The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook Read online

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t consider my mother to be a parent, anyway. I mean, you have to actually parent your child to get that moniker, right? Buggering off when he’s eight and ceasing all contact doesn’t exactly qualify, does it?”

  “Still no word then?” she asked gently. Tom almost never talked about his mother. He had barely mentioned her existence since she disappeared one day with no explanation, not even a note. But Kate knew how much it had upset him; she had seen him emerging from the bathroom at school with red eyes, fiercely denying that he was in any way bothered. That was when he had started to get so cynical. Eight was a very tender age to realize that you couldn’t trust even your own mother not to let you down.

  Tom shrugged again. “Dad knows where she is. Personally, I don’t want to know. Got more important things to worry about.”

  “Like avoiding commitment?” Kate asked, smiling.

  “Exactly,” Tom said, grinning. “So … what’s next in your quest to find your knight in shining armor? Have you thought about putting an ad on the Internet? ‘Knight wanted to save damsel in distress. Must have own horse.’ “

  They had arrived outside Kate’s building, so she decided to ignore that last comment. Instead, she leant up and kissed Tom on the cheek. “‘Night, Tom.”

  Tom ignored the hint. “Maybe,” he continued with enthusiasm, “you should send your picture to the four corners of the earth to four different princes who have to undergo an arduous journey and several tasks in order to win your heart. Or maybe you need to get your fairy godmother on the case? I mean, you do have one, right?”

  Kate shot him a look and closed the door. Bloody Tom. Well, she’d show him. She didn’t know how, but that was surely just a detail.

  She decided to have a bath before going to bed—a nice hot soak to extend the weekend slightly. And she also wanted to go through her e-mail. And tidy up the kitchen, which still had the remnants of breakfast cluttering up its surfaces.

  Kate sighed. Somehow there was never enough time in the day to get things done. Never enough hours to get all the boring things out of the way and still leave time for the good things, like seeing friends, watching films, going for romantic walks in the park.

  Then again, she didn’t have anyone to go for romantic walks with.

  Frowning, she went to the bathroom and turned on the taps, then made her way to her cluttered sitting room, where a desk in the corner jostled for space with a large, uncovered sofa; both were heaped high with color charts, magazines, and sketches.

  What was wrong with being a hopeless romantic, anyway? Why was it such a bad thing to find true love? Wasn’t that what everyone really wanted, deep down?

  Pushing aside a pile of papers, she turned on her computer and waited for her e-mail to pop up. Three work-related ones that would wait until tomorrow. Daily Candy telling her to “say it with cupcakes” this weekend. Amazon, telling her that her latest order had been dispatched. A Russian “attractive blonde” offering her free sex if she visited a website chat room. But nothing from the beautiful man she’d seen in a coffee shop that morning. Their eyes had met briefly and she’d accidentally-on-purpose dropped a business card as she left, hoping that he might pick it up and get in touch. That’s what would happen in a film. But evidently he hadn’t fallen madly in love with her, after all. Hey, it was no big deal.

  She slumped a little. Tom and Sal were right—she was a hopeless romantic. Beyond hopeless, in fact. She was nearly thirty, she had her own flat and a proper job and was meant to be mature and savvy, but instead she honestly thought she was Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle or You’ve Got Mail. She should just marry one of Ed’s friends and be done with it, living happily ever after in a nice four-bedroom house with pension plans coming out of her ears. Except she wouldn’t be happy. She’d be miserable. She wanted a romance with the love of her life, not a boring marriage to a nice man in a pinstriped suit.

  Maybe it was an illness, she thought. Maybe they’d find a cure for hopeless romantics one day—a pill that would take away the need for excitement and romance and make her like Tom, hardened and self reliant. Maybe there were self-help groups she could join, with a twelve-point plan to follow. Maybe she’d meet Meg Ryan’s scriptwriters there, rocking back and forth, unable to cope in a world where Brad left Jen, Meg got divorced, and however long they waited at the top of the Empire State Building, no one turned up to meet them.

  Opening up her Web browser, she smiled to herself, then went to Google and typed in “hopeless romantic.” To her surprise, there were more than four million pages.

  HOPELESS ROMANTICS: A SEMI-ELITE CLIQUE FOR PEOPLE WHO FIND

  ROMANCE IN EVERY SITUATION

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: THE BLOG OF A GIRL LOOKING FOR LOVE

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: TAKE OUR QUIZ AND DISCOVER JUST HOW TERMINAL

  YOU ARE!

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: JOIN US NOW FOR TIPS ON ENHANCING THE ROMANCE

  IN YOUR RELATIONSHIP

  Incredulously, Kate started to scroll down through the pages.

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: A WAY OF LIFE, NOT A CONDITION

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: ONE WOMAN’S STRUGGLE AGAINST ADVERSITY

  There were forums, and quizzes, and diary entries—thousands and thousands of them. She was not alone! Kate grinned as she continued to scroll.

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: SICK OF BEING CALLED HOPELESS?

  “Yes!” Kate said out loud. “Yes I am!” She clicked.

  Buy your ladyfriend a gift she’ll never forget. We guarantee she’ll never call you hopeless again!

  Frowning, Kate clicked back. And then her eye caught something.

  HOPELESS ROMANTIC: THE HOPELESS ROMANTIC’S HANDBOOK. OUT OF PRINT

  EDITION. AUCTION ENDS IN 2 MINUTES.

  It was an eBay page. Clicking it, Kate soon found herself staring at the cover of a book that seemed to date to the 1950s. On the cover was a woman with a tiny waist, a huge circle skirt, and a twinkle in her eye.

  Are you a hopeless romantic? Do you long for love and passion, and feel disappointed and let down by the reality of dating? Don’t despair. The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook will save you.

  Kate rolled her eyes. A handbook for romance? How ridiculous. How desperate.

  But instead of closing the page, she found herself scrolling down.

  The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook is a handbook for life. Romance is yours for the taking; you just have to find it. The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook won’t just tell you where to look, it will help you every step of the way. This book will change your life—satisfaction is guaranteed—if you don’t find true love, get your money back.

  Kate stared at the page. Get your money back? That was crazy. Who was selling this book, anyway? She scrolled to the top of the page.

  C*P1D24.

  C*P1D24? What kind of weird moniker was that?

  But still, a money-back guarantee. You didn’t see that very often on eBay

  She frowned. No one had bid for the book yet, and the starting price was just £7. It wasn’t a lot of money for a book that promised to change her life.

  And it closed in one minute.

  Of course she didn’t need a handbook. The whole idea was ridiculous. A handbook to finding love?

  Then again, she wasn’t doing such a great job on her own. And it was only £7.

  Quickly she refreshed the screen. Still no bids, and just twenty seconds to go. Drumming her fingers on the edge of her desk, she sighed.

  “Fine, I’ll buy it,” she said to no one in particular, and placed a bid for £7.01. No sooner had she submitted it than a page flashed up announcing her the winner and suggesting that she pay by Paypal. Promising herself that this purchase would remain her little secret, she began to plug in her details. Then she heard her e-mail ping. It was an e-mail from C*p1d24. Except the address was rather less opaque—it was from a [email protected].

  Hi! Congratulations and well done. You won’t regret this purchase. It’s the
best thing that ever happened to me. Read, enjoy, and when you’re done, pass it on to bring love into someone else’s life. By the way, where are you so I can work out postage costs? Thanks, Helen x

  Kate stared at the e-mail. The best thing that ever happened to her? This book must be amazing. Although she wasn’t sure about passing it on. If it was that good, why would she part with it?

  Thanks Helen, I’m in Hammersmith, she typed back quickly. 137 Sulgrave Road. So do you mean that you read this book and found love right away? Kate x

  Really? I work just around the corner. If you pay by Paypal, will drop it in tomorrow. Am so excited for you. Lots of love, Hxx

  She hadn’t answered the question, Kate noticed. And it was just a book not a miracle, she reminded herself. She’d find out soon enough whether it was really worth the hype.

  2

  Tom Whitson whistled as he walked down the street. He loved this time of year—the time of year that everyone else hated, the time of year that saw everyone else moaning about the cold, about the long nights, about spring being just around the corner and yet so elusive. What was wrong with cold, dark nights? That’s what he wanted to know. What was so horrible about a biting wind that forced you to keep your coat collar up, your head down, and your business quick? It was bracing. It was difficult. It was real life.

  Not like summer. Tom hated summer. Not the half-clad-women-walking-down-the-street-everywhere-you-looked element of summer; surely no one could complain about that. But he hated the expectation, the feeling that pervaded London in the sunshine that somehow life should be bigger and better, like an American sitcom or an R&B music video full of beautiful people having a great time together.

  In the winter Tom felt safe, because everyone was miserable. In the winter, you went to work, went to the pub for a quick warming drink, and then battled home through the cold. And if you managed to persuade someone to battle home with you, then so much the better. The point was, no one expected any more of you. Survival was enough.

  But in the summer, everything changed. People spilled out into street cafés, talking and laughing and being so bloody happy all the time. Girls who’d been perfectly content with a regular shag over the winter suddenly wanted to go away for the weekend, to walk along the river, to talk about stuff. Suddenly, being a cynical, difficult bastard wasn’t enough anymore. Simply put, the summer made him inadequate—in his eyes as much as anyone else’s. The summer showed him up for what he really was.

  Still, he thought, pulling his coat around himself, summer was a long way off yet. Plenty of miserably cold, rainy days to get through first.

  His mother had left in the summer: June 24, to be precise. And two days before she left, she’d complained bitterly that she never went out anywhere anymore. That they never went out anywhere anymore. Tom remembered taking her jacket off the peg along with his the following morning as he got ready to go to school and asking if she’d like to come with him. At least to the school gates.

  She’d just laughed at him—not kindly but scornfully, as if he’d made things worse.

  And the next day, she went away for good.

  At first his father had said that she’d be back. Said that the hot weather did funny things to people’s heads, gave them ideas and notions, but that she’d come to her senses soon enough and until then, they’d have a fine old time, just the two of them….

  Tom arrived at his building and rummaged around for his keys. He didn’t know why he was even thinking about all of this. It was very unlike him to allow himself to dwell on the past. He’d managed to almost completely exorcise his mother from his memory years ago, at least he’d thought he had. Why give her space in his head, he’d rationalized, when there were so many more important things to remember? Like anatomy, like the names of all the girls he’d slept with, like the best route for getting from South London to North London in the traffic. His mother was singularly unimportant in the great scheme of things.

  Then he remembered what had got him thinking about her. Of course, it was Kate. Kate and her romantic notions of love and happy ever after. He worried for her, he really did. Why would someone so clever, so funny, so pretty go around with such ridiculous notions stuffed into her head? Why couldn’t Kate see that all this rubbish about knights in shining armor was just going to lead to disappointment, to a broken heart?

  Tom found his stomach clenching as he thought of it. He had to make her see. He had to protect her. He knew how to deal with betrayal and let-downs, but he didn’t want Kate to have to endure it. He couldn’t bear to stand by and watch.

  The fact of the matter was that the world wasn’t populated by knights in shining armor who wanted to save damsels in distress like Kate. It was populated by angry, bitter people like him who thought only of themselves and didn’t want to save anyone. And even if someone like him did want to save someone like Kate, even if they, deep down, might love to be the kind of person who could sweep someone like Kate off her feet and proclaim their undying love for her, that didn’t mean zip. Fantasies were all very well, but that’s all they were. In fantasy land, his mother never left. In fantasy land, he didn’t hate himself. Which just went to show what a pile of crock fantasy land really was. And, he thought to himself as he opened his front door, it was his duty, his noble mission, to make sure that Kate realized that before it was too late.

  3

  “For God’s sake, Kate, you’re late, and we’ve barely got time for this meeting as it is.” It was Monday morning, which meant that the Future: Perfect weekly planning meeting was in full swing. Future: Perfect was a makeover show that had an afternoon slot on cable television. Kate was the interiors stylist, a job she loved and hated in equal measure. Loved, because to her each makeover represented a mini fairy tale, in which a frog was kissed and turned into a prince, or a Cinderella was plucked out of the shadows and sent to the ball; hated, because the budgets were puny and most of her colleagues were total nightmares. Magda was the show’s director/producer (Future: Perfect couldn’t afford one of each) and she had about as much interest in fairytale makeovers as she had patience for latecomers.

  Kate smiled brightly and quickly found a chair.

  “I assume you’ve got everything planned out for next week’s show,” Magda continued, her eyes not moving from Kate’s. “You know that it’s going to be all about the house, don’t you? Why don’t you tell us your vision for the Joneses’, Kate? Tell us what you’re going to do to have people riveted to their television screens.”

  Kate sifted through her notes quickly, flustered by Magda’s outburst. The housewife, she said to herself slowly. Of course. Carefully, she took out her notepad and reviewed her scribbled notes. Downtrodden housewife, she read. Domestic. Warm glow of family meals. Reinvigorate marriage. Down the side of the page were some sketches Kate had drawn, presenting a visual image of the “before” and “after” of her kitchen. Each makeover had to have a theme—this one was trying to get a dowdy housewife’s husband to notice her again.

  Future: Perfect was known, much to Magda’s annoyance, as the poor cousin of shows like Extreme Makeover, even though it had been there first, as she reminded anyone and everyone anytime she got a chance. The show’s remit was pretty straightforward: Each week one person or couple would be made over by the team—their house, their face, and their clothes—all on camera and all leading up to the great unveiling when the person or couple, known by everyone who worked on the show as the victim or victims, would see their new look in a mirror and, hopefully, cry tears of joy. The trouble was that, with Future: Perfect’s miserably small budget, the victims more often than not failed to cry; in fact, they failed to do much more than peer at themselves and their houses with a look that suggested they were mildly disappointed.

  Which was probably why Magda was so agitated, Kate decided. Sarah Jones, next week’s victim, had been chosen carefully and Magda had made it clear to everyone that she was expecting Big Things from this episode. That she wanted people Glue
d to Their Screens.

  “I was going to do a take on the whole Cath Kidston look,” Kate said confidently. “Lots of chintz, but cool, not too country. I want to make her sexy in the kitchen—bring out the earthy sexiness of cooking, moving her out of the shadows and into the center. Maybe even slight dominatrix undertones….” The dominatrix undertones hadn’t been part of her plans at all, but suddenly she felt a bit reckless.

  Magda was nodding furiously. “Dominatrix undertones? I love it. What else? Maybe we could convince her to leave that dolt of a husband? Set her up with a new man?”

  Kate looked at her incredulously. “Or,” she said, “we could reignite their marriage.” She smiled, struck by inspiration. “Maybe at the end they could renew their vows! They could do it there, in the kitchen, with their children as page boys and …”

  Magda rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me puke. Anyway, breakups make much better television. Still, dominatrix undertones might do it, if we can maybe persuade her to wear some high heels. Maybe flick her husband’s arse with a feather duster or something. If we get a good enough shot they might put a photograph on the television listing pages.”

  “Maybe Lysander could dress her in rubber,” Kate said. “That ought to get the ratings up, too.”

  Lysander was “wardrobe,” although he preferred to be called “fashion editor.” He had been poached from GQ magazine by Magda when she’d first joined the show and had ambitions to take it onto terrestrial television within a year. This would be the making of both of them, she’d told him seriously. This was television—so much better than magazines. He’d be crazy not to take it.

  That had been three years ago, and the program had not only not made it onto terrestrial, but had lost its seven P.M. slot, instead being shunted into a three P.M. daytime wilderness slot, destined to be watched by the ill, the unemployed, the retired, and exhausted mothers, none of whom interested Lysander. In the meantime his former colleagues were rising up the ranks to edit high-profile glossy magazines. They were interviewing Alexander McQueen and sitting in the front row at the runway shows in Paris, London, and New York, while he was advising overweight women on the slimming possibilities of black.