Love by the Book Read Free Page A

more interesting than scaring off men with eggs and being passed over for
Football
fucking
Focus
.
    I immediately texted Lucy.
    Me: Have you ever used a dating guide?
    Lucy: Why?
    Me: Just asking.
    Lucy: Why are you asking?
    Me: Just tell me!
    Lucy: Maybe.
    Me: Maybe?
    Lucy: Maybe. Yes. Am I a saddo?
    Me: Maybe.
    Lucy: Fuck off.
    Me: Which one?
    Lucy: The Rules . Don’t judge. Was at low point.
    Me: No judgment. Have a new life plan. Tell you when I get back. Xx
    I ran to my favorite bookstore, a little gem tucked behind the tube station at South Kensington. It was owned by a sweet, kindly, white-haired man with a Scottish accent so thick you could stick a fork in it. He’d become one of my favorite people in London, always pressing wonderful books into my hands and mumbling incomprehensibly about them. The bookstore itself was amazing: all tiny nooks and crannies, with a little attic space reserved for used books. I spent most of my lunch hours curled up there, searching for hidden treasure.
    I got there ten minutes after closing, but the door was still open. I could see the owner tottering around inside, arranging a table of Seamus Heaney books and singing along to the radio.
    He greeted me with a warm grin and a burble that I assumed was a hello.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, love?” he said. “Come back for more Austen? Or perhaps some Thackeray?” He started pulling books from the shelves into a pile for me, as usual.
    â€œNo thanks, Hamish. I’m actually looking for something a little different today. Do you have any self-help?”
    â€œAh, love, you don’t seem to need any help! What’s it for, DIY ? You should get yourself a strapping fella to do that!”
    â€œNo, it’s not that.” Christ, this was embarrassing. “It’s . . . dating. I need dating help.”
    He straightened himself up on his cane and gave me a kind smile. “I’m sure that isn’t true. You’re a lovely lass! I bet the boys are falling over themselves to take you out on the town!”
    â€œNot quite,” I mumbled. “Anyway, it’s for research. Scientific research.” I tried to say it with more conviction than I currently felt.
    â€œAh, I should have known! You working at the Science Museum and all. I think I’ve got some of those books tucked away in the attic. Give us a shout if you can’t find them and I’ll go on the hunt.”
    I thanked him and ran up the steps to the attic room, which was filled to the rafters with perilous towers of used books. I found the right corner, blew off the dust and sifted through the titles:
Men Are from Mars
,
He’s Just Not That Into You
,
Why Men Love Bitches
 . . . lovely old Hamish had a great selection.
    I heard him clear his throat and call up the stairs. “Sorry, love, but my seat in the Chandos is getting cold . . .”
    â€œBe right there!” I yelled.
    Found it! I pulled it from the stack and ran down the stairs, brandishing it and a ten-pound note triumphantly.
    I returned to the apartment, my copy of
The Rules
in hand, and explained the plan to Lucy.
    She was silent for a moment, clearly overwhelmed by my shrewd scientific mind.
    â€œBabe, are you bonkers?” she said. “You’re going to use your love life as an experiment?”
    â€œThat’s right!”
    â€œBut . . . that’s mental! What happens if you end up seeing someone for more than a month?”
    â€œI can’t really see that happening, but if it does, I’ll have to change tactics and follow the new guide! So suddenly my behavior will TOTALLY CHANGE and I’ll document how that affects them!”
    â€œWhat happens if the book tells you to do something really weird? What if it says you have to let them pee on you during sex? Or do lots of Japanese bondage or something?”
    â€œLucy, it’s a dating guide, not fringe porn.”
    She clutched my