Sorry I'm Late - my friend has a hot husband

a fate I'd wish on no one

“To Harry and Sally. If Marie or I had found either of them remotely attractive we would not be here today."

Rebecca was sitting at the table in the front of the shop, the display window behind her, sunlight streaming through her hair. She had the oddest expression on her face. She was holding her cheek in embarrassment, elbows on the table, staring into the ether.

“He came in today.”

Rebecca has a crush on a customer who is, apparently, very, very hot.

We have nicknames for all of our regular customers. We’ve decided to call this one Timothy, as he has the aura of Timothée Chalamet.

Walter had seen Timothy come in earlier, too.

“Verrry easy on the eyes,” Walter confirmed.

“I’m in love,” Rebecca said.

“He can’t be that handsome,” I said, though I have never spotted Timothy in the wild. I always seem to be walking out of the bookshop mere seconds before he appears.

“He’s SO handsome, Jess,” Rebecca said. She seemed genuinely stressed by the interaction she’d just had with him.

“Why didn’t I recommend him a book? Give him a reason to stay? Offer to make him a cup of tea?”

She has never once offered to make me a cup of tea.

“You don’t want to date someone that hot,” I tell Rebecca. “You don’t want to date someone everyone wants.”

I had recently texted Michelle, my ex-colleague in Beijing. I wanted to see if she remembered a mutual acquaintance of ours, Erica, who was now a good friend of mine in London. Michelle hadn’t seen her in over a decade, but did she remember her?

Michelle wrote back, “Yeah. Hot husband.”

What a legacy. Erica’s future gravestone epitaph: Beloved daughter, friend and wife of a hot husband.

I’ve met said “hot husband” several times and would consider him a good friend. But in these years of friendship, I’ve also seen how people hit on him constantly. Women adjust their hair and lean far too close to him, having lost their balance in his presence. Ostensibly straight men become flustered, pulling at their ties nervously and laughing too hard at his jokes.

Why would you ever want to be married to someone who caused that kind of destruction everywhere they went?!

Rebecca didn’t care about my anecdote. She was too obsessed with Timothy.

“Tell me the truth. Is he out of my league?”

“No! Of course not!” I say. “That’s not really a thing anymore once you’re out of school.”

I think I mean that.

I find my husband to be very handsome, but I also know that he’s definitely not everyone’s type. For one, he’s not tall, but also, neither am I (though I do swear that even if I were tall, I would absolutely date a man shorter than I am. This is the hypothetical hill I will die on. But would the shorter man date me? Unclear. See below).

Sam is handsome to me but women don’t whip their necks around to watch him walk by and follow him into a second location. I find this incredibly reassuring, which speaks to obvious hidden insecurities I have.

One time he mentioned a woman in the kitchen at work had told him he reminded her of a young Tom Cruise and I’d prickled and said, “Oh did she? Well, Sandra can back the fuck off.”

None of these revelations are particularly flattering for me.

A few months before my wedding, I asked my childhood best friend, Jori, who was more attractive: Sam or me. It’s the kind of conversation you can only have with someone you are incredibly close to, because otherwise you come off as stupid, shallow and stupidly shallow.

It was right before Sam and I were getting married, and I posited that I thought he and I were pretty equally matched looks-wise.

“Really? But Sam’s pretty good-looking.” Jori was buckling her seatbelt and adjusting the radio in her car and answering absentmindedly. I think I said nothing in response, because, I mean, I had asked her. I couldn’t then attack her for her answer by saying, “So you want to sleep with my future husband and you think I’m uglier than him? ”

I asked Jori this same question again last week, ten years later and she said, “You’re fairly even. Maybe you because you’re ageing well with the Asian genes and Sam’s not very tall.”

I let the word “ageing” slide and reminded her how ten years ago, she had said he was more attractive than I was.

“Really?!” she said, laughing. “I don’t remember saying that.” (She also didn’t deny that it was plausible…)

This is all to say, I know this is silly and stupid. Which is what I wish I could convey to Rebecca.

My friend Erica doesn’t even see her hot husband as hot anymore. She gets annoyed at at him for all the things any other husband does or doesn’t do. A few years ago, I met up with her at a café in East London on a Saturday morning. Hot Husband was a few minutes behind but on his way to meet us. I asked her if we should order a coffee for him.

“If Hot Husband has a coffee, he’ll shit himself within five minutes.”

Never saw him the same way again.

So, no. Erica doesn’t run into his arms every evening passionately kissing him merely because his features are symmetrical and his shoulders are broad. I asked.

This whole, “Who is hot? And am I worthy?” conversation came to a head a few days ago.

A very handsome famous actor came into the bookshop this week, twice. I won’t say who it is because that would be wrong / immoral, but I’ll say this: very, very unequivocally attractive. It’s not Jake Gyllenhaal. It’s not Henry Cavill. It’s not Chris Hemsworth. Slightly less famous than these actors, but probably more handsome.

I’ll say no more. But if you’re thinking, “I bet it’s XXXX,” you would be right.

(When Lottie heard about this, literally on her train to Scotland to move in with her Irish boyfriend, she texted, “Please feel free to give him my number.”)

Anyway. Apparently he rode to the bookshop on a motorbike, dismounted, and according to Rebecca, “He took off his helmet in the sexiest way possible.”

I don’t know what that means, but I kind of do know what that means from that description?

A week ago, I spotted him in a café near the bookshop, so we sensed he was sort of…around. I had just ordered an iced matcha oat latte (apparently matcha is very good for you, look it up) and then - BAM - saw him and I was so distressed by his sheer hotness, that I just made myself stare at the ground. Like a peasant not allowed to look at the king. I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable! But he was making ME uncomfortable.

He got up to leave his table, and I’m not proud of this, but I immediately sat in his seat.

Yes, I did do that. Yes, I am admitting to it here, a public forum. Yes, I would do it again. No, I did not mention it to my husband. Yes, I did text it to Jori.

Hot people just make everyone around them a little bit crazy. I was relieved when he left.

While Rebecca was outwardly pining for Timothy, Walter was standing behind the counter. He chimed in, agreeing with me that “out of your league” is a concept that feels like gospel when we’re young and just plain stupid when we’re older. Also, it’s mind-boggling how hard it is to agree on who or what is actually “hot.”

By the time you’re 35, you will have met dozens of couples where you go, “Huh.” Or “Her?” Couples where you think: this one’s way smarter than that one, this one’s so much nicer than that one, this one is going to conquer the world but that one is going nowhere.

And you will not understand their connection at all. Only they do.

I don’t know if it’s the same in the US, but I do know that everyone in the UK has emerged from a drunken office Christmas party, reeling from shock. They will walk the streets questioning the very rules of nature after witnessing the most seemingly random and unforeseen hook-ups in dark corners.

(My friend Chantal told me that at one office Christmas party, an engaged woman became very inebriated and made out with a 19-year-old intern with buckteeth in front of her entire department. She called in sick the next day, secretly gathered her belongings after hours and quit remotely. She never came into work again. (This is exactly what I would do if I were in her situation, and I respect her deeply. I think of her fondly every Christmas.))

You may recall that Walter was recently single, after spending ten years dating someone he loved very much (the daughter of a famous author) who had just ended things with him.

Well, Walter has started dating again, and Walter is apparently an extremely hot commodity on dating apps because he’s a straight, nice man in his thirties who reads books and hasn’t been to prison. (The bar for men is so low.) Nearly every time he meets a new match, the woman wants to be exclusive with him by date three. It makes me think of the book Fleishman in Trouble (the book is better than the TV show).

Sometimes I want so badly to know what it’s like to be Walter. I know so many beautiful, smart single women in London who want to find partners or even just a nice cute guy who isn’t total trash and then I see Walter and every single woman he matches with is the smartest, funniest, most beautiful person in most rooms.

Are single women the most groomed subgroup of our species? Their nails are colourful and polished, their skin dry-brushed and moisturised, their lipstick immaculate, their legs toned from Pilates and cycling. They are reading fiction, non-fiction, and the New Yorker.

I would choose any of them to be stuck in an elevator with – these are delightful and incredibly resourceful women. We’d laugh, we’d cry, we’d laugh some more and they’d hand out a random packet of nuts in their purse to sustain us, a reusable water bottle and some hand sanitiser, before climbing out of the elevator using their impressive upper body strength from Crossfit and running at speed to get help.

The men? The men are fine.

I’ve sat by a twenty-something man in a movie theatre and his sweater smelled so strongly of mildew that I made my husband switch seats with me ten minutes through the film and I could still smell it and had to put my t-shirt over my nose for the entire film.

This man had a date.

Do you know how good these women smell just on their way to the grocery store? They smell amazing. A heady concoction of hairspray, deodorant, luxury perfume, essential oils, minty gum.

I know I’m generalizing but also, I am right. Why do kind, intelligent, funny, well-read, clean women outnumber their male counterparts so enormously?

A question for Malcolm Gladwell. Not for me. (Though

lyz

tries to answer this here.)

Anyway. Walter already has a new girlfriend, who is, predictably, gorgeous (and sweet and smart and well-employed and funny). In fact, Rebecca and I have taken to calling her Beautiful Lucy.

Walter and his new girlfriend, Lucy, went to a fancy Italian restaurant recently. The waitress fawned over Lucy saying, “You are so GORGEOUS,” when she seated them. And then she glanced over at Walter and gave him a thin smile.

(To be clear, Walter is cute. But we don’t call him Beautiful Walter.)

“At least you’re in LOVE,” Rebecca shouted from across the bookshop. “And you just don’t understand, Jess. Timothy is. Just. So. Hot.”

I pulled a shot of coffee, and glanced over at Walter. He was cutting something with scissors. I looked closer. He was wrapping a copy of Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger in brown wrapping paper and tying it with green ribbon.

“It’s my favorite book. I’m going to mail it to Lucy as a surprise,” he said.

And I instantly knew.

In the immortal words of Paris Hilton: that’s hot.

You can read more of my writing by checking out my book, “Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come: One Introvert’s Year of Saying Yes.” (The UK version is “Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come: An Introvert’s Year of Living Dangerously).

It’s about the year I spent: talking to strangers, performing stand-up comedy, travelling solo, trying out improv, going on friend dates and doing a bunch of extrovert-y things.  It’s about being an introvert and trying to extrovert for a full year. I interview brilliant people throughout the book who guide me through these nightmares.

It’s sold more than 140,000 copies, nearly entirely by word-of-mouth and I am so grateful to all of my readers.

Reviews for Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come

“I loved it! It’s such a wonderful title, and the book lives up to it’ Nigella Lawson 

‘In a world of self-care and nights in, this book will inspire and remind you to do some things that scare you every so often.’ Emma Gannon

‘Hilarious, unexpected and ultimately life-affirming.’ Will Storr

‘Funny, emotional and deeply inspiring, this is perfect for anyone wanting to break out of their comfort zone’  Heat

‘Beautifully written and so funny! I related to it A LOT’ – Emma Jane Unsworth

‘Relatable, moving and fantastically funny’ – Rhik Samadder

‘Tender, courageous and extremely funny, this book will make us all braver.’ Daisy Buchanan

‘A chronicle of Pan’s hilarious and painful year of being an extrovert.’ Stylist

‘Excellent, warm, hilarious.’ Nikesh Shukla

‘You WILL laugh and laugh while reading this.’ Sun

“Very funny, very smart” Liberty Hardy

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