The letter request:
Ok – truth be told, he is pretty much everything I’d ever want in a bloke and I relish every second we’re together! The problem? He hasn’t got a clue. He loves spending time with me, no doubt, but the thought of ‘him and me’ is well beyond his thinking, I’m sure. I’m the mate he trust and talks to about the other women in his life; not the other way around. The letter I want to write isn’t exactly a head-over-feet love confession, but certainly a message that any girl would be so so blessed to have him.
As the female in this friendship I have three primary obligations. One, to introduce you to my hot girlfriends. Two, to tease you when the women in your life suddenly realise you are the love of their life and fall at your feet. And three, to warn you when your life is dangerously close to becoming a romantic comedy.
Consider yourself warned.
I’ve seen a few chick flicks. I don’t seek them out, I just occasionally end up in front of a widescreen and later wake to find brain cells have been suctioned away through my eyeballs. While no one would call chick flicks art, it is a genre where the life-mimics-art versus art-mimics-life debate is alive. Do we dramatise our own lives to make them resemble trashy films or do trashy films tell the same goddamn story over and over because this stuff really does happen?
The imaginary film about your life would be called something unremarkable like The Boy-Next-Door. You’d be played by some wholesome newcomer who got his big break singing and dancing on a children’s television program. I’d be played by Rachel Bilson (romcom veteran and #77 in FHM’s 100 Sexiest Women in the World 2005).
The film would start with a flashback montage of our school days. Some teenage actors, who look nothing like their adult counterparts and even less like us, would burst onto the screen wearing oversized school uniforms –they’d share a joke and drink slurpies while Eminem blasts over the soundtrack. There would be playful arm-slapping and laughter so intense that Bilson, as me, spits up some of her slurpie.
Then we’d flash forward to post-school life. Jet would blare as our characters go their separate ways to do their own thing: uni, travel, work, bars, tears, London, love making, hearts breaking, passions being followed and everything else that consumes that tumultuous decade we call ‘our twenties’. All this would happen in a space of around 60 seconds because in movie-land we skip the shit and get straight to the main event.
In the main event, my character, played by Bilson, would suddenly have a mature, shiny, bob-style haircut but underneath it all, be every bit the child she always was. Your character would be more worldly than he was in high school but every bit as sweet. They’d both be a teeny bit damaged by life but all the more amazing for it. They’d reconnect via means far more glamorous than Facebook.
They would bond quickly, our characters. Exchange numbers that immediately slide into the ‘favourites’ list in each other’s mobile phone. They’d need little more than a beer and some conversation for hours of entertainment. They’d banter about ex lovers, future lovers, travel to-do-lists and next steps in this world we call our oyster.
This is where real life veers from the romantic comedy.
In the film there’d be a ‘moment’. My character would be at a party and see you laughing with another girl and you’d seem to genuinely like her and you’d bring her over to meet me and I’d instinctively give her a dirty look and say something bitchy. And her face would drop and the music would slow and it would be evident to everyone in the pub (and the cinema audience) that I was in love with you. I’d be so shocked with this discovery of feelings that I’d run towards the door and you’d chase me and we’d trip over someone’s handbag and you’d land on top of me, your face inches from mine.
This is not a movie, Charlie. In real life, even if I started to have a sneaking suspicion that my feelings were more than just friends I’d probably still be super-sweet to your next girlfriend. If I tried to run from the pub I’d definitely fall over but you wouldn’t be chasing. You’d be too busy ordering an apple martini for your new lady friend to notice that I’d concussed my head on the jukebox.
The concussion would knock any stupid feelings I had been noticing from my head and I’d wake the next morning, bruised but sensible. I would not confess love. Instead I’d tell you that you’ve helped me realise what I’m looking for. You’ve restored my faith in boys. You’ve proved there are some talented, funny, super down-to-earth, humble, deep thinking yet silly and generally just great men out there.
I’m not going to join that plethora of girls who’ve been falling at your feet with love confessions but I will say I understand it. The attention you are getting is justified. I think you are amazing.
Love Sacha xx