Page 7 of Handle with Care
I wave a hand out of habit, even though we’re not on a video call and he can’t see me. “I’m a committed dater. You know that. I still don’t need a boyfriend. Besides, there’s no time to waste in London. I made some calculations—” I pull up my notes.
“Calculations? Who am I talking to, and what have you done to the real Dylan?”
“Listen. There’re nine million people living in London. Half of them are men, and 75 percent of them are over eighteen. Which makes 2.25 million people. Of that, 3 percent are gay or lesbian, keeping the bisexuals out of this purely for statistical reasons, you understand. But for some reason, they were put in another category. I’m very pro-bisexual. Or pansexual.”
“Naturally—”
“So, let’s say half of that is 1.5 percent, which means there’re nearly 34,000 gay men in Greater London…” I continue over Stephen’s laughter ringing out over the line. “Unfortunately, the census information doesn’t track daddies, otters, bears, twinks, or any other gay subgroup. But that’s a hundred years of dates if I go out every night of the year and all of them are single or in an open relationship.”
“You’re killing me. Holy nerd alert. Give me a minute to recover from all that. By the way, you didn’t count nonbinary people.”
“They’re there, but unfortunately not yet identified as such in the last census.”
“Okay.”
“So, you can see why I’m calling. I can’t afford to miss a date.” The mist is unmistakably turning to rain. A thick gray rain again. But no matter, since I checked the forecast before heading out. I also looked up the venue ahead of time, but I couldn’t quite remember where it was.
“Clearly, there’s not a minute to waste. What can I do?”
“I need you to look up a place and give me directions so I’m not late.” I give him the name, and he dutifully does a search.
“Dating. The real reason you went to London,” Stephen teases. “Forget the museum internship.”
“And I only have three months! Less now.” Unfortunately true, and I’ve been here two weeks, and this is only my fifth date. “That’s only ninety men.”
“Only!”
“So, you can see my problem. Now, directions, please. I need to get to Primrose Hill.” I give him the address, chewing my lip as I take in the time on my phone: I’m definitely going to be late.
Stephen indulges me and provides directions after his internet search, which I jot down on a crumpled receipt in mypocket. He sends me a screenshot of a local map, and I’m off to see if the promised eight-minute walk is true.
My coworker Nancy told me the other day that in London, people used to use a map book to get around the city until the last few years, when everyone instead turned to their smartphones. Which, frankly, is a lifesaver because the city is a maze of twisting streets, and I can’t imagine carrying a book of maps in my pocket and trying to find my way around like that. I’m used to urban city planning on an orderly grid.
Despite the winding lanes and the odds stacked against me from my delay, I actually get to the bar on time, where I’m supposed to meet Raj, my date. I get in the heaving line of partygoers for the door and pull out my phone to look at his photo again.
I’ve been on several dates already since getting to London because I’m not one to sit in my room by myself at night after the workday. It’s either getting into the dating scene or hanging out with my flatmates, who more often than not take me out to show me around. Tonight’s date should be cool, with ’80s Night dancing lined up with a hot guy.
If only I had the scoop on my date through my friends.
One thing about me is that I’m a bit of a shameless gossip. Not in a mean-spirited way. More like anI-must-knowsort of way. Back home in Vancouver, with my friends, I always have my finger on the social pulse. Who’s dating whom. Who wants to date so-and-so. When and where the next big party is going to be and how to score an invite before anyone else.
None of this does me any good in London.
Here, I’m new and admittedly a tiny fish in a vast sea, way out of my depth and gossip circles and ticket connections. Which is why I’m standing in the main queue to get into the bar as rain falls. My date is now officially late, later than me, and I’m determined to make the best of the night without him. Because his loss, right?
“Dylan?” A truly tall, dark, and handsome man who actually looks even better in real life than in his photos—a statistical outlier by anyone’s calculations—pauses on the other side of the red velvet rope. He has strong cheekbones to die for, and he’s impeccably groomed. “Is that you? I’m Raj.”
I perk up immediately. Tonight’s prospects have picked up 90 percent in an instant. Though anyone that attractive has to be a player. “Yup, that’s me.”
Though I’ve been accused of being a player too, which isn’t true at all. I just don’t want a relationship. Especially not when I’m new to London and more than ready for a big night out, as the locals say. Or as many big nights out as I can get while I’m here for the next three months.
And Raj is literally my ticket to fun.
“C’mon.” Raj lifts up the rope with his free hand, his other hand holding the handle of a black umbrella. “You’ve probably had enough of English weather already.”
“It’s the same thing back home. I’m used to it,” I assure Raj. I duck under the rope, slip into the shelter of his umbrella, and tug down my hood.
Raj leads the way to the doorway beneath the shelter of an awning to where a woman with a VIP list and a bouncer stand, checking IDs. Bored, she gives us the once-over. “Tickets. Names.”
