‘This is far too complicated. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned drinking?’ says a voice behind me. I turn around and—you’ve probably guessed it, but it’s true—the scrunchypig-face guy is talking to me. What did Bloomie call him? Jake. I assemble my thoughts quickly.
‘This is drinking on a more evolved level. It’s taken years to iron out the kinks.’
During the last four seconds, I noticed a few more things about him. He’s about six foot three, I’d guess. Slightly crinkly-round-the-edges eyes. Teeth almost straight and very white. Eyelashes dark but not too long. Lips look like they get sunburnt a lot. In short, attractive as hell.
Go-go-Gadget mantra. Posture is confidence, silence is poise.
‘Looks like a slick operation to me,’ he says.
I nod nonchalantly. ‘The last remaining kink is that as the night goes on, the names and scores become hard to read. So we never really know who the winner is.’
‘Hmm.’ He looks over at the chart. ‘Well, I came prepared and I am ready to conquer.’
Fuck, I shouldn’t even need my mantra, goddamnit. You are on a Dating Sabbatical, missy. And remember Rule 3: no obvious flirting.
‘What do you have?’ I ask.
‘Passionfruit. Vodka. Pineapple juice. Ginger.’
‘How intriguing. Do you have a name yet?’
‘Let’s think of one as you help me make it.’ He looks over at me and grins. Fuck, I adore a bit of charming bossiness. No, really. I do.
‘OK.’
I busy myself chopping and scooping passionfruit into the blender, and he slices the rind off the ginger. Working side by side like this, we lapse into silence for a few seconds and I desperately try to think of something offhand and witty to say. All I can think about is how close he is to me and it’s making me feel all hot and tingly and flushed. Hey—stop that. I know what you’re thinking. Of course I won’t break the Dating Sabbatical Rules for the first guy I’m really, truly, seriously attracted to (in ages, by the way, like, years). Wait, why am I trying to think of something to say? Rule 3, damnit, remember Rule 3.
‘I need something,’ he says abruptly.
‘I’m sure we’ve got it. People bring every possible ingredient…I mean, someone even brought a puppy last time.’
‘A puppy? In a cocktail?’ he exclaims, turning to look at me straight on for the first time.
I nod up at him, trying to ignore the buckling feeling in my tummy. ‘It was tragique, but tasty. The mutt-tini.’ Is that obvious flirting?
‘Mutt-tini. Nice. I was going to say cockerspanieltail, but I can see I’ll have to improve on that.’ He grins at me and the buckling doubles. I feel like I’m sweating. Am I sweating? Suddenly, he spies Bloomie’s pestle and mortar. ‘Fucking bingo!’
He grabs it, throws the chopped ginger in and starts smushing it into a pulpy juice.
‘Honey!’ I say.
‘Yes, sweetpea?’ he shoots back.
I giggle. Foolishly. (Is that obvious flirting? No. Just politeness.) ‘No, HONEY. You need honey in this. With ginger.’
‘Gosh, you’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?’ Jake says admiringly.
I make a dumb blonde face, bat my eyelashes and chew my little finger. (OK, OK. I admit. That was verging on obviously flirtatious. I straighten out my face and try to look serious.)
‘OK, honey…ginger…passionfruit…pineapple juice. I have a feeling it’s going to be too sweet…Shall we taste it and find out?’
‘Oh no. You can’t do that,’ I say sadly. ‘No tweaking. It means people have to really think about the ingredients before they arrive.’
‘How fascist.’
I giggle again. Shit, I’m acting silly. Oh hell, the tingly tingles…Good banter, good looks…and he doesn’t seem to be angling towards asking me out. He’s flirting, but in such a delightfully playful way. It’s so annoyingly attractive.
I need someone to intervene. There must be a hint of bastardo there somewhere. I’ll locate it soon, forget about him immediately, and continue to adhere to the Rules.
‘How about lemon juice? Or lime juice?’ I suggest.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
We chop and squeeze two lemons and two limes and add the juice to the mix in the blender. He glugs in about a third of a bottle of vodka, I add the ice, he slides on the lid rather dextrously—big hands, surprisingly strong-looking fingers, badly-bitten thumbnails, what the hot damn am I doing fantasising about being manhandled like a blender lid—and presses blend. He smiles at me and I smile back. Mmm. (Argh! Sexual frisson extraordinaire. Arrêtez.)
‘The name!’ I gasp. ‘You have to name it before the blending is done!’
‘Hot Diggity! The Hottentot! Too Hot To Handle!’ Jake shouts, then hits himself in the forehead with his free hand. ‘NO! God, that film was diabolical.’
‘What?’ I laugh helplessly at the panicked look on his face. ‘Ummm…ummm…the Gingersour? The Throatwarmer? The Linda Lovelace?’
‘Filthy stream of consciousness…’ he replies disdainfully, switching off the blender. ‘Forget all that. I hereby christen this cocktail the Minx. I think it will be sweet, refreshingly zesty and rather hot.’
I’m trying to figure out if he kind of means me, and if so what the appropriate response might be, when Mitch appears bearing a tray of used double-shot glasses behind us. ‘Alright children, let Mummy through, washing up here…Thank God I bought three hundred of these fuckers.’ He dumps them all in the soapy washing-up water. I assemble some clean dry glasses, and Jake fills them, rings the bell and raises a toast to the Minx. It’s a very good cocktail: a mix of citrusy sweetness with a warm gingeriness.
‘Mmmm. Not bad for a beginner,’ says Mitch, pouring himself a second and going through a sniff-sip-ponder wine-tasting rigmarole.‘It must be in the genes, cuz. Shame you missed Mitch’s Marvellous Medicine. It was the best so far.’
I look over at Jake and shake my head, mouthing ‘No, it wasn’t’. He grins and, as Mitch looks quickly from him to me, trying to figure out what’s going on, Jake quickly starts talking to cover it up. ‘I had some excellent help,’ he says. ‘Jesus is in my heart and helps with everything I do.’
I snort with laughter. I try to think of something witty to say back, and realise I really am, without a doubt, obviously flirting now, that he’s flirting back, that I’m planning on how to obviously flirt more, and wondering where he lives, what he does, what his neck smells like, how long it might take him to ask me out and what I might wear on our first date. In other words, I’m hellbent on breaking the Dating Sabbatical Rules and they’ve only existed for 48 hours.
I walk over to the fridge and get three bottles of Corona out to buy myself a second to think. I am almost breaking all the Rules for a tall handsome smartarse. The kind of guy I always get caught by, the bastardo kind who makes me laugh and then breaks my heart when he decides he doesn’t want me anymore. He’s like Rick. A better-looking, taller, funnier Rick. That’s all.
Right.