Swipe Right

by Stephie Chapman

  ‘You can look forward to a peaceful Christmas with your dad, without having to worry about any of his needy bullshit now,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, staring straight ahead, gulping my wine. ‘Silver lining.’

  ‘Have you told Lydia?’

  ‘Not yet. She’s coming home from her annual ski trip, and anyway, she quite liked him.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Suze says, and I’m dead certain she is right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Damn those first few seconds before your memory kicks in when you wake up the morning after something terrible has happened. Damn them, and their cosy bliss, all to hell. This is the second Saturday in a row this has happened and it’s not a habit I really want to form. The first thing I do after I prise my sleepy, make-up stained eyes open is reach for my phone. I’m half expecting a message but there’s nothing. Behind all my apps is a photo of me and Lucas, my red hair straightened and framing my face, his dark curls tumbling around his. His arm’s around me and I’m leaning in. It was taken not long after we got together, I think, by Simon. It takes less than a minute to change it because, really, that’s the last thing I need to see and he can go to hell. Still, out of morbid curiosity, I check WhatsApp. He was last online at two o’clock this morning. Probably on the way home from his party. Part of me is surprised at the lack of contact because the drunken phone call is one of his calling cards. I’m sure he’ll ring at some point today and quite honestly, I’m looking forward to screening it.

  The phone is returned to my nightstand, and I ball myself up under the duvet, and after a few minutes of woe and maudlinism it occurs to me that I could use this experience, somehow, at work. When Maxine emailed me yesterday afternoon about my plans for content, I didn’t respond because I had nothing, but I didn’t want her to know that. I’d told myself Saturday was probably going to be a write-off, and that I’d be spending it recuperating and being generally loved on, but had planned to spend Sunday thinking about pitches and fire off a quick email on Monday, before I went home for Christmas. Well, now Saturday isn’t a write-off, I have no plans, no hangover, and no boyfriend. And it’s that last thing that whirrs around in my head. I haven’t moped over a boy since I was seventeen and Joshua Baker from sixth form college dumped me via text during sociology. Harrowing, as he was sitting three rows behind me, and made even worse because the teacher caught me with my phone on my lap and made me read out the text in front of everyone in the class. I still cringe when I think about it.

  Dad was furious and complained but we didn’t have a leg to stand on, since, well, I shouldn’t have been reading my texts in class. That weekend he took me for pie and mash as a treat, and as he forked a mouthful of liquor-covered pastry into his mouth, he told me that no boy was worth my tears, and if I found one who was, he wouldn’t make me cry. I never spoke to Joshua Baker again.

  Now I’m fired up, ready to strike whilst the iron is hot, and I grab my laptop and log into my work emails.

  * * *

  From: Frances Tatlin

  To: Maxine O’Leary

  Subject: Re: New Year, New Features

  Hi Maxine,

  I do have an idea, which I hope you’ll be happy for me to develop.

  Swipe Right: Dating in The Big Smoke. A lighthearted and entertaining foray into app dating in London. I go on dates, write about them in an engaging and hopefully amusing way, and rate them accordingly (aubergine emojis out of five).

  I’ve recently become single again – last night, in fact. It’s fine. These things happen, but I’ve never been one to mope and as it was on my terms, I’d like to channel all the surrounding energy into something productive.

  I would be publishing under a fancy pen name and would need a new profile set up. To protect the identities of my dates, I’d be changing names/locations and redacting/editing information shared via screen shots.

  In terms of community involvement, I would ask for reader submissions and guest posts. I am sure there are sponsorship opportunities to be explored as well.

  Let me know what you think. I’m on holiday now until the new year but am happy to discuss/iron out details if you think this is a goer.

  Best wishes

  Fran

  * * *

  Satisfied with my pitch, I check the time (quarter to ten) and my messages again, but there’s still nothing, and still no check-in from Lucas since the early hours. I flip the bird at the screen and text Carlina my news, and then, in an attempt to keep busy and motivated, I throw on some leggings and go to Pilates with Suze, but I don’t mention my idea, or my email. As much as I know she has my back, I’m pretty sure she’d wrinkle up her nose at it, so I keep it to myself.

  By the time we’ve finished panting our way through the hundred and scissor-kicking our legs, and worked up more of a bead than I’d anticipated, there are two notifications. The first is a response from Maxine, which I wasn’t expecting.

  * * *

  From: Maxine O’Leary

  To: Frances Tatlin

  Subject: Re: Re: New Year, New Features

  Fran, why are you emailing on a Saturday!?

  I’m sorry to hear about your boyfriend. Break-ups are never easy. Hopefully you’ll have a restful break over Christmas.

  In terms of your pitch, I like the idea a lot, and I think it has legs, but I’m concerned you’re jumping into this very quickly. So before I green-light this, I want you to take some time to think it over properly and decide if putting yourself out there so publicly and so soon is the best idea. If you decide this isn’t for you right now, I’d be happy to put a pin in it for a while, or perhaps develop it further. If you decide it is something you do want to do, you’ll have my full support.

  Take the Christmas break to consider it and get back to me in Jan!

  BW

  Maxine

  PS: love the name!

  * * *

  The second notification, text messages from Carlina, I’m less surprised at, but my mood takes a swift nose dive after reading them.

  Carlina

  Oh, mate I’m sorry.

  OK I’ve deliberated on this for half an hour. And I think if it were me I’d want to know. You probably already do. But if not, you might want to check his Facebook…

  I know that’s a bit weird but you don’t forget a surname like that, and there aren’t many of them about.

  Prick!

  I’ll kneecap the bastard. Say the word.

  * * *

  Given the tone it’s obvious, isn’t it, that I’m not going to like what I find. He’s been tagged in photos from the party, after I’d left, and my initial thought is, Christ, they don’t hang around with their social media updates, this McLelland lot. His stupid bow tie is undone and draped around his neck. The top two buttons of his shirt are open and he’s slung his jacket over one shoulder. His hair is stuck to the side of his face. He looks like a toffy little shit, absolutely off his tits. And next to him is Annoushka. She’s draped over him, resting her head on his shoulder, his hair twined around her long, elegant fingers, and her eyes are drunk and dreamy. Her make-up is a little less perfect now. There’s a line of kohl under her eye. Her lipstick is smudged. Lucas’ lips look oddly pink, and obviously it’s the same shade she was wearing. Of course it is. The comments all but confirm my suspicions.

  Looks like Pussyfellow didn’t go home alone after all.

  No one on the McLelland account was remotely surprised at this turn of events.

  At least you two don’t need to pretend to be covert anymore.

  What happened to the redhead, Lucas?

  Party gossip, she threw a strop and left.

  Suze is reading over my shoulder and she puts her arm around me.

  ‘Well, he can go and fuck himself,’ I say, dangerously quietly, and she screws up her face.

  ‘He’s the worst,’ she says, and looks at her watch. ‘Do we need to find a pub?’

  ‘Part of me isn’t even surprised, you know
? He told me he’d been invited to Henley Regatta, and when I hinted I’d like to go as his guest, he said that fucking ice queen there would be going instead.’ I jab at Annoushka’s face on screen.

  ‘Let’s find a pub,’ she repeats, and guides me by the elbow towards the crossing.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be expected to take Annoushka,’ I sneer, elongating the U sound, mimicking his voice. ‘Well, she’s welcome to him and his horrible face-fucking.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Suze. Never told you this, but he was one for properly shagging a mouth.’

  ‘He just keeps on getting better and better,’ she says, looking nervously around her. A couple of the Pilates people walk past and the look they all share doesn’t escape my notice. ‘Pub then?’ she almost pleads.

  ‘Nah, you’re alright,’ I say, grimly. ‘I’m angry now, but once this sinks in I will be mortified and probably want to be sedated, so I’m better off at home. Just shy of two years of my life absolutely fucking wasted. He must think I’m such a mug and a doormat. Do I have “mug” written on my forehead, Suze? “Doormat”? Do I?’

  ‘Neither of those things,’ she says, and she hugs me and I can feel I’m about to tremble and then the tears will come and that’s no good whilst standing in colourful leggings and a big overcoat on the Romford Road. I break away and start walking back towards the flat, typing a reply to Carlina and blocking Lucas’ number as I go, and she scurries behind me.

  As soon as we’re home and I’ve stood under a slightly scalding shower and cried tears of rage until all my skin pinks up, I open up my laptop once more.

  * * *

  From: Frances Tatlin

  To: Maxine O’Leary

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: New Year, New Features

  Hi Maxine,

  Really, really pleased to have your support. I don’t need to think about it any more. I’m fully intending to hit the ground running with this after Christmas.

  I would like to pick your brains on sponsorship, however, so if we could book in some time, that’d be great.

  I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and NYE.

  See you next year!

  Fran

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday is Christmas Eve, and I’m on holiday from work until the new year, so I don’t have to go in and tell anyone about what happened at Lucas’ Christmas party and for that I am grateful. It’s not that I think people won’t be supportive – on the contrary, I know Carlina, for one, will offer to bring in her voodoo doll, and talk about exacting revenge, but I’m still trying to keep a low profile. And so, I pack a bag and make my way to Ruislip, to my childhood home where my father still lives. He never moved, even after Mum left, but then it’s not a big house and he’s lived there so long I don’t think either of us could picture him anywhere else.

  It’s full of memories, that house. Of marking out hopscotch on the paving stones in the front yard in chalk and spending hours jumping around in the summer. Of birthday parties in the lounge. Of scrambling around on the sofas and watching children’s TV with a custard cream and a plastic beaker of strong squash after school. The beaker always smelled of orange squash, even when I was drinking Ribena, or apple juice. I remember Sunday lunch at the table and the occasional week night chippy tea eaten off trays on our laps. I remember Lydia coming over after school and us swooning over posters of boybands in Smash Hits magazine, or giggling at the sex advice in magazines she’d stolen from her older sister. I remember Mum changing. How she stopped being warm and loving. How I’d watch her lining her eyes with blue eyeliner and putting on high heels to go out. How it wasn’t Dad she was going out with. How she’d tell me I’d be alright on my own for a bit, just until Dad got home. How secretive she became and how protective of her mobile phone. Looking back, I don’t know how she could have made it any more obvious.

  And I remember how it felt when she left. The empty resignation when I knew it was pointless trying to stop her. How she sat me down and explained that sometimes adults fell out of love. How she’d met someone who made her happier than Dad ever did or ever could. How his name was Barry, and she was moving in with him. How she promised me a bedroom at their new flat, but that bedroom never materialised. And how quiet Dad was for ages after. How I knew when she’d call to speak to me because Dad would mumble and pass the phone over quickly, with none of the usual cheerful chit-chat afforded to other callers. Those phone calls became more and more sporadic, until eventually all I got was a text here and there. And as they dwindled, my resentment grew. How dare she ditch us like that? That’s not what mothers did. Mothers protected their children. Mothers were there for period advice and shopping trips and make-up tutorials. Mothers were confidantes when you became interested in boys. Mothers always knew the stuff dads didn’t. Mothers didn’t leave you for Barry and end up in Scotland.

  I always allow myself a few moments to reflect on these memories when I come home. For just as long as it takes me to walk up the street. Then I file them away again as my key turns in the lock because I wouldn’t want Dad to think I dwell on it. He’s not long home when I arrive, and he hugs me tight and tells me it’s lovely to have me home and that dinner’s on. Sausages and mash and peas with instant gravy: his favourite. We eat it in front of the TV, whilst vaguely watching a programme about child geniuses on Channel 4, and it’s not long before he brings up the subject of Lucas.

  ‘I have to tell you, Fran, sweetpea, I was surprised when you wanted to come for Christmas this year.’

  ‘Why’s that, Dad?’ I ask. I shovel some gravy-covered peas into my mash and eat a mouthful, following it with a slice of sausage. Dad does the same before he responds.

  ‘Just, you know, with your boyfriend. I thought you’d want to spend the holiday with him.’

  ‘I was always coming here for Christmas,’ I say, quietly. ‘Anyway, that is very much over.’

  Dad drinks some of the wine I brought. ‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You won’t be saying that in a minute,’ I say.

  ‘Did he not treat you well?’ he asks.

  ‘Not in the end, no,’ I say, sadly.

  Dad reaches over and pats my knee. ‘He didn’t smack you around, did he?’

  ‘God, no,’ I say, shocked at the thought. Lucas may have been horrible towards the end but he was never, ever violent.

  ‘Because if he did—’

  ‘Dad! No. It was nothing as obvious as that. Lucas wasn’t nice in other ways. He lied to me, and about me. He made me think I was going mad when really he’d kept information from me. He hated my friends, and at his work Christmas party he told me, in front of everyone, that my job is shit and unimportant.’

  ‘Is your job important to you?’

  ‘Of course it is. I love it.’

  ‘Well, then your job’s important. Who ended it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s my girl. You weren’t raised to be a pushover.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I was getting that way for a while. Anyway, it all came to a head at this party and I dumped him in front of everyone, halfway through the meal, and then I went for a McDonalds.’

  Dad laughs, which in turn makes me laugh, and our laughter fades gently as we carry on eating, in the living room of the house I grew up in. Everything is still the same: the sofa, the coffee table, the curtains, the pine shelves on the wall. I’d bet there are still the same books and DVDs on them. After we’ve both finished, I take our plates into the kitchen and bring the wine out. Topping up our glasses, I sit a little closer to him on the sofa. He puts an arm around me and it’s familiar and comforting.

  ‘I knew he wasn’t the one for you, Fran,’ he says, eventually.

  ‘How’s that, Dad?’

  ‘You never brought him here. How long was it in the end?’

  ‘Too long,’ I say. ‘Getting on for a couple of years.’

  ‘Plenty of time for you to bring him here for Sunday lunch and a pint
at the pub. And at first it sort of got to me, you know? Because I know he had a fancier upbringing than you, and I thought maybe you were embarrassed—’

  ‘Dad! No! That so wasn’t it. How could you even think that?’

  ‘But then I figured it was because deep down you weren’t sure about him. If he was The One, then you’d have been up here, showing him off quick as a flash.’

  And he’s right. I never brought Lucas here. Never showed him my old bedroom or took a walk up to the airfield at Northolt or took him to the pub Dad and I sometimes go to. And maybe he’s sort of right in a way. Not about being embarrassed but because I knew Lucas wouldn’t have appreciated it. Wouldn’t have felt at home here. Probably wouldn’t have felt comfortable. And I wouldn’t have felt like any of it was enough, and after Mum, I don’t ever want to go through the heartache of feeling like my life wasn’t enough for someone again.

  ‘He was never going to be The One,’ I say, sighing.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘His surname was Pussyfellow. Lucas Pussyfellow. I can’t. I just can’t.’

  Dad smirks, and tells me he’d forgotten about that, and it sets me off again. It’s a welcome relief from the boiling anger I’ve felt since Saturday.

  ‘It’s nice to have you home,’ he says, and I lean my head on his shoulder and stare up at the scalloped Artex ceiling, following the pattern until my eyes glaze over, exactly the way I did when I was a child.

  * * *

  Christmas Day is fairly quiet, like it always is at home. Dad never says anything but I know he thinks about how things were before Mum left. I do, a bit, as well. You’d think by now, all these Christmases later, we’d have left it all in the past, made our own new traditions, and to an extent we have, but it still feels weird that she’s not here, and it still hurts a bit to admit to myself that she’d rather have Barry than a relationship with her daughter. I don’t feel like this every day. It’s just Christmas and my birthday – and hers –that sting. Although now that sting has dulled to little more than the odd ache. I think it’s probably worse for Dad.