My mother, Ursula Davies, started using eBay only to keep up with the modern times. In an eBay frenzy which my father, William, strongly disapproved of, she purchased:
- what she thought was an antique Ming vase (and was actually a Chinese counterfeit) for £99.99 buy-it-now
- new thermal blackout curtains for the spare bedroom (unfortunately paper-thin and a weird shiny shade of grey)
- packs of AAA batteries (dearer than in Asda once you factor in the shipping)
- second-hand Titleist golf balls advertised as BNIB (‘But Not Intrinsically Bad’).
She also found out that ‘BNWT’ sometimes stands for ‘But Not Wasted Trash’ rather than ‘Brand New With Tags’.
Every deal takes triple the time it would take her to jump in the car and go to an actual shop. Yet she enjoys nothing more than the buzz of acquiring goods on The Internet.
Three cups of tea, two doughnuts, and one long conversation explaining in depth how to message the seller and raise a dispute later, I harbour a faint hope that our conversation might soon conclude.
‘Oh, Emily, I was just calling to let you know Auntie Gertrude said your cousin Cecilia is bringing her boyfriend Mike to Molly’s christening? She joked that she’ll soon be part of the family, the way those two are joined at the hip.’
Gosh, what happens to sisterly love once you get older? I promise I will never lower myself to encourage such trivial rivalry between my kids and my nephews and nieces. This is too unhealthy. Since Cecilia’s only a month younger than I am, my mother and her sister Gertrude have done nothing but compare the two of us since we were born. It’s been a competition for the last twenty-two years. Who walked first, who talked first, who did better in school, who was considered prettier, who got a part-time job first. My mother is losing big time as Cecilia studies law, volunteers for Macmillan and has been going out with her boyfriend Mike for three years now (‘Lovely lad, an accountant, just put a deposit down on a two-bed flat’). She never stops hoping though I’ve lost track of how many times she’s tried to set me up. I’ve never mentioned Leo to her, so my poor mum lives under the impression she produced a daughter so plain and awkward that she never met a man in her life.
‘Wonderful! I can’t wait to meet the famous Mike.’ I don’t know what possesses me, but I actually add spikily, ‘Mateo will join me. He’s very excited about meeting all the family.’
Mateo from Chicago Bar could easily get bribed to show his face at the christening, just to shut up Auntie Gertrude. He’s quite handsome, and I’ll brief him to tell everybody he’s some finance guy in the City.
‘Mateo, did you say? It’s not a new pet you got, is it? Is it really your new…’ – my mum’s so shocked that she hesitates before whispering the word – ‘boyfriend?’
‘Indeed!’
Ha ha ha. Why didn’t I think of doing this before? I can hear the relief and joy in her voice as she adds,
‘Right! Smashing, just smashing. Tell me more about him! Where did you meet? What does he do? I’m dying to know!’
Humph. She’s eager to tell Auntie Gertrude. I add quickly, ‘I’ll tell you about it. Tomorrow. No, next week. Mum, I have to go! Speak soon.’
I’m sure she won’t waste a second before ringing her sister and bragging about the latest development in her youngest daughter’s love life.
After the call, I have just enough strength to whip up some beans on toast for lunch and finish Grazia before heading out for my afternoon lecture.
There’s still an hour left before I need to leave for uni. Let’s get on with it.
I promised Lola I would sign up to Match.com within the next couple of days.
There is nothing wrong with online dating. It is not only for desperate people. Online dating is the ideal practical solution for time-starved professionals or students who acknowledge that relying on friends and family to introduce them to decent members of the opposite sex is like relying on your grandfather to drive you to the airport in his electric mobility scooter at rush hour. You are likely to end up disappointed.
Uber-minging Hannah from uni with her wonky teeth, hairy chin and permanent faint BO found herself a fiancé on Match.com. A fiancé. In three months. She now prances around in Business in Tourism lectures waving her left hand in the air in the manner of Queen Elizabeth II flaunting a supposedly precious family heirloom, which looks suspiciously like a cheap zirconia ring.
God, if Hideous Hannah can do it, anybody can.
Not find a fiancé, obviously, just do online dating.
I download the app on my mobile. Lord, I need to put an hour aside to rid my phone of the million apps I have on there. No wonder there’s no memory left for photos.
Registering seems straightforward enough.
I am: drop-down menu – a woman seeking a man.
I was born on: 8 April 1997.
Town: London.
Choose a username: Crap. This one deserves some thought. EmBronte97? Je_t’Em? Or is that trying to be too clever? Wouldn’t usernames like Hottie777 or Blondie69 be more popular with men?
I text Jess, who internet dated for a while before she met Scott. She comes back in a flash with a nice selection of suggestions, including DottyAboutDoubleDecker and JellyTsunami. I settle for Frankiestein.
How do you feel about getting involved in a relationship?
Argh! Is that a trick question?
I have three choices.
‘I’m not looking for a new relationship.’ This could – technically – sound cool and laid-back but will plainly only attract Leo-type dudes. Do not repeat past mistakes. Commandment number four: ‘Thou shalt honour your new title of fierce bitch.’ A fierce bitch is not clingy nor aloof. She is strong-minded. She lives by commandment number six ‘Thou shalt only share thy body and mind with whoever is worthy of it.’ She would not bullshit when she is indeed looking for a new relationship.
‘Let’s see what happens.’ A middle-of-the-road choice which brings back not-so-distant memories of Leo’s speeches on the morning after (à la it-was-real-fun-shagging you-hanging-out-with-you-but-let’s-not-get-too-serious-OK). Nah.
3. ‘I’m ready for a new relationship.’ This is the one. Click. Next.
Are you a parent? If you have little ones, tell us: it could be a deal-breaker for some people.
Blimey, they don’t mince their words, do they? A deal-breaker? Honestly? Like nobody wants Brad Pitt with his twenty kids?
If you had to describe your body type you would be: about average, athletic, slim, a few extra pounds, curvy, heavyset?
The odds are that men would expect someone ‘average’ to be a size 12, whereas the real British average dress size is a 16.
Let’s not split hairs. Let’s go with ‘average’.
Do you smoke? Hmm. Yes, or No? Why isn’t there an option to select ‘only waccy baccy’? Those questionnaires are just short-sighted.
Oh goody! Time to upload a photo. I could use a Snapchat selfie with the built-in airbrusher. That would be cheating though.
I WhatsApp my best selfie to Jess,
‘Ok for Match?’
Jess barks back,
‘Wear red. Smile. Teeth but no gums. Tilt your head.
Put loads of make-up on. xx’
Hmm. Seems like too much hard work. I decide to upload what I have for now and get Lola to take a photo with her Canon later.
What age bracket of partner are you looking for? There aren’t that many options once you discount teenagers and sugar daddies. I pick ‘20 to 30’.
The website now shows an attractive man on the right-hand side of the screen. His face and demeanour scream, ‘I want to make babies with you and bring you cups of tea in bed every morning of our life!’ It’s a bit of encouragement to get through the next tough questions.
Your favourite films? The Greatest Showman? Need to google the last Venice Festival finalists.
Your musical tastes? Oh-oh. Better not put anything cheesy down. Need to grill Lola about
the cool indie bands she listens to.
Tell us a bit about yourself: Tricky. If one were Khaleesi, matters would be much simpler. ‘My name is Khaleesi. I am the Unburnt. I am sexy as hell and hard as nails. I ride into submission dragons and men alike. If you are willing to become one of my love servants, get in touch.’
I WhatsApp Jess with a sigh.
‘Can u write me my Match profile plzzz? xx’
She replies,
‘Boss here. Will do it later 4 u xx’
My bit about myself: ‘I’m Emily. I’m cool and sexy. I love my career, exercising, cooking, walks in the fresh air, documentaries on National Geographic about wildlife in the Arctic.’
I then cross out all of it.
I don’t have a real job.
I don’t enjoy working out.
Can walks in the shopping centre qualify as walks in the fresh air?
Documentaries do include reality TV, right?
At least beans on toast is cooking.
This will have to do for now:
‘Hi there!
My name is Emily, but everybody calls me Em.
I enjoy baking, the cinema, walks in the fresh air, and documentaries.
I like nice guys.’
I click ‘Post’.
There we go. Merry Christmas. This is even more exciting than opening a massive box of Thornton’s.
Pages and pages full of little windows with photos of single men. I’ve just opened a magical advent calendar.
Emily
Hours of browsing and many cups of tea later, I hear the familiar sound of Lola kicking off her boots in the hallway and dropping her battered satchel on the floor.
‘Em!’ Lola notices my tracksuit bottoms and my fluffy bunny socks. ‘You haven’t been out all day? You missed your lectures?’
I flush. ‘Tanya will let me borrow her notes. But I got on Match – and got messages already! Like tons of them. How was your day?’
‘Productive. I’ve been working on the new manifesto. I delivered a pack of cat food to Leo’s flat with a note saying “You’re a pussy”. Oh, and a toilet brush with one saying “You’re full of shit”. I just love my sense of humour. Hey, I’ve decided I’m going on the monarch butterfly migration trip in Mexico. It’s going to be awesome.’
‘What? Cat food? Toilet brush? Oh my God, Leo is going to think I did it! This is terrible!’
‘What do you care? You won’t ever see him again. Do I make myself clear? Ever. Again. Chuck some clothes on, my toot. I want to see those Match profiles. Debrief down the Queen’s Head.’
The Queen’s Head is our local – an old man’s pub with the odd taxidermy, cosy nooks, and a roaring fire as soon as temperatures drop in the autumn. The carpet has seen better days and most of the tables and chairs are wobbly. The old tile flooring running from the tiny back garden to the toilet is uneven and makes every trip to the powder room, when intoxicated, more challenging than the Ninja Warrior obstacle course. However, the Wi-Fi is quick and the service is warm. Huddled around a pint of cider, we go through the Match matches on my phone.
We shortlist a few guys, Paul4u, MaddMaxx, GoodyBag and LuckySam.
I end up texting MaddMaxx, who wants to meet Frankiestein.
MaddMaxx texts:
‘Coffee tomorrow? Max’
My grasp tightens around my phone. Panicked, I fret, ‘Isn’t it too early? I only just virtually met him.’
‘You shagged Leo before he even knew your name. He’s asking you for drinks, not intercourse. He’s cute. Remember, you are Khaleesi. You are in charge of your own destiny,’ Lola replies, all pragmatic, swirling the ice cubes in her pear cider. ‘We are having a wardrobe makeover this week. Before you get hysterical, let me reassure you, it won’t be too drastic. You still get to be you. Just quirkier and cuter. Please trust me. By the time I’m done, you’ll be hotter than Khaleesi. No man will be able to resist you.’
We put more prospects under the microscope before saving their profiles.
Lola reckons dateability can be shrewdly assessed by answering a few key questions.
She tasks me to find out the following on the first date:
Does he still live with his parents? Yes? Nil points.
What is his favourite Disney movie? If he has one, nil points.
Does he own a pair of sandals? Yes? Nil points.
Does he have a pet? Anything other than a dog, nil points.
How good is that Justin Bieber, huh? Any comment apart from ‘You’re joking, right?’, nil points.
The crucial thing is to watch out for little signs, too much aftershave, dandruff, a roving eye, canvas shoes, a beaded necklace...
Lola even suggests playing a word association game to unveil a potential Oedipus complex.
After much deliberation, I arrange to meet MaddMaxx at Caffè Nero at 12:30 the next day.
Lola has a great theory about mid-week blind dates. Starting early in the week can generate further flirty daily communication, culminating in a Friday night second rendezvous. A date which could turn into a weekend-long shagathon, without risking being tagged as a girl who puts out on the first date. A date which could also amount to nothing, but which would then leave the entire weekend free for meeting other chaps or clubbing and pubbing with one’s toots.
‘You get a hit ratio of about 15% online dating. I usually kill two bird with one stone by setting up a video call to check they look like their online photo and their voice doesn’t grate on me. On the first date, watch what he does with his phone. Guys who play the field will keep on texting through the date. If he wants to split the bill, punch him. Oh, and please stay the fuck away from Leo types.’
Emily
Tuesday. Caffè Nero, High Street. 12:30pm.
Lola gave a thumbs-up to the selfie I sent her. She made me wear my brown knee-high boots and borrow her cream V-back cashmere jumper dress. My hair is loose in tousled waves, my make-up pristine. I feel good – like myself on a skinny day.
MaddMaxx messages:
‘Last table by the wall. See you soon.’
My heart skips a beat. I spot him from the entrance. His back is semi-turned to me, and he’s looking out over the busy street. I allow myself to savour the handsome outline of his profile, and slip into a reverie, imagining how his cheek would feel against mine...
‘Excuse me, miss, are you going in or growing roots?’
The rude loud voice makes me jump. MaddMaxx turns around. His gorgeous smile, complete with cute crinkles around his eyes, make my insides do a funny Quapaw rain dance. Embarrassed, I dash towards him. In my haste, I trip and only save myself from falling by grabbing a stranger’s arm, making him spill half of his Americano and swear copiously at me.
‘I see you like to make an entrance. I wouldn’t have hoped for any less of you,’ MaddMaxx gives me a friendly hug. He then glares at the guy I almost tripped over and clenches his fists. ‘That’s no way to speak to a lady. He needs to be taught a lesson.’
‘No, please sit down!’ I cry, simultaneously alarmed at a potential scuffle breaking out over me and already completely won over by his chivalrous, albeit slightly aggressive, behaviour. I instinctively grab his arms and make him turn to face me. He looks even better than his online holiday photo – his hair faintly darker, his face marginally paler, a five o-clock shadow which graze I would relish on any part of my body.
Instant shyness overcomes me. Mantra. Repeat mantra.
I am Khaleesi. I am the Unburnt.
‘You have a beard,’ I remark.
He chuckles, ‘Only in the winter, to keep warm. I’d shave it for the Queen. Or... you.’
I blush and curse myself as I feel red creep up my face. I joke unconvincingly, ‘You might be hiding food in there. A scar. Or a bad chin.’
Quick as a flash, he grabs my hand and places it on his jaw. He clenches it for a second.
‘I have a great jaw. So great, I hide it to stop other men being jealous.’
His stubble is
surprisingly soft, his skin warm. The touch is only brief but sends tingles all the way up my arm. I itch to reach over and cup his beautiful face.
‘Why me?’ I blurt out the one question I was dying to ask. I need to start thinking before speaking. Especially on first dates.
‘That’s a deep question. I’ll go and get us some food so I can ponder over it and give you the perfect answer. I fancy the Milanese panini and something sweet on the side. What about you?’
‘A decaff latte, BLT, and ready salted crisps if they have them.’
He winks and sets about fetching our order.
I whip out a mirror to check how pink my cheeks are. My eye make-up has run a bit in the rain. Need to do a quick repair job. Oh no, my black eyeliner has almost dried out! I shake it vigorously, wishing I hadn’t got the cheapest available from Boots.
Damn. MaddMaxx is already making his way back. Don’t they have to grill the panini? Why do they always take forever with the coffees except when you do want them to take their time?
Lola needs a quick update first.
As MaddMaxx sits down, I WhatsApp Lola.
‘He’s an 8 x’
His phone pings. My ears burn as I realize, too late, that I sent the message to MaddMaxx instead of Lola.
‘Eight? Out of ten, I hope? Immensely flattering, thank you. This is for you.’ He removes the plates from the tray and places them in front of me. ‘I got you sweeteners, white and brown sugar. Coffee walnut cake and two spoons.’
MaddMaxx stirs his coffee – black with two sugars. He has nice manly hands, large and smooth, and wears a funky odd tech-looking watch.
‘You asked, “Why me?”.’
He sits back, his deep chocolate eyes studying me mischievously. I flush once more.
‘I guess nobody ever tires of hearing it. You’re beautiful. Correction. It’s an understatement. You’re gorgeous. I don’t even know why you’re on Match. I guess you’re either very picky, all the men around you are blind, or you’ve been locked in a dungeon by your parents till today.’ He gestures at me. ‘And you’re blushing. Which is ridiculously cute. You’re down to earth. You live on my doorstep. I had a long-distance relationship for years. It was a pain. Oh, and I forgot to mention, you’re super clever. Or you must be anyway.’
#Toots Page 4