‘Yeah, well, apparently a love of dogs doesn’t necessarily guarantee a good date,’ I sigh, thinking back to all those misleading pictures of Chris smiling with his family’s pet.
‘Oh well, you’ll find someone soon.’ Kate sounds reassuring as she opens a message on her phone, but even she must be beginning to doubt it. As my flatmate and best friend, Kate’s witnessed all my dating disasters: the Hugh Grant lookalike who turned out to be an ex-con; the creepy chartered surveyor who kept referring to himself in the third person (‘Isaac would like to take Sophia out.’ For the record, Sophia said no); the gorgeous photographer who seemed like a great catch until he requested foot photographs to masturbate over; the geeky journalist who drank too much fizzy water and then burped in my mouth as he kissed me goodnight… The list goes on and that’s just my dates, don’t even get me started on my exes.
First there was my university boyfriend, Sam. Six foot two with curly blond hair and an IQ of 130, what more could I want, right? Well, a healthy disregard for vermin would have been nice. Sam ended up getting so wrapped up in his studies that he stopped cleaning his flat; carpets went unhoovered, bins went unemptied, pizza boxes piled up and eventually a couple of rats moved in. Not even mice – I can just about handle mice – I’m talking rats, big dirty rats! I might have been able to forgive him if he’d got rid of them, but when he simply named them Itchy and Scratchy and carried on studying, enough was enough.
So, I thought I’d go for the polar opposite after that (as you do when you rebound) and what could be more different to a vermin-loving, geeky Aberystwyth student, than a bisexual Italian hairdresser who’d probably need one-to-one tuition to get his head around Spot the Dog? Paulo was so ditzy that my friends dubbed him ‘the himbo’ – the male bimbo. But still, he was great fun. Even though it did get quite annoying how he’d always bang on about how ‘bellissima’ I’d look with shorter hair. He simply refused to accept that I wanted to keep it long so one night, he took it upon himself to gently chop it off in my sleep. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few weeks later he left me for a man. A man with short hair.
‘I reckon it’s a matter of perseverance. You just need to keep looking.’ Kate’s voice snaps me back to the present. I realise I’m twirling a lock of my hair around my finger, as if to console myself that it’s there, all grown back. Nice and long. Kate places her phone on the table.
‘Just Max saying goodnight,’ she says.
She takes a sip of her wine and looks at me with a sweet, hopeful smile. Poor Kate. She really wants me to find love. It must be hard when you’ve been with your boyfriend for four and a half years to see your flatmate so romantically destitute. She probably feels the same sense of guilty awkwardness witnessing my love life (or lack thereof) that rich people get when they scurry past homeless people on the streets.
But it was just so easy for Kate; meeting Max was effortless. We’d only been living in London a few weeks when we went to see the play where Kate first laid eyes on him. It was a production of A Streetcar Named Desire and Max was playing Stanley Kowalski. He wasn’t a far cry from Marlon Brando himself, with his wife-beater vest and muscles, and Kate was practically drooling the entire show. The second it ended, she hurried over to the stage door and hung about waiting to introduce herself, swapping numbers with him on the pretence that she was an actress and might need tips on getting into the London scene (even though, at that point, she already had a role lined up at the Globe). A couple of weeks later, she and Max were an item and they’ve been smitten with each other ever since.
‘Seriously, you just have to keep looking,’ Kate insists.
I wind my hair up into a bun, wincing at the platitude that I must have heard a million and one times before.
‘Do you know what? Maybe it’s just not meant to be,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Some people just are, aren’t they? I should probably stop fighting it.’
‘Nah, it’s only a bit of bad luck.’ Kate bats the thought away. ‘I’m sure he’s just around the corner. One day, you’ll look back on all this stuff and laugh.’
‘You said that six months ago,’ I remind her.
Kate pulls an awkward expression and plucks at a loose thread on her leggings.
‘Well, at least it’s all good material for your novel,’ she chirps.
‘Yeah s’pose,’ I grumble. One of the perks of wanting to be a writer is that you can view all your crazy experiences as material, except now I’ve got enough for a trilogy.
‘Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places.’ Kate takes a sip of her wine.
I roll my eyes.
‘Kate, I’ve tried Match.com, eHarmony, PlentyOfFish, Guardian Soulmates, Tinder.’ I rap my fingernails against the table, trying to recall the full list. ‘OkCupid, Bumble, Happn, MySingleFriend, even Single bloody Booklovers. I’ve tried speed-dating, I’ve tried singles nights, I’ve tried—’
‘Oh, what about Dream Dates?’ Kate interjects, her eyes lighting up.
‘What’s Dream Dates?’
‘Saw it advertised today. Massive poster on the tube. It’s a new dating site. It had this really hot guy on the ad,’ Kate gushes.
‘Well, he was clearly a model,’ I point out. ‘It’s not like they’re going to use photos of the actual people that use it. The big, fat, hairy, hunchbacked…’
Kate sighs. ‘Come on, if you take that attitude, you’re never going to find anyone. You should try Dream—’
‘Leave it, Kate,’ I cut her off. ‘I can’t face any more.’
I get up to open the kitchen cupboard and pull out a bag of nachos. I shove a handful into my mouth and feel the delicious saltiness spread over my tongue. So good. I shove in another handful. At least food never lets you down. You open a bag of crisps and you know exactly what you’re getting. Predictable, satisfying, dependable crisps.
Kate eyes me warily. ‘Just one more site.’
I shake my head and crunch through another mouthful.
‘One more won’t hurt!’ she insists.
Ignoring her, I open up the fridge and retrieve a block of cheddar. I’ll just grate some cheese over these crisps and then pop them in the microwave. It’ll be even tastier. I find the cheese grater and start grating the cheddar onto the chopping board. I can hear Kate shuffling about behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m going to focus on grating my nice little mound of cheese instead. A sing-song tone chimes through the kitchen — the familiar sound of Kate’s laptop firing up. I grab a bowl, fill it with nachos and sprinkle the cheese over them, but as I turn to pop them in the microwave, I spot a dating site – Dream Dates – open on Kate’s computer. She looks at me guiltily as I snap the microwave door shut.
‘One more site and I’ll be off your case, I promise. I know you’ve tried them all and I know how crap they’ve been but I don’t think you should chuck the towel in just yet. Think of everyone we know who’s met their partner online. I reckon it’s just a matter of perseverance. Just give Dream Dates a try and if it doesn’t work out, then fine—’ Kate throws up her hands in mock surrender ‘—I’ll back off and you can stay home and eat all the nachos you want.’
The microwave pings. I reach inside. The cheese bubbles enticingly. I lean against the kitchen counter and give the bowl a few seconds to cool down.
‘It looks really good,’ Kate notes, gazing at the homepage. ‘According to the slogan, “Your dream date is just a few clicks away.”’
I scoff. ‘And the slogan of Match is, “If you don’t like your imperfections, someone else will.” And Guardian Soulmates promised I’d “Meet someone worth meeting” but look at me.’ I reach into the bowl, peel apart two gooey nachos and dangle one into my mouth.
‘It’ll