Status Update: I’m going offline for a while… Wish me luck! xx

Lifestyle journalist and thirty-something singleton Melissa hashtags, insta's and snapchats her supposedly fabulous life on every social media platform there is.

That is until she wakes up on her birthday, another year older and still alone, wondering if for all her internet dates, love really can be found online? The challenge: go technology free for a whole month!

Forced to confront the reality of her life without its perfect filters, Melissa knows she needs to make some changes. But when she bumps into not one, but two gorgeous men, without the use of an app, she believes there could be hope for love offline!

If only there was a way to choose the right guy for her…

The Secret to Falling in Love

Victoria Cooke

VICTORIA COOKE

grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters and when she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria was first published at the tender age of eight by her classroom teacher in year three who saw potential in a six page story about an invisible man. Since then she’s always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.

I would like to give huge thanks to HQ Digital for giving me the opportunity to publish my debut novel, in particular my editor Victoria Oundjian and editorial assistant Hannah Smith for being incredibly approachable, supportive and tactful.

I would also like to say a special ‘thank you’ to Katherine Trail at KT Editing for her honesty and support, and for teaching me so much.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Copyright

To Chris, for being my real-life hero and supporting my writing journey.

Chapter One

I opened my eyes with a start. A thin, bluish line of light crept in underneath the blind. It was morning. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the room in confusion. I didn’t recognise it at all. I had no recollection of how I’d come to be there. It took a moment for me to recall the events of the previous evening. When I did, dread descended upon me. The true horror set in. I was suddenly wide awake. I had to escape. If I was going to get out without being rumbled, I had to do it quickly.

First, I needed to figure out where I was. I tensed my body, trying to keep it as still as possible, and slid a leg out of the bed into the cold, stark air. I felt around the floor with my toes until they found my handbag. Bingo. Slowly, I hooked my toe underneath the handle and bent my knee, bringing the bag up towards my chest. I unzipped it quietly.

Being careful not to make a sound, I slid out my phone. I had no memory of the end of the evening and hoped to find some clues, but a quick look through my messages and status updates was enough to draw a blank. Nothing there shed any light on what had happened or where I was. The sound of slow, shallow breaths close by refocused my attention. Panic set in. Time was not on my side. My heart started to beat harder, each beat pounding in my eardrums, trying to pull me into action. It was now or never.

I held my breath to keep myself silent as I carefully rolled over and slithered to the edge of the bed in a move that would have made James Bond green with envy. It was the second time in the space of a few minutes I’d been glad of my enduring commitment to Pilates. I stretched my left arm out so my hand could touch the floor, before pausing momentarily to check I was still operating under the radar. The coast seemed clear, so I brought my right leg over and down to the floor before heaving the rest of my body out of the bed.

So there I was, on the floor in some stranger’s bedroom, stuck in downward-facing dog, too afraid to move until I’d reaffirmed the bloke in bed was still asleep. It was hard to hear any changes in his breathing for all the blood pumping around my head, but he didn’t move, so I assumed he was still sleeping. Relieved, I allowed my knees to slump down to the floor and scanned the room for my belongings. Hanging from the lamp on the bedside table was my blue lacy satin bra. ‘Oh, God,’ I groaned under my breath as snippets of memory started slapping me in the face.

I didn’t dare put my clothes on for fear of being caught, so I scooped everything up into my arms. When I stood up, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Even more horrifying than the predicament I’d found myself in was my hair; it looked like the perfect home for a tittering of magpies.

I didn’t have time to think about that. I scurried towards the door. As I was about to leave, I turned back to check he was still sleeping. My panic had subsided a little, so I could appreciate that no matter how compelled I felt to get out of there, he wasn’t actually too bad. The slow rise and fall of his toned, taut chest was the calm before the storm. At that moment, he was blissfully unaware he’d wake up alone – that his date would have sneaked off after a night of passion. (I’d concluded there had been passion from the location of my bra.)

To my shame, I felt quite excited about being the one to sneak off. On the rare occasions I’d had one-night stands, I’d always been the one to wake up alone without so much as a note, but there I was, holding all the cards. Of course, it was just logistical, as we were in his house and he couldn’t exactly sneak off and leave me here.

Although that did actually happen once, back in my university days. I’d had to suffer the embarrassment of a very forthcoming flatmate telling me the bloke of my beer-goggled dreams had gone into hiding and wouldn’t come out until I’d left. He’d said that it would be better for him if I hurried up about it too, so the elusive one-night stand could return home to his game of FIFA.

I contemplated leaving a note, but it would have increased the risk of getting caught. Instead, I left the room and crept down the stairs. The front door was locked, and there was no sign of a key anywhere. I tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen, in search of another way out. There was a back door, which was also locked. Shit. I really didn’t want to go back upstairs and wake him.

Looking around, I could see no obvious place for a key to be kept. My own were on a big silly bunch of novelty key rings probably visible from the International Space Station, and I kept them on the floor, under previously worn clothing, but I have lower standards of organisation than most people. Think, Melissa! I gathered my composure, trying to channel the mind of a more resourceful person.

As I cast my eyes around the room, I realised there was another option. It wasn’t ideal, and perhaps a bit of a squeeze, but I’d run out of other options and by that point it felt quite welcoming, like Willy Wonka’s factory gates. It was a dog flap. In my haste, I hadn’t noticed a dog, but as I looked around I saw a dog bed. It was quite a big one too, which probably meant that I, being fairly petite, might actually fit through the flap.

I couldn’t see any alternative, so I slipped into my underwear and last night’s black skater dress and got on all fours. I pushed on the door. It was disgustingly sticky, but luckily it swung open – it wasn’t one of those fancy electronic ones. Ha, he was a cheapskate; the memory came back to me. Last night he’d refused to split the bill fifty-fifty and wanted to tot up each item individually because I’d had a mojito and ‘they’re expensive’. I knew there was something off-putting about him, that taut chest wasn’t fooling me.

Carefully, trying not to let the putrid dog residue touch me, I put my head through. My shoulders, however, were a bit of a squeeze. I couldn’t get them through; it was impossible. The door seemed to be taller than it was wide, so I precariously turned onto my side, jammed my shoulders in and wriggled like a worm, pushing with my toes. Once I’d finally got my elbows through I was able to free my hands and support myself.

I’d just taken a moment to let out a huge sigh of relief when I heard a low growl. Shit, the dog! I tried to work my way through faster, but my hips were posing a similar problem to my shoulders; I’d wedged them in and each push was only budging them a centimetre or so. Something was pulling me back. I realised in horror that the dog had my dress in its teeth and was tugging viciously.

Using my hands and feet together, I gave one big heave. There was a loud tearing noise, as I landed in a heap on the doorstep and slid into the soggy grass before it. Looking down at my dress, I saw it was a complete disaster. The skirt had detached from the waistband, transforming it into an ill-hemmed top and saggy skirt combo that exposed a less than appealing area of my stomach.

Urgh. Damn dog! A furry head appeared through the flap – not one of a ferocious Rottweiler or an Alsatian, but that of a cute golden retriever, panting playfully. Typical.

Once safely outside of the garden, I was struck by the icy January air and the shame of walking home in last night’s clothing – which was now torn, just like my hopes of the date leading to more than just someone’s bedroom. I walked sullenly to the end of the suburban street, taking in the identical red-brick terraced houses that lined both sides.

I couldn’t have changed my mind and sneaked back inside if I wanted to, since I’d no idea which one of them I’d just come from. Plus I didn’t fancy my chances against that dog again; I had very little clothing left to tear. The thought smothered me with shame, and I shuddered, wishing for the first time ever that I’d followed my mother’s advice and worn a bigger coat. The middle of my dress was flapping about, waving at each passer-by: ‘Hey look, walk of shame over here!’

I rummaged in my bag for my keys. After examining my key rings, I selected the one that said, ‘Keep calm, I’m single,’ and removed it from the bunch. My oldest friend, Amanda, had bought it for me because she’d ‘admired the irony’. I’d never asked her why it was ironic but assumed it was because I wasn’t calm about being single – I’d planned my wedding twenty-five years ago (scheduled for five years ago).

Whatever the reason, I hated it and it was about to meet its destiny. I worked the fob around the spiral key ring and removed it so I was left with the just the ring. Pulling together the two torn pieces of my dress, I prised the ring open just enough to slide the fabric in. I turned it a few times and voilà – I was reattached; though I must have looked hideous, I told myself it looked just like Liz Hurley’s safety pin dress circa 1994.

A mother and daughter walked towards me on the opposite side of the road. The girl appeared to be about five; she had a school uniform on and cute golden pigtails, each decorated with a navy-blue bow. Her little hand was wrapped tightly in her mother’s as she looked up at her, chatting away. I smiled to myself at the warmth of the image. The mother caught my eye, and I realised I’d been staring at them. She wrapped a protective arm around the girl and glared at me. I couldn’t blame her. I knew I hardly looked respectable.

When I eventually rounded the corner I was relieved to see the welcoming logo of the Metrolink station; at least getting back to my apartment would be easy enough. Seeking refuge in the corner of the shelter, I lowered my face, hiding away from the burning eyes of the morning commuters. I’d never felt so embarrassed, especially since the excuse of reckless youth was no longer on my side.

A bloody one-night stand had been the last thing on my agenda. That’s why I’d subscribed to eHarmony in the first place and didn’t just get one of those hook-up apps like some of my friends suggested. I wanted something more. I’d spent the last ten years wanting something more, watching everyone around me fall in love, waiting for my turn.

I felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Gavin’s fault the evening ended like it did. It takes two to sing a duet, after all, and I’d a vague awareness of suggesting ‘coffee’. Gavin, by the way, was his name; poor bloke, I fully anticipated that he’d wake up feeling as used as I had on those few occasions in the past. I didn’t think he was just after a hook-up, which made my actions worse. Probably just the result of a nice evening and plenty of Barolo! I told myself.

I tried to process the date. My urge to leave had been pretty strong, and I wasn’t sure why – would it have been so bad to have stayed? For the most part the date had gone okay. There was the bill issue of course but should that matter if I liked him? We’d eaten at a beautiful Italian restaurant, and mostly the conversation had flowed. It was sometimes a bit awkward: a few tense silences where I’d had to elongate the length of my usual ‘sip’ of wine. In fact, that may have been a catalyst for my situation. Despite the fact he was easy on the eye, I supposed there was just no chemistry, which was odd since eHarmony is supposed to be a ‘scientific’ match.

That didn’t excuse my behaviour. If the roles were reversed and my one-night stand had snuck out on me, I’d have had an army of friends on hand, armed with Chardonnay and insults. I wasn’t sure the same went for blokes.

I took my seat on the tram and pulled out my phone. In an effort to regain my inner peace and ensure Gavin wasn’t hurting too much, I began typing out an email. The clicking sound of my nails on the screen seemed impossibly loud, each strike a disapproving ‘tut’ at my behaviour. I glanced up and had a quick look around the tram; luckily nobody seemed to be paying me the blindest bit of notice. I eased back into my chair to finish the message:

Hi Gavin,

Thank you for last night, it was lovely. Sorry I had to dash off this morning without saying goodbye – I had to get to work and didn’t want to wake you. I hope you don’t have a hangover!

Mel

I felt a mild sense of satisfaction. I’d excused myself in a polite yet non-committal, no-indication-of-a-second-date manner. Hopefully he wouldn’t be left thinking that he’d done anything wrong – a courtesy that many men in the history of dating have failed to extend. I added an ‘x’ underneath my name but deleted it straight away. My knowledge of one-night-stand etiquette was limited to say the least, so I’d no idea how suggestive a kiss on the end of an email was.

Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure why I put kisses on any of my messages to people. Translated into real life it would be plain weird, a physical kiss after each single line of speech. On the other hand, messages looked weird without them – to me at least – almost cold and unfriendly. Perhaps I was just reading too much into it in an attempt to distract myself from the consuming guilt. I had kissed Gavin in real life, obviously, but I didn’t want to give him the impression I wanted to do it again. I opted for a smiley emoji as a compromise and hit ‘Send’ before I had time to mull it over any more.

I spent the last five minutes of the journey checking Twitter. It seemed I’d earned my 2500th follower, which was something I felt quite smug about. It was almost like being a celebrity, having such a large number of people interested in what I had to say. I had time to tweet a quick thank you to my new followers before we pulled into the station.

When I got off the tram at Piccadilly, Manchester city centre was already bustling with people seemingly eager to get to work. I felt like a slutty beacon in my ripped dress, a great advertisement for the red-light district. Luckily for me, I’d arranged to take today off as a holiday. Not that I’d expected to be sleeping out – the whole reason for arranging a Thursday night date was to keep it simple and pressure free – I just needed to use up the holiday . . . and the fancy matching underwear was ‘just in case’.

I supposed that because one of our declared mutual interests on eHarmony was alcohol (okay, socialising) any form of rational thinking was smothered by wine. I pulled out my phone and kept my head down, scrolling through my calendar for the following week. I didn’t have much on, except my thirty-fifth birthday the following day – a fact I was trying not to think about.

My phone buzzed to life, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Bugger off, Amanda.’

‘Ha! Date went well then? I knew you were off today, and I have a client no-show, so I thought I’d see how last night went. I wondered if your mum could finally buy her mother-of-the-bride hat, but I guess not,’ she teased. Amanda and I had been friends since she got me into trouble for swearing (read: repeating the ‘new word’ she’d taught me) in Reception class.

‘Firstly, do you think my mother would go to the expense of buying a new hat for my wedding?’ I joked back.

‘Er, probably not. She’d probably save her money to buy a fancy one for my wedding.’ It’s an ongoing joke in my family that my mum loves Amanda and would trade me in for her in a flash, and Amanda has spent most of the last thirty years winding me up about it. Amanda was always the chatty, polite child, and when she left to do her law degree my mum cried with pride, quite unlike when I left to study journalism. Fair enough, I stayed in Manchester and Amanda went away to Durham, but it was still an achievement.

I filled Amanda in on my date and my subsequent escape. I was quite glad she rang, as in the five minutes or so that we’d spoken, I hadn’t once noticed the judgemental glances of passers-by. ‘Ah well, your mum would be proud,’ was her sarcastic response.

‘Ah well, it is she who’s desperate to have me married off. I’m merely trying my best to fulfil her dream.’ This, of course, was the same woman who admired Amanda for being a strong, single woman.

‘She may be, but you too are desperate to be married off, my love, all by yourself. You always have been, for some bizarre reason. Personally I can’t think of anything worse. I will, however, come and get pissed at your wedding.’

‘Well, that’s good to know.’ I smiled at Amanda’s usual bluntness.

‘So are you actually walking through town right now in your torn dress?’ she asked, laughing.

‘Yes, I am. I feel like a walking government health warning to teenage girls – don’t drink, kids, or you too will look like this!’ I sighed whilst Amanda continued laughing.

‘Look on the bright side – your “boring skater dress” is not so boring any more, and you can’t be the only person in Piccadilly gracing the streets in last night’s clothing. I’m sure you blend right in.’ She had a point.

The short walk from Piccadilly station to the Northern Quarter passed quickly, and before I knew it I was in the sanctuary of my apartment. I headed straight to my bedroom. The emotional roller coaster of the past twenty-four hours had taken its toll. I collapsed on the bed, falling sound asleep immediately.

I was awoken a few hours later by the harsh buzz of a message coming through on my phone. I checked the time; it was 11.15 a.m. I had planned on getting a little more sleep than that, but, unable to contain my sheer nosiness, I stretched across the floor to grab my handbag and pull out my phone. It was a group WhatsApp message from Gemma, my other close friend:

GEMMA: Anyone fancy a late lunch? Working this morning but have a free afternoon xx

AMANDA: Some of us have a full day of work to do, that’s how we win at life – ask Mel’s mum xx

ME: I’ll come. I have a day off. Amanda, I’ll be having a huge fry-up . . . Now who’s winning at life? xx

I was surprised to feel a slight twinge of disappointment at the fact it wasn’t Gavin replying to my email. A part of me wondered if perhaps he didn’t like me, or if the sex was bad. Still, I was new to this, and if I’d only just woken up, there was a good chance he was still sleeping, blissfully unaware I’d even left.

I checked Instagram whilst I came around; nineteen people had liked a photo I’d posted before I went out. Amanda had taken it when she’d popped round for a pep talk. My pre-torn dress was quite simple, but I liked it. My layered shoulder-length blonde hair looked sleek – clever use of a filter, I assumed, as I was in constant battle with the frizz. I had thought I was too old for Instagram until I figured out I was one of the only people I knew who didn’t have it, and before long I was addicted.

Later on, I met Gemma in a cosy little bar in the Northern Quarter that served breakfast up until 4 p.m. – evidently they know their local clientele well. ‘Mel, over here!’ she shouted, waving a hand in the air. She’d arrived before me and, to my relief, secured my favourite distressed brown leather armchairs by the window.

‘Hi,’ I managed wearily as I fell into the comfort of the chair. I picked up the menu and let out a small groan – as it wasn’t the weekend, I couldn’t order the much-needed and rather appropriately titled ‘Morning-After Breakfast’. The waitress approached to take our order, so I quickly decided on the ‘All Day Great Big Brunch’ and prepared to spill all to Gemma about last night.

‘Are you okay?’ Gemma asked. I felt rotten and looked rotten. Gemma, however, looked flawless as always; her skin was pale without a hint of imperfection, her big green eyes framed by trendy black Alexander McQueen cat’s-eye glasses. Her glossy dark brown hair was cut in a blunt chin-length bob, and a fringe framed her stunning face.

A stark contrast to my messy ponytail and blotchy combination skin. Even now, obviously concerned, her brow managed just the tiniest of furrows, as if it was not meant to crease. My brow always tends to furrow on its own before I even know I’m worried.

‘I’m fine,’ I lied, which is, of course, girl-code for ‘I’m really not fine’. Naturally, she picked up on it. She gave me a small smile and patted my hand.

In typical Gemma fashion she didn’t press me and instead just waffled animatedly about work. She knew I’d tell her when I was ready, and that wouldn’t be until the risk of the waitress interrupting had passed. I nodded and smiled at her work stories as I admired her outfit. She was sporting an orange suede-fronted shift dress with thick black tights and black biker boots. She completely rocked the look, unintentionally succeeding in making me feel rather drab in my jeans and pale-blue T-shirt.

‘Now that is a breakfast,’ Gemma said as the waitress placed down our mid-afternoon feast. My stomach growled as I studied the delicious plate of sausages, bacon, black pudding and all the usual trimmings. Absent-mindedly, I snapped a quick picture of my colossal breakfast and uploaded it to Facebook with the caption: ‘Something to help the hangover’, adding a winking emoji face for good measure.

Once I’d started tucking in, and my stomach was lined to prevent nausea, I was ready to tell all about my date. I started with the beautiful restaurant and ended with my walk of shame. I didn’t leave any detail out. Gemma ummed and ahhed in all the right places; I couldn’t yet tell if she thought I was an utter cow who should have given him more of a chance.

‘You know, if it’s hook-ups you want, Mel, you need a Tinder account.’ She chuckled, nudging me.

‘It’s all right for you, Gem, you haven’t even hit thirty yet. Once you do there’s more pressure to settle down. In your twenties, when people ask if you have a partner and you reply “no”, people just say: “Ah well, you’re still young.” But once you’re over thirty, the same people say: “Have you tried online dating?” or worse: “My friend has a colleague/brother/friend . . .” Eek!’ I wrinkled my nose.

‘Look, you had a good night with a nice guy, but there was just no chemistry. Life’s too short to dwell on the past; move on. You’re a hot lady; someone will snap you up soon, so don’t worry.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the ‘snap’, and suddenly I felt like an auction piece.

‘So you don’t think I was cruel sneaking off this morning?’ I had to know.

‘God, no! He’s probably glad you left. No offence, but he’d have just been gagging to tell his mates.’

‘He wasn’t a twenty-year-old student, Gem.’ I sighed at her youthful tunnel vision.

‘Oh come on, Mel, he was a dude!’ She picked up her coffee and sat back in her chair as if that settled the matter. I still didn’t know how to feel about it all, but it was nice to know Gemma didn’t think any less of me. ‘Here, let’s just do a bit of “online shopping”, for fun.’

She slid her chair around so she was squashed up next to me, pulled out her phone and opened the Tinder app. We ordered extra coffee and spent a serious amount of time going through scores of pictures of poor, unwitting local men, judging them mainly on their photographs and semi-consciously on their one-sentence self-evaluations. It seemed kind of wrong, shallow at the very least, but it was a laugh, and one I needed at that. Soon the reasons for dismissing men became silly.

‘I will not let you date a man who wears tracksuit bottoms to a bar,’ Gemma declared, firmly swiping left.

‘And I would never date a guy with scruffy trainers on!’ I declared, as we both fell into fits of laughter.

I let the laughter die down before continuing, ‘Do you think I should’ve given Gavin a second chance? I’m not exactly overrun with offers.’ I twisted the corner of my mouth in anticipation.

‘Nah. If there was no chemistry on your first date it won’t get any better.’ She was probably right.

My phone vibrated, and I instinctively reached into my bag to check it. My breakfast picture already had eight likes and a few comments from envious ‘friends’ who I hadn’t seen in the seventeen years or so since I left school. A small smile formed on my face.

I was preparing to reply when Gemma snatched my phone, turned away and hunched her shoulders so I couldn’t see what she was doing. In less than a minute, she handed back my phone and I was fully active on Tinder. That must have been a world record.

‘Yeah, thanks for that, Gemma,’ I said in my most sarcastic tone.

‘You’re most welcome.’ She grinned triumphantly.

Chapter Two

Back at my apartment, I found myself curious about the whole Tinder thing. I’d tried plenty of dating websites over the past few years, and none of them had resulted in a meaningful match. At the rate technology changes, dating websites may well be old news, and Tinder might just be where all the decent men are.

I opened the app; Gemma had linked it to my Facebook account, so I didn’t have to worry about choosing a new profile pic. The one from Facebook was taken last year on holiday. I was tanned and lean – having done the mandatory pre-holiday crash diet – and my blonde hair had miraculously fallen into beachy waves. The simple red strappy dress I was wearing added some eye-catching colour that might help me to stand out.

I’d read online somewhere that research showed having a cute pet in the picture increased your chances of being selected. I half considered sneaking back in through Gavin’s dog flap for a selfie with his dog, but I didn’t think becoming a dog rustler was what the research had in mind.

I still needed a short bio to complete my profile. I tapped my fingers on the keys whilst I thought about it.

Fun-loving 35-year-old.

Nope, even I was bored by that.

Easy-going single lady.

Definitely no. That made me sound like I was up for a bit more than I ought to be, as did my third attempt:

You had me at mojito ;)

Still tapping, I tried:

35 years old, perfectly preserved and still in original packaging.

Well, at least it was true. And it might have worked if I were putting myself on eBay.

I want marriage and babies.

Would at least set my stall out, but anyone who responded to that would be a definite candidate for bunny-boiler status.

I settled for:

Sociable city girl who loves laughing, walks and cocktails.

It dawned on me that I should probably update my entire online marketing campaign, as I wasn’t exactly attracting many matches and the ones I did were missing something – usually their personalities. I logged into eHarmony and read through the ‘About Me’ page:

I’m Melissa – my friends call me Mel. I’m a sociable, friendly type, seeking someone to share dinner, cocktails and movies with. I’ve been single a while . . .

I stopped reading. Of course that was what was putting people off. ‘I’ve been single a while,’ I said aloud, striking delete as I did. I sounded like the discarded box of broken biscuits at the bottom of the bargain bin in the supermarket. I was probably the last resort in the entire ocean of single women, the one that gets the leftovers. For a writer, I was pretty useless at stringing together anything remotely interesting about myself.

Procrastinating about the ‘big sell’, I looked at the other sections:

Hair: Blonde

Height: 5’4”

Eyes: Blue

There wasn’t much I could change there, unless I put on my Louboutins and passed myself off as five foot eight, but I didn’t think my height was the issue. The ‘Hobbies’ section caught my eye. It was blank. It probably seemed a bit sad, having no hobbies, but I really didn’t do anything other than work, see my friends, drink a little bit (on most days) – oh, and shop. Socialising and travel, I typed.

Travel was a bit of an exaggeration, but I did do a bit of travelling in my younger years – if you counted four months of getting sloshed doing bar work in Corfu back in its heyday – and I had a generic package holiday each year. In hindsight, perhaps I should have scaled Mount Kilimanjaro or hiked to Machu Picchu to appear more interesting. It would be great to have an actual hobby, like rock climbing or skiing, I thought. Maybe I will take something up.

A knock at the door startled me. I guessed it must be a neighbour since the intercom hadn’t buzzed. I put my laptop down and padded into the hallway to answer it.

‘Hi, Dan,’ I said, swinging the door open. Dan lived next door; he was a nice guy but a bit of a stoner. He always wore the same baggy faded jeans and khaki T-shirt. I didn’t know – or want to know – what he did for a living as he rarely left his flat, but the rent in our building wasn’t exactly cheap.

‘Hey, Mel, just wondered if you had any bread?’ Dan did this a lot. He seemed to think of my kitchen as his own personal buffet. I rolled my eyes, but he didn’t seem to pick up on it. He never did. I pushed the door open wider and beckoned him in.

‘Mel, you’re a star.’ He gave me a wide, genuine smile as he bounced past me towards the sofa. I considered asking him for advice about my bio, but it felt pathetic. Instead I wandered into the kitchen and wrapped a few slices of bread in some cling film.

‘Hey, Mel?’ he shouted from the lounge. I walked back in, wondering what he wanted, and was astonished to find him reading my laptop.

‘Dan! What are you doing?’ I screeched, running over and snatching it away. A burning sensation spread across my face.

‘Soz, Mel. I just saw it, that’s all.’ He ran his fingers through his hair nervously. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you need to bother with all that online dating stuff.’ I supposed that was a sweet thing to say, but it didn’t change the fact he’d crossed a line. I didn’t even know him that well. I’d let him in a few weeks ago when he’d locked himself out of his flat, and he’d asked to ‘borrow’ food items a few times since.

‘Well, I’m not getting any younger. But thank you anyway,’ I said, trying to shepherd him to the door.

‘Just be honest.’ He paused, looking wistful. ‘If you’re honest about yourself, the right person will come.’ He looked at me with his red eyes and nodded before leaving. That’s the one thing about stoners: they are quite insightful. But I guess that comes from sitting in a state of mellowness all day, just thinking. Not that I’d know. My mother would have frogmarched me to prison if she’d ever caught me smoking weed.

I went to the kitchen – I needed some energy. Now I’d given away most of what was left of my bread, there wasn’t much else left to eat. I opened the fridge to find rather disappointing options: margarine, a dribble of milk, a yoghurt with a lid resembling the Millennium Dome or whatever they called it now. Yuck. I chucked it in the bin. There was half a tub of olives that looked okay despite having been open for more than the recommended three days. I took them out and poured myself a glass of wine before heading back to the lounge.

If I’m honest about myself, the right person will come. I took a sip of wine and let my fingers type:

I’m a freelance copywriter and a journalist for a local lifestyle magazine, so I know all the best places to eat, drink and be merry in Manchester. When I’m not working, I love walks in the city or countryside, watching films and socialising. I’m a fan of the after-work drink, and my claim to fame is knowing the entire Epernay cocktail menu off by heart. I love to laugh and don’t take myself too seriously.

That’s all I have for now. I hit Save.

Chapter Three

Sadly, by evening time I was still home alone and slightly tipsy. After attempting to spruce up some of my online dating profiles in an effort to sound like someone remotely interesting, I’d given up and settled on what I thought was a lukewarm offering.

I couldn’t seem to determine who my Mr Right should be. If I knew that, I could at least tailor my profile. But it was hard to figure out who the man of my dreams was, when I didn’t even really know who I was. I sometimes felt like I was just pretending to be a grown-up, playing at real life while time kept passing by.

Without any conscious awareness I was soon on Facebook, instantly greeted by pictures and updates, from people I used to work with; went to school, college or university with; or met a few times through friends. My real friends are on there too, but I only have about seven or eight of them – on Facebook they’re lost in the abyss of my five hundred-odd virtual friends.

A notification pops up: Tracy Southern likes your picture. Last time I saw Tracy was at the college leaver’s ball; she was throwing up in the car park as my friends and I were tumbling into a rather hideous pink limousine. Still, for some strange reason it was nice to know she liked my breakfast picture.

Scrolling down the page, I was staggered by how many of these people had kids, husbands, dogs and houses, the full package. People had grown up around me . . . without me. I was an ‘inbetweener’ at a point in my life where people really were becoming adults, leaving me merely on the cusp.

It wasn’t like turning twenty-one and thinking you were an adult but still feeling it was okay to live at home. Having your mum do your cooking, cleaning and laundry whilst still partying three times a week and sleeping in until noon. This was real shit: bills, mortgages, responsibility for other mini-people, marriage and – in some cases – divorce. Those people on Facebook were doing it – they’d cracked it. They were ‘adulting’.

My thoughts were broken when a selfie of Gemma popped up. She was with a pretty blonde girl I didn’t recognise, and she’d used a filter that gave it the high-exposure look you’d expect to see on an old seventies’ photograph taken on Santa Monica beach – in reality it looked like they were in a bar somewhere having a great time, wide smiles, drunk eyes . . .

My stomach sank. Gemma hadn’t mentioned going out with any other friends; she’d never even mentioned being close to another friend, and we’d spent the afternoon together. It seemed so unlike her. I clicked Like on the picture so she’d know I’d seen it but quickly un-liked it. It seemed like a desperate bid for attention, and I scolded myself for being so childish. Gemma would probably have thought nothing of it either way.

To take my mind off Gemma, I flicked through my old pictures, stored in the virtual realms of Facebook, compiled over the nine years or so I’d been a user. Great memories of a fantastic summer returned – looking tanned and lean during the season I’d worked in Kavos with Amanda. Good times, parties, unfiltered fun. It all seemed so long ago.

I stumbled across a picture of me and my grandma. My throat ached as a lump formed. She’d died just two months ago, and I’d missed her ever since. She was my rock who I could talk to about anything; she knew me better than anyone else on the planet. I lifted my glass. ‘To you, Gran – I hope you’re raising hell up there.’ The last time I’d spoken to her, she’d told me to stop worrying about finding a man.

‘You’re not going to find anyone in there,’ she’d scolded, pointing to my laptop. ‘Do you think that’s how I met Grandad?’ I didn’t reply. Gran’s questions were usually rhetorical, which you discovered if you tried to answer. ‘No, I put on my make-up; made sure my best dress was darned, washed and pressed; and I went out and smiled at boys. It was easy to catch an eye or two.’ I’d chuckled at the time. Of course, things were different these days, but I enjoyed her stories so played along. ‘Grandad asked me if I wanted a drink. But I said a firm no.’

‘No?’ I’d queried, wondering if she’d not been attracted to him at first, if she was trying to tell me to just settle for someone.

‘That’s right. I said no. He was the most handsome man in the club. If I’d have let him buy me a drink, he’d have thought I was an easy catch, and he’d have lost interest soon enough.’

‘Ah, you played hard to get?’

‘Damn right I did. He practically begged me to court him.’ She’d chuckled.

I wiped away a small tear that had accompanied the memory.

Back on my newsfeed, I saw that one of my other ‘real’ friends, Becky, who admittedly I rarely saw any more, had posted a picture of her family. They were out in the countryside somewhere; her handsome bearded husband had a young messy-haired child on each shoulder, and the three of them were laughing, probably at Becky, who I assumed was taking the picture. It was a perfect image.

My stomach muscles tightened. For the last four or five years that had been all I ever wanted – a husband and a couple of kids – but it just didn’t happen. I’d no idea where I’d been going wrong but I wasn’t the kind of girl to give up. There’d been dates, but few second or third ones. The closest I’d come was a guy called Paul; we’d been out a few times, he’d stayed over once or twice, and it was going well. Until I discovered he had a girlfriend. I’d been a lot more cautious since then.

I knew that the whole marriage-and-kids thing was a cliché. Women in 2017 did not need to feel as though marriage and children were their only destiny. I was old enough to realise that the Disney prince was just a fantasy, that the bumbling British buffoon who messes up and finally gets it right was not coming for me, or that my arch-nemesis would not actually be my true love.

In 2017, my dream could’ve been anything: a powerful politician, a world traveller or an ice road trucker if I wished (which I didn’t; I hated the cold). The truth was: what my heart and womb ached for was a family of my own. Don’t get me wrong, I’d always been happy on my own. I had a decent career, great friends and family, and a full life,( if you excused that particularly pitiful evening). But that’s the point of a dream – it’s something you don’t have already, something out of reach. Maybe it’s something unobtainable entirely.

I gave my head a shake and switched on the TV, flicking through the menu to find a film that would cheer me up – anything with eye candy would do. My TIVO came up trumps, and soon I was enjoying an image of perfection: Channing Tatum writhing around onstage in a thong.

I snuggled up in the corner of my big cosy cream sofa and tore open a packet of chocolate buttons. Perfect. I captured the moment by snapping a picture of my woolly-sock-clad feet, wine and Channing in the background and uploaded it to Facebook with the caption: ‘Perfect night in!’ Soon, I was grabbing for my phone frequently as it pinged to tell me that several people liked this. It wasn’t long before my group chat fired up:

AMANDA: Friday night in? Brilliant way to celebrate your last day of youth! ;)

I narrowed my eyes at the screen. I knew she was only joking, but the whole reason I was in alone was because she was working late and Gemma had gone out with some other friends. I swallowed my irritation and replied:

ME: I thought I’d test out old age whilst I’m still young. I’ll be out partying tomorrow night when I’ve actually turned ‘old’ – just to mix it up a bit. I’m a rebel like that! :-)

On the inside I was reeling at the thought of turning thirty-five.

I continued my evening by binge-watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. About three episodes in (okay, maybe four), that annoying ‘Are you still watching?’ question popped up on the screen. The one reserved for people like me – sad and alone. ‘Yes I bloody am. Don’t judge me!’ I yelled, chucking a cushion at the screen.

***

The next morning, I woke up the same way as I went to bed: alone. My first instinct was to check my phone, for virtual company, I supposed. My screen was full of notifications from various social networking sites. I felt oddly excited as I snuggled back down into my warm duvet to read through them.

‘Happy birthday, Mel. Have fun!’ read the first post. I groaned. Ah yes, my birthday. I hated birthdays. Ever since I’d turned thirty I’d lost the will to celebrate. Thirty had been the year everything started popping: proposal questions, champagne corks at engagement parties and babies. Yet nothing had popped for me.

When I was young, each year I turned older had brought me one step closer to being a grown-up, or one step closer to being able to drink/vote/drive/gamble. Now, it was just one step closer to old age, not being able to go braless, sprint up steps or get asked for ID when buying alcohol in the supermarket.

Just before she died my gran had said: ‘Life is like reading a good book; at first you can’t put it down, eager to see what the next page will reveal, but by the last quarter you want to pace yourself, slow down, because you want to savour the final chapters.’ She’d said that my sister’s children were her final chapter and she was ready for the story to end.

I was heartbroken at the time but came to realise she’d fulfilled her life’s ambitions and that was a good thing. It’s all I wanted for myself. I hit Like on all the comments and decided it was too early to write any kind of update or reply to personal messages from actual friends and family. People would think I was sitting there alone and present-less. Which of course I was, but they didn’t need to know that.

As I scrolled through the messages, my phone began to vibrate vigorously – I knew straight away it was my mother. I was sure my phone had adopted a specific kind of tremor just for her calls, designed to make me answer immediately or suffer a mother-administered inquisition later. I answered.

‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, Melissa, Happy Birthday to you,’ she sang down the phone in her high-pitched yet tuneful voice, honed by countless school assemblies. Mum had been the headmistress at an all-girls secondary comprehensive in Manchester. ‘Are you having a good day, darling?’ she chirped.

‘Morning, Mum.’ My voice croaked into action as I realised it’d been almost twenty-four hours since I actually spoke to a real-life person. ‘Yes, I’m still in bed, so it’s been lovely so far.’ I treated myself to a catlike stretch.

‘Did you get anything nice?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I’m catching up with my friends later on tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s nice, love. Should we go out for a spot of lunch later? You know Dad and I aren’t too familiar with the city centre, so you can pick somewhere?’ Alarm bells rang. If I suggested a place to eat she’d be on TripAdvisor immediately, looking at all the one-star reviews and compiling a list as to why we should find another establishment, giving little or no regard to my opinion. I was in no mood for the stress.

‘Actually, Mum, it might be nice if you just came here. We could just have some homemade sandwiches or something.’ I wracked my brain for a sandwich recipe that involved a mere dribble of Pinot Grigio and a shrivelled up tomato.

‘Great idea! Well, I’ll let you go and open your presents, and Dad and I will pop round at midday. I’ll bring a special birthday lunch.’ Typical Mum, not paying any attention to the fact I’d already said I didn’t have any bloody presents. Still, I’ve learnt over time to keep my mouth shut, and she’d be bringing lunch, which sounded good. I didn’t want to jeopardise that. ‘Oh, has Amanda been round?’ Mum asked before I had time to say anything.

‘No, like I said, I haven’t seen anyone yet.’ I maintained my cool.

‘I saw on The Facebook that she’d won a fancy lawyer award,’ she cooed. The Facebook? I shook my head. As for the award, she had no bloody idea it was from the piss-take awards ceremony Amanda’s company held each year, and she’d won Lawyer Most Likely to Turn Up in Last Night’s Clothes. I bit my tongue.

‘Yes, that’s Amanda. Career woman of the year!’ Mum didn’t seem to pick up on my sarcasm.

‘Ah, she’s a star.’

‘She is,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘Anyway, lunch sounds wonderful. I’ll see you later, darling. Love you.’ She hung up before I had chance to say goodbye, probably already mentally preparing lunch and planning which shops she needed to drag Dad into.

I finished checking my messages and jumped into the shower – my mother would not appreciate being greeted by greasy hair, plus, it would only give her some ammo to add to her ‘why Mel’s still single’ arsenal. Afterwards, I scanned my wardrobe for something decent to wear. I always wanted to look my best on my birthday, like I was subconsciously (okay, consciously) trying to defy the age gods by scrubbing up well, almost like sticking two fingers up at them. I wondered how many more birthdays I could actually get away with feeling like this.

I decided on some smart dark blue skinny jeans and a cream cargo shirt – perfect for a smart yet casual look. A great pair of Kurt Geiger boots and a gold Michael Kors strand necklace completed the look. The necklace had been a Christmas present from Gemma last year. As I put it over my head, I started to think about how ridiculous it was to have felt jealous that she’d gone out with other friends and didn’t invite me. It must have been the wine and pre-birthday-blues cocktail. Anyway, Channing Tatum played a blinder in cheering me up, so all was good.

It was a lovely feeling to have a whole morning to laze about and get ready. I’d seen lots of buzz around contouring on Facebook and decided to give it a whirl. I found a YouTube tutorial that looked promising, where the poster looked like Kim Kardashian. Two minutes in and I realised you apparently needed an awful lot of make-up to get the ‘natural, make-up free’ look of a flawless celebrity. I dug out an old pan stick that was about five shades darker than my skin (a flashback to my tantastic twenties) and gave it a whirl.

The results were terrible – my face looked like it would camouflage brilliantly in a sea of Oompa Loompas. I washed it off, opting instead for just a touch of base to hide some red blotchy skin that seemed to have a knack for appearing when I least wanted it to, a bit of highlighter, mascara and a slick of nude lipstick. Not quite a Kardashian, but definitely polished, and natural enough to pass the ‘Mum test’.

I’d never quite felt good enough for Mum. It seemed like whatever I did I couldn’t please her, that she enjoyed disapproving of me. When I was younger, I’d never cared that she loved Amanda so much. In fact, I’d thought it was great, because she always let her come for dinner or stay over, and she never minded me going to her house. But as I got older, I started to feel inadequate, paling in Amanda’s shadow.

Mum never approved of my ‘little writing job’ as she called it, despite the fact it afforded me a pretty good life in the city – my own flat and the odd designer splurge on payday. She’d never said it, but I knew she’d had higher hopes for me. Amanda would have been her dream daughter – the career girl climbing the rungs of the ladder in a good old-fashioned legal company, a true brag-worthy offspring. My sister Lizzie was off the hook because she’d had the fairy-tale wedding and had so far produced one hundred per cent of Mum’s cute grandkids. (She earned extra brownie points for doing marriage and kids in the correct order too.)

Gran used to say it was Mum’s way of pushing me to do the best for myself. ‘She sees something in you,’ she’d say. ‘Imagine watching your child dream but never achieve, to watch them have a talent that’s wasted.’ I always wondered if Gran was talking about Lizzie not pursuing her art. Once she’d met her husband, Ben, she sort of lost her own ambition.

‘Why is she so desperate to marry me off then? Surely she wants me to be this super career girl?’ I’d sulked.

‘Because you are a super career girl, Melissa. Now she wants you to achieve your other dream.’ Gran had made me feel better, even though I hadn’t believed her. Mum was her daughter after all, and I was sure she just wanted to die knowing we were all happy.

The buzz from the intercom surprised me; I’d not realised the time. I put my phone down and bounced across the carpet to the intercom to let my parents into the building, opening my front door ready to greet them.

‘Ooh, you look nice, love. Have you had friends round?’ Mum waltzed straight in and planted a kiss on my cheek.

‘Thanks, Mum, and no, my friends haven’t been round. Like I said on the phone, I’m seeing them later on tonight.’ I bit my tongue and pushed the niggling frustration to the darkest depths of my brain.

‘That’s nice, love,’ she muttered, heading to the kitchen. I noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag from Patisserie Valerie, and a pang of guilt hit me. It was my favourite place to lunch, and Mum had remembered.

‘Ooh, my favourite. Thanks, Mum.’ My voice cracked.

‘Happy birthday, love.’ My dad walked in carrying several bags, all brightly coloured and oozing with an indiscreet air of ‘generic female birthday gift’.

I followed them into the kitchen. Mum was already busying herself putting out some homemade Moroccan lamb sandwiches; they had been cut into triangles, just how I liked them. I stood for a moment, watching Mum cheerfully taking pride in her platter, arranging the triangles neatly and adding a salad garnish.

I hadn’t noticed before how much she had aged recently. The lines on her forehead had deepened, along with her crow’s feet and the lines around her mouth – a telltale sign of years of laughter. The afterthought makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. Despite my grumblings, she had always been so full of merriment and now wore the evidence proudly. I could still see her younger self beneath her creases; her bright cornflower-blue eyes a window to her youth.

People had always said we looked alike, but I’d never seen it. The thought had horrified me when I was younger, but at that moment, I suddenly saw myself – it was those eyes. Seeing myself like that scared me. Mum had Dad. Who would I have?

My thoughts were interrupted by the crumpling sound of a paper bag. I glanced down and saw the delicious selection of treats that Mum had brought, which cheered me up somewhat. A scrumptious-looking chocolate éclair filled with whirls of cream; an exotic fruit tart, piled high with sumptuous strawberries, juicy peach and star fruit, all topped with bright red cranberries; and finally, my favourite: a deep-filled millefeuille topped with decorated fondant icing. A single golden candle was placed in the centre of the latter.

Mum spotted me staring (okay, practically drooling). ‘I got your favourite, love, for your birthday. I thought you were a bit old for a big cake now.’ I appreciated it, though I didn’t think I’d had a ‘big’ birthday cake since my twenty-first.

We took our seats around my small kitchen table, and we chatted. My dad had taken up squash and my mum had joined a book club at the library. I was glad to hear that they were getting out and doing something with their retirement years. It was nice to just talk in such an adult, carefree way, with none of the parental bullshit that normally cropped up, like: ‘Have you sorted out your contents insurance yet?’

Just as I was devouring the last messy mouthful of my millefeuille – I was on the hunt for a more dignified way to eat them – the dreaded question came, fist-punching frustration back into my chest with a G-force to rival Rita at Alton Towers. ‘So, have you been courting anyone?’ Mum adopted a rather silvery tone especially for this question, a paltry attempt at trying to conceal her desperation for an answer.

My face twisted involuntarily, and I wiped my sticky hands on a napkin as a groan escaped me.

‘Look, Melissa, you’re a pretty girl, but you aren’t getting any younger. I can see a frown line as we speak, and you aren’t even frowning.’

I wasn’t frowning because my eyes were burning with rage and embarrassment. I couldn’t even speak.

‘I know you’d love children like your sister.’ She prodded the table with her finger whilst I sat in exasperated frustration – for the record, by that point I was frowning. ‘Dr Phelps has been on the TV this week warning women to conceive before they’re thirty! Apparently your chances drop quite rapidly after that, and it’s been half a decade since you turned thirty. By my calculations . . . thirty-five now, say six months to meet someone . . .’

She glanced at Dad, who was pretending to study the intricacies of my plain white coffee mug. ‘Maybe even a year to meet someone, a year of courting before a proposal at least, eighteen months to plan a proper wedding, and then a year of marriage before even trying to conceive, you’re going to be . . .’ There was a pause as she finished wittering and ran her mental calculations. Her face paled, so I put her out of her misery.

‘Old. I will be old!’ I cut in, tightly. Of course I’d already run those calculations myself, though I generally used a six-month figure to actually meet someone. I knew that I’d be old; I just didn’t need reminding, especially by my mother, who was supposed to love me unconditionally and not judge me.

There was short silence before she continued. She reached her hand across to mine. ‘I’m sorry, love. I just don’t want you to be . . . well, disappointed if you don’t get what you want.’ She softened her tone, the same soft tone she’d used when I was a poorly child. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve had such a wonderful marriage.’ Dad raised his eyebrow in mini protest but ensured that only I saw. I winked back. I knew he was joking, but Mum would’ve held a seven-day grudge if she’d caught him.

‘I know. For your information, I actually went on a date on Thursday with a lovely man.’ As soon as I said it I regretted it; I knew that a barrage of questions would ensue.

‘Oh that’s wonderful news, love! Tell me what he’s like. Will you be seeing him again?’ She struggled to conceal the eagerness in her voice and even did a mini clap, but this I could deal with, since it was nice that she was actually listening to me. I was just glad she didn’t ask if she needed a new hat for the wedding or if my widowed Uncle Bernard could bring a plus-one.

‘He was nice, pleasant enough, but I doubt I’ll see him again. I just thought you’d like to know that I am not avoiding men. I just want to meet the right one for me.’ My skin prickled uncomfortably; I hated having these conversations with my parents, but if divulging details helped to get me through the conversation quicker, then I was all in. Well, nearly all in – certain details were better left private.

‘Okay, well that’s good news . . . You know, Jean next door has a son who is just going through a divorce. A nice young man, he is. I’ve not asked Jean why he’s getting a divorce yet, but I’m sure she said something about an affair on his wife’s part. Luckily there are no children involved – break-ups can be so hard for kiddies. No doubt he’ll be looking for female companionship soon.’

Mum’s attempt at sounding nonchalant failed miserably. Her eyes glowed with eagerness, and my cheeks start to burn; I could feel the warm pink searing through my earlier, largely abandoned, attempt at contouring. The notion that my mother, thinking I was such a hopeless lost cause, felt the need to set me up with her neighbours’ divorcee son was, quite frankly, horrifying.

‘Mel, love, don’t you want to open your presents?’ my dad cut in before I had a chance to answer. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if he was being insightful, or if he had just got bored with the din of female gabble; either way I was relieved.

The boyfriend conversation was soon forgotten – for the moment, at least – as I opened floral gift bags and unwrapped delicate pink tissue paper to reveal some truly wonderful presents. Mum and Dad had booked me a spa day, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My merriment was subdued when my mum handed me a card from my gran. A tear pricked my eyes. ‘You know how organised your gran was. She’d got this in November.’ Mum smiled; tears were pooling in her eyes too.

I opened the card, and in it was a gift card for Selfridges. She knew me so well. Mum patted my hand.

‘She was organised. It’s perfect,’ I said, breathing in hard to stop any stray tears.

The last gift bag was from Lizzie. Inside was a gorgeous chunky gold Marc Jacobs watch. A warm feeling gushed over me. I felt blessed to have such a generous and caring family.

As Mum and Dad left, I heard a high-pitched shrill coming from my tablet, indicating someone was trying to Skype me. The sound seemed to be coming from my bedroom; as I dashed in, it grew louder, but I couldn’t find it. I rummaged through drawers and under piles of clothes, the sound and vibration making me feel stressed, until I spotted it, hiding underneath a discarded blouse. Of course – where else? I dashed over and pressed the answer button to connect the call without even noticing who it was.

‘Hey, sis, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ Lizzie shouted excitedly. In the background, a chorus of toddlers was also yelling for ‘Anti Lissa’ to have a happy ‘birfday’. It was too loud for me to answer so I animatedly stuck my fingers in my ears in mock-revulsion. The children fell into fits of giggles and then screamed higher and louder until my sister encouraged a more appropriate noise level, presumably through bribery. I giggled.

Lizzie has two-year-old twin boys and a three- – and a half, because I have to say that – year-old girl, who are all boisterous and scrumptious in equal measure. I didn’t see my sister much as she had a busy family life and ran an eBay shop selling craft items she made between nursery runs and grocery shopping, so we tended to catch up via Skype when we could, which had the added bonus of volume control. The image of a winky emoticon popped into my mind – too much time spent online!

After twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds of mainly noise, one of the twins announced that he needed a poo, and my sister hastily announced that she had to go, as his warnings were about as useful as a fire alarm is at detecting an oncoming flood. I began to ask her if she could make it into town for a few birthday drinks tonight, but halfway through, everything went silent and I realised I was just shouting at my own face. I half considered calling back or sending a text, but I knew she wouldn’t come out; she never did.

I decided I might as well spend the afternoon having a good old-fashioned pamper session, with a glass of wine thrown in for good measure. In the corner of my room were some ‘so last season’ (literally) gift bags covered with festive imagery: a jolly red Father Christmas placing a brightly coloured present under a traditionally decorated tree, a silver glittery bag with a gold pop-out tree and another that simply said Joyeux Noël.

I’d completely forgotten about them but was sure there would be some pamper-worthy smellies in one of them. I rummaged through and unloaded the spoils of Christmas: face masks, scrubs, bath soaks – perfect! A feeling of excitement washed over me as I gathered everything up and headed to my bathroom.

The quietness of the bathroom and the feel of the soft bubbles completely relaxed me. Laying my head back on the cool surface of the bath, I felt as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Except I had. A huge sinking feeling hit the bottom of my stomach. Mum was right; I did need to start thinking about a future. I wasn’t getting any younger. I lived alone and partied too much, while most of my friends seemed to be settling down, getting married and having babies.

I had thought that the real toughie in life would have been the career; get that right and everything else would fall into place, I’d thought. I’d gone to university, worked (and played) hard. I’d secured a low-paid admin job at a magazine, and genuinely fought for several years to get to the point where I wrote my own column. After that I’d scored some regular copywriting work for an agency.

Would I have got that far if I had been distracted by a partner? I doubted it. By the time I’d achieved my goal, I’d been so excited at becoming financially secure I focused on the joys that could bring: my own city-centre apartment, the odd splurge on Mulberry handbags, Jimmy Choo shoes, holidays. I hadn’t even cared about being single.

A couple of my friends were married in their mid-twenties, and I’d thought why? Why would they settle down when they were still so young? Now they had children and had been married for seven or eight years, and I was there sitting on the proverbial shelf with little more than Selfridges swag and a frown line to show for it.

It’s not that I was suddenly unhappy being alone; I wasn’t, but I couldn’t help but feel like the clock was starting to tick. Apart from meeting someone through an online dating site, I had no idea how to meet The One – that sounded so cheesy, even in my head – but I’d be damned before I let my mother matchmake.

I opened my eyes and examined my fingertips. They were all wrinkly, indicating I’d spent long enough in the bath – I definitely didn’t need any more wrinkles.

Grabbing a towel, I hopped out of the bath and headed over to my bed, snatching a notebook and pen on my way. If I really wanted a man in my life, I needed to think about the kind of man I was looking for. I sat down and started to write.

He must:

1. Look after himself/take pride in his appearance

2. Have a good job/be financially secure

That was a very short list. What more did I want? It was ridiculous; Gavin would have been one hundred per cent perfect for me based on those criteria. There had to be more, something else that I needed in a man. My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. I am popular today! Gemma and Amanda had arrived early. ‘Hello, ladies, come on up,’ I chirped, quickly stashing away my notebook on my bookshelf.

‘Hi there, gorgeous birthday girl.’ Amanda walked in and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ Gemma said and pulled me into a hug.

‘Hi, girls, thank you!’

As they walked to the sofa, I noticed they were already dressed for our night out. Amanda looked fabulous in a tartan swing dress and black tights – it set off her pale skin and long wavy red hair nicely. Gemma always sported the trendiest looks and today was no exception; she looked hot in a risqué black body-con dress teamed with a leather biker jacket and chunky platforms.

‘We thought we would make an afternoon of it.’ Amanda grinned as she produced two bottles of pink champagne.

‘Ooh! Happy birthday to me indeed.’ I beamed at her.

‘I’ll get the glasses.’ Gemma clapped with excitement as she hopped up and headed to the kitchen.

‘So, how do you feel about turning thirty-five?’ Amanda asked quietly once Gemma was out of earshot; she too envied Gemma’s youth.

‘To be honest, I thought I felt fine, but last night it hit me. Well, last night, plus my bloody mother stating the obvious about me being old and single earlier today. I do feel like time might be running out for the whole nuclear family thing.’

‘Wow, that’s a bit of a gloomy proclamation on your birthday,’ Amanda said before softening her tone when she caught sight of my expression. ‘Aww, Mel, don’t feel that way. You’re only as old as you feel. It means nothing nowadays.’

‘I know, but deep down I feel like I’ve wasted time a bit, having fun but not actually doing anything, y’know, meaningful, I guess.’

‘Don’t you have any champagne flutes?’ Gemma yelled from the kitchen.

‘Sorry, no. And I only have one wine glass left so we’re going to have to use mugs.’

‘What a heathen!’ she shouted back.

‘A mug of champers is the new flute, don’t you know?’ I retorted, and she giggled. ‘In fact, there’s probably an edgy bar in the Northern Quarter serving it that way. It’s the new cocktails-in-jam-jars.’

Amanda giggled too before switching her attention back to me. ‘Age doesn’t bring class then, hon?’ she joked before her expression became concerned. ‘Seriously though, you’ve achieved loads in your work; we all love you – you’ve got plenty of time to meet someone. People have kids in their mid-forties nowadays.’

‘I know, but there’s the whole other issue of age rules. I read that at thirty-five, you’re perceived to be too old for certain things, like piercings. If I want my belly button or nose pierced, the general population would think I was mutton dressed as lamb. And, apparently, I have only five bikini-wearing years left in me.’ I was slightly mocking the research findings, but the thought genuinely depressed me. ‘I mean, can I still shop at Topshop and go clubbing? Or should I be arranging dinner parties after spending a day at the M&S sale?’ My shoulders flopped, and I realised Amanda was grinning. ‘What?’ I asked, confused.

‘You’re beautiful, you look as though you never left your twenties, you’re wrinkle-free—’ I scrunched up my nose in disagreement ‘—okay, except when you do that. You have no cellulite, and your hair shines like you’re on a bloody Pantene advert. You can wear and do what you like. Look at Elle Macpherson; she’s over fifty and still looks amazing.’ She cheerfully flung an arm around me and pulled me into a hug. ‘Come on. We’re having fun tonight, celebrating you and your Zimmer frame.’

Gemma walked in holding three mugs full of pink champagne above her head, pumping her arms to some imaginary beat. Champagne splashed out and landed on her hair. Amanda nudged me and whispered, ‘See, youth is wasted on the young!’

‘What are you two old bags whispering about?’ Gemma asked.

Amanda winked. ‘Just envying your youth.’

‘I was just saying how great it was to be seventeen and a half for the second time. I didn’t really appreciate it the first time around as I couldn’t handle my cider, nor could I afford this fab pink champers. Thank you, ladies.’ I smiled, grabbing them both in a big bear hug. ‘Time for a pre-night-out selfie, I think!’

I stood to the right of Amanda, and Gemma stood on her left. Amanda put her arms around our necks, and I held my phone at arm’s length and snapped a picture of us, our faces squashed together and smiling. I instantly uploaded it to all my social media accounts with the caption ‘Birthday fun’ despite the fact I was still in my dressing gown.

***

The cocktail bar was heaving, busy with groups of mixed-sex friends happily ignoring the other patrons, groups of single-sex friends who were – judging by their actions – aiming to change that fact, and us. I wasn’t sure about us. My mojito was just coming to its sugary end when Amanda appeared with a bottle of wine. ‘Thought we would try this. I’m assured it’s good stuff; 2010 was a good year, or so I’m told.’ The girls had really spoilt me tonight. I was lucky to have such wonderful friends.

Gemma was busy messaging someone on her phone and didn’t acknowledge the wine, which I thought was a bit rude, and out of character. I wondered if everything was okay.

‘Aww, thank you, Amanda,’ I gushed, overcompensating for Gemma’s indifference. As Amanda sat down, stumbling slightly on her heels, Gemma stood and wandered off without saying a word.

‘Where’s she going?’ Amanda asked.

‘Not sure, toilet probably?’ I guessed. ‘Let’s get cracking on this wine. You brought it just in time.’ I smiled, holding up my empty mojito glass.

By the time Gemma came back I felt too drunk to ask her where she had been. Instead I pointed at the wine bottle, which had about a quarter of the wine left in. ‘Get a drink,’ I slurred. I looked at my empty glass. ‘It must be very hot in here, as my wine appears to have evaporated!’ There was no way I’d drunk that much.

I excused myself and staggered into the cramped and clammy ladies’ toilet. I stumbled as the room began to spin. Clutching the sink for stability, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The unflattering neon lights highlighted the dark bags under my eyes and faint lines on the sides of my nose that had secretly etched their way across the bridge without me noticing. My blonde hair looked lank and yellow, but I was too drunk to care.

As I let go of the sink, the room spun by in a whoosh. It was too much for me. My stomach lurched. I ran into the toilet cubicle just in time to throw up before everything went dark.

Chapter Four

Horizontal lines of red and white lights from the passing traffic streaked slowly past the window, distorted by blobs of rain. Every drop made a light thud when it hit the glass. The evening sky had deepened to an inky black; passers-by were warmly wrapped, dashing to escape the wet winter weather.

Yawning, I’d decided it was time that I too made a move to brave the elements, but I was having motivational issues since that meant leaving the snug and cosy little Piccadilly coffee shop. Staring at my laptop, I realised I’d done very little work, which was what I’d gone there to do in the first place. I was due to get some freelance work over to a client the following morning, which I’d put off in light of my birthday.

Instead, I’d been distracted by a ‘flash sale’ email and treated myself to a couple of new going out tops, which I’d probably send back. I glanced around, looking at the other patrons; a trendy young couple sat opposite one another, engrossed not in each other but by whatever they were independently glaring at on their phones.

I’d only noticed because I’d been avoiding my own phone, which was excruciatingly difficult but Amanda and Gemma had taken great pleasure in uploading some embarrassing pictures of me onto all kinds of social media after the previous night’s foray into the realms of good wine. It did make me think, though, how lucky the couple sitting nearby were to have each other – yet they didn’t seem to notice or care. I wondered if I’d be like that if I fell in love. I hoped not.

On the next table sat a handsome man, probably a similar age to me, wearing a dark suit and sporting a head of admirably thick chestnut-brown hair. He was staring intensely at a laptop. His eyes followed every line, his brow furrowing every now and then, and I wondered if I’d looked the same moments earlier scouring half-price clothes.

The rest of my coffee shop reconnaissance produced similar results: parents talking on their phones with their children pacified by cartoons administered via tablet; lone patrons on laptops or smartphones; friends texting other people whilst ignoring their actual company. It was actually quite astounding, even though I knew I was just as guilty of the same things – the number of times I’d sat with friends failing to acknowledge a word they’d said because I was checking my retweets or likes.

I wondered what people did before we could take the internet everywhere with us. Maybe I’d been stuck in a rut for so long – observing people through technology, watching happy families develop through the window of social media, focusing so hard on developing my own online profile – that I’d forgotten to focus on my real self. I made a mental note to be more present.

After a windswept journey home, I collapsed on the sofa and switched on the TV with the intention of having some downtime. Keanu Reeves greeted me in a long black trench coat, gun in each hand, dodging bullets in slow motion. The Matrix; gosh, I’d not seen that film in a while. It was cutting-edge back in the day.

I remembered queuing up at the cinema to watch it with Amanda and her boyfriend at the time, a very acne-ridden Dave somebody who smelt musty. I was a gooseberry even back then. I snuggled into the corner of my sofa and switched to plus-one so I could cut in earlier to watch Neo battle suit-wearing agents, in the name of nostalgia.

***

I was actually excited as I waltzed into my editor Dee’s office the following morning and placed my article on her desk. As a columnist for NorthStyle magazine, I was tasked with discussing the everyday issues affecting the modern thirty-something city dweller. Recently, however, I’d been devoid of inspiration.

Then, after my coffee shop observations and movie night, it had hit me. We were actually living in a real-life, Morpheus-free Matrix. Every day we were plugged into a virtual world without the need for reality. We could do everything virtually: shop, study, socialise, see the world, get political, be heard, even hire a virtual personal trainer. We could be anybody with Photoshop or avatars. No more awkward silences in a social situation, no more struggling to butt in to a group conversation, or biting your tongue so as not to upset anyone – just tweet.

Even old-fashioned bullying had gone digital. Okay, so we weren’t wired in and stored in pods like in the movie, but most of us had taken the blue pill to avoid reality. Making conversation, controlling the children, learning, accessing knowledge, news, entertainment, diary-keeping, dieting, dating . . . The list went on, yet it was all a Matrix, a way to avoid real-life challenges.

Unlike in the movie, we were able to opt out yet appeared compelled to stay. We think that as humans we control computers, but were computers starting to control us? People have long sought escapism through daydreaming, books, movies, videos games, alcohol, drugs. Was this just the modern way?

I had spent most of the night thinking through these questions, tossing and turning, my brain unable to switch off. Why do we feel the need to escape – is our world that dark? Are we becoming too distracted by technology to really live? In the end I got up and wrote about it, eventually developing an article for the magazine.

I’d witnessed the transformation in myself; no longer was I the outgoing sociable type I’d been in my twenties, the problem-solver or general knowledge know-it-all. I was a node feeding off the internet, seeing only what I wanted to, accessing information when I required it – live-streaming with little need for memory. A digital utopia distracting me from what perhaps was a miserable, lonely life.

I relied on the internet for everything: entertainment, reservations, booking transport, ordering takeaway. Dating. When I wasn’t doing anything productive I was using it to pass the time, time I could’ve spent doing something useful. I thought.

***

‘The Matrix – Fact or Fiction?’ Her sceptical tone already suggested she thought I’d lost my mind. Feeling slightly deflated, I sank into the cold black leather and chrome chair at the opposite side of her desk and said nothing. ‘Slightly more intriguing than Ten Kitchen Appliances You Thought You Could Live Without,’ she continued dryly.

Inside I cringed. I knew I’d been off my game; I didn’t need Dee Myers to tell me. I looked at her while I gathered my thoughts. She was immaculately dressed, as always, in a royal-blue silk utility shirt offset by a chunky gold necklace, her shoulder-length sandy-brown hair with blonde tips blown perfectly into Hollywood waves.

Dee always wore full make-up, but you could never actually see it – you couldn’t tell she was wearing foundation, yet her face was too flawless to be bare. You couldn’t see clumps of mascara or evidence of lipstick, yet you knew they were there. Her cheeks glowed in the right places but you couldn’t see the telltale microscopic shimmering flecks of blusher. She must have a make-up artist held captive in her walk-in wardrobe.

Snapping back to reality, I attempted a feeble response. ‘Dee, I realise I haven’t written great pieces recently. You know how it can be with writer’s block, but I think I’m back on track. I . . .’

‘Thank you, Melissa. Please close the door behind you.’

***

‘I can’t believe she cut me off!’ I huffed, stirring my coffee vigorously.

‘You know what she’s like – fickle. If you produce something amazing then you’re her favourite; if it’s rubbish then you keep your head low so she forgets to fire you,’ Simon reassured me as he prised the stirrer from my hand. He was my number-one ally at work.

‘I know. I thought I’d cracked it this week. I worked so hard on that piece. Anyway, had you not best be getting back to researching gadgets before she scraps the technology section?’

‘Not after that amazing robot-assassin piece I did!’ he retorted sarcastically. Dee had hated it.

With a wink and a grin he was off. It appeared that we were in some sort of race to inadvertently determine who was the most sackable at the minute. Our two-minute chats in the kitchen always cheered me up on days like today. I could be a feeble wet blanket of a person at times. I’d never mastered the art of confrontation or standing up for myself, preferring to always be the one who shied away.

I walked back to my desk and sat down – hot, dark coffee in hand – and stared out of the window. The blue, cloudless sky was a welcome sight after all the stereotypical Mancunian rain. The morning sunshine bounced off the tall glass buildings opposite. Still too deflated to work, I took out my phone, on a mission to escape.

Checking Instagram was always a firm favourite pick in my procrastination toolkit; looking at gorgeous celebrities and arty travel pictures always helped me drift off to a happier place. Eventually I found myself on Facebook. As I scrolled through my news feed I wondered if I was the only person who actually preferred to read this news as opposed to the real, depressing news.

I stopped at a video that promised to make me smile. Checking the sound was low, I let it play. Four identical baby quads all giggling in sync. Yes, it did indeed make me smile. Much more uplifting than the crisis in the Middle East. See, escapism!

My phone buzzed in my hand just as I was checking to see who had liked a photograph of the chocolate brownie I’d made last night. Forcing myself back into the real world, I checked my email. The buzzing was Dee, and the message politely read: MY OFFICE NOW!

***

‘Sit down, Melissa, please.’

She gestured to the same chair that I had sat in only an hour earlier. Slowly, I slipped back into the cool leather that seemed to have retained the pear shape of my bottom. Dee shifted slightly to the left and rested an elbow on the desk. The other hand lifted her designer glasses to her face and glided them on seamlessly. Dee always wore glasses when she wanted to look serious; it was a bit of an office debate as to whether or not she actually needed them or if they were just for effect.

‘I read your article, and I have to say, it was different. I loved it. I hate the title – change that – but, all in all, it was deep, poignant even. I get it. I could relate to it, and it even made me think that I need to change – live for the now and all of that business.’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘This is perfect. We’ve just had Christmas when people have probably been thinking about their friends and family more – it may just strike a chord with our audience.’ She was still waving her hand, using it to punctuate her sentences; it made me dizzy.

I felt relief wash over me. I’d waited a long time to be genuinely praised for my work, and I knew I deserved it – I’d worked hard.

‘Dee, I’m so glad you liked it. I’ll get working on a new title right away.’

‘Good. Stick with the Matrix theme as I think that will sit well with our audience even though it was a rubbish film.’ She shuffled some papers busily, which I took as an indication of my dismissal.

‘Of course, I’ll get on it right away.’ I actually thought The Matrix was a good film, in its day. I floated happily out of Dee’s office.

The title hit me as I sat back down at my desk. I emailed Dee before I could forget:

Hi Dee,

How about The Matrix Effect for the title?

Mel

Her reply came within seconds:

Better.

I sat back in my chair, and allowed myself a little smugness. Feeling like my day’s work there was done, I went back to checking social media. I unlocked my phone, noticing a message had come in from Tinder. I’d completely forgotten about the silly account that Gemma had set up for me – the sneaky mare must have swiped right on a few guys on my behalf. I decided there was no harm in reading the message so opened it up.

Hi, I’m new to this and feel a bit cheesy, but I saw your picture and wondered if you fancied meeting up?

I looked at his picture. He wasn’t at all bad: conventionally good-looking, muscly and tanned with a broad white smile. He looked taller than me, which was a must. Not that I was supermodel height, but it was surprising how I towered over a fair number of blokes when I had my killer heels on. His email made him sound as if he felt just as awkward about online dating as I did, which was a good thing, so I decided to go for it. What harm could come of one date? I texted Gemma:

I’ve called your bluff . . . got a Tinder date tomorrow night xx

I added the excited-face emoji before hitting Send.

Chapter Five

I was having a great week so far. Praise at work and a Tuesday night date. It was nice to feel excited and worry-free for a change. Humming merrily, I took the time to pamper myself in preparation for my date later that night – body scrub, fake tan, scented lotion, the works. The guy looked pretty fit, so I wanted to make an effort.

I did, however, contemplate the granny-pants trick – wearing the biggest, ugliest knickers I own to ensure I didn’t get carried away and end up back at the gentleman’s flat several bases ahead of what’s appropriate. After serious consideration, I reasoned that I could be hit by a bus on my way there and the whole of A&E could catch a glimpse of my giant floral bloomers (okay, navy full-sized briefs) as I was wheeled in by desperate paramedics keen on saving my life. I decided I’d better wear my best French ones, the blue ones, just in case.

Standing my iPad up on the dressing table, I opened YouTube and searched through hair tutorials until I found one that promised to turn my lacklustre locks into big Hollywood-worthy waves.

After a good forty minutes of teasing, spraying, backcombing and curling, I was pretty happy with the result – though it was not an everyday style, so if Mr Muscle liked me, he’d have to accept my regular tedious tresses as par for the course. Enjoying making an effort, I tried yet another contouring tutorial. The woman in the demonstration looked amazing, and I was hoping for a similar level of flawlessness with the limited supplies I had. I didn’t achieve it; in fact, I still saw puffy hamster cheeks, but I did try.

Sticking with my theme of try-hard glamour, I googled ‘smokey eyes’ and found some apparently simple steps. Usually I ended up looking like I’d been punched in both eyes, but thankfully it worked out pretty well, even if I did say so myself.

Finally, I slithered into my dress. Inspired by Gemma, I was braving a black cut-out body-con dress, though who exactly it thought it was conning was anybody’s guess. It was, however, age-appropriate, and the asymmetric cut-outs fell above my bust, leaving my love handles and newly acquired back fat hidden away. Initially I’d planned to cover up a bit more what with it being the middle of the week and all, but I went with dressing to impress in case he was ‘The One’.

As I was making my final adjustments, my tablet piped up – it was Gemma on Skype. I hit the answer button. ‘Hey, you!’ I shouted cheerfully.

‘Hi, Mel. Looking good, lady!’ She smiled and gave me a thumbs up. ‘Are you all ready for your date with Mr Tinder?’

‘I think so. I’m leaving in a minute to meet him. He’s chosen a Greek place, so I’m thinking he may even be a little cultured. What do you think?’

‘I think he’s definitely cultured his body,’ she said, giggling.

‘I didn’t agree to the date for the muscles, Gem! Okay, he is pretty fit, but his eyes looked . . . er . . . meaningful. I don’t think he’ll take himself too seriously. Let’s just hope the conversation flows and he isn’t an idiot, then all will be well,’ I said hopefully.

‘Definitely. Okay, honey, I have to go, but I just wanted to wish you luck. Have a great time, and remember: if there’s no spark, just snog in the dark!’ We both burst out laughing at her poor attempt at a Take Me Out reference.

‘You have no class, woman. Now get lost and let me get ready!’ I said, still laughing as I hung up.

***

The restaurant was fairly dark; the main source of light appeared to come from pretty tea light candles dotted around the tables and the odd string of fairy lights draped from the traditional taverna-style walls. I probably needn’t have bothered with the contouring, I thought as I sashayed through the narrow aisles of dark wooden tables. The place was really pretty, romantic even, if you liked that sort of thing. I suddenly got the odd sensation that someone was looking at me.

Casting my eyes left, I saw a good-looking man sitting alone. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he smiled, beckoning me over. Smiling back awkwardly, I headed towards him. The walk was slightly longer than a smile should last, so I had to make the decision to drop it or risk looking like a smiling maniac. I went for the former, unconsciously opting to chew my bottom lip instead.

‘You must be Mel?’ he asked politely, standing up to greet me and stretching his arm out to shake my hand. I found a handshake a little odd, but since my experience of online dating had been minimal, I decided to brush it off.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said uncomfortably, returning his handshake, ‘Which would make you Mark?’ I continued, breaking the awkward silence that followed.

‘The one and only.’ He grinned. I winced at his cheesy intonation. Still, it was minor, and he was probably just nervous. I must give him a chance.

‘Shall we get some dri—’ I cut myself off, realising that he was already in possession of a pint. ‘So do you like Greek food?’ I asked instead.

He shook his head before speaking; he’d just taken a big gulp of beer. ‘Not really tried it. I tell a lie – I have tried it, many years ago. Me and my mates went to Malia for a bit of a holiday, so I reckon I tried it then. All I can remember are these giant—’ he indicated the size with his hands ‘—chicken kebab things with chips in. So I thought it seemed a bit different, a bit fancy, great for a date, and if I didn’t like the look of anything I could always get a chicken and chip kebab. It’s win-win.’ He swigged his pint and smiled. ‘You?’

‘Yes, I love Greek food. I actually make quite a mean moussaka. I think it may have been gyros that you tried?’ I encouraged, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

‘Nah it was definitely a kebab. Most days we ate at McDonald’s, so it sticks out in my mind.’

Okay, so my theory of ‘cultured’ had left the building. Sorry, you lost me at McDonald’s, I think. Luckily Gemma was right though; his body was amazing. As my eyes glazed over it dawned on me that Gemma had looked quite dressed up when we’d spoken earlier; she definitely had make-up on, which was really odd for her as she always took it off as soon as she got home. I wondered if she was going out. But if she was, why hadn’t she mentioned it?

The conversation didn’t get any better. In fact, when it came to ordering, Mark refused to pick anything off the menu and complained when he was unable to order a ‘chip kebab’. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I encouraged him to try some grilled meat and potatoes instead.

Still drink-less, I started to order, but Mark butted in: ‘Classy bird this one. Better get her a wine,’ winking at the waiter as he did. I was too busy dying of embarrassment to specify a wine colour, never mind a grape variety or country of origin, so I remained silent and anticipated whatever ‘wine’ would arrive.

‘So, what do you do for a living?’ he asked, finally arriving at a topic I was comfortable with.

‘I write a column and some other articles for NorthStyle magazine,’ I said proudly. ‘The magazine is aimed at people living in the city and covers a wide range of issues from technology to eating out.’ I wasn’t convinced this bloke could read, never mind had read NorthStyle.

‘Wow, I’ve seen that magazine. I didn’t know I’d be out with a famous writer.’ He grinned.

‘I’d hardly say famous,’ I said modestly.

‘Your name must still be out there, love. They always have a copy at my dentist’s.’ He took a swig from his fresh pint and raised his glass slightly towards me. ‘I run a distribution business – small vans, speedy delivery sort of thing. With more people shopping online and that, we have grown expedentially.’

‘Exponentially,’ I chipped in before I could stop myself, apparently channelling my mother.

‘What?’ he asked, frowning.

‘The word you used. I think you meant “exponentially” not “expedentially”.’ I sighed inwardly at the realisation that we were like chalk and cheese.

‘Wow, who called the vocabulary police?’ he said loudly, holding his hands up as if to surrender. Luckily, at that moment the waiter came over with my wine.

‘Thank you,’ I mouthed to him, more meaningfully than he would ever realise. I practically inhaled the delicious Roditis, which gave me the confidence to stick out the date a little while longer. Whilst we waited for our food, I let Mark talk. He actually did seem to have done well for himself, which I admired, but he had a certain arrogance about him I found off-putting.

His appearance was perfect, but as the night went on I realised it was in a way that didn’t attract me, like he’d tried too hard. I imagined having to fight him for the bathroom and wait hours for him to get ready. I knew I was being a hypocrite after spending hours of getting ready myself, but this coupled with his attitude made him seem somewhat obnoxious.

He had the triangular torso thing going on, pointing down to chunky thighs in skinny jeans. His fitted shirt and a blazer made him look smart, like he’d made an effort, which on anyone else I would find appealing. His hair was shaved closely to well above the ear, and the inch-long blonde hair on top was swept to one side, every strand angled exactly the same way.

As I studied him more closely I realised his eyes were slightly too small for his face. The more he spoke, the more intolerable he became. It was exit time. I excused myself and headed to the ladies’. Once hidden in the male-free sanctuary of the loos, I grabbed my phone and frantically keyed a text to Gemma:

I’m a celebrity!

She’d know what to do.

I headed back to the table. The food had arrived, and I wasn’t surprised to see Mark already tucking in. I even spotted him helping himself to a forkful of my moussaka, cheeky sod.

Before I’d even sat down, he started talking. ‘I was thinking we could have a few drinks in a bar and then we could go back to yours?’ he said confidently through a mouth full of food. I almost gagged. Before I had time to concoct a reply, my phone shrilled impatiently. Thank goodness. Saved by the bell, or in my case, Gemma.

‘Hello?’ I put on my best who-is-this-and-why-are-you-calling voice. ‘Oh hello, Mrs Monagan . . . Oh no! That’s terrible – not again? I’m so sorry. I’ll be over right away and we’ll get it sorted out.’ I hung up to see Mark looking at me expectantly. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go. That was the old lady who lives in the flat beneath me. Apparently there’s been a flood in my apartment. The water has leaked into hers, and she’s beside herself with worry.’ I feigned concern by furrowing my brow as I gathered my bag and phone. ‘I’ve had a nice time though. What do I owe for dinner?’ I asked politely.

‘Erm, okay, I reckon an even twenty would cover it. I could come and help?’ he said hopefully.

‘Oh goodness, no, I don’t expect that. I’ll be ages with Mrs Monagan. Last time, I was there the whole night! Listen, we can get back in touch on Tinder and arrange to meet up again soon.’ I didn’t even wait for a response before throwing twenty quid down on the table and leaving. On my way out I texted Gemma:

Thanks, MRS MONAGAN ;) – disaster!

Whilst my phone was out, I deleted the Tinder app, and relief washed over me.

Chapter Six

‘Happy Friday!’ Simon perched on the edge of my desk, grinning.

‘Why are you so excitable this early in the morning? Are there not laws against that?’ His round beaming face reddened and he looked like he might burst if he didn’t spit out whatever it was he wanted to say.

‘Well, you know how your article went down pretty well?’ he said. I nodded, unable to stop a smile spreading across my face. It had attracted quite a bit of attention in the couple of days since it was published. I’d seen a few tweets about it and one of my favourite bloggers had written about technology and the demise of social interaction, inspired by my piece.

‘Yeah, so?’ I played it cool.

‘Loose Women have it up for discussion on their show this afternoon. It’s like you’re a superstar,’ he said, beaming. ‘In fact, if you could sign this month’s cover for your best work friend, that would be great.’ He smirked and pushed a copy of NorthStyle in my face.

‘What? No way!’ I blushed, batting it away. I was in complete shock.

‘Well done, kid. I just hope you haven’t put too many people off technology or Dee will have my column cut.’ He winked and walked off, leaving me standing there in a daze. I couldn’t believe it. I hoped Dee would let me watch Loose Women later that morning. I was pretty sure that this would be the first time our magazine had featured on a TV show, which had to earn me a brownie point or two. Instinctively, I picked up my phone and opened WhatsApp: ‘Who can make after-work champers this eve? Need to celebrate.’

As I hit send, my office phone rang. ‘Hello, Melissa at NorthStyle magazine, how can I help?’ I chirped.

‘Melissa, come to my office now, please.’ Dee, disregarding the use of pleasantries, hung up without awaiting a reply.

It was the first time in a while, or ever in fact, that I’d felt excited about going into Dee’s office. I knocked firmly on the wooden door. ‘Come in,’ she shouted flatly. I walked in more surely than I ever had before. ‘Ah, Melissa, take a seat.’ Her tone became silvery as she gestured to the leather chair opposite, and I sat obediently. I looked up and met her gaze. ‘Well, I’m not sure if you heard, but did you know your article has been a bit of a hit?’ Her facial expression remained blank. I couldn’t tell if it was because of her Botox or because she was really forcing herself to offer me a compliment.

‘Oh, er . . .’ I stumbled, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of Dee’s praise.

‘I’m talking nationwide discussions, global even, if you take into account social media,’ she continued before I could string together a response. Dee had a knack of asking rhetorical questions that really did come across as genuine enquiries. It didn’t matter; I was sensing excitement and I wanted to revel in that. ‘. . . and even Loose Women

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