Before I knew it, it was fast approaching 1 a.m. and I realised that not only had I been swiping consistently since 7 p.m. but that I was on the verge of developing irreversible repetitive strain injury. What’s more, having put my business head on, I calculated that if I’d swiped left for over two thousand men and right for approximately twenty because of the extensive and frankly ridiculously rigid criteria I’d been using, I was unlikely to get a satisfactory ‘return on my investment’.
So, whilst attraction and maintaining some kind of standards were important, I recited the cliché that ‘looks aren’t everything’ (yes, I realise the irony of saying this whilst using an app based entirely on appearance) and opened up my mind a little more.
Stage 3: The Match
Unsurprisingly, the more open-minded strategy worked much better. The first few times I received a match, I can’t deny it did give me a buzz. The guy I like, likes me back! How wonderful, you naively think. Until you realise that a) most men that you match with don’t actually message you back because b) horror of horrors, whilst women often only swipe right when they genuinely like someone, men use dating apps as a vanity exercise to boost their ego and prove that women find them attractive. Shocking.
Legend has it that men swipe right for practically everyone to see who matches with them first, and only then do they go through and ‘vet’, by either unmatching or ignoring the ones they’re not really interested in. Worse still, some of them just do it for cheap thrills. They don’t even want a date. Knowing they got a match is satisfying enough. Boo.
Stage 4: The Messaging
But no matter, I told myself. Not all men were like that. What’s more, as an independent woman, I didn’t need to wait for the man to make the first move. So after matching, I decided to kick-start the proceedings and message José—an extremely attractive specimen who, whilst not Italian, had the trademark dark eyes, hair and beard that I’d become addicted to. Perhaps he was Spanish or Brazilian? His profile was blank, so I was none the wiser. Still blissfully naive and sticking with the ‘simple is best’ approach, I innocently opted for a basic:
Hi, José, how are you?
I awaited his reply (more eagerly than I’d like to admit as he was a vision). My phone pinged as he fired back two messages at high speed. I was excited to see his response:
Hi, said the first message, swiftly followed by, Good, but I go back home tomorrow morning, so we should meet and have sex tonight.
Whoa!
Not quite what I was expecting. I was so stunned by his frankness that I didn’t reply. Realistically, what could I have said? Ignore the blatant booty call, ask where ‘home’ is and what the weather’s like over there? It’s obvious I was once again way out of my comfort zone…
I also quickly learnt from stage 4 that the matches that do message you often fall into three categories: 1) very direct and overtly sexual (à la José’s message), staying true to the hook-up reputation of the app; 2) boring and bland (akin to asking what your favourite colour is or writing a 5,000-word essay on the different shades of white paint Dulux produce); 3) promising. These are the rare gems. The one-in-a-million matches (well, sometimes those odds feel accurate) where a decent-sounding guy that you like actually interacts with you and seems normal. Happy days.
Stage 6: The VCOD: Vicious Cycle Of Disappointment
All too often, stage five often leads seamlessly to stage six—the vicious cycle of disappointment. You’ve downloaded the app because you’re ready to find someone and also, if you’re honest, no matter how confident you are, it’s nice to receive some reassurance that someone in the universe (or within your thirty-kilometre radius) fancies you.
Filled with optimism, you swipe away and then receive the ‘validation’ of a match, but of course, given the ‘like-all-and-sundry’ tactics men employ, you know a match means little without a message. Thus, when they don’t message, you’re disappointed.
Or you take the lead and message them, you’re enjoying the conversation and then, just when you feel it’s progressing nicely and you’re in the midst of making plans to actually meet in real life, suddenly they stop messaging you altogether for no apparent reason. There’s complete and sudden radio silence. Otherwise known as ghosting. Was it something I said?
When this happens, you get so fed up that you log off feeling worse than you did before you logged on and vow to delete the app altogether. It can really fuck with your mind.
But of course, it won’t always end up this way. Like I said at the start, as a middle-aged woman dipping my toe into the dating world for the first time in nearly a decade and a half when most of my peers were all settled and had done all this in their twenties and early thirties, I wasn’t expecting it to be easy. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and whilst I felt like I wanted to give up altogether after day three of using the app, I knew that if I wanted to get to the seventh stage, i.e., the actual date, I would need to persevere. So I started taking a more structured, businesslike approach.
For the last four days, I’d committed two hours to swiping and messaging (squeezed in between meetings, whilst eating dinner, just before bed, and also under the expert eye of Roxy, when I stayed over at her house last night). As a result I had three dates lined up for next week.
I had no idea what the men would be like in real life—if I’d like them, if they’d like me, if I’d want to meet them again. But given that it had been so long since I had been on a date, whatever happened, it was sure to be an ‘interesting’ experience.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I was on cloud nine right now. Even after being in PR for seventeen years, I still got a huge buzz from organising a successful launch.
Last night was the long-awaited MIKA Cosmetics Influencer Lipstick launch at Harvey Nichols, and it had gone even better than we could have anticipated. Not only did the store sell out of their stock in record time (despite ordering extra), but we had over a hundred women that hadn’t managed to book tickets to the customer event in the evening, queuing outside the door, eager to meet and greet Amelia and Céline in person. The store had even had to draft in extra security.
The lipsticks had launched online this morning and sold out in seventeen minutes. Social media had also gone crazy. #MIKAbyAmelia and #MIKAbyCéline were still trending, and there were thousands of posts on Instagram. The boomerang post Amelia put online last night of her jumping for joy next to the giant illuminated poster of herself in the window of the store had currently been viewed 30,709 times—a figure that was increasing by the second.
As well as the sales and social media success, the floods of editorial were also coming through thick and fast, with articles already live on Vogueuk.com, Graziadaily.co.uk and the Daily Mail website. Sunday Times Style were running a big profile piece in this weekend’s issue.
It was a huge relief. That campaign was one of the biggest and ambitious we’d run to date. Even though we’d planned every last detail, I still always worry about something going wrong. Until the event is over and you get the seal of approval from the client, nothing is certain.
As well as being major for the company, it was also significant in terms of my own personal progress on the control-freak front. Whilst I had been involved at every stage and had overseen everything carefully, Robyn had led this campaign from the get-go. She’d continued to impress me and was definitely due a promotion. Perhaps to associate director, or maybe even deputy managing director? I’d need to give it more thought.
Her incredible competency meant that I no longer needed to work late every night or at weekends. With this in mind, even though there would be post-event activity to take care of, my involvement would be minimal. Which meant, despite being a little tired from last night, I was able to be bold and keep this evening free to experience the seventh stage of Tinder: the actual dates.
As we’ve established, when it came to my career, I was fine. But this dating stuff somehow caused my confidence to turn to jelly. So the only coping mech
anism that seemed to be producing any modicum of success was relating everything to a work scenario. In this way, dating was just a meeting and going for drinks was like attending an evening networking event. So on that basis, I’d arranged three dates back to back across one evening:
6.30 p.m.: Riccardo—a thirty-three-year-old lawyer
7.30 p.m.: Diego—a thirty-one-year-old accountant
8.30 p.m.: Bruno—a twenty-nine-year-old restaurant manager
And yes, the ‘o’ at the end of all of their names did mean they were all Italians. Pure coincidence. Honest…
Was I bothered about the fact that they weren’t MDs? Not really. Whilst there’s a school of thought which says you shouldn’t date outside of your ‘professional circle’ as you won’t have anything in common, as my main goal is to have fun and gain more ‘experience’, I wasn’t fussed. As long as they were interesting, had ambition and could pay their own way, that was good enough for now.
I’d allocated an hour slot per date, to give us around thirty to forty mins to chat, at which point Roxy (who I’d also sent details of whom I’d be meeting, when and where, just to be safe), would call my phone and I’d have to leave unexpectedly. In other words, make my way to the next date. I had learnt the ‘get out call’ was, once again, standard practice in the new dating world.
I’d made sure my hair, make-up and outfit were on point and had even embarrassingly struck different poses in the mirror—practising how I would smile and act when I greeted my dates. Big cheesy, confident smile? Or act demure and sexy? I was nervous. Understandable, as it had been a while since I’d been on a date, so packing three into one evening with men I’d never met before only intensified those feelings. Even though I wasn’t sure if they’d turn up or what to expect, it was also quite exciting.
I was looking forward to meeting Riccardo. From his messages, he seemed like an ambitious lawyer, and I loved anyone with drive. But I should have known it was too good to be true. The man who rocked up (ten minutes late, I might add), was not the man I’d seen in those photos. That sexy stubble I’d been drawn to was in fact a full-on beard that would give Father Christmas a facial hair complex, and that cute head of ringlets was tied up into an unkempt, greasy man bun.
Turns out he wasn’t, in fact, a lawyer. He’d graduated from law school six years ago and currently worked part-time at Caffè Nero but would start looking for a job in the industry again ‘soon’…which, judging by his lack of energy, didn’t seem likely to happen any time this century.
In contrast to Riccardo, Diego surprised me. He actually looked just like his photos. He’d already told me he was five foot seven, so I was expecting that, and at first he seemed very interesting.
Then out of nowhere, he’d asked, ‘How do you feel about being worshipped?’
Random. I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about religion…
‘You’re a beautiful, intelligent and clearly successful woman,’ he’d added. ‘Someone like you deserves to be worshipped. So I would like to be submissive to you. What do you think?’
Whilst the idea of a man pandering to my every whim did sound appealing for a few fleeting seconds, I quickly came to my senses. I didn’t want some sort of bedroom slave. I was attracted to strong men with their own mind and would rather us be equal instead of me being dominant. Each to their own, but this wasn’t for me.
Thankfully, right on cue, my phone rang. Roxy! She apologised profusely for missing the first get-out call, as she had been stuck in a meeting, but her timing now was spot-on. After ending the call, I told Diego I had to rush off to meet a friend.
To be polite, I reluctantly exchanged two friendly cheek kisses with him, but then his tongue licked the inside of my ear. ‘Mmm…you taste so good,’ he groaned suggestively.
Surely licking your mistress’ ear without permission wasn’t good sub behaviour? Gross. I wanted to go home and take a shower.
I hot-footed it to my next date, hoping it would be third time lucky.
Bruno…was a vision. Not as breathtaking as Lorenzo, but still stunning. Anyway, I needed to forget about him. Back to Bruno—he actually looked better in real life than in his photos. He had the most beautiful dark eyes, gorgeous full lips and a beard so perfectly shaped, it would make the most skilled barber give it a round of applause. Although, sitting in front of him rather than a phone screen suddenly made things feel very real, and I did wonder whether it was wrong for me to drool over him? He’s only twenty-nine, for goodness’ sake. The same age as Harrison. Surely he’s far too young?
Unlike Riccardo, this was a man putting his goals into action by using the knowledge he’d gained from working at one of London’s top hotels to launch his own concierge company.
Once he found out I ran my own business (I’d just said I worked in marketing on my profile), that was it. The questions about how he should promote himself came thick and fast, which was draining. When I was thinking about comparing the dating thing to work, I wasn’t quite expecting it to feel like I was actually at a new business meeting. He was like an overexcited puppy with verbal diarrhoea, and any initial attraction I’d had started to evaporate. So when Roxy’s call came after forty minutes, I told him I had to leave as I had an early start.
So that was it. My seventh stage of Tinder was complete. I’m sure there were an infinite number of steps after this. Perhaps Stage 8 was Hooking Up, but right now, I was exhausted and thought I’d opt for ‘Tinder Time Out’.
At least for now, anyway…
Well, you know what it’s like. Never say never, particularly as these apps are totally addictive…
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was 10.30 a.m. on Sunday, and I was almost ready to leave for my appointment with super facialist Anoushka. As I’d hoped, we’d won the project to publicise her new £300 Caviar Facial. And because we never promote a treatment without trying it first, I’d booked in at her private clinic in Chelsea to test it myself (I know, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it…).
Normally, I’d jump in an Uber. But I was conscious that I hadn’t driven my car for at least two months. In fact, as I always got a cab to and from work (another thing I vowed to do when I could, after years of commuting on the train with my head buried in someone else’s sweaty armpits), I often questioned whether I actually needed a car anymore.
I headed to the dressing room and selected a fitted black-and-white Reiss dress (after my trip to Italy, I’d been experimenting more with non-designer threads). Think I’ll switch up my handbag today too. I picked a white Prada from the shelf (no point letting a classic bag gather dust) and transferred the essential items from my work bag into it. Keys? Check. Purse? Check. Make-up bag? Check. Phone? Charging—will grab in a sec. Umbrella? Check. Notepad? Check. Tissues? Check. Mints? Check.
I gave myself the once-over in the mirror. My hair was tied up into my now-signature undone ponytail to keep it off my face. No make-up today, obviously, as I was having a facial. Whilst my skin wasn’t glowing right now and I looked a little tired from a few late nights last week, with the launch and then the Tinder dates, I wasn’t concerned as I’d be hidden away in my car. Plus, after an hour with Anoushka I was sure to look a million times better.
Better go. My appointment was at noon, so I should arrive in plenty of time, but it was always good to get there early. Even though Anoushka had moved since I had last seen her, I knew exactly where she was based, as I remembered passing that road on the way to a furniture shop Rich wanted to visit during the January sales, so at least finding it would be straightforward.
I picked my car keys off the side table, set the alarm, stepped outside, then unlocked the doors to my black Mercedes SLK. I placed my handbag on the passenger seat and then started the engine.
As I set off towards the South Circular, my mind started to wander. I made a mental note to check in with Marie today to find out how she was coping. I’d been doing this every few weeks, alternating between her, Henri and Geraldine. Each time
, I wished I could do more to help, but at the very least, I wanted to ensure they knew I was thinking of them. As you’d expect, every day was a struggle without Albert, but they’d all said that keeping themselves busy at work and having everyone’s support helped to ease the pain a little. Yes, I’d message again later.
I spotted a new restaurant on the corner as I crossed Lavender Hill. My thoughts turned to the Savour London food festival I’d attended yesterday. Needless to say, I had gone alone, i.e., without Lorenzo. I hadn’t heard from him since the last message I’d sent inviting him to the event, so although it had taken longer than I would’ve liked for the penny to drop, I realised that he just wasn’t interested, so I wouldn’t be messaging him again.
The festival was cool. I didn’t stay long, as it doesn’t matter how confident you are, sometimes it’s just more enjoyable to have company, so you can marvel at how good the food/drink tastes or share the experience together. I walked around and tried a couple of prawn dishes from the pop-up restaurants. I was going to sit in on some celebrity chef demos, but I knew it would make me think about Lorenzo, so I headed home instead.
Enough mind-wandering. Better start getting myself into ‘work’ zone. You can never entirely relax when you’re having treatments with clients. You need to be ready to answer any questions they’re likely to throw at you.
Okay. Kings Road. If I remembered correctly, firstly, I needed to go down Sydney Street, which should be coming up shortly on the left. Yes, here we go.
So then, I do a right at the lights at the bottom of the road, then it should be a road on the right? I’ll know it when I see it.
As the lights turned green, I made a right.
Great, so it should be somewhere…here. I put on my indicator.
Oh?
Nope. It’s not that road. I took off my indicator. Must be the next one. I sped up, then slowed down as I approached the next right, indicated, then stopped again.
The Middle-Aged Virgin: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Page 20