by T L Swan
Beck looks out onto the street. “Do you have any more things you want help with bringing in?”
“Thanks, I’ve just got another two suitcases in my car. I can get them.”
“You remember Kate?” She gestures to me.
Daniel’s eyes come to me. “Yes, of course I do. Nice to see you again, Kate.”
I give an awkward smile—I’m always so weird in social situations. Until I get to know someone I’m really not friendly at all. Not by choice of course, shyness is a curse.
“This is your bedroom through here.” Rebecca plays tour guide, leads him through and shows him his room. “And this is my bedroom. Come upstairs and I’ll show you Kate’s bedroom,” she offers.
I follow them as she shows him around the apartment. My eyes roam up and down Daniel: he’s wearing black trousers, a black knitted sweater, pointy shoes, and a bomber jacket in camo green. His clothes are expensive and trendy; he really does look the part of the personal stylist.
“When do you start work?” I ask as I try and make conversation.
“I have four clients next week, and I have to find about fifty more as soon as possible,” he says.
I smile.
“But seriously, I start with Harrods next week, I’m going to be one of their in-house shoppers.”
Oh, what a hellish job—shopping is my living nightmare. Unsure what to say and feeling awkward, I hunch my shoulders. “I’ve never met a personal shopper before.”
Daniel smiles. “There aren’t too many of us.”
I take a suitcase from him and glance down at it: Louis Vuitton. Jeez . . . I think the suitcase is worth more than my car. He disappears down the front steps to the street and I peer out after him: he has a black new-model Audi. Why the hell is he sharing an apartment with two other people if he has all this expensive stuff?
Surely he would want to live alone?
I know I would.
He grabs another two suitcases from his car and once again they are beautiful black leather; I eye them suspiciously as he walks back up the steps. I wish I had good taste like this. I wouldn’t know what to buy even if I did have the money.
Daniel wheels his suitcases into his bedroom and looks between us as he puts his hands on his hips. “Please tell me that you girls are taking me out tonight. There’s no better way to get to know each other than over a few drinks.”
Rebecca’s eyes nearly pop from her head in excitement. “That sounds awesome.” She glances over to me. “Doesn’t it, Kate?”
Not really.
A fake smile. “Sure does.”
“Shall we go?” he asks.
“Now?” I frown. “You don’t want to put anything away first?”
“No, I’m good, it will still be there tomorrow and I have nothing to do until next week so it will give me a mission.”
An hour later, we sit at the bar in a restaurant, wine firmly in hand.
“So?” Daniel looks between the two of us. “What’s the story with you two, are you single or dating?”
“Well.” Rebecca smiles. “I have a boyfriend, Brett. And Kathryn here is trying to get an honorary membership to the nunnery.”
I laugh. “That’s not true. I’m just very picky.”
Daniel gives me a cute wink. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m quite picky myself actually.”
“And what’s your story?” Rebecca asks.
“Well . . .” Daniel pauses as if choosing the right words. “I am . . .” He pauses again.
“Gay?” I ask.
Daniel laughs. “I like women too much to title myself completely gay.”
“So . . .” Rebecca screws up her face as she tries to make sense of that statement.
“You’re bisexual?”
Daniel twists his lips as if thinking. “I wouldn’t say I’m bisexual. My natural attraction is toward women. But lately . . .” His voice trails off.
“What?” I ask, fascinated.
“A few years back I was partying with a few guys that I didn’t know that well in Ibiza. One of them was gay.”
“How many were you away with?” I ask.
“There were four of us in total.”
“So, three of you were straight?”
Daniel nods. “Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the cocaine, I don’t know, but something happened and we got a little randy, spent the weekend in bed, and now I have a bit of a fetish for men on the side.”
Rebecca smiles dreamily over at Daniel, as if this is the best story that she’s ever heard. And I can almost hear the cogs in her brain clicking, assessing how liberated he must be.
I sip my drink, equally fascinated with his story. “How does it feel to be sexual with somebody that isn’t your natural inclination?”
“Good. Perhaps a little kinky.” Daniel shrugs. “I think that’s what it is for me, I feel like I’m doing something naughty, something that I shouldn’t be doing but at the same time feels so natural. And I don’t know how long I’ll keep doing it, maybe not forever, maybe not much more at all. But whenever I do it, I don’t regret it. It doesn’t feel wrong, if that’s what you mean.”
“How many . . .” Rebecca’s voice trails off as she stops herself.
“You can ask me anything,” Daniel prompts her.
“How many men have you been with?”
Daniel narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Hmm, not many, I would say more than ten but less than twenty.”
“Jeez.” My eyebrows raise by themselves.
“What’s that look for?” Daniel smiles.
“Well, you said that you haven’t slept with many men. If that’s a low number for you what’s a high number? I mean . . . what are your numbers for women?”
Daniel laughs. “Too many to count, I’m afraid. I meet some beautiful people in my industry, sometimes the temptation is just too great.”
Disappointment fills me and I screw up my napkin and throw it onto the table in disgust. “I wish I was more like you,” I sigh.
“Meaning?”
“You know, all liberated and cool and”—I pause as I think of the right terminology—“I guess, free.”
Daniel’s face falls. “You don’t feel free?”
Oh God, why did I say that? Now I sound like a freaking drama queen. “What I meant is, I guess I would like to be in your shoes, you know, sleeping with whoever I wanted to for fun.”
“You don’t have sex for fun?” Daniel frowns.
This is all coming out wrong. “I mean, I have in the past. I guess I just got out of the swing of it as I got older.”
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-seven. I had a few boyfriends in high school and college, and then after that I had a long-term boyfriend. We broke up a year after my parents died.”
“Your parents died?”
I sip my drink; how did we get onto this subject?
Why did I say that?
“They were involved in a head-on collision car crash,” Rebecca replies; she knows how much I hate saying that out loud.
Daniel’s eyes come to me in a question.
“My mother died at the scene, my father died on the way to hospital. The driver that hit them had a heart attack and veered onto the wrong side of the road.” I feel the heaviness come over me as my chest constricts, and I glance up into the kind eyes of Rebecca, who gives me a soft smile and takes my hand across the table. I had just moved in with Rebecca at college when my parents died. She’s been my rock and a wonderful friend and has been there for me on many lonely sad nights.
“I’m so sorry,” Daniel whispers. “Do you have any other family?”
“Yes.” I smile. “I have a wonderful brother, Brad, and I have a sister who . . .” My voice trails off.
“Who what?” Daniel asks.
“Is a raving bitch,” Rebecca snaps. “I have no idea how the two of these girls are genetically related. They have nothing at all in common. Chalk and cheese.”
Dani
el smiles in surprise as he looks between us. “Why, what’s she like?”
“Beautiful.” I sip my drink.
“Entitled and mean,” Rebecca interjects.
I smile sadly. “She’s not so bad. She’s taken our parents’ death the hardest and somehow her personality changed overnight. Brad and I have held each other up and limped along and yet, all she wanted to do is be on her own. She hasn’t handled grief the same as we have.”
“You don’t see her at all?” Daniel asks.
“No, I do see her,” I reply. “I’m just usually upset or ruffled after she leaves. You know when you spend time with someone and they kind of suck the life out of you. She likes money and fame and having the designer handbags and all her gorgeous boyfriends. I feel like”—I pause as I try to articulate myself—“I feel like she’s replacing our parents’ love with objects.”
“You don’t like designer things?”
“I guess.” I shrug. “Everyone likes nice things, don’t they? It’s just not my priority.”
“Kate is very good with her money,” Rebecca interrupts.
“That’s code for tight.” Daniel laughs as his eyes flick to me. “Are you tight, Kate?”
“I am not tight.”
“Oh, you are too,” Rebecca scoffs. “She won’t spend any money on herself at all and is always saving for a rainy day. She wears the same ten outfits and hides behind those big thick glasses.”
“I need them to see, Rebecca,” I announce, indignant. “And I just don’t see the point in spending a fortune on clothes and dressing up fancy all the time.”
“You work in central London with some of the hottest men in the capital and you’re too busy wearing sensible office clothes to attract any of them.”
I roll my eyes in disgust. “Trust me, there is no one at work worth impressing.”
Daniel’s eyes linger on me and, as amusement flashes across his face, he clinks his wineglass with mine.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I just found my new project.”
Four hours and three bottles of wine later, and with Stevie Nicks playing in the background, Daniel says, “Then what will I write?” He laughs.
We are sitting on the couch still talking way too much nonsense, and filling in a profile on a dating app for Daniel on my computer. Apparently this is a priority when you move to a new city.
Who knew?
The question reads:
What are you looking for?
“Hmm, that’s a hard one.” Daniel inhales sharply as he does his best to think through the cloud of alcohol.
“Oh, I know. Write this,” Rebecca says in her throaty, I’m-as-drunk-as-a-skunk voice. “Vagina or dick, short or tall, waxed or hairy, preferably hot.”
“So basically”—I point to him with my wineglass—“you’ll take anything.”
“In a nutshell,” Daniel replies as he types something in. “Scratch the preferably.”
I laugh as I lie back; the room is beginning to spin. “I have to go to bed.” I sigh. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Not so fast,” Daniel says. “We’re making you a profile next.”
“I am not getting on a dating website. For your information,” I slur, “there isn’t a man on earth who could impress me in writing. And besides, I’m way too inebriated.”
“Yes,” he insists.
“Not right now, the timing isn’t right.”
Daniel types furiously. “You have to fill these things out while you’re drunk, and there is no time like the present.”
“What if someone found out it was me?” I asked, horrified. “I would never live it down.”
“Nobody cares about dating apps, everybody does it,” Rebecca scoffs as if I’m clueless. “Don’t use your real name, then.”
“Wouldn’t that be weird, though?” I say. “Like I told him a fake name and then we’re on a date and I have to say, sorry but this is my real name now, and I’m actually a liar.”
“Well, you don’t have to tell them straight up,” Daniel says as he types. “You keep the fake name until you know if you like them and then you tell them your real name.”
I smirk into my wineglass as I watch him and Rebecca go through the profile.
Daniel is fun.
He hands me my laptop. “You fill in the rest.”
“Huh?”
“I filled it out for you, answer the next question.”
“What?”
“We made you a profile,” Rebecca informs me. “Just humor us, please.”
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
5ft7
Weight
Just right
Appearance
Gorgeous
Hobbies
Gym and working out, laughing
Favorite pastime
Eating out and having sex
Profession
Computer analytics
Hair color
Sandy blonde
Eyes
Brown
Skin
Olive
What are you looking for?
“Pinkie Leroo?” I scoff. “Who the hell is that?”
“That’s you.”
“What?” I laugh. “You couldn’t come up with a better fake name? I sound like a cheap bottle of wine.”
“Men love that shit,” Daniel replies.
“But, do they?” I read through the details they’ve added. “I thought we were lying on this thing?”
“We are.”
“Well, I do like eating out and having sex, so . . .” I shrug.
“The gym and working out part?” Rebecca raises an impatient eyebrow.
“This is ridiculous.” I slam my computer shut and stand. “I’m going to bed.” I go up on to my tippy toes and kiss Daniel’s cheek. “Goodnight, naughty boy.”
“Night. Fill in that profile, I’m checking it in the morning.”
I roll my eyes as I begin to walk up the stairs. “You just worry about your own profile, or more specifically, how easily pleased you are,” I call. “You really should work on that. Up your standards a bit.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he calls back.
“Ugh.” Rebecca winces. “I am never going down on a woman. Like fucking ever. It’s just too . . . in your face . . . literally.”
I get a really bad visual and I screw up my face with a laugh. “Stop,” I cry.
Half an hour later, I lie on my bed. I’m wrapped in a towel after showering and Daniel’s and Rebecca’s words from earlier are running through my head, and more importantly my words: I wish I was more like you.
Who am I kidding, I am free.
I don’t know where I get this notion that my hands are tied. It’s men who have preconceived ideas on what they want; they’re all just looking for the next Barbie doll.
I read over the profile they created and I smile as an idea rolls around in my head. I’m going to prove just how shallow and fickle men really are.
I open my computer, go back to the profile, and I change my answers.
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
On point
Weight
Pretty face
Appearance
Below average
Hobbies
Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime
Washing my hair
Profession
Taxidermies
Hair color
Pink – notice my name (insert eye roll)
Eyes
Star struck
Skin
Pasty white
I go onto the internet and search for a picture of a cat, find an image of a huge fat one with bulging eyes. It’s the ugliest cat I ever saw.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” I smile as I upload it as my profile pic.
I read the question again:
What are you looking for?
I inhale deeply as
I think, hmm . . . I want to write something that will show me what I already know, that nobody interests me at all. I twist my lips as I contemplate my words.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
I smile and hit submit: that will weed them out.
Nobody will respond.
It’s Thursday, and it’s been the best week I’ve had in a long time.
Daniel is hilarious, and we’ve been out to dinner every night, because apparently, he doesn’t ever feel like anything home-cooked.
We have champagne taste on a beer budget.
He’s announced that, by default, we are his official best friends now, seeing as he has nobody else in town. He even asked me to go to an event next week that he’s been invited to. I’m going as his date, but there is no date, it’s not like that between us.
I do have to admit though, he’s great company.
Oh, and surprise, surprise . . . nobody has messaged me on my dating app.
Just like I knew they wouldn’t.
I smile as I wriggle into my netball uniform.
I’m in the bathroom stall in my office building, work has finished for the day, and I’m playing netball at six-thirty, and there isn’t enough time to go home and get back into town.
I slide it down over my shoulders and cringe as I look at myself. “Oh . . . yuck,” I whisper. “This is hideous.”
Skintight, bright red, the dress sticks to my body like super glue and it’s super short.
I walk to the mirror to stare at my reflection. I look like a netball player in some sicko porn gang team skit.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Ugh, who picked these uniforms?” I sigh as I rearrange my boobs. “So ugly.”
I shrug my shoulders. Oh well. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back to my office. It’s too early to go yet, so I’ll finish up some odd jobs while I wait.