Page 1 of Hate You to Love You

chapter one

now

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.

Which is a shame, because deep down, they used to make me believe that love was possible. If the ghost of a woman and the man living in her old apartment could find their happily ever after in Just Like Heaven, didn’t that mean that I could too? Could a national radio broadcast really bring two strangers together at the top of the Empire State Building like in Sleepless in Seattle? Don’t even get me started on Heath Ledger singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ in 10 Things I Hate About You, you know, the most romantic gesture of all time.

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 rereading 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.’