Read an extract from Rosemary Mac Cabe’s debut novel, This Is Not About You: A Menmoir

Journalist and influencer Rosemary Mac Cabe was always a serial monogamist – never happier than when she was in a relationship or, at the very least, on the way to being in one. But in her desperate search for ‘the one’ –- from first love to first lust, through a series of disappointments and the searing sting of heartbreak – she learned that finding love might mean losing herself along the way.

This Is Not About You is a life story in a series of love stories, with each chapter dedicated to a different man. There’s Henry, with the big nose and the lovely mum, with whom sex was like having a verruca frozen off in the doctor’s surgery: ‘uncomfortable, but I had entered into this willingly’. There’s Francis, who was married. There’s Luke, who gave her a split condom…. And then there’s Brandin — Rosemary’s husband and the father to her son. This is Not About You is the story of one woman – and, in a way, every woman – and her quest to find her happy ever after, no matter how high the price.

Not only a gripping and humorous telling of one woman’s experiences with men, This Is Not About You is also an important commentary on consent and confidence issues in young women. Witty, relatable and honest, this book will appeal to fans of Dolly Alderton, Nell Frizzell and Bryony Gordon, and is a powerful ‘menmoir’ from a renowned journalist, influencer and podcast host.

Read on for a snippet that will whet your appetite for Rosemary’s new book…

He stood me up on our second date. I had bought tickets, months beforehand, for a showing of The Princess Bride in Dublin’s newest bougie cinema, the one with the velvet couches and the table service and the chicken tenders that came with just the right amount of sweet paprika.

They weren’t cheap tickets, although the money wasn’t – isn’t ever, really – the point.

We had arranged to meet that morning on O’Connell Street, to take the bus together to the cinema. I had checked the bus times, firmed up the logistics.

Even if we missed the first bus, the second would get us there on time, so I didn’t panic when he was five minutes late, nor ten, having yet to respond to either of my texts. It’s hard to compose a text to a second date, asking if they’re on their way, because you’re so busy – I was so busy – trying to appear nonchalant and as if timekeeping and plans and schedules aren’t all that important to you. I imagine I said something like, ‘Hey – everything okay?!’ when what I really wanted to say was, ‘Are you still coming? Because, if not, I’ll go on my own.’

By the time he finally responded, the second bus was due any minute. ‘Shit! I didn’t hear my alarm!’ he wrote. ‘Are you joking?’ I asked. I was sure he was joking. ‘No! You should have called me!’ he replied. It was subtle, but it was the first of many instances in which he would blame me for his mistakes. I should have known; I should have called; I should have calmed down; I should have understood. I didn’t write back immediately. As I stood there composing my brief responses to him – feeling irritated by this flagrant disregard for my time, my plans, my preferences – the second bus went by. I thought about getting a taxi, but realised that would just add a further expense to the endeavour – I would sit through my favourite film in a blind rage, and the entire ordeal would end up costing me more than €50.

I stood still for a minute, imagining the Sliding Doors version of the day, where he’d showed up on time – maybe he’d brought flowers! – and we were now making ourselves comfortable in our plush sofa seats, sipping fizzy drinks from real glasses, smiling at one another in the dim lamplight.

Another text.

‘C’mere, I’ll come into town anyway,’ he said, as if he was doing me a favour. ‘We’ll hang out, we’ll have a nice day.’

I wasn’t convinced. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Forget about it.’

‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘I’m on my way in now, we’ll do something nice.’

I gave in. People make mistakes, I thought, and decided not to go home, wandering into the shops for a browse while I waited for him to arrive.

Another text. ‘Before I get on this bus, are you gonna be in a mood with me now?’

‘This Is Not About You’ is on sale now.