirtation. He laughs at my lameness and I feel at ease. An hour previously in a different bar, a leery bloke had said the same thing with an entirely different effect. It's funny how two people can read from the same script and from one person it will be charming, from another creepily inappropriate.

‘In that case, can I speak to the manager?'

‘The owner manages the pub but he's got a few other places he takes care of. I'm the assistant manager, Gary. How much experience have you got?'

‘Well, I've done waitressing and bar jobs at festivals so I think I'd pick it up quickly. I'm a student so I'm looking for something three nights a week, I'm flexible on days,' I say, getting out my CV and placing it on the bar.

‘Okay, just a few more questions then.' Gary hums while getting out a pen, inspecting my CV and scribbling some notes on it. I wait, hoping his queries don't run to the dreaded
quirky variety. I'm not talented at sounding spontaneously cool, probably because I am not spontaneous or cool. It would take at least a week's preparation for me to be reliably down with the kids. Is the recession so bad that to get a job pulling pints you have to have model looks, a winning personality and a solid knowledge of underground music?

‘How old are you?' Phew. That I can answer.

‘Twenty-five. Well, I'm twenty-five in April. That's ages away. But now I'm twenty-four. Evidently.' For God's sake, woman, I scold myself, have you learnt nothing from Two-Minute-Michael? Brevity is the soul of valour.

‘Favourite film?'

‘Oh, um …
Bitter Moon
has great, amazingly terrible dialogue. And
Showgirls
! I love really tacky excessive films. But also, you know, good ones … like … uh …'

Don't say
Samurai Cop
. Or
Birdemic: Shock and Terror
. What have you seen that's good? You've watched loads of good films – you can just never remember the titles, directors or plots. What about that Werner Herzog documentary that you found inappropriately amusing?

‘
Grizzly Man
,' I finish breathlessly.

‘Ah, that one about that guy who was eaten by bears? That was rough.'

‘Yeah, pretty gruesome.'

‘If you were on a pirate ship, what would you be?'

‘What, you mean, first mate or skipper or something? Uhh …
I'd be … probably pregnant!' Great, I am a slag with poor taste in films.

‘What's the most humiliating thing you've ever experienced?' Now, that question gives me a wealth to choose from.

The truth, which I will not share with Gary, is that when I was fourteen years old I explosively shat myself in the Harrods Food Hall. I had terrible food poisoning after eating a bad oyster with my mum and I was wearing a white sundress. I left a trail of runny defecation as I ran through the labyrinthine corridors, from the Fragrance Rooms to the Egyptian escalators, searching for the exit. Ten minutes of intermittent yet unstoppable diarrhoea feels like a lifetime. However, I sense I should avoid telling this story or his impression of me will forever be: Twenty-four/B-Films/Knocked-Up/Shitter. So I say,

‘Well, this charming new haircut I'm sporting is the result of setting my head alight on a date last week.' I swish my hair and laugh. ‘Is that bad enough?'

‘I'll pass on your CV.'

I try to subtly lean over to work out what he's scribbled on it. I think I catch: ‘Student. Twenty-four. Some Experience. Friendly. Bit weird'. I'll take that!

*

Beardy answers the door barefoot, in a tight white T-shirt and low slung ripped jeans that show off an inch of his toned stomach. I have to swallow and avert my eyes from those
glorious hipbones, reminding myself not to slobber like a dog on heat. Lord, give me strength to comport myself like a lady, not a desperate slapper. Though I am agnostic verging on atheist, like all sensible people I turn to prayer in times of dire financial or sexual need. Just in case.

‘Hey there,' Beardy grins. He's not wearing the heinous glasses. His eyes are a deep green, the colour of moss on a rock. Which doesn't sound as sexy as ‘With eyes like the sea after a storm,' but totally is. His hand reaches out and lightly runs through a lock of hair that's fallen over one of my eyes. ‘Like what you've done with the barnet.'

‘Haha, thanks, sorry for rushing off like that before, I was a bit shell-shocked I think, but I was overdue for a haircut anyway, really, they nearly gave me a mullet-shag though, it was a close shave. Have you had a good week?' I prattle as I step inside. Slow down. Shut up. Mysterious. Remember: your flirting sounds mean and you are not funny.

‘Hey no worries, that's cool … I'm all right. I've had a lot of work on and been rehearsing with my band and stuff. I would have texted you to ask how you were but I had phone trouble.'

Ah. Non-specific phone trouble. I used to give more credence to this type of excuse but have had difficulty ignoring my suspicions after running into an old one-night-stand. In a fit of embarrassment, he said the reason he never called was that he'd thrown his mobile into the Thames after a fight with his
best friend. I believed him, too, until his pocket started shaking wildly, emitting a ‘Smack My Bitch Up' ringtone. When I asked, quite mildly considering, ‘Then what's that then?' he had the gall to respond that it was a musical vibrator.

These days, I'm a firm believer in the old adage that if he wants to find you, he will find a way; if he hasn't, move swiftly onwards. And Beardy did find me, even if it was a week late. It's kinder that he's offering up an excuse. Now we can both pretend that I gave him the benefit of the doubt, having more self-respect than someone who leaps at a last-minute Saturday night probable sex-date.

‘So that freelance project you mentioned is going well then?' I ask.

Beardy, like every third person in the East End, is a graphic designer. As I am a womenswear student, soon to be swelling the ranks of unemployed fashion designers, I can't really fault him for being a cliché. He also plays lead guitar in a band called Tinny Wake Up Call or something equally odd. From what I remember it's some sort of rock/minimal-electro/grime mélange that I pray I won't be subjected to.