Not That Easy

by Radhika Sanghani

  I breathed out in relief. I was right—the pros of having one-night stands were endless. Con-wise there were hardly any issues.

  1)May fall in love with them. But—very unlikely. Especially if stranger off the Internet. Will hardly know them.

  2)If they don’t call me again I might get sad. Fact of life—bad things happen. You’ll get over it, Ellie. It’s not like you haven’t been rejected before.

  3)Might feel dirty and slutty. Fine, but remember—other people think being slutty is bad but you can choose the meaning you want it to have. Slutty is not necessarily a bad thing.

  Five pros against three cons. I felt better. Fuck my body anxiety—I could just turn the lights off. It looked like Ben84 was going to get lucky.

  10

  The last few days had passed in a blur. Maxine was still a bitch, Emma was with Sergio, Will was off shagging anyone and everyone, and Ollie was up in Bristol visiting Yomi. But it was finally Friday afternoon and I was going to meet Ben84. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure where.

  I pulled out my phone, hoping it would shed some light on where I should be in the next couple of hours. Thank God—there was a text from Ben. We had finally progressed from OKC messages to real-life texting, AKA the second base equivalent of online dating.

  • • •

  Hey, so I know you have a bar in Angel in mind. But do you want to just meet me in the Waterstones bookshop on the high street first? I’ll be in between Wittgenstein and Jung. 6pm.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He not only wanted to meet inside a bookshop, instead of outside the tube station or at the bar like a normal person, but he was going to be in . . . the artist aisles? Who even were these people?! I Googled them.

  Ludwig Josef Johann Wittgenstein was an Austrian-British philosopher who worked primarily in logic, the philosophy of mathematics, the philosophy of mind, and the philosophy of language.

  Ah, right. So Wittgenstein was a philosopher, not an artist. I was pretty sure Jung was another kind of communist like Marx but I Googled just to double check.

  Carl Gustav Jung, often referred to as C. G. Jung, was a Swiss psychiatrist and psychotherapist who founded analytical psychology.

  Oops. Well, at least now I knew he was definitely going to be in the philosophy aisles. It kind of made sense because he studied it at university, but on no other level did I understand it. At all. It had to be a joke—no one could be that pretentious. I forwarded it on to Emma for a second opinion. She called back.

  “Emma,” I whispered, “what the hell does it mean? Does he actually want me to go to the philosophy aisles of the bookshop to meet him?”

  “Oh God, are you hiding in the loos at work again, Ellie? You can talk to people from your desk you know?”

  “Um, maybe at your chilled, cool PR firm, but not here. Anyway, Ben’s message. What the actual fuck?”

  “He’s got to be kidding. No guy would ever write that seriously.”

  “But his pictures were quite hipster. He wears thick glasses and skinny jeans.”

  Emma scoffed. “Babe, Justin Bieber fans wear hipster glasses. It means nothing anymore.”

  “Maybe, but either way, what do I reply to him?”

  There was a long pause and then a loud shriek. “Ohmigod, I’ve got it. I’m a genius. You need to text him back with something equally as witty.”

  “Right. That’s all very well in theory except for the teeny tiny obstacle that—”

  “That you’re not witty?” she interrupted. “Do not worry, my young friend. I’ve got it.” The line went dead.

  I sighed and got up off the closed loo seat and walked out of the cubicle. Maxine was standing there with her arms crossed.

  “So, this is where you hang out on your lunch break, is it?” she asked, raising her recently threaded brows.

  “Um, I just needed to make a quick personal call,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, I gathered,” she said. “So your next date is potentially a hipster who wants to meet in the philosophy section of a bookstore?”

  I stared at her in silence. She arched her eyebrows higher and I coughed on air. “Um, yes,” I eventually managed.

  “That, Ellie, is very London Mag,” she said, with a small smile. “You’re going to write about it for me. A column. The single life. I want miniscule details, I want embarrassing facts and I want honesty. Brutal, painful ‘ohmigod her life is horrendous’ honesty. Got it? And can you shut your mouth, please, you look like a goldfish.”

  Obediently, I closed my mouth. Then I opened it again. “Hang on, I . . . haven’t got it. You want me to write a column? On being single in London and dating?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. Now do I have to repeat myself anymore or are we all good here?”

  “Um . . . how many words?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Finally, a real question. Four hundred words for each Friday. So I want it by Tuesday so you have time to edit it. Make it funny. We can call it ‘NSFW,’ like ‘Not Safe For Work.’ It’ll be fun. You can start with this philosophy date, or the one that nose-bled on you last week.”

  I choked again. “How . . . how do you know that?”

  “Please, Ellie, I know every tiny little thing that goes on in this office. And next time you want to complain about me, please don’t use the office email system. Your personal one will suffice for those purposes I think, don’t you?”

  I nodded mutely and she turned around on her Russell & Bromley brogues.

  Had Maxine just given me a column? To write about myself? I stared at myself in the mirror and grinned maniacally. I was basically a twenty-two-year-old version of Carrie Bradshaw without the shoes or annoying habits. Everything was finally going my way—except had Maxine mentioned money? Oh fuck it; writing experience was probably more important than a salary anyway.

  This was amazing. I could have a cool anonymous column, write all about my dates in total detail, and then I’d be a mysterious insta-celeb with a portfolio of past work. She’d have to pay me eventually and I could stop feeling guilty about spending my mum’s money. I looked at myself in the mirror, smiling at the frizzy-haired reflection. Who knew I’d turn out to be so successful?

  I pulled out my phone to send a message to the girls. I was going to send one to my mum too, but then decided I’d better save that for when the salary was confirmed.

  The phone beeped immediately with a reply from Emma. I opened it with a grin, waiting for the inevitable emojis and exclamation marks.

  • • •

  6pm sounds good. You’ll find me in between Twilight and The Hunger Games.

  I laughed out loud. That was definitely more useful than a congratulatory message. Maybe I should just forward it on to Ben. Hopefully he would see that it was an obvious joke and, if not, it would just be great fodder for my new anon column.

  He replied within seconds.

  • • •

  Ha ha. We’ll see who comes to find who first . . .

  Right. Well, that didn’t shed any light on where we were actually meeting. And what if Twilight was actually really far away from The Hunger Games? Which one would I stand near?? Why the hell was dating so complicated?

  Oh fuck it. We lived in a modern age and, if he couldn’t find me next to some popular teen fiction, he could damn well call me. Besides, I was going to be an actual, published writer.

  • • •

  I was standing in Waterstones and had no idea where Ben was. This was the most humiliating rendezvous I had ever experienced. I was so stressed that even the thought of my new column couldn’t cheer me up. My day-to-night outfit—a midi-length black dress with ankle boots and leather jacket—no longer felt sexy. I’d gone between the philosophy and teen fiction aisles so many times now that I had rivers of sweat dripping down my cleavage.

  I pulled my phone out hoping he had messag
ed to say exactly where he was but . . . nothing. I walked over to the Philosophy section again and stood there with my arms crossed. If he wanted to go on this date, he could come and find me right here.

  Five minutes later, I was back in the teen fiction section searching for him. It was six fifteen p.m. and I was no closer to finding my date. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled around and finally came face-to-face with Ben84.

  “Ellie?” he asked. He had floppy brown hair, was exactly my height—which meant the five foot eleven thing was a definite lie—wore cute black-rimmed glasses and was dressed in gray jeans with a checked shirt. He looked relatively attractive but, more importantly, was not seventy years old.

  “Hey,” I said nervously. “You found me.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about the whole bookshop thing. I just saw on your profile that you like reading so I thought it could be cute. I didn’t really think about the logistics though so that backfired a bit.”

  I smiled back at him with a new rush of affection and hoped he was thinking that I looked exactly like my pictures too.

  “You know,” he said, “you don’t look like your profile picture.”

  The smile dropped off my face. “Sorry?”

  “No, don’t worry; you look better than your pictures. More . . . my style, I guess.”

  “Right,” I said slowly. “Cheers?”

  “No worries. So shall we go to this bar then?”

  “Yes, definitely,” I said, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat away from my cleavage. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  “Well, hello there.” Pete-the-barman grinned. “You’re back. And there’s another one.”

  “Another what?” asked Ben.

  I let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, nothing. I was here last week with some friends and met Pete.”

  “Cool. I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.”

  Pete reached out across the bar to shake Ben’s hand and gave me a not-so-subtle wink. I rolled my eyes and dragged Ben across to the other side of the bar.

  “Let’s just order here,” I said. “What are you getting?”

  “Just a pint, I reckon. You?”

  “A glass of white wine, I think.”

  “Okay,” he said, and leaned across to order our drinks. I looked around the bar idly and found myself staring at Pete. I couldn’t figure out if I was attracted to him or not. He was definitely flirty, but was he actually good-looking? His dreads looked kinda dirty. “Here you go,” said Ben.

  “Oh God, thanks. Sorry, I was totally in my own world there. Shit, have you paid?” I asked.

  “Yep, don’t worry about it,” he said, as I started reaching for my purse.

  “Sorry, I didn’t even notice. I’ll definitely get the next ones,” I promised.

  “Cool,” he said. “Cheers.” We clinked glasses and then he looked at me expectantly. “So, tell me about yourself.”

  “Wow, okay. Um, that’s a pretty big question. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “How about you just start with what you do for a living, and what you like doing in your spare time, and all that standard crap,” he suggested.

  “Excuse me, Ben, are you saying you didn’t read any of that ‘standard crap’ when it was all nicely laid out on my profile?” I asked in mock-horror.

  He grinned. “Okay you’ve got me. I just saw your picture and figured that was all that mattered. Have you been on any dates from it before then?”

  Should I tell him that on my first attempt someone bled on me two meters from where we were standing, or should I pretend I’m a total novice? Honesty. Always total honesty.

  “Just one, but it was pretty uneventful,” I said. “No spark. What about you?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been on quite a few. Well, not that many, but it’s just a really cool way to meet people, you know? And it’s chilled. There’s not that many expectations and you can kind of just see how things go.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I nodded. “So, you work as a graphic designer right? And how old are you?”

  “Oh, so now it’s your turn for the twenty questions, eh? But, yes, I’m a graphic designer. Have been for a few years. I’m twenty-nine now. Studied philosophy at uni and, as you can probably tell, I’m still quite keen on it.”

  “Wittgenstein?”

  “And Jung, obviously,” he said with a grin, pronouncing it with a y. I silently congratulated myself for not having attempted to say it. “How about another drink?”

  “Sure. Can you make mine a large?”

  A few hours and too many glasses of wine later, I was kissing Ben as though my life depended on it. I saw Pete watching us out of the corner of my eye, but, after snogging Ben for about fifteen minutes, I realized Pete had disappeared.

  “Ellie, do you . . . do you want to come back to mine?” asked Ben shyly.

  Oh my God. It was happening. I was about to have my first ever ONS. Was I wearing matching underwear?

  “Sure,” I said. “Cab? Night bus? What works for you?”

  He looked a bit taken aback then grinned. “A cab will get us there quicker. Let’s go outside and I’ll call us one.”

  “Perfect. I’m just going to run to the loo first, and then I’ll come upstairs and meet you there. Plan?”

  “Yeah, great,” he said. “So long as you don’t do a runner!”

  I smiled weakly. “Would I ever do something like that?”

  He got up and left the bar. I rushed to the loo and inspected my reflection. I had done smoky-eye makeup earlier, which meant that the more it smudged, the more it just looked like it was the effect I was going for. My hair was getting a bit poufy so I pulled it into a tight bun, and put on another layer of lipstick. My lips were chafed from rubbing against Ben’s stubble, but I didn’t care. Because I was about to have sex. With a semi-stranger. In his flat in . . . I made a mental note to ask him where he lived so I could text Emma and Lara. Safety first.

  As I exited the loo, I bumped into Pete. “Oh hey,” I said.

  “I see this date is going noticeably better than the last,” said Pete. “Although, again you’re in the loo and he’s not here. Do you make a habit of abandoning your dates?”

  “Never! What an audacious sushestion,” I cried. Maybe I was drunker than I’d realized.

  “Well, I’m glad your date’s gone,” he said. “Because I wanted a moment alone with you.”

  Oh God. Was he . . . coming on to me? Could I kiss two men in one night—especially with my date upstairs waiting to take me home and fuck my brains out? I felt a grin spread uncontrollably across my face. Of course I could.

  “You did?” I asked him, trying to make my eyes wide and sexy.

  “Yeah,” he said nervously. I opened my lips apart slightly and angled my head to the side, so he would know I was willing to let him kiss me. He looked straight into my eyes and leaned towards me. This was it—I was going to snog the barman while my date ordered a cab. This was such great material for Never Have I Ever. Shame it hadn’t happened in time for university.

  I closed my eyes as Pete came nearer, waiting for his lips to touch mine. Instead, I felt something nibble my cheek.

  “OW,” I screeched, wrenching my eyes open. “What the fuck? Did you just . . . bite me?!”

  He backed away and laughed awkwardly. “No, I, um . . . yeah. Yeah, I guess I did,” he said, looking firmly at the floor.

  I stared at him. “But . . . why?”

  “Just, um, thought it would be fun,” he said, with an embarrassed shrug.

  “Right. What? I . . . sorry am I missing something here?”

  “No, it was just a little bite.”

  I stared at him in incomprehension. What the fuck was happening?? He looked down at the floor. I shook my head. I would deal with this in the morning.

  “Okay,” I sa
id. “Well, I’d, um, better get going. So, bye?”

  “Wait, can I have your number first, Ellie? Please?”

  “Um, yeah, fine,” I said, taking the phone he was holding out to me. I tapped my number out then gave it back to him, vowing to never, ever return to this bar again. “I’d better go, but, um, have a good night.”

  I walked quickly out of the bar without looking behind me. I had no idea what had just happened, but all I wanted to do was call Lara. Instead, I had to go home with an Internet date who liked Wittgenstein. This was not a good sign.

  “Ellie, hey,” said Ben, as I walked out of the bar.

  I reminded myself that he was more attractive than Pete, didn’t have dreadlocks, and, most importantly, had not bitten me. I greeted him back with a long kiss.

  “Well, hello.” He grinned. “The cab’s here.”

  “Oh yeah, where are we going?”

  “Hoxton.”

  “Oh perfect, near me,” I said, climbing into the back seat of the cab. It was a battered Honda with tape across one of the windowpanes. Please be a registered minicab, I prayed. Are you listening, Caesar? Or even you, God? I don’t want to die without having a real orgasm.

  11

  “It’s not this one,” gasped Ben as we stood snogging in the hallway. He pushed me into his bedroom and straight onto the double bed in the middle of the room. We had kissed nonstop for the fifteen-minute cab ride to his, and now we were both ready to fuck. “God, I’ve wanted you all night,” he breathed into my neck.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say so I chose not to reply. Instead, I used all my energy to focus on not throwing up whilst snogging him.

  He pinned my arms up above my head and pulled my dress off in one swift move. He had definitely done this before. I tried not to think about my tummy being on show and quickly undid my bra so he would be too distracted by my boobs to notice my lower lumps.

  “You’re so sexy,” he said, nuzzling into my cleavage. I giggled in response, wondering what I was meant to do, when his head was nowhere near my face. I settled for rubbing my hands across his back, but he took this as an invitation to lower himself down the bed, farther away from my face. He pulled off my tights and knickers.