Task: No task, it was quite unexpected
Location: LA, California
Little did I know when I was applying panto-dame quantities of make-up ahead of a night out at No Vacancy, a gem of a speakeasy with a cabaret vibe in Hollywood, that I’d be meeting my very own Mr. Darcy that night.
Out with a friend, we jostled through the throng to reach our table, where good looking men were in abundance, the fish bowls were strong, the entertainment was awesome and I was loving life.
That was when I saw him.
Tall. Dark. Handsome.
Breaking into a sweat in my dress of highly flammable fabric, I did the obligatory single lady check ahead of mustering up the courage to say hi to this (fuck my life, Christmas has come early) beautiful brunette:
- Inspected my shoes to ensure that no loo roll was wrapped around my finger feet (all safe).
- Assessed my post-dinner burrito breath (could have been better but it wasn’t entirely offensive).
- Checked out his left hand as I didn’t much fancy following in Alanis Morissette’s footsteps by meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife (ring free).
- Casually made small talk with everyone and anyone else whilst doing the single-girl side eye to scope out the potential girlfriend situ (so far so good).
- Casually asked my friend “oh my goodness, who is the outrageously handsome guy that I must be introduced to, then Skype my Mum to tell her the good news and then marry him immediately, ideally tomorrow?” (OK, chill the fuck out).
The coast looked clear.
On being introduced, a swell of excitement rose up inside me. He was great. English, outgoing, my age, charming and shared the same nostalgic interest in the Let Loose song, Crazy For You. (Yeah, I’m still working on my single-girl meets sing-guy chit chat).
Having been husband hunting on my holidays in America for a little while now, it was comforting to hear a warm English voice, with a gentle, call-centre-esque Bolton twang thrown in for good measure.
Laughing ourselves into hysterics about growing up as a UK kid of 1983 (think Playdays, Fun Fax, Nintendo Nes, Kickers, Marathon bars and Opal Fruits, Happy Eater, dial up internet, BBC Ceefax, Tammy Girl Jelly Baby T-shirts, Bleu Bolt Jeans, Nokia 3210, Sharky and George… ) it felt like I’d known him for a lifetime.
After several chivalrous glasses of Prosecco, I immediately adopted my alter ego (the one where I’m convinced I’m fucking fabulous) and we trotted to his friend’s house for some bucket-sized glasses of vino, garage tunes (obvs) and a cheeky kiss in the kitchen. I felt like a teenager again – minus the Hollie-bush and my Mum waiting outside Chalfont St. Peter Youth Club ahead of my 11pm curfew.
I can’t think of the last time I kissed a friend of a friend. Are they all undesirable? Do my friends think I am? Or do my friends not dare unleash me on unsuspecting males anymore? I feel fairly confident that there are still plenty more to kiss. Ok, well perhaps none of Mark’s friends are left, being as they kept me pretty busy during my teens, but plenty more of my other mates’ friends, surely?
I could have kissed my tall, brilliant British bloke all night but I left the party (ahem, at 6am), to be… classy.
Ha, I actually just coughed up my Coco-Pops typing this. That was probably 2% of the reason. In actual fact, I left due to some surprising fanny fumbling under the blanket in the lounge. I’m not going to lie, it got a bit awkward, especially as I was talking to the owner of said fingers’ cousin at the time! Plus, at least give a girl some warning so she can deal with the sweaty Californian-night crevasse; a quick wet wipe between the creases and a spritz of Dior J’Adore lightly over the lips.
It was definitely a night reminiscent of several in 1999, and I left pulling at my Primark thong, picking it out of my arse awkwardly, hoping I’d see him the next day.
*I have Whatsapped my mates to find out why they don’t hook me up with their friends, colleagues, clients, cousins or milkmen.
**At the time I couldn’t think who my man reminded me of. It wouldn’t be until our first proper date that I’d realise. It’s only Colin Firth as Mr bloody Darcy!
***I had to educate my brilliant British bloke on who Mr Darcy is and why it’s therefore funny that Colin Firth plays Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones.
****He text to apologise for the fingering fail. What a gent.