My friend brought a beautiful boy to dinner last week. (Well, strictly speaking, only I was still eating, but I think that counts). Obviously, I played it cool. I ignored him when he introduced himself, and continued shovelling food into my mouth. I waited until he was deep in conversation with another of my friends before yelling across the table, ‘What’s that one called? He’s very pretty’.
We left the restaurant pretty quickly after that. I continued to ignore the beautiful boy. (He was just too pretty. It was like looking at the sun).
We popped over to The Kensington Roof Gardens in a convoy of taxis. ‘I don’t want to be territorial,’ I said to my taxi. ‘But the world’s prettiest boy is mine. Shotgun. I saw him first. Dibs. You know, for me.’ My friends laughed. ‘It’s really fine, Lucy,’ They said. ‘You can have him.’ I played it off cool, but I was secretly delighted. ‘Stop smiling so much,’ My friend told me. ‘You look odd.’
I deigned to speak to him once we were in the club (nightclubs are truly excellent places to hear people’s views on important matters).
‘You love Mumford and Sons,’ I told him abruptly. ‘I do,’ he replied slowly. ‘How did you know?’ I smiled mysteriously. (He was wearing a checked shirt. In fact, he was dressed precisely like a member of the band. Also I had overheard him telling someone else how much he liked them).
By the end of the night, we were dancing in a circle and having a brilliant time. I decided that this was my moment. I lunged across my group of friends to where he stood, merrily bopping away, and prepared to kiss him. Unfortunately, I tripped on my way over to him and fell to the floor. There’s really nothing like playing it cool.