Cosmo Landesman, 60, has been married twice and is now divorced. He has proposed and been turned down five times, but remains hopeful
I hate August. All my female friends suddenly vanish. They’ve all gone on holiday with husbands and kids and boyfriends and girlfriends. That means no phone calls and no texts, and the only emails I will get for the next few weeks are about my pension plans and the state of my prostate. (It’s an old guy thing.) So I’m home alone, a 60-year-old Macaulay Culkin.
I guess I could call a male friend and arrange to meet. But, to be honest, I don’t have that many men friends. Men don’t really get me. I’ve never been asked to give a best man’s speech, which means I’ve never been any man’s best friend. (Thanks, guys!) I guess I’m not a man’s sort of man. I once went on a stag thing in Spain and lectured the other guys about the evils of paying for sex. One of them later complained to our host that “the only pussy we got was Cosmo”.
One curious thing I’ve noticed: my male friends haven’t talked to me about my son’s death — and that’s fine by me. Women want to share and see tears, whereas men act like nothing has happened. It’s not that they’re insensitive; they’re just embarrassed. They don’t know what to say, and I totally understand that. However, I was surprised by one old friend who sent me a text that read: “Sorry to hear your news, come for dinner x.”
Was that rather perfunctory, or just the way we do things in the age of the smartphone?
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Anyway, I had lunch with a young and talented artist who looks like a rock star and talks like a philosopher. He’s a really cool guy. You’d think he spent all his time going to hip parties and going out with beautiful and talented women. But no, he prefers to just spend time on his own. If he can do it, I thought, so can I!
So instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I decided I would learn to be on my own. On Monday morning, I drew up a To Do/Stay Busy list. Items included: finish reading the Saul Bellow novel — that I started a year ago; start writing my novel — that I started five years ago; tidy up the kitchen cabinets; go to the gym; listen to the Ring cycle — all of it; go to the Soane Museum; do something new every day.
So far, I’ve not done one thing on my list. I’ve actually spent the past four days not seeing anyone or doing anything. I just sit on the sofa and listen to the silence. And it’s OK.
But I wonder: have I learnt to be on my own and embrace the joys of solitude — or am I just depressed?
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Dolly Alderton, 26, is currently (sort of) single. Her last serious relationship was three years ago. Her dating adventures include a misjudged three months with a musician and a fling with a playboy she met on Tinder.
Every once in a while, you find a diamond of a person who unites everyone’s lust: Jack Nicholson is one, Victoria Coren Mitchell another. Everyone fancies them just a little bit.
The barman in our local is one. My two housemates and I, unequivocally divided by type, are all so in love with this charming man, we’ve printed out a photo of his face and put it on our fridge, with the caption “You are fit”.
After months of us hanging around after last orders, one Thursday he finally asks us to stay at the pub lock-in.
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We huddle in the loo to figure out a game plan.
“Doll’s out, she’s taken,” Belle rules.
“No, I’m not!” I say. “I’m allowed to flirt. I’m only seeing someone, and he’s in a different country.”
“So all bets are off.”
“Why, who do you think he fancies?” I ask.
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“No, Dolly, you always get that phrase wrong,” India hisses moodily. “‘All bets are off’ means anything could happen. You think it means the betting shop has closed, but it means the opposite.”
“I know what it means.”
“Well, why do you misuse it all the time?”
The door opens. Belle shushes us.
“What’s happening?” the barman asks. We invite him back to ours.
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An hour later, we’re in our kitchen, smoking and flirting, when I spot something out of the corner of my eye. I signal at India. “What?” he asks, turning to the fridge. “Dolly can do the worm!” Belle blurts out. Dolly can’t do the worm. “Dolly can do the worm” has become shorthand for “Dolly gets drunk enough to think she can do the worm and flap around on the floor like a half-dead salmon while we laugh”.
But Boney M is on and Belle is clapping like a children’s party entertainer, so I throw myself on the floor, trying and failing to convulse my static body in a rhythmic way. The barman is staring, confused, while India is surreptitiously pulling the photo off the fridge. Once I see it’s in the bin, I stand up.
“It’s not really the worm,” I say.
“No, it’s good,” he says unconvincingly. He goes upstairs to the loo.
Another huddle — they thank me for the decoy.
“I’d better head off,” the barman says. We garble that it’s fine — getting late, a week night. The front door closes behind him.
“New rule,” Belle announces. “When we bring a hot man back, we check we’ve taken down all psychotic artwork.”
We stomp upstairs, muttering about the disastrous night. And yet, when I get to my bedroom, to my utter shock, I find a piece of paper with a number on it by the door.