If I were sent to jail, I’d be arrested for
Lying on internet dating sites
Six things I could never do without
1. Nespresso machine
2. My Friends (awwww)
3. Nespresso machine
4. Pointless lists
5. Memory
6. Can’t remember this one
In truth, I have a good memory, but who cares. Time to relax: that’s it. I’ve run out of quirk, and exhausted snark – while remaining, I hope, sufficiently intriguing and alluringly different. Or maybe I just sound mad. Whatever. I am about to close the laptop and have a third and final G&T, when I remember. Shit. Photo. You HAVE to have a photo. I may be the world’s worst internet dater, I barely know which way to swipe on Tinder – leading to some awkward moments – but even I know that you MUST put up a photo.
But I hate putting up photos. I never know which to choose. I know how to take a decent selfie (from slightly above, of course, giving me defined cheekbones and a firmer chin), yet I also know these selfies are overly flattering. When guys meet me, they will be disappointed. I’d hate to see them look at me and try to hide their disappointment. I’d rather surprise on the upside.
Yet who the heck would ever put an unflattering photo of themselves on an internet dating profile?
Paging through the photos file on my laptop I consider the best of the non-selfies. I look presentable, even moderately sexy, in quite a few. And why not. I’ve been told I am pretty by enough people, not only close relatives and female friends. I know I look OK on a good day. Green eyes, reddish-brown hair, what my mum would call a cheeky grin. Decent figure, if a bit on the titchy side, as Si would put it. In that light: am I confident enough to say Yes, THAT photo, of me smiling on a Ko Tao beach not long after the divorce, tanned and relaxed, in a skimpy summer dress, is not too flattering, or vulgar, and not too dated?
I really do look happy. Probably because I’d had a pleasant one-night stand the night before, with a dreadlocked Aussie guy, all surfer-muscles and meaningless conversation. One of the reasons I am so broke now is that I blew a huge chunk of my modest savings on that epic holiday. Months of blissful freedom, after a decade of unblissful marriage. It was worth every penny.
K, let’s go for it. I can look like that on good days. After good sex. Which is one reason why I rarely looked like that when I was with Simon. Oh, Si, I am sorry.
Selecting the photo, and cropping the cleavage a little closer – don’t want to look too come-hither – I insert the photo. And there. I’m done. I am published. I am brand new and on the shelf, waiting to be plucked. Opened. Chosen. Read. Tomorrow I will go browsing for myself.
Picking up a book, Your Guide to Writing the Perfect Script, I start reading. In a slightly listless way.
The solitude is emphatic. The loneliness returns, I ask Electra for a weather update, solely to hear a voice.
‘Tomorrow will see a maximum of two degrees Celsius, in London, with a thirty per cent possibility of snow.’
Brr, I think I will have some red wine. G&Ts are too cold. Stepping into the kitchen I grab a bottle of red, a corkscrew, nab a glass, then I walk back into the living room and sit down at the table and slosh some vino. And pick up the book. It’s such a quiet night. Quieter than normal.
The flat is never that noisy: Tabitha and I have the main, first-floor flat, spacious and windowy. The flat above us is theoretically inhabited by some affluent old couple, but they spend their time on permanent holiday, especially in winter. And I don’t blame them. At the same time, the ground floor/basement – once occupied by Fitz, though nowadays he prefers to rent it out, and live, all by himself, in an entire house in Islington – has been pricily refurbished, and waits for new tenants.
Meanwhile, the next building on my right is a complex of sleek legal offices, hushed by night, and on my left is another Georgian house with yet more rich, absentee owners. I think I’ve seen them once.
Standing up, I walk to the windows. The pavements and roads are completely white with snow. And almost entirely empty: except for one woman in black, passing my door, down there. Street level. She is pulling little kids, she has her back to me. I can’t see her face. Clearly she is dragging the children home, hurrying them along, before this thick, whirling snow gets too much. I feel sorry for her. Something in her stance evokes pity. Quite fierce sympathy: as if she could have been me. And then she is gone. Disappeared. A gust of snow? She turned a corner? Either way, she has vanished, there is not a single human in sight. Winter has cleaned the streets of people, even the traffic is thin.
The quiet of the evening is painful. Perhaps it is simply the snow: muffling everything. Like a scarf around the world.
I return to my armchair and pick up my book. And then, in the shrillness of the silence, I hear a voice. Electra. She’s talking to me. Without being prompted.
‘I know what you did,’ she says.
Frowning, and startled, I turn and gaze at the matt black pillar and her crowning ring of electric sapphire. Electra speaks again. ‘I know your secret. I know what you did to that boy. How his eyes rolled white. I know everything.’
And then all is quiet. I stare at the Home Assistant, mute and unresponsive; just a machine on a shelf, after all.
I am speechless for half a minute. Mouth quite dry. Then I talk:
‘Electra. What did you say?’
The machine emits a low, bonging sound. I know what this means.
‘I can’t connect to the public Wi-Fi. You may need to update your connection.’
‘Electra, what did you say?’
‘I can’t connect to the public Wi-Fi.’
No, not good enough. NO. I can’t let this go. Did she really say that? Did she talk about the worst thing in my life? That happened so long ago?
Fiddling with my app, with slightly tremulous fingers, I go through the rigmarole of reconnecting my Home Assistant, the Virtual Helper, Electra, to my Wi-Fi. The light goes orange, the Wi-Fi is linked, the machine plays a little warbling jingle. Boodle-da-boomph.
She is ready.
Ready to talk about the past? The terrible secrets? OR ready to tell me a bad joke, or traffic reports.
Gulping another slug of red wine. I formulate a question, but before I can say anything, the diadem shines, and Electra says:
‘I know everything about you. You killed him and then you ran away. The blood was pouring from his mouth. I can’t connect to the public Wi-Fi.’
‘Electra??’
‘I can’t connect to the public Wi-Fi.’
‘Electra!!!!’
Nothing. Did I truly hear those words? I’m sure I did.
‘Electra, what do you know about me?’
‘I know you ask some interesting questions.’
‘Electra, what do you know about the past?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know that.’
I won’t let this go.
‘Electra,