Reason 6 – they don’t always have much pride

I went out with a guy at uni for all of about 3 months. Being a good virginal uni student, the relationship never went further than a grope under the covers (if he was lucky – and note I said “under the covers”, not “under the shirt” – I was a VERY innocent girl!!). He wasn’t really my type (he supported Tottenham, I’m an Arsenal supporter from way back), and also (but not more importantly) I really didn’t want him to be my first. So all in all, he had to go.

After I ended things, David (aka Reason 6), had a wee bit of trouble letting go. I had only just moved out of home and he used to call my home regularly to talk to me. My dad had an issue with being the bad guy, so would tell David I wasn’t presently available (but never breaking to him that I had actually moved out – go figure!!), and then would proceed to chat for hours about football, beer, cars and the usual boy stuff. Afterwards, my father would call me to tell me that David had rung and that really he was a lovely guy, but Dad could understand why I wasn’t keen – even my Dad thought he was a bit soft.

But when, on the off chance, David would catch me at my parental home (usually when I was home for dinner -  and because I was a poor university student this was more than a few times a week (usually 4 or 5 times at least!)), he would ask if he could see me and the conversation would go like this:

Me: No. I don’t want to see you.

Him: Oh, come on, just for a couple of hours. Just two hours! 

Me: No. I don’t think so.

Him: Come on. Just one hour. I can buy you lunch. Just one little hour!

Me: No. I don’t think I have an hour free tomorrow.

Him: What about just half an hour? Just 30 minutes? Surely you can spare 30 minutes?

Me: No. Sorry.

Him: 20 minutes. Surely 20 minutes isn’t too much to ask?

Me: I have to go now.

Him: Please! Just 10 mins? 10 mins? Come on! I can walk you from one lecture to the other? Please!!

Please is right – jaysus man! Have some farken pride! I was embarrassed for him! And my best friend summed it up not long after when she told a boy (the one that I had chosen to be the one, incidentally) that she didn’t know why David had been so desperate to see me all the time. Afterall, she assured him, I “wasn’t that great!”

Thanks love!!

Reason 5 – they are not very discreet

I grew up in a relatively small town where everyone knew not only everyone else, but their business also. This was never of huge concern to me as I had the same partner for over seven years and we had moved from the small town to a larger city in search of glittering careers. Like all good things this relationship eventually came to an end, but my ex-partner and I stayed on fairly good terms. After the initial post-break-up mourning period, I was ready to get back up on the horse and so, ventured out in the larger city with a group of old girlfriends – all of whom had moved, like myself from the same smaller town. There was a fairly large group of us, gathering for a friend’s birthday and like all good newly single girls, I imbibed in probably one too many glasses of champagne. I got chatting to a gentleman (Andy (aka Reason 5 – so obviously not actually a gentleman)) and after I had decided that I was mere seconds off turning into a pumpkin, he, chivalrous thing that he was, offered to see me into a cab. It will come as a surprise to very few that we exchanged phone numbers and saliva on the footpath outside the bar that my friends were in, much to the delight of the crowd that gathered at the windows to cheer and whoop in delight at our two or three minute interlude. The next morning, I woke with a raging hangover, and a slight feeling of guilt concerning my ex-boyfriend. But, I consoled myself, we were no longer a couple, and it was no longer his business as to what I got up to on drunken nights out with other friends.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, guilt having subsided, but hangover still fully intact, that the ex rang, asking what I thought I was doing with someone like Andy. “Huh?” was the only articulate sentence I could offer. My ex-boyfriend then explained that he knew Andy very well indeed, because when they had worked in the same industry in our hometown, he had been notorious for emailing all of his associates with gory and intimate details of his actions with random members of the fairer sex. Apparently, his emails were quite infamous. The ex was upset and explained to me (in no uncertain terms) his opinions of my kissing compadre and myself. I sat on the end of the phone, nursing my head, taking it all in, but the bombshell was dropped when my ex told me that Reason 5 was also living with his girlfriend – she just happened to be out of town this weekend. I gently explained that I had to go and hung up.

Five years in the wilderness of couple-dom and my first foray back into the single realm was with a cheating man who could very well email a lot of people I know with tales of drunken kisses on the footpath outside of a bar. I couldn’t have imagined a worse welcome back to singleness if I had tried.

I duly avoided Andy’s calls when they came and made a few excuses to elude him. I am honest enough to admit that he was certainly not the most persistent man in the universe. What had become of his girlfriend, I didn’t ever ask, but I had since heard on the grapevine that their love had died.

After a few more months, I moved back to my afore-mentioned hometown, to take up my dream job and be nearer my family. Not long after returning home, I met my current partner, and again, due to the size (small!) of our hometown, my new partner knew both my ex, and the notorious Andy, through work and mutual friends. I suppose that word got back to the city on the illustrious grapevines that all small towns grow so fertilely, that my new partner and I were together, but imagine my surprise when I got to work one day, to see in my inbox an email awaiting my attention. It was from Andy. I was intrigued.

Even after our brief interlude I had not received any emails. I clicked to open it, interested to see what the title “Slops” meant. Imagine my horror when I opened the email to find a picture of myself, kissing Andy, from all of those months before. Someone had obviously had a camera out in force that night, and as could probably be imagined, the photo was as flattering as it could only have been after a good few solid hours of champagne drinking. Worse still, was the note accompanying the photo, which was addressed, firstly, to my current partner, secondly, to my ex-boyfriend who had already been crushed by the initial fact, and thirdly to somewhere between forty and fifty others ranging from close friends to people I had never even heard of.

And the text with the unattractive photo read: “Hey mate. Just so you know that you’ve got my slops. Never forget that I got in there first.” Andy was an absolute charmer – in case I had ever had any doubt. And even if it was only a kiss on the footpath at three o’clock in the morning, I certainly won’t be forgetting Reason 5 in a hurry.

Reason 4 – their sense of humour can be somewhat… warped

I met Reason 4, at a friend’s birthday party after hearing about him for quite a number of months. Ian was a friend of a friend who had apparently just transferred with his company out to Sydney, Australia. He was made out to be a slick, smooth Londoner with looks to kill and a wit as quick as a flash. Getting to the party late, it wasn’t hard to spot him chatting to a group of enamoured girls and I wasted no time at all making myself known to him. I introduced myself and told him that his reputation preceded him. I was only talking to him for a few minutes before another hopeful came over to interrupt us and introduce herself.

It wasn’t until much later in the night that my chance came to speak to Ian again and this time, I made sure to hold his attention for longer than the initial few minutes. We chatted for a while and exchanged business cards this time, before heading our separate ways to leave the party.

The following Monday, he sent me an email, saying simply:

A colleague just asked for a contact at your company because we are looking for a way into you. Oo er.

His sense of humour was a little off-beat but it appealed. I laughed out loud when I read this, and a series of flirtatious e-mail ensued. He called me the following Wednesday night and asked if I would like to join him for dinner and a drink the following evening. I agreed.

We arranged to meet straight after work so that we could do a little Christmas shopping before dinner (my wishes, I had a lot to do before returning home for Christmas three days later). I waited at the station for almost an hour and was about to give up and get on the next train when I saw him, sauntering down the platform, a guilty smile playing across his lips. “Sorry,” he said when we met, “I got held up. Just as I was leaving my manager called me into his office to tell me that we’re about to lose a big account.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek before adding, “I had forgotten how beautiful you are.” Everything was forgiven.

We caught the train into town and did a bit of Christmas shopping as planned. Ian was more than content to trail after me as I poked into shops and bought a few last minute gifts. We had a lovely Japanese dinner followed by a drink or two in a local bar and chatted about all sorts of things. Ian made me laugh a lot which is my biggest weakness in a man.

We ended up the night at my place and Ian decided that he would stay over. The next morning we got the train together to work and again, chatted and laughed the whole way there. As we were getting off the train, I said, “I’ll see you soon.” Ian smiled and shook his head, “I don’t think so,” he said, “let’s face it. You used to be unattainable, but now I’ve moved you to the “used goods” category.” Luckily, he said this with a smile, and again I realised it was his off-beat sense of humour rearing it’s head once more. I didn’t quite get it straight of the mark, but I guess I would learn to.

That day at work, we continued to e-mail and his e-mails still made me laugh. The following day, I went home for the Christmas break. Ian continued to send me humorous texts, including one that said: “Hi there. Just finished sending Christmas e-mails from work. I have been walking around with my trousers undone all afternoon. The beauty of being a smaller man was that nobody noticed.”

Who sends that sort of text messages? I couldn’t work out if he was hilariously funny, or just plain weird. I opted for the hilariously funny option.

On Christmas day I received a text, saying “Happy Christmas in the sun. I’m looking over the bay, shooting kookaburras. Wonderful.” Again, his sense of humour made me laugh.

When I sent him a text upon my return to Sydney to see if he was yet back in town, his response was, “Not as yet, still shooting things.”

I spoke to Reason 4 on New Years Eve when he rang. Unfortunately, I was at a party and the champagne was flowing. I couldn’t hear what he was saying and so said that I would speak to him later. Later that night, I sent a text message to a friend to tell her where I was. My text read some thing like “At Establishment Bar still. Can’t wait to see you. Love you loads.” I sent this and seconds later realised that (of course) I had sent it to the wrong person (NB: I have only sent texts to the incorrect recipient twice ever. Why were both of those inappropriately to boys I was trying to woo at the time…?). Since I had to call Ian anyway, I called him, partly to apologise, and partly to see how his night was going.

It was noisy in the bar that I was in and again I could barely make out what he was saying. I started by apologising for the text that I had just sent and explained that it had been intended for someone else. Ian cut me off by saying, “Look, let’s be honest. You are just coming on way too strong. Telling me you love me. It is just too full on. Anyway, I have to go.”

And with that he hung up.

I didn’t know what to say or do. I was in shock. I sent him a message saying: “Sorry. Coming on too strong was never my intention. The text was meant for someone else. Have a good new years.”

I sent this and hoped for the best. The response soon came:

I was only messing with you. I didn’t take your love seriously. Will talk soon. x”

I didn’t respond, deciding that New Years Eve after one too many drinks was not the time for lengthy discussions on intent vs. perceptions. The next day Ian rang and left a message asking me to call him, again apologising for the joke going wrong.

I called him the next day and we laughed about the whole miscommunication. After hearing my deep, raspy voice (the voice of a non-smoker being surrounded by smokers for days), he even joked, “If I didn’t know what you looked like, I would find you very attractive.”

We finished the conversation when I told him to give me a call if he was around later so that perhaps we could catch up.

The next time I heard from Reason 4 was later that night when I received a text message from him. He was out with a friend of his and knew that I was out with a girlfriend. The text read: “Am about to go to Crow’s Nest with Alex to get a hand job from a girl with nice boobs. Unless you and your mate want to earn $150.”

Now, I think my sense of humour is normally fairly good, and occasionally a little off-centre. But even I wasn’t sure how to take that one.

Reason 3 – they’re not good with directions

When we first moved to New York, my girlfriend and I used to go out quite a lot, introducing ourselves to the locals and learning to love their Nu Yawker accents. One night in a bar, I got talking to Reason 3, Adam, who was working in advertising, apparently in the building three doors down from where I was working. Adamseemed the wholesome, American type with perfect teeth and an accent straight out of a blockbuster movie. He did come across (to put it bluntly) as a little daft, but one flash of those pearly white teeth and I was immediately keen. I agreed to go out on a date with him the following Friday night and he called me a few times during the week, “just to say hi”. Adam was a sweetheart.

Friday night came and we met in a bar not far from where we both worked, before going for dinner at a nice restaurant not far away. Adam insisted on paying for all of the drinks and the meal and suddenly he wasn’t so daft anymore. That’s not to say he was smart, because he certainly wasn’t, but he perhaps wasn’t quite as dumb as I had originally thought.

After dinner, we went to a bar and then later to a nightclub where Adam and I drank and danced. At some point during the night, I decided that he was indeed a very lovely man, but that I wasn’t interested in anything long term. That’s not to say that I wasn’t interested at all, because Adam was a very attractive man, with an even more attractive body. And a girl alone in New York could certainly do a lot worse. At the end of the night, my date offered to walk me back to my apartment building and when I explained that it probably wasn’t within walking distance he offered to see me into a cab. Seizing the day and all of that, I suggested that Adam come home with me and that slow little brain of his took no time at all to process my proposal.

Adam’s lack of brainpower was more than overly compensated in his sexual prowess and we proceeded to have mind blowing sex for most of the night. The next morning, I was woken by a man kissing me gently and rather sensuously and again we proceeded to have more great sex. After the act, Adam asked if I wanted some breakfast and I asked what he would like, knowing full well that my understocked refrigerator probably wouldn’t contain much more than a lump of cheese, a few opened bottles of wine and probably one or two other harder alcoholic beverages. When I told him this, Adam said, in his all American way, “No problem. I’ll run down to the 711 and grab something, and bring it back up for us. Buzz me in, okay.” And with a kiss, he was gone.

Well, I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. And then I feared the worst. That Reason 3 hadn’t been smart enough to find his way back to the apartment (which was above the convenience store he would have been visiting). As I wrapped myself in my sheet and dashed over to the window, I expected to see a bemuddled Adam standing on the pavement scratching his head, a querying look on his face as he tried to recall which bright red door he had just exited from. But I didn’t. Adam had escaped. And he hadn’t even had the decency to give me the diet coke I had requested. Nor leave a number for me to contact him. I never saw Adam again.

Reason 2- they don’t know the meaning of “the night of your life”

I was at the swimming pool in my apartment building with a girlfriend of mine and we had decided on having a “girls day”. This meant trashy magazines, large bottles of water, sunshine, un-waxed bikini lines and, most importantly, an absence of men. This was the perfect accompaniment to hours of giggles and gossip about the latest scandal with some blonde celebrity or other, or more likely, our group of incestuous friends.

We intermittently dipped before taking up positions in the dappled shade to continue our conversations and as we did so, I noticed a particular group of men moving closer towards our corner of the pool. At first I thought that they were listening in our conversation but eventually I realised that they were trying instead to strike up some sort of chat. One took the rather mature move of splashing us as he dived into the pool, and before we knew it we were engaged in a lively discussion about pool etiquette – the boys insisting that they should offer us some drinks to make up for the friends inexcusable behaviour. While we declined drinks, my friend and I did talk to the three men for a few more hours before the sun started to sink and we decided to make a move for home.

As I was packing up and putting some clothes on, one of the men, Guy, asked if he could have my number and suggested that we go out one night. I reasoned to myself that meeting someone by the pool made a pleasant change from meeting strangers in smoky bars and cheerfully handed my number over. (More to the point, this gentleman obviously wasn’t overly perturbed by my tubby tummy, or unmade up face – the idea of someone being interested even though I was au naturale appealed no end).

Guy called me during the following week but because I had started a new job and was working back late a lot, I was unable to see him. He was very understanding about this and we spoke for about twenty minutes each time he rang. When he called the following Saturday to find that I was at work making a dent on a particularly heavy workload, he was appalled and demanded that I let him cook for me that evening. He told me to make my way to his place for “the night of my life” (his words, not mine) and promised to spoil me in a way that I deserved to be spoiled. Where I would probably normally find this erring on the corny side of romance, I had been enduring intense pressure at work and felt in desperate need of some TLC. As a wise woman once said, occasionally it’s nice to be doted on. I certainly felt in need of some dotage.

I made my way to Guy’s house armed only with a bottle of wine and a smile, looking forward to getting to know this man a little better. When I arrived, Guy was carrying his golf clubs into the house, having just come from a game nearby. He welcomed me inside and promptly excused himself to go and freshen up, but not before ushering me into his lounge room, where I sat and flipped through some magazines.

When Guy emerged, in a crisp polo-neck shirt and neatly ironed, expensive jeans, he took a seat beside me on the lounge and asked me about my day. I told him about my new position and he asked sincere questions about where I intended to go with my career and what I was doing to get there. We talked like this for about thirty minutes before I asked if we could perhaps open the bottle of wine I had brought over. Guy jumped up from the lounge and practically sprinted to the kitchen to fetch the bottle, an opener and two glasses. I smiled to myself, thanking my lucky stars to have met such an attentive, attractive man.

After our second glass of wine, I began to feel hungry (especially after having a full day in the office with nothing but a salad sandwich to sustain me), and after the third I was practically ravenous. As I rose to visit the smallest room in the house, I asked as to what Guy intended on cooking for dinner.

It made me smile when I walked back into the lounge room to find Guy with a brown cardboard box, and even though I was mildly disappointed that he had decided not to cook, I rationalised that it was late and it was sweet that he had organised a pizza without me realising. It wasn’t until he lifted the lid to reveal a half-eaten pizza (oh yeah, and one slice of the remaining half had a bite taken out of it), that I realised that he hadn’t in fact ordered a pizza, but taken last night’s left overs out of the refrigerator.

Touching it gingerly, I was further surprised to discover that the pizza hadn’t even been heated, so I suggested that I do so quickly in the microwave. Guy ushered me to the kitchen where I also found two plates, some serviettes and a knife and fork each. After the pizza was heated suitably, I made the next unfortunate discovery – the pizza was drowning in chillies. And I don’t like spicy food.

The smell of the pizza had enticed my empty stomach now and I was starving, ready to eat a small child. I asked Guy if he had any other food in the house and he apologised, saying that he didn’t, but wondering whether we wanted to go for a walk to see what was around. I agreed to this, not questioning what he had intended to cook for my promised “spoil-a-thon”. We wandered out onto the street to see what we could find in the way of a gourmet dinner, or in the very least, a burger, or takeaway Chinese. Even a kebab would have sufficed at this stage.

As we walked, Guy explained that he had been expecting to have a friend drop some money over to him earlier in the evening, with which he had intended on taking me out for the so-called “night of my life”. I didn’t say anything but made a mental note to myself that he was obviously a bit short of cash.

We wandered around the neighbourhood in a futile search of any food outlet that might be open and eventually stumbled across a bar. I suggested that we go in, in the hope of a bowl of wedges or chips (anything?!), but Guy suggested that we get a take-out of drinks before returning to his, where, he assured me, he had “one more thing up his sleeve”. I agreed to this, with the same blind faith that has surely led men to their deaths and began looking for a nice bottle of wine. Guy grabbed three large bottles of beer (incidentally a beer I never drink – of course!) and pulled me away from the wine shelves. As we walked to the counter to pay, he told me that he didn’t have any money. I asked him if he wanted to borrow some, to which he replied, “Why don’t you just pay?” I’m all for equal rights, so handed over my money, not particularly bothered at all by this – except that I was getting hungrier and as a consequence, more irritable by the minute.

As we walked back to his house, Guy continued to talk about the “one more thing up his sleeve” and by the end of our journey I actually found myself eagerly anticipating whatever he was about to serve up to me. When we got back, I made my way, with a beer I don’t drink, to the lounge room (where I decided that if I had paid for it, I might as well drink it) and Guy headed in the direction of the kitchen.

I could hear pots and pans clashing about and grew excited at what was to come and about halfway through the first bottle of beer, Guy emerged from the passageway, a look of glee on his face as he handed me a tray, on which rested a bowl and a packet of biscuits. “I bet,” he smiled, “that this will be like something you’ve never had before.”

I grinned expectantly before he continued. “Not enough people take risks and these two foods together are great. Wait ‘til you try them.”

Because I was sitting, I couldn’t see what was in the bowl, but I could see that the biscuits were a generic brand of savoury snacks. Imagine my surprise when the tray was lowered to reveal a bowl full of… tepid tinned spaghetti.

Now, I am not a snob, nor would I consider myself in any way high maintenance. But this? This was more than an insult. The spaghetti wasn’t even heated properly and the generic brand crackers were stale and I had had enough.

I thanked Guy for his trouble and explained that I was no longer hungry, but I was damned if I was going to be going before those beers were finished. They were twelve of my hard earned dollars and even though I didn’t even LIKE this brand of beer, I refused to see them go to the cause of this decrepit loser. I sat patiently and made nonchalant small talk as we finished the remaining beers after which I made my excuses to go. When I told him that I would call a taxi, he protested, asking me if I would stay the night. When I declined his kind offer, he suddenly turned nasty (before he was just pathetic) and demanded, “Nobody has ever said no to me before.” That was my cue to leave.

As I stood outside on the foot path waiting for my taxi, Reason 2 came out to wait with me, seemingly trying to make a last ditch effort to make amends. Or so I thought. As the taxi pulled up beside me, instead of a rudimentary kiss on the cheek, Guy left me with this, “Remember in the bottle shop you asked if I wanted to borrow some money? Can I borrow some now?”

Give me men in a smoky bar any day.

Reason 1 – they don’t even want to know our names

It was an Easter Sunday evening a number of years ago and I had met a friend, Emma, for a few drinks in our local bar. Emma and I had been good friends throughout university, and had remained in touch while Emma had spent the previous two years galavanting across Europe in pursuit of men, or as she called them “life-experiences”. Since neither of us had any qualms of spending the Easter Monday in bed with raging hangovers, we decided that the most pressing need we had was to rekindle some old university memories when Sunday worship meant a good few hours in various bars (or other dubious establishments) trading our hard-earned Austudy funds for heavenly amber fluid. The incidence of Monday-itis once too often in my post-university “real job” meant that I was no longer ever caught out after dark on a school night – I was desperate to enjoy the evening to its optimum.  

After a solid four hours of sipping Stella Artois (our tastes had matured somewhat from the ill-tasting “cheap piss” of university days), Emma suggested we take the revisitation of our student lifestyle one step further by venturing into the city centre to a less than salubrious venue. Here, she argued, we could continue drinking, dance to a few tunes, and perhaps if we played our cards right, engage in some scintillating conversation with members of the opposite sex. I had finished the last of my drink before she had even finished her sentence.

 

At the “establishment” (it would be unfair to other bars and clubs to put this hell hole in the same genre), our drinks moved from beers, to spirits and mixers, and finally, in the telltale sign that the night is well and truly messy, to shooters at the bar. Emma and I chatted to a range of men, of all shapes and calibres and generally laughed all of them away at some point of the conversation. Until Reason 1 sidled up beside me and asked me how my night was progressing. At first I laughed and explained that I was in the worst possible bar I could possibly be in, in the worst possible state I could possibly be in, drinking the worst possible drink I could possibly be drinking, with the worst possible influence I could possible have dancing along beside me – but other than that was having a grand old time. Reason 1 laughed along with me, pointing out that Emma was about to gyrate off the dance floor. I giggled as I watched her lose her balance off the stage and fall into the arms of a starry-eyed admirer. Then I turned to face my speaker. Reason 1 was tall, good-looking, with a foreign accent and a nice shirt and trouser ensemble going on. I was pleasantly surprised. Reason 1 was also keen to buy me a drink. Who was I to refuse?

After a number of drinks and some fascinating conversation that I had lost hope of actually having (okay, so maybe my drunken conversation wasn’t fascinating, but it’s my story), Emma staggered over to give me her intoxicated endorsement of my new-found friend. “He’s decent,” she whispered hoarsely, well within earshot of Reason 1, “and this is a very indecent bar. If you don’t want him, I’ll have him.”

Reason 1 dragged me onto the dance floor to impress me with his ass-shakin’ moves and I giggled along beside him as I did my best “woman-pushing-wheelchair-up-hill” impression. After a song finished, Reason 1 insisted that we re-attend the bar, pulling seats up for us to sit down onto to continue our previous deep and very meaningful discussion. We watched Emma successfully ward off leery contenders and chatted intimately about where we had come from, and where we hoped to go. I was into this guy in a big way. Tall, dark, handsome, foreign – surely I could forgive a small infallibility like being in this place on a Sunday night – after all (and the thought struck me like lightening) I was in this place on a Sunday night… Surely, Reason 1 and I were destined to meet! And fall in love! And live happily ever after!)

At about 4am, Emma decided that it was time for us to make an exit (before our night really turned low-brow!!). Reason 1 joined us at a burger shop – a continuation of our university tradition – and asked if we would both like to join him for a drink back at his hotel room. Alarm bells went off in my head and I wondered whether he was assuming that Emma and I were “special” friends, when Reason 1 added, “it’s a suite, so after a few drinks, if Emma wants to stay, we can pull out a lounge to make a bed.”

            We staggered the thirty metres or so to Reason 1’s hotel (offered some explanation as to why he was in the house of disrepute, no such excuse for us, I’m afraid), and when we got upstairs, both Emma and myself decided it was better to sleep rather than punish our bodies with alcohol further. Reason 1 agreed that he too was tired, and got to pulling out the makeshift bed for Emma. As we sat watching him work, he also presented us with a T-shirt and some shorts each to wear to bed. Emma and I both looked at each other knowingly – secretly congratulating ourselves that we had found a nice, considerate guy – who would have thought?

            I changed demurely in the bathroom (I’m really not that kind of girl), and upon opening the door, clambered into bed beside Reason 1, explaining that I was really not that kind of girl. Reason 1 smiled his lovely smile and told me to relax – after all, he assured me, he really wasn’t that kind of guy.

            I melted into my pillow at Reason 1’s sweetness and said a small word of thanks to the powers that be for my luck. “Thanks for letting me find…” I smiled to myself, before stumbling across one small detail. I didn’t know Reason 1’s name.

            Um…

            I sat up quickly on my pillow and leaned over to push a stray hair from Reason 1’s forehead, before leaning down to plant a wet one on his lips. “You know,” I laughed (more from nerves rather than actually humour), “you’re probably going to think this is quite funny, but um… you told me your name about five hours ago and um, I can’t actually remember what it was. What is it?”

            I was slightly embarrassed but my fears were quickly allayed when he said, “Oh, babe. No problems. It’s Jonathan. Don’t worry about it.”

            I dropped back down onto my pillow and lay still for a while in silence, glad to have gotten that out of the way. Then a thought struck me. I closed my eyes tightly and could still hear a ringing in my ears from the club’s sound system. I tried in vain to sleep but the doubt niggled away at me until I just had to ask, “And.… just out of curiosity, Jonathan, do you remember my name?”

            Jonathan touched my arm, stroked my cheek, and looked deep into my eyes,                                                                                            

            Ok. I wasn’t offended. After all, I was the one who had admitted to not knowing his name in the first place. But was he going to ask me my name? “Do you want to know what my name is?” I asked.

            Jonathan withdrew his hand and rolled over onto his back, sighing audibly and rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Not really,” he said loudly – all of the previous loveliness and emotion lacking from his voice.

            I lay still, my eyes agape in disbelief. Surely I had had too much to drink and wasn’t hearing this right!

            “So,” I continued, “You’re not going to ask me my name?”

            And lo and behold, Reason 1 answered, in his once lovely, now hoighty-toighty English accent, “No. Quite frankly, I don’t care for these games.”

            Right. I let out a small whistle as I collected my thoughts. Right.

            Being a girl with a small iota of self-respect, I got out of the bed I was lying in and redressed in my clothes smelling of Eau de Tabac. Jonathan watched me dress, and then watched me struggle to rouse a comatose Emma and did not utter another word. The promise of breakfast, lunch, dinner and romance were well and truly forgotten, along with my name, which he didn’t even want to know.