Smart Henry was also older than me—32 to my 26—which was refreshing. Enough of these boys, I thought, I want a man. He was nonchalant about everything, and suggested cool, grown-up things to do—like see arthouse films, or go to new restaurants no one else knew about yet, or art fairs where we’d drink brandy out of his hipflask and make up faux-expert reviews. He was a bit serious and detached, but I put that down to age. I was happy.
Then just less than six months after we met (a record long relationship for me), Smart Henry announced he was moving to the States to go to Harvard for an MBA as he was ‘fed up with earning fuck all’ and wanted to ‘make some serious coin’. So he broke up with me, and I went home and cried.
Was I really devastated? I don’t know. Yes. I think I was. But I was tired. I felt like I’d been dating for decades. It seemed like they always really liked me until they got to know me. And each time I met someone new, I tried to be as positive and open and hopeful as I could be. Each time I got so damn fond of them and I’d wonder if I was falling in love. I thought they were having fun. I certainly was. (Though then again, I find it pretty easy to have a good time. It’s one of my better qualities.) But each time it went wrong.
Of course, over the years I also met a lot of guys who were almost great, with one fatal flaw. I don’t think I’m being too picky, either. Would you date someone who had a horrible snake-tongued kissing technique, or who ate with his mouth open, or talked about money all night, or admitted to an extensive Crocs collection, or who said stupid things like ‘Global warming, I’m not sure I believe in it’? (‘It’s not the tooth fairy,’ I replied. “Believing” makes no difference.’) Well, I wouldn’t. One date was enough. Sometimes I ignored them afterwards, sometimes they ignored me, whatever: a disappointing mistake is a disappointing mistake.
Oh, Smart Henry. I hope you’re making some serious coin now. You cockmonkey. If I’d only known what was ahead of me. The next guy was Rick.
I can’t bear to think about him right now. I just can’t. Anyway, I’m almost at work.
I get out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus and start walking up past Burger King to my little corner of Soho. I love it at 9.30 am. The streets are scuzzy, and fresh air mingles with the smell of last night’s sin, but the sun is shining in its absent-minded London way, and Soho looks all small and personal. Not big famous naughty Soho. My nice little Soho, with my favourite little hidden coffee shop, where they know what I like without me having to go through the whole ‘latte but with a bit less milk slash macchiato but with a bit more milk’ thing.
I work in a tiny advertising agency on a little road just near Golden Square, just around the corner from Piccadilly Circus. My first ever boss, Cooper, left the (big, glossy, soulless) ad agency we worked at to start it, and after a few months of witnessing the Machiavellian politics at the big agency, I scurried off to join him. It’s a fun job, not a real job like being a doctor or a teacher. But I like it. Anyway that’s all I’ll say about work for the moment. The only thing more boring than hearing about other people’s jobs is hearing about other people’s dreams.
‘I had the most bizaaaaaaaaaaarre dream last night!’ chirrups Laura as I walk into the office. She’s a Mac monkey—that is to say, a very junior designer. Very kooky, very sweet, constantly stunned and excited by everything.
‘Really?’ I say, turning on my computer and settling at my desk. I sit in the far corner, facing the room, back to the wall, so I can see everything that’s going on. If I slouch in my seat, no one can see me from behind my monitor. It’s the perfect place to hide on a day like today.
‘I dreamed that you were marrying Mark Ronson! Can you imagine? Mark Ronson? Hahahaha! And you were wearing this fabulous fabulous long long dress in a sort of creamy Thai silk, you know, like oh, what’s it called, like, uh, oh…Hmm. Oh no, that’s not it, not Thai silk, I mean the other one. The heavier one but with a shine but not like cheap shine, like, expensive shine?’
‘Satin?’
‘Yes! And it was sort of gathered here and here, with a big thingy here, and we were in a big church and Coop was there, but he was painting the walls, no, they weren’t the walls, they were the puzzle windows, you know? The puzzle see-through windows? With the—the colouredy light, you know?’
‘Stained glass?’
‘Yes!’
I let Laura’s streaming dream commentary ebb and flow around me. Coop isn’t in the office this week. He’s been in Germany, meeting some old clients to sweet-talk them into being new clients. This is extremely lucky, as I feel vague and distracted all morning. I edit some copy I wrote yesterday, cheer myself up with Go Fug Yourself, and over lunch take a very serious look at topshop.com, shopbop.com and netaporter.com. Soul-cheering retail therapy from the comfort of my desk. I don’t buy anything, obviously. Anything purchased the day after a break-up will be forever afflicted with the taint of heartache. And for me, netaporter.com only exists so that I can recognise the designer knock-offs when they hit Zara and H&M.
‘Sass, my job needs a quick proof,’ says a flat male voice.
Ah, yes I didn’t tell you—I’m what they call a copywriter. Theoretically, I help think up advertising, erm, ideas. (If that’s not an oxymoron.) We’re a tiny agency, which means there’s not the usual creative team structure there is in big places, and I do just about everything else to do with words, too: posters and websites and emails and leaflets and all the millions of little things that you read every day that someone has to write. And proofread.
‘Now,’ the voice adds.
I look up. It’s the senior art director. Andy. He’s in his late 30s: short, scruffy, with a pot belly and curly, slightly dirty hair. He dresses like many creative hipster hobbit clones: dirty skinny black jeans, battered studded belt, yellow 70s-motif T-shirt with too-short sleeves revealing arms with the muscle tone of a toddler. Most of the time you’ll find him spouting predictable counterculture snob-pinions in a loud mockney voice.
He’s also fundamentally sexist and uneducated, which makes him prone to saying things like ‘Jane Austen? Mills and Boon in a corset, innit?’ which is, obviously, stupid on about ten thousand levels. It’s odd, because he thinks he’s so daringly creative and maverick—shades of Arty Jonathan—but of course, he’s just following a different party line. Lots of art directors, of course, are brilliant and funny and original, like Cooper. But quite a few of them are like Andy. (It goes without saying that I’d never date someone like him, doesn’t it? That’s probably another reason I spend so much time in bars: I’m never going to meet someone via work.)
‘What job?’ I say, getting up from my desk and following him. He’s already walked away from my desk, knowing I’ll follow. Arrogant bastardo.
‘Shiny Straight,’ he says, sitting down on his chair with a spin and a sigh. He’s referring to one of the shampoo brands we work for.
I nod, and look down at the copy on his screen. He can’t even be bothered to print it out for me to read properly. It’s an A5 ad insert that goes into magazines like Cosmopolitan and Elle. (Yeah, those annoying leaflets that fall out when you’re reading…someone has to write them. Sorry.) But I’ve never seen this ad before.
Reading it briefly, I can quickly see that it’s all wrong. The strapline (the big type at the top) is new. The supporting copy (the smaller type below that talks about the product) only uses one of the three key words the client requires us to use. The whole thing