Swipe Right

by Stephie Chapman

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t make it on The X Factor. Probably had more to do with that than the lack of sob story. What’s your name?’

  Weird segue.

  ‘Erm, it’s Fran. But you know that.’

  ‘No, your surname.’

  ‘Oh right. Tatlin. Why?’

  ‘Mine’s Taylor,’ he says, and I immediately think it’s the sort of generic name that gets lost in the ether of social media. Ollie Taylor. Oliver Taylor? Either way I’d probably never find him on Facebook. I decide not to even look.

  ‘Okay, well I’m going this way,’ I say, and motion up the street towards the familiar red and blue of the underground sign.

  ‘Bye,’ he says, and I don’t look back. Instead, I hurry through the people and duck into the station, through the barriers and down the escalator, and it only occurs to me when I’m safely back in Stratford and replying to my messages from this morning, that my boyfriend, Lucas, hasn’t even texted me to find out how the interview went.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You keep talking about this guy,’ Suze says. ‘That’s what I’m taking from your day today.’

  ‘Who? Ollie?’

  ‘Yes. This Ollie.’

  ‘How can I possibly keep talking about him when I don’t know anything about him? Other than that he’s—’

  ‘An arrogant know-it-all who had no fucks to give about anything,’ Suze finishes my sentence for me. ‘He probably fancied you, mate. He was probably arsey to you in the same way that boys pull girls’ hair in the playground.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I scoff. ‘Also he—’

  ‘Went on The X Factor but didn’t get in because he can’t sing. You said.’

  ‘Why not just say that then?’ I grumble. ‘Why make up some crap about not having a sob story?’

  ‘You said you said that. Sounds like he just didn’t argue.’

  Rats. She’s not wrong.

  ‘Why do you care so much, Fran? He’s really got under your skin, eh? Maybe you fancy him? What would Lucas say?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I say, quickly. ‘And I don’t fancy him, and it doesn’t matter. And Lucas wouldn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say.’

  ‘And yet you’ve said a lot.’

  ‘Lucas hasn’t asked me how it went.’

  ‘He’s probably just busy.’

  Suze is good at saying the things I need to hear. It’s not true this time, though.

  ‘Nah. He’s forgotten. I spoke to him earlier, and asked him how his day went and asked what he’d been up to. Usual stuff, you know? And I was waiting for him to ask me, but he didn’t.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘He talked a lot about himself, though.’

  Suze makes a face, and that face says, so what’s new?

  I carry on. ‘Look, I just really want the job, and this guy walks in like it’s already his and was so calm and collected about everything and he’s probably exactly what they are looking for.’

  ‘Well, I guess if he is, then he is. You gave it a good shot, though. Shall we make a start on dinner?’

  We do this, Suze and I, cook something nice to eat, as often as we can when she isn’t thirty-five thousand feet up in the air, working as a flight attendant. She said it was something she wanted to implement when I came to view the flat, and it seemed like such a nice idea, and so markedly different from how things were where I was living at the time, that I jumped at it. I’ve lived here for five months now and I have a firm friend in Suze, and not just because I pay a substantial part of her mortgage each month. Plus, I’m eating way better these days, and am not just limited to one shelf in the fridge, labelling my own food, or living with people who never do the washing up. All in all, it’s a much nicer set-up.

  Tonight we’re having baked salmon and new potatoes, and we eat it in front of a Netflix movie, with a glass of wine.

  Halfway through the movie my phone pings with an email alert. I’m about to ignore it because it’s a LinkedIn notification, and therefore spammy and boring, but a name in the email catches my attention.

  Oliver Taylor would like to Connect

  ‘What the actual fuck?’ I mutter, and Suze looks over. Immediately I’m torn. If I click through, he’ll know I’ve been on his profile. But equally I sort of do want to snoop. I chuck my phone at her. ‘What would you do?’ I ask.

  ‘Incognito mode, obviously,’ she says. ‘What did I tell you? Looks like you got under his skin as well. I’m pausing the movie. Get your laptop. And make sure you’re not logged in.’

  ‘And you’re sure, absolutely sure, he won’t be able to see?’ I say, when I’ve got my computer. I open a browser. We forget about our food.

  ‘Fran!’ she sighs, exasperated. ‘You’re the one who is good at this. You told me this!’

  ‘Alright!’ I say, and jab at the keyboard. The page loads.

  ‘Oh, my, you weren’t fibbing,’ Suze says. ‘He is pretty.’

  ‘Meh, he’s okay,’ I say, ungraciously and untruthfully.

  She laughs. He looks sort of serious in his profile picture. Like it could have been used on an ID card or a building pass. Still good hair though. Still nice eyes. We scan down what he’s set as public. Some articles, a few videos. He’s presenting in one and he’s confident but chilled. Relaxed. Like he’s totally at ease in front of the camera, and all of a sudden it clicks why he was interested when I’d said I liked video content, too.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, when the video ends. ‘He’s charismatic, eh? Aw, Fran. That is some tough competition. I’m sorry, mate.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ I say, and chug some wine. But inside I’m feeling despondent. And I’m dreading the call, because it’ll be a no thanks and feedback, and I’ll know who got the job, and it won’t be Rock Choir Hannah or that kid who played poker.

  ‘Well, if you’re not meant to be Viral Hive’s newest content editor, never mind. He’s put his social media channels up. Let’s have a look, shall we?’

  Predictably, he has a big following on Twitter, and loads of engagement. He’s got a Facebook page where he refers to himself as a ‘public figure’ (bit wanky), and a blog, which I desperately hope proves he is a proper lad, but actually is mainly music and film reviews and they are witty and snappy and read with the ease of a Nick Hornby novel. Gah!

  Finally, we click over to Instagram and we’re met with little glimpses of his life. Record collections, a boomerang clip of a lava lamp, a pint and then, slightly out of focus in the background, a glass of wine with a slice of lemon floating in it. In one picture there’s a woman walking in front of him on a beach, wearing espadrilles and a floaty skirt. She’s reaching back and holding his hand. Long, brown hair whips around her shoulders, and instantly I wish I hadn’t seen it. For a few seconds my insides feel as if they are crumpling and collapsing in on themselves and I’m confused by my reaction. I don’t understand why I feel a little bit winded and I instantly internalise it and make no comments at all about her. I haven’t even really seen her face, and now that I’m sort of looking for her, but pretending I’m not, it becomes apparent that there are no photos of her online at all. And no mention of her name. When she’s mentioned at all, it’s ‘we’ and ‘us’ and ‘this one’. At the beach with This One. Pints in the sun with This One. Never once does he mention her name.

  ‘So, are you going to connect with him?’ Suze asks. She also doesn’t mention the girlfriend. I wonder if it’s on purpose, but it’s not like I can ask. Because then she’ll deliver a knowing look and comment on my interest in the pair of them.

  ‘No. God no,’ I say, disdainfully. But what I don’t say is that I’m going to have a better, far more comprehensive look through his Twitter feed later on. Maybe scroll back through the media tweets to look at all his photos. For now though, I close my laptop and Suze unpauses the TV, and I grab a bar of chocolate from the kitchen and snap it into pieces for us to nibble on.

  ‘What
’s your roster like for the rest of the month?’ I ask, happily changing the subject.

  ‘Cancún day after tomorrow. Back on Monday. Then Boston next Thursday. New York the following week. Want anything?’

  ‘You mean besides margaritas and tacos fed to me by a sexy Mexican called Alejandro?’

  ‘For the second time tonight, Fran, whatever would Lucas say?’

  ‘Dunno if it’s escaped your notice, but Lucas isn’t hugely in my good books tonight. Allow me Alejandro, sí?’

  We turn in after the film. I digest the day, and whilst I do, I lie there and think about all the ways I could have pulled off the interview better. I could have not sniped at Ollie in front of Maxine and Joe, because that was unprofessional. I should have taken the high road there and I know I’ve probably shot myself in the foot. I could have been more competitive during the pitch. I could have held back a little more of my idea and wowed everyone whilst we presented rather than let him have it all, so that he could palm it off as his own.

  But what keeps coming back, what keeps emerging at the front of my subconscious as I relax into sleep was that a few smirks aside, Ollie wasn’t really unpleasant to me at all. And he chatted to me on the walk to the station, was interested in me enough to ask my name before I ran away, and shared something with me he hadn’t told anyone else. And he didn’t covertly stalk me online, but was open and transparent about it. On the face of it, I might have been a bit of a cow. He’s holding that girl’s hand on the beach. I toss and turn all night.

  It’s lunchtime the following day when I get a call from Viral Hive. I watch my phone as it vibrates, rattling on the coffee table whilst I watch shit daytime TV and I’m almost too afraid to answer it. For a few seconds I contemplate allowing it to divert to voicemail, but listening back would be equally excruciating, so I tap the screen and say hello. I make my tone as breezy as I can manage, but I can hear the fear in my voice so I have no doubt that Maxine can, too. But as she talks she sounds chirpy. She tells me it was a really strong group but that they liked the confidence I showed in my interaction with the other candidates, and the way I thought on my feet during the pitch and related a spin-off idea to something relevant. And still, I’m expecting her to come in with a but. But unfortunately, when it came down to it, we just thought another candidate would be a better fit. Or, but then we remembered how you picked a fight with Ollie and mocked his reason for not getting further in a national TV competition, and as such we have decided you might be a complete bitch. But that but never comes, and she offers me the job, and I’m so surprised I have to ask her to repeat herself.

  ‘We both thought you’d make a great addition to the team,’ she laughs. ‘We felt your personality shone through, and having looked at the material you submitted as part of your application, we’re confident you’d bring a fresh voice to the Hive.’

  Good grief, what a compliment. I accept the job and agree a start date before she realises she’s actually rung me by mistake, instead of Ollie. My head is buzzing with ideas for what I can bring, and what I’m going to wear and where I can source a quirky desk tidy. So long, freelance editor life! Hello, regular (and better) pay cheque!

  I pace around the flat waiting for Suze to come home. I text Lucas my news and suggest a celebratory dinner out and put a bottle of prosecco in the fridge for pre drinks. I take a long hot shower, and comb the conditioner through my hair rather than just hurriedly smooshing it a bit. All these things act as a distraction because I want to see if Ollie’s been online and what he has to say about not getting the job. My resolve lasts all of twenty-seven minutes – and only that long because of the shower.

  During my snoop around @theollietaylor’s Twitter feed it became apparent that he shares every mundane little detail about his life with the world, and as such I’m confident he’ll have posted something. I’m not wrong, but I wish I hadn’t looked, because what I see makes me feel a little less shiny about the whole thing.

  Two job offers in as many days. Confident I made the right choice.

  Of course he was offered the job I’ve just accepted. And of course he turned it down. He was probably offered something at the Associated Press. Or a TV channel. Still, I shift my perspective a little. No need to be salty when everyone’s a winner. I got what I wanted and now I’m happily employed again. He got what he wanted doing whatever he’s doing.

  A key turns in the lock and I click away from his Twitter feed.

  ‘Guess who got the job!’ I announce, happily, from the sofa, as Suze walks through the door.

  ‘Yes!’ She punches the air. ‘Amazing news. Are you excited? When did they call?’

  ‘About forty-five minutes ago, and yes, I’m chuffed to bits!’

  ‘Brilliant! Well, I think this is just what you need, and we should celebrate. But not too hard because I have to fly tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There’s booze in the fridge. We can have it whenever. I told Lucas, asked if he’d like to take me out to celebrate. I’ll see if I can stay at his so you can get an early night.’

  ‘Well, that sounds lovely,’ she says. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to.’

  She throws her gym bag down on the floor by the front door and gestures that she’s going to shower. My phone lights up with a text. Lucas is not delighted at the prospect of dinner out with me.

  Lucas

  Great news re job. But I’m a bit tired tonight babe, and I’ve got a breakfast meeting tomorrow. Catch up some other time?

  Fran

  Not even a couple of drinks and a takeaway at yours then? I’d quite like to celebrate x

  Lucas

  Ah I know, but like I said, I’m knackered. Another time?

  I start typing out a response. Lucas, you’re being rubbish. But change my mind and delete it instead.

  ‘Girls’ night in,’ I say to Suze, when she emerges from her room. I’m chirpy. Too chirpy. She cuts her eyes at me.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Lucas wasn’t so into it.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, diplomatically. ‘Well, never mind. Why don’t you call Lydia, and see if she fancies joining us? Don’t sweat my early night. It’ll be fine. I’ll just slink off if I need to.’

  Lydia and I have been pals since school, and even though she’s my best friend, I’m not convinced she’ll be into it either, on account of living across town, and being a smug married whose new favourite pastimes are watching reruns of Grand Designs and talking, at length, about her pizza oven. But she is surprisingly up for it, which cheers me up after Lucas’ rebuff. And she brings celebratory curry with her, which is also a delight.

  The three of us lay everything out on the side and spoon biryani and bombay aloo and chicken jalfrezi on to our plates. We tear off hunks of cheese naan to mop up the sauce and smash poppadoms into shards to dip in yoghurt and mango chutney.

  ‘To Fran’s fun new job,’ Lydia toasts, and we drink.

  ‘The best person for it,’ Suze adds. ‘You’ll be fantastic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I coo. ‘Line managing three people, Lordy! I hope they go easy on me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be golden,’ Lydia says. ‘As will you. What were the other candidates like?’

  ‘Lydia, don’t get her started.’

  ‘No! No, what do you mean, don’t get me started?’ I ask. ‘They were nice enough apart from one, and even he wasn’t dreadful.’

  ‘Yeah but he was just competition. And anyway, he was definitely interested in you.’

  ‘He has a girlfriend, remember? This One?’

  ‘I don’t mean, interested, interested necessarily. Just… I don’t know, he cared enough to look you up. That’s all. I wasn’t suggesting he was trying to pick you up. I was saying he was curious.’

  Lydia puts her glass down. She ties her hair into a topknot and looks confused.

  ‘Hang on, what? Fran went to a job interview and picked up someone who already has a girlfriend?’

  ‘No. That couldn’t be further f
rom the truth. I was partnered up with this guy. And there was a little bit of… sparring between us. Then we chatted on the way home and he found me on LinkedIn.’

  ‘Sparring because…?’

  ‘I suspect because we both recognised each other as the only real competition. Anyway. I got the job. He didn’t. Poor Oliver Taylor.’

  I don’t mention my Twitter findings. Or that I am convinced he was offered it first.

  ‘Oh, okay, I was going to ask what Lucas would have made of you getting chatted up by a rival,’ Lydia says.

  Oh, not her as well.

  ‘Lucas didn’t want to see me tonight, so I don’t care what he’d have made of it,’ I say, and it comes out more abruptly than I’d like.

  ‘Alright, haughty,’ Lydia says. ‘He’s probably just super busy. Isn’t his job quite demanding?’

  ‘I suppose…’ I say. ‘Even so, it would have been nice for him to want to celebrate with me. He just vetoed it outright.’

  ‘I am absolutely convinced he isn’t being off on purpose. You know how he is: quality over quantity. He’ll be planning something lovely for you, I’m sure.’

  ‘He did say he was knackered,’ I concede.

  ‘Well there you go,’ she shrugs. ‘Don’t read too much into it.’

  Suze sips her drink and says nothing.

  ‘More poppadom?’ Lydia asks. She snaps some off and drizzles over the last of the mango chutney.

  * * *

  Later in the evening my phone rings, and I guess some ears were burning because it’s Lucas, and to my annoyance he sounds drunk. I take the phone into my room to speak to him.

  ‘Thought you were knackered?’ I say, and my heart sinks a little.

  ‘Yesh,’ he slurs. Slurs! ‘But then what happened was, I went out with a friend.’

  ‘Well isn’t that nice?’ I say.

  ‘Do you want to come over? We can get that takeaway? I told everyone about your job.’

  ‘Everyone. So more than just one friend, then?’