Love by the Book (19 page)

I'd forgotten how nice it is to have the linguistic shorthand that comes with talking to another American. I was so used to explaining my cultural references to confused Brits who hadn't grown up with
Mister Rogers' Neighborhood
and hadn't seen the
U.S.
Dairy Lobby–sponsored commercials encouraging cheese consumption. I almost wept with relief when I made a joke about Bob Ross's happy little trees and he understood it.

I guess I'd underestimated how hard I'd been trying to make myself understood in London. This was just . . . simple. Maybe the book was right about sticking to one's own kind.

The flatbreads were cleared away and the honey wine was flowing like, well, wine.

“So,” I said, “I'm assuming from your YoDate name that you're from San Francisco?”

He grinned. “Born and raised, though I spent some time in Mountain View before I moved over here.”

Yikes. Even I knew that's where Google
HQ
is based. “What were you doing there?” I asked innocently. Presumably developing another billion-dollar app, or maybe a self-navigating hovercraft.

“Oh, you know. This and that. Do you want dessert?”

Several more glasses of honey wine later, Frisco walked me to my bus stop. It had been an amazing night, and Frisco had been the perfect gentleman . . . though knowing what I did, I was a little surprised when he let me split the bill with him. He was probably a feminist to boot and didn't want to seem like he was partaking in the traditional patriarchal fiscal system. Swoon.

“So, how are you getting home?” I asked. Private jet? I thought. Helicopter?

“I can jump on the bus from here, actually.”

I didn't want the evening to end, but the
21
4
appeared almost immediately. For the first time in my life I rued a bus turning up quickly.

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “I had a really great time, Lauren,” he said.

“Me too.” This was it. He was going in for the kiss. I met his gaze and steadied myself, licking my lips and hooding my eyes in what I hoped was an attractive way.

Frisco pulled me in for a hug, then jumped through the bus's open door. “See you soon!” he called.

Lucy had been at Tristan's when I got in from my date with Frisco, so tonight was the first night we were able to have a serious debrief. She was still working on her sleeve, which was now about six feet long.

“Don't you think you should start on the other sleeve soon?” I asked. “Or the body bit?”

“I'd love to, babe, but I don't know how to cast off, so I'm just going to keep going until I run out of yarn.”

“It'll be a hell of a sleeve when you're finished.”

Lucy was a rapt audience as I gave a detailed blow by blow of the date, only interrupting to suggest more wine or another cigarette. After almost an hour, we reached the point where he hugged me.

“Hang on, just a hug?”

I nodded.

“Not even a peck? A little cuddle?”

“A hug.”

“Did you give him the eyes?”

“Oh yeah. He got all the eyes I could muster.”

“What about the lips—did you plump?”

“They're not pillows, for Christ's sake.”

“I'm being perfectly serious! Did you plump them? Like this?” Lucy made a face like a duck's ass.

“I fucking hope not,” I muttered.

“Laugh all you like, but this pout has never let me down.”

“Well, whoop-dee-doo for you. I guess I'm the only leper around here.”

“Babe, you are not a leper! He did say that he wanted to see you again, so he must fancy you.”

“Maybe he just wants an American buddy,” I said, throwing myself back on the couch in despair.

“Don't be silly,” she said, finishing another row on her giant sleeve. “Men don't want to be
friends
with women.”

I'd heard from Frisco the morning after my debrief with Lucy, and we'd gone on a second date on Wednesday. He'd been just as dreamy and just as chaste as the first time.

But this morning, I woke up to a very exciting text from Frisco.

Frisco: Wanna hang out tonight?

I jumped out of bed and did a small dance of joy before responding.

Me: Sure. What did you have in mind?

Pleasesaysexpleasesaysexpleasesaysex . . .

My phone bleeped happily.

Frisco: Why don't you come over to my place? I'll make dinner and we can watch a box set.

I let out a little whoop: dinner at his place—sex was pretty much guaranteed.

Me: Sounds good. I'll bring the beer.

I spent the next twenty minutes agonizing over my choice of underwear. As is always the way, all my good stuff was in the wash so I had to hand wash my favorite Coco de Mer set (bought on sale when drunk after a work event last year) and, despite my best efforts with the hair dryer, left the house in a slightly damp bra.

I couldn't concentrate on anything at work.

“. . . so are you okay to compile the figures? Lauren? Hello, Lauren?” I looked up to see Cathryn watching me with a mix of concern and exasperation.

“What? Oh, sorry. I wasn't really listening.”

“The figures, Lauren. For the sponsorship deal?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure, of course, I'll send them over.” I started to pull up the Excel spreadsheets, but was struck with a thought before I had the chance to press send. “I mean, maybe he's just a gentleman, right?”

“Who? The client? I wouldn't say that, not after the way he looked at my bum last week.”

“No, Frisco! Maybe he's just old-fashioned, you know? Wanted to wait until the third date before making a move. He probably just respects me, right?”

Cathryn sighed. “Could be. I really don't know, Lauren.”

I nodded decisively. “I'll bet that's what it is.”

“I certainly hope so. I don't think I have the strength to deal with you like this much longer.”

 • • • 

It took me eons to get to Peckham, so I was running seriously late by the time I staggered to his front door carrying two six-packs of Sierra Nevada and a lemon drizzle cake I'd impulse-bought from Gail's.

Dressing “appropriately” for hanging out and watching
TV
proved way more difficult than dressing “appropriately” for anything else; I'd settled on a pair of loose-fitting, faded jeans from my Portland days and an old Billy Idol T-shirt. I was hoping the effect was “effortlessly sexy” and not “effortlessly homeless.” It had been sweltering on the bus and I was covered in a thin layer of sweat and grime.

I was greeted first by a scruffy, aproned Frisco followed by a waggy-tailed pug and a waft of delicious cooking smells, all in quick succession. It was like walking into a version of heaven created specifically by my vagina.

“Hey!” Frisco gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come on in! You brought Sierra Nevada! Good call.”

“I aim to please. Who's this little guy?” I knelt down and scratched his wrinkly little head. The dog responded by rolling over on his back and wiggling around on the floor. If only Frisco was as easily enticed.

“He's just showing off for the ladies, aren't you, Billy Budd?” Frisco scooped up the pug in one arm. I was overcome with the desire to be a dog so I could be scooped up in the other.

“Billy Budd?” I asked. “Like, as in Melville?”

He laughed. “Yeah. He's got this crazy squint when he gets excited, so I thought he looked like a sailor. Don't you, Budd?” He gave Billy a scratch behind the ears and his little face scrunched up. I had to admit, it was pretty accurate.

“So what's cooking?” I asked, following him down the corridor into the big, open-plan living space. “It smells amazing. Your place is great, by the way.”

It really was. There was art on every wall in the living room—real, honest-to-God interesting art, not just a poster for
The Godfather
stuck on there with Blu-tack. There was a yoga mat rolled up in the corner of the room next to a photo of Bikram Choudhury and various knickknacks from around the globe, and there was a plant that was actually still alive on the windowsill.

He led me through to the kitchen, which was tiled navy and white and spotless, despite the fact that several pots and a casserole dish were quietly bubbling away on the stove.

The whole place felt like a sitcom set.

He gestured toward the casserole dish. “Are you okay with eating fish?”

“Love it.” I didn't, not really, but I wasn't about to tell that to this dream man in an apron.

He opened a couple of beers and handed me one, and we talked while I watched him cook. Seeing him wield a wooden spoon was unbelievably arousing: it was like watching some sort of domestic striptease.

Billy danced between the two of us, begging for bits of food and presenting his belly for scratching. I wasn't sure which of the two I was more in love with.

I'd had a quick flick through the latest issue of
Wired
last night, so I was primed with what I hoped would be a few techy tidbits to drop into conversation.

“So,” I said casually, “how about those bitcoins, eh?”

Frisco looked up from the stove. “What about them?”

“They're just . . . crazy, right?”

He frowned slightly and turned back to stirring. “Not really. It's just another form of currency. In five years' time, we'll all be using something similar. The concept of individualized national currencies is virtually dead.”

Shit. I had no idea what he was talking about. Time to try another tack.

“You know, I tried Snapchat the other day,” I said. “I sent a few photos to my sister, but they kept getting deleted after she'd looked at them.”

“That's the point,” he said over his shoulder. “They're meant to self-destruct so there's no incriminating evidence. That's why teenagers love it so much.”

“Oh.” Great, forty minutes trying to learn about the digital age for nothing. I gave up and concentrated on petting the pug.

We sat down to eat and he put a series of increasingly amazing-looking vegetable dishes on my plate, topped off with a steamed fillet of cod.

I took one bite and almost passed out. It was incredible.

“This is probably the best thing I've put in my mouth in a long time,” I said, eyebrow raised suggestively. I waited for him to react to the innuendo, but he just serenely speared a piece of asparagus. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

He shrugged and then bent down to feed Billy a scrap of fish. “I've always loved to mess around in the kitchen.” I choked on a piece of roasted cauliflower before recovering myself. “It's actually why I decided to come to London.”

“Really?”

“It's a long story, but I came here via Greenland.”

“Greenland? What the hell were you doing in Greenland?”

“I went to a conservation forum in Greenland a few years ago. We ended up on a trawler with these fishermen who'd dedicated their lives to sustainable deep-sea fishing. These guys take it seriously—I mean, they're out there in blizzards and storms and all kinds of weather. Really inspiring stuff. But the best part was when this Icelandic guy on the boat gave me some hakari.”

“What's hakari? Some kind of psychotropic drug?”

Frisco laughed a deep, dimpled laugh. “No, it's pickled shark.”

“Why the fuck would you want to pickle a shark? Unless you're Damien Hirst, I guess.”

He frowned. “It's actually a delicacy in Iceland. It was an honor for him to share it with me.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don't be—I didn't know about it either. But as soon as I tasted it, I knew that hakari was my destiny. I went home, sold the business and moved to Iceland. I spent a year studying with some of the greatest hakari producers in the world, learning all the tricks of the trade. I'm now a level-three hakari master.”

“Congratulations,” I said, not knowing if that was the correct response. “How did that lead to London? I didn't know there was a great demand for pickled shark here.”

“Yeah, but there's such an incredible food scene,” he said. It was true: you couldn't sneeze in central London without spraying on someone selling pop-up artisanal hot dogs or snail gratins out of a truck. “There's no better place to bring hakari to the masses. I've been curing my own batch for the past four and a half months, and in two weeks I'm going to open my own hakari stall in Broadway market.”

I nodded. So pickled shark was this guy's one true love. What chance did I have?

I remembered the book's advice: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. “Can I try some?” I asked. I didn't think I liked the sound of pickled shark, but I was willing to try it for the sake of “sharing his interests.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, it's still curing. You can't eat it until it's had its full pickling time.”

“That's a shame,” I said, feigning disappointment.

“I can show you where the strips of shark are hanging, though.”

“I haven't had a better offer all year.”

I followed him into the basement where, lo and behold, a truly ridiculous amount of shark pieces were hanging up, all emanating a special blend of moldy cheese, athlete's foot and death.

“Ohmygod,” I said, resenting the exhalation because of the inhalation to follow.

“Amazing stuff, right? I mean, this is the smell of
LIFE
!” He took a deep breath and grinned.

I nodded maniacally and valiantly fought off my gag reflex.

“You should come down to Broadway market when I open the stall. Get a taste of the real thing.”

I took a quick gasp. “Mmm-hmm!” I spluttered.

“So, now you've seen my baby. Ready for a cigarette and a
DVD
?”