Dinner for Two by Mike Gayle Read Free Book Online Page A

sixteenth-century manor house in Ayrshire, a snip at £1.4 million.
    There’s a long silence from Izzy and then, with a sigh, she turns towards me. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You know we have this little thing called a mortgage, don’t you?’
    ‘We have?’
    ‘Yeah, we have. Apparently the way it works is that every month we pay the bank a certain amount of money not to take away our home from us. It’s a relatively simple arrangement – well, except that it requires us to have money in the bank in the first place.’
    ‘You want me to get some work?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I want.’
    ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ I reply nonchalantly. ‘I’ll get some work. I mean, think about it. Between us we have enough friends working in the business – one or two will throw a bit of freelance stuff my way.’ I think for a moment. ‘Tell you what, just to show you what a good sport I am, I’ll even have a go at writing a relationship feature for you.’ I wink at her in a manner clearly intended to wind her up. ‘Something nice and touchy-feely about men. I mean, how hard can it be?’
    ‘Harder than you think,’ she replies.
    ‘What do you want me to write about?’
    ‘Anything you want.’
    ‘How much do I get?’
    ‘Three hundred and fifty pounds. That’s the standard rate for new freelancers.’
    ‘I’ll do it for four hundred.’
    ‘Three hundred and fifty. Take it or leave it.’
    ‘Okay, I’ll take it on one condition.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I get to sleep with my commissioning editor.’

    type
    I begin to write the feature late on Sunday afternoon while Izzy is working her way through the Sunday papers. At first I don’t take it seriously and my early drafts are terrible but then I add more to it, editing and deleting copy that no longer fits. By the time I finish it, on Monday afternoon, it’s 1200 words too long because I’ve got so carried away with it. It feels strange to write this kind of article for this kind of audience: I feel like I’ve been using a different part of my brain. It’s such a relief not to have to search for some pompous alternative to the word ‘crap’, and not to be transcribing the utterance of some dreary musician and trying to make them sound interesting. In fact, for the first time in a long while I’m genuinely excited about the work I’m producing. By about three o’clock I’ve managed to trim the piece to roughly 800 words. I entitle it: ‘The Art of Talking Without Talking’, and e-mail it to Izzy at work.

    speak
    To:         [email protected]
    From:     [email protected]
    Subject: Femme article

    Dear Babe,
    Here’s the article I promised you enclosed as an attachment. It is to be truthful a little cliché d and not at all me. I’m not a big fan of invoking sexual stereotypes but I reasoned for this kind of thing I had to be a little extra blokey, and while you’ve never been much of a practitioner of the art of talking without talking I’ve known plenty of women who are.

    love you

    Dave X

    PS You’ll notice that I’ve used anecdotes from our friends to illustrate the various points. I thought about changing the names to protect the innocent but it’s a lot funnier if I don’t . . .

    The Art of Talking Without Talking
    Here’s the scene: my mate Trevor is standing in Wax Lyrical with his girl friend when he gets the Look.
    ‘What?’he responds.
    ‘You know,’ she replies.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he protests.
    ‘If you loved me you’d know,’ she says. Then Trevor’s girlfriend storms off leaving him holding a box of scented candles.
    When, days later, he shares his story with me and the rest of our mates down the pub we all nod in silent recognition. ‘It’s the female art of talking without talking,’ I say. ‘It can really bugger up your day.’
    The art of talking without talking (henceforward known as ATWT) has long been a source of fascination and fear for mankind. I