Hate You to Love You

Chapter One

Romantic comedies get everything about love wrong. So very wrong. I’d like to have a chat with Nora Ephron, because I doubt that Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox would have stayed together after the end of You’ve Got Mail. He did put her out of business after all.

I know these movies are fictional – some would say ‘unrealistic’ – but I still dream of falling in love in that all-consuming way.

Which is why I’m sitting here at a bar, on a Sunday night, waiting for my Bumble date.

This is all Addie’s fault. She’s a great work wife, and an even better housemate, and her pushy attitude about my dating life finally wore me down.

She’s like some kind of personal trainer who I’ve found myself locked into a lifetime contract with; nearly every conversation with her has become a pep talk about getting back into the dating scene.

I understand it, I do – there are only so many times I can third-wheel on Addie’s dates with her partner, Maria – but dating, which at this point is starting to feel like a continuous cycle of job interviews, is unbearable.

‘You’re never going to get your own happily ever after by sulking at home,’ Addie had warned after catching me playing ‘Landslide’ by Fleetwood Mac on repeat while re-reading Looking for Alaska.

‘Hey! I’m doing this for my safety. The last guy I went on a date with tried to get me to join his run club.’ I’d tried to play off my answer as a joke, hoping that would end the conversation.

‘So, what are you going to do? Stay home and read books for the rest of your life?’

‘Well, unlike men, books have never failed me,’ I muttered.

Addie had sighed. ‘Look at yourself. How long have you been wearing those pyjamas? You look exactly like Bridget Jones singing “All by Myself”.’

And it was this harsh but fair observation that had convinced me to go on this date.

Bumble guy’s name is Dave, and we’d matched when he got the reference to She’s The Man in one of the prompts on my profile, which asked any potential romantic prospects to finish Amanda Bynes’ quote about seeing the character of Monique for who she truly was.

This led to a flirty conversation about 2000s rom-coms. He told me his favourite was How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, and I argued that Just My Luck was severely underrated.

His pictures were cute as well. He kind of reminded me of a bookish lumberjack with his beard, glasses and repeated flannel.

We agreed to meet at Bar Messenger. It was one of those hidden bars that seemed to be popping up all over Sydney lately.

Bar Messenger’s gimmick was that you had to enter through a painting in the lobby of an office building.

Inside, the walls of the bar are made up of floor-to-ceiling shelves full of wine bottles.

Burgundy chairs and marble tables illuminated by dimmed lamps evoke a sense of refined luxury and seclusion.

‘Can I get you anything else while you wait?’ a waiter asks me.

‘I’m fine with this one for now.’ I grip my third glass of prosecco like my life depends on it.

At this point, it feels as if all the bad dates I’ve been on are a sign from the universe telling me that true love isn’t on the cards for me.

There was the run club guy. And then the guy that had a sleeping bag instead of a bed.

Oh, and I couldn’t forget the guy who pointed out everything he would change about the way I looked when we met up for coffee.

Apparently, my insistence on wearing bright pastels and linen shirts was ‘too flowery’ for him.

I should’ve known we wouldn’t have gotten along when he described himself as an artist who used his inner demons to create art that shaped the world.

Keep in mind that he never was able to explain what kind of art he specialised in or what his demons were whenever I asked him.

So, yes, maybe I do have a good reason to be nervous.

But I’m hopeful too. Maybe, just maybe, there is still someone out there for me.

‘Carlos?’

I snap out of my daydream and turn to watch as the waiter leads Dave over towards me. He looks exactly like his pictures.

‘Hi, Dave.’ I greet him with a smile.

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he says formally, extending his hand.

My body is stiff and rigid as I give him a half-hearted handshake. So much for being fun and flirty. How are you supposed to do that when you know that all your dates are going to end the same way: with you alone?

‘I take it the drinks here are good.’ Dave nods towards the three empty glasses in front of me as he sits down.

‘Oh, ah, yep,’ I stammer, my chest tight.

Dave looks around the bar in wonder. ‘How did you find out about this place?’ he asks.

‘It was a recommendation from someone at work,’ I explain. ‘They’re in the travel department and always write about the best hidden bars in town.’

As I tell Dave more about some of my other favourite hidden bars, our conversation starts to flow more naturally.

For the first time in a long time, a date I’m on doesn’t feel awkward.

We chat about cool bars Dave has been to overseas and continue our earlier discussion of romantic comedies.

We start telling each other about which cocktails we hate as we scan the menu for drinks.

‘I’m a firm believer that no one actually likes an Aperol spritz,’ I say. ‘They just drink it for the aesthetic.’ I check if the bar has a cosmo on the menu.

‘That’s fair. Thoughts on a negroni, though?’

I shake my head and lean back into my seat. ‘No. Absolutely not. That drink should be banned.’

‘Harsh,’ says Dave. ‘I always tell people it takes three tries with a negroni until you like it.’

‘Only if you like the sensation of your throat on fire.’

We laugh and I do my best to give Dave a flirtatious look. Although, based on the confused expression on Dave’s face, I’m not entirely sure that it’s working. He probably thinks I’m having a stroke or something.

I school my face back to normal. ‘I’d take a cosmo over a negroni or Aperol spritz any day.’

‘Okay, Carrie Bradshaw,’ Dave says playfully.

My face lights up at the Sex and the City reference. ‘Perhaps we need to order a cheeseburger, fries and a cosmopolitan?’

With that, we’re off on a deep dive of our favourite Carrie Bradshaw moments.

The cosmopolitans we order eventually turn into margaritas, which we’re about to follow up with red wine – a Spanish one that Dave is convincing me to try when I suddenly feel a bit panicked.

Maybe another drink isn’t such a good idea.

When the room begins to tilt, I take a deep breath and focus on Dave.

There is no way I’m going to mess this up.

One of the waiters is clearing a table across from us when she looks over and asks, ‘Can I get you two another round of drinks?’

‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I reply, filling up my water glass from the little bottle on the table.

‘I’ll have two glasses of the red, please,’ Dave adds.

‘Two glasses? Double parking, are we?’ I say arching my lips up into an overbearing smile.

Dave responds with a relaxed laugh. ‘The second glass is for Giselle.’

‘Who?’ I ask.

‘My girlfriend,’ Dave replies.

I almost spit out my water. Girlfriend? Did he just say girlfriend?

‘I did tell you about her, didn’t I?’

I realise I’ve been sitting in silence, staring down at the table in confusion.

‘No… No, you didn’t,’ I reply, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. ‘Your Bumble profile didn’t say anything either.’

‘Oh, Bumble. That would be it. Sorry, mate, I haven’t updated all my details there in ages. It’s a struggle to keep up with all the apps I’m on.’

Oh god. There it is. He’s hit me with the dreaded mate. Confirmation that this isn’t a date.

‘You’re not disappointed, are you?’ Dave says, leaning back in his chair.

‘Disappointed? No, no. I’m not disappointed at all,’ I reply, my voice rising an octave.

What follows is a long monologue from Dave about his idea of soulmates.

He tells me he believes that we all have more than one person that we are destined to be with.

That it’s incomprehensible to him that anyone would go out into the world and share deep connections with so many people, only to be tied down to one person.

Which is why he is in an open relationship with his girlfriend, Giselle.

In theory, I get it. It’s nice to believe that you don’t just have one shot at love.

It’s nice to believe that no matter what happens in your life, or what the universe throws at you, you can find love everywhere and anywhere.

I don’t have anything against open relationships, but a heads-up would have been nice.

The waiter returns with Dave’s drinks. I focus my slightly blurred vision on the extra glass.

‘So… is Giselle joining us?’ I ask.

‘She’s on her way. I thought it’d be nice if you two met, I can feel it in my heart that you’ll get on well.’ Dave’s joyful smile leaves me crushed.

I can’t believe that this date, like all the others that came before it, has spiralled into chaos.

This bar is the last place I want to be.

I shouldn’t have listened to Addie. My night could have gone so differently.

Pizza and wine at home while blasting ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’ by Taylor Swift.

Instead, I’m facing humiliation, a large bill and a girlfriend called Giselle.

I push my chair back and begin to stand. ‘Look, Dave, it was nice to meet you, but I think there might have been—’

‘Babe!’ someone calls from the other end of the bar.

Dave waves to a woman in a striking red dress. She makes her way to us, leaning over to give Dave a kiss. Their lips part and they press their foreheads together, their eyes interlocked intensely.

‘I missed you,’ Giselle says with a giggle.

‘I missed you more,’ Dave says back, breathing heavily.

And then there’s me. On the other side of the table. Glaring at them both.

‘I’m off,’ I interject.

Giselle turns towards me, practically pouting. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, how rude of me. I’m Giselle. You must be Carlos.’

‘Oh, we don’t have to do this,’ I reply.

Giselle moves to my side of the table, grabs both my hands and brings them up to her chest. ‘Please, don’t go,’ she says. ‘Can you feel that? That’s the beat of my heart. The beat of the connection that has brought the three of us together in this very room.’

‘Mmhmm.’ Dave nods in agreement. ‘I told you he’d be perfect, didn’t I?’

I extract myself from Giselle’s hands, frowning at her attempt to look deeply into my eyes, as if she’s trying to hypnotise me. ‘Perfect for what?’ I ask.

‘A perfect candidate to be the third person in our relationship,’ Dave continues.

Giselle grabs my hand again, then reaches out to Dave with her other arm. ‘This,’ she says with a sigh of pleasure, ‘this is the connection we’ve been searching for.’

My eyes widen. I drop Giselle’s hand again, desperately wishing there was a nearby window or door I could throw myself out of. Instead, I take another step back and crash into someone behind me; a waiter cries out as glasses clank against a metal tray and smash to the ground.

Embarrassed, I consider making a mad dash out of the bar. But it’s too late. The alcohol hits me and the room tilts again. In fact, it begins to spin. And I proceed to hurl pink vomit all over the table, most of it landing on Dave’s pants and shoes.

Giselle lets out a blood curdling scream.

A dizzy spell hits me but I’m still coherent enough to draw my attention back to Dave and Giselle, who are looking at me in disgust and frustration.

Giselle cries out again as she runs towards the bathroom, Dave following closely behind her.

I settle back down in my seat and bury my head down in my hands.

A disappointed sigh escapes me, just in time for me to hear someone clearing their throat.

I look up as the waiter slides the bill to my side of the table.

They make a careful attempt to avoid the vomit.

After paying the bill, I head for the exit and struggle through the ridiculously heavy speakeasy door. That’s it. No more dates. No more romance. And definitely no more ridiculous hidden bars.

In the Uber home, I can’t make up my mind about what’s more embarrassing: accidentally landing yourself in a throuple, or vomiting all over your Bumble date?