I don’t think I’m in for a grilling; you often pick up on tiny vibes from people when they are going to tell you off. There’s usually something they give away, even if they don’t mean to. A stiffness about them, or something in the way their mouths or eyes are set, but Maxine didn’t display anything I could identify as being off. She was friendly and chatty, and exactly the way she usually is, and when I mention it to Carlina, she rolls her eyes and asks me what I’ve done to be worried about.
‘Besides,’ she says, ‘it’s not like you’re not delivering. It’s not as if anything you’ve produced has been shit. It’s probably some sort of informal review. Or maybe it’s to find out how you’re getting on with Ollie,’ she says, whispering his name and jerking her head in his direction. She looks contemplative and I nibble on a nail. That, together with what Sinjin said earlier, and what I heard before Christmas, and how everyone blatantly knows what happened between us at the Christmas party, makes me absolutely certain it has to be it. That’s so it. She’s going to tell me that being the office gossip is distracting and to nip it in the bud. And I’m going to have to explain there’s really nothing to nip anywhere, bud or otherwise, and hope she believes me.
* * *
Fran Tatlin
Hello. I have a meeting with Maxine at 11.
Ollie Taylor
Cool story, sis. Tell it again.
Ollie Taylor
Kidding! What do you think it’s about?
Fran Tatlin
I am worried, dude. I still think people saw The Thing.
Ollie Taylor
OK, well, if they did, then they did. (They so didn’t.)
Fran Tatlin
Why are you so calm about this? I think people are talking about it.
Ollie Taylor
Because I don’t think anyone knows, and I haven’t heard anything. I think you’ve built this thing that happened, which was nothing, BTW, into this giant thing in your head.
Fran Tatlin
Oh. Right OK.
Ollie Taylor
Look, Fran, I’m sorry to be blunt, but it was a drunken kiss. Nothing more. These things happen. It’ll be fine, but we really need to stop talking about it. I’ll see you for lunch, ok? 1pm?
* * *
I look towards him as subtly as I can, but he’s got headphones on, and that poker face of his is out in force. He’s completely unreadable. You’d never have any inkling he’d just typed out the words that he did, and I feel both winded and vindicated all at once. Winded because, well, it was nothing felt like a kick in the teeth. Vindicated because he’s proved me right after all. Still, a shit way to be told. I count down the minutes until my meeting and time ticks by painfully slowly. It’s like waiting for a song to download from a dodgy file-sharing website on a 56k internet connection, and whenever Carlina leaves her desk and I’m sure there’s no one around me to see, I open the chat window and re-read what he typed. Because Fran Tatlin is a masochist.
At exactly eleven, I climb the stairs to the mezzanine and Maxine’s office, another cup of coffee in hand. Her door’s open and she welcomes me in and gestures towards the sofa. There’s a plate of biscotti, and I take one and settle back against the cushions.
‘I wanted to ask you how you’re doing,’ she starts. ‘It didn’t sound like you had a particularly good start to the Christmas break.’
‘Oh,’ I say, relieved. ‘Well, yes it was a bit shit, but honestly, true colours were shown and they are murky as a mill pond. Anyway, it’s all forgotten, what with the blog to concentrate on, and Christmas. And I met up with Ollie, anyway, so that was nice.’
I immediately wish I hadn’t told her. I’ve just given her the most obvious opening ever. I’m sure her eyebrows raise a little. She dunks a biscuit in her coffee.
‘Oh really?’ she says, and I sit there, huddled deep into the chair and think, here we go. Here it comes. She’s about to bring it back around to some rumours she’s heard and I’m going to have to lie to her and pray there’s no evidence. ‘It’s nice how well you usually get on, but then I knew you would. I sensed a vibe.’
‘I think we’re quite similar so it’s easy to get on the same wavelength,’ I say, thoughtfully, and leave it as vague as that. Fortunately she takes the hint.
‘So, about this blog,’ she says. ‘I wanted to make sure you were still keen before I had anything set up. I know you were raring to go before Christmas but you’d just had a shock, so if you’ve changed your mind, it’s no biggie.’
‘Nope. No mind change here,’ I say. ‘Not to count any chickens yet but I might have a date soon anyway.’
I’ve been thinking on and off since New Year, and have decided that even though I didn’t use a dating app to meet Tim, I’ll write about him anyway, and I’ll keep it on the down low, and if I can change enough of the details, hopefully he’ll never know. Then if, on the off chance, we really click, it’ll be one of those things we laugh about down the line.
‘Well, okay then,’ she says, but there’s still a hint of doubt in her voice, or maybe I’m just imagining things. ‘I think you could make it fun, so if you’re happy, then go for it. Just, let me know if it gets a bit much, alright? Don’t commit to anything off the back of heartbreak. It always seems like a good idea at the time, but so often it isn’t.’
‘I’m definitely not heartbroken,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Taylor Swift has based her whole career around her heartbreak, and it hasn’t done her any harm.’
Maxine laughs and takes another biscuit. ‘Can’t argue with that,’ she says.
* * *
Ollie and I don’t speak again until our agreed lunch date, and part of me hoped he’d forgotten, or decided against it, because I feel a bit smaller after his comment. But he hovers behind me at one, and I lock my screen and grab my coat.
‘That’s the coat you were wearing on Christmas Day,’ he says, and I pull it closer around myself.
‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’ I say. ‘Where are we going for food?’
‘There’s that Mexican place with the taco lunch deal?’ he says. ‘Fancy that?’
‘Sure.’
Within fifteen minutes we’re seated and dipping tortilla chips into guacamole and salsa. Ollie’s nursing a beer. I’m sipping an agua fresca. Neither of us have said much. It isn’t at all like the easy way we were at the pub in Ruislip. I wish I hadn’t messaged him.
‘I’m sorry about what I said on chat earlier,’ he says, finally, proving, unequivocally, that he is entirely capable of acknowledging the elephant in the room. ‘I don’t want to think there might be air to clear, but if there is, then this is me doing that.’
‘No, you’re good,’ I say. ‘And not to bring up the past, but, I mean, it really didn’t feel like nothing at the time.’
‘I know,’ he says, slowly. ‘Just… we said to the grave, and talking about it isn’t really doing that. And the fact is, it shouldn’t have happened because of Lou. So please can we make the assumption that no one at work is talking about us and that if, on the off-chance they are, they’ll get over it and move on to the next thing really soon.’
‘Alright,’ I say, sullenly, but I’m fiddling with the napkin and concentrating on the salsa to mask my embarrassment. Neither one of us speaks for a good minute. It feels like forever.
‘We’re good, right?’ he asks, finally.
‘We’re fine,’ I say, quickly. Our tacos arrive, and I’ve never been more grateful for a speedy lunch service. I bite into it and take my time over chewing. Ollie’s finished both of his before I’m even done with my first.
‘So what was it Maxine wanted?’ he asks, finally, wiping his mouth with his balled up napkin and tossing it down on the plate.
‘Nothing much, it really was just a check-in. She asked about my idea for another project.’
‘Yeah? What’s that then?’
‘Well, I reckon my recent change in status could end up being the gift that keeps on giving.’
‘What
do you mean?’
‘Well, I pitched a blog idea: “Swipe Right. Dating in The Big Smoke”.’
‘Riiiiight.’
He leans back in the chair and the way he elongates the word doesn’t escape me.
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘No, nothing. What if you go on one date and meet the man of your dreams?’
‘Well, then I’ll be pitching something else sooner than I thought. Maybe a wedding blog! However, unlikely.’
He runs his hands through his hair and looks past me, at the wall.
‘You never know, Fran. Look, can I just ask something?’
‘Of course.’ I take the final bite of my taco and sip a little more agua fresca.
‘Is this a bit of a fuck-you to Lucas?’
‘No,’ I lie. ‘Why?’
‘Because no good ever came from looking bitter on the internet.’
‘I’m not bitter,’ I say. ‘And thank you for that insight.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He holds up his palms and tries a different tack. ‘Can you be careful with this, though?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just trust your instincts and don’t go on dates with people you wouldn’t usually just for content. Please?’
‘Jesus, Ollie. Is that what you think of me? I’m not a content tart, thank you.’
‘Not at all. I didn’t mean it like that. Just, please look out for yourself, and be careful about what you put out there.’
‘Yes, I’ve already spoken to Maxine about changing names and stuff. There won’t be any revealing information.’
Still, he doesn’t look entirely happy. ‘Honestly, Fran, I don’t think this is the best idea,’ he says, finally. ‘Can’t we adapt this in some way?’
‘Adapt it how, Ollie? Also, what’s this “we”? This is solely my project.’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, and meanly, I think, no, of course you don’t, you piggy-backer of ideas.
‘Look, if it makes you feel better, she told me to think about it. But this would be so authentically me. And I’d be out there meeting people. I don’t want to sit and dwell on the bin fire that was me and Lucas. And I like dating. I do appreciate your concern but I’m absolutely certain it will be fine.’
‘We should set some ground rules then. You need to let people know when you’re going out and who with and where you’re going to be. You can text me if you like.’
I know he means well and he’s trying but I’m so not going to text him.
‘Are you like this with all your friends?’
‘Just the ones I like having around,’ he says. He squeezes my hand over the table and there’s a pang in my chest. I gulp down the last of my drink and signal for the bill.
Chapter Twenty
Fran, 27
Hey, what a coincidence, I like food and travel, too.
Red-haired media darling. Come and get me, boys.
Set your location: Use location services
Set your distance: 10km
Set your preference: men
Set your age range: 25-35
Happy swiping!
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s the end of the first week of January and I’m a little perturbed. Conversation with Tim has dwindled, and I don’t understand why, because it all seemed to be going so well. Was my sashay back into Lydia’s flat too much? Did he wake up on New Year’s Day and wonder why he’d bothered chatting up the love child of Ariel and Ronald McDonald? Did he wake up on New Year’s Day next to someone he’d met at the other party he went to? Was I not funny enough? Smart enough? Cute enough? Did he not appreciate the effort that went into my atrocious mask? Probably not, to be honest. Suze tells me that since contact hasn’t stopped entirely I don’t need to worry too much. But Carlina’s response is wildly different and she pats me on the head and muses that if a man wants to see you, he’ll make it happen, and deep down I’m pretty certain she is right.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ she says, with sad eyes, and she goes to the kitchen, returning with chocolate and a coffee for me, which I think is kind, yet possibly overkill. I’m not sad about it. Just confused.
‘No!’ Mickey huffs, and we all look at her. ‘Don’t give up. He liked you. He stayed longer at the party to hang with you. He could have just made an excuse and gone.’
‘Do not get her hopes up,’ Carlina warns. ‘We all know you’re a hopeless romantic, but you need to remember that she hasn’t been single for a while. Shit has changed.’
‘Well, don’t dash them, either,’ Mickey argues. ‘Things don’t change that much. It’s all still fundamentally the same. There’s still hope. Maybe, Fran, you just need to up your game a bit. Tease him a bit. Up the flirting.’
‘I’m not sending a picture of my boobs,’ I say.
‘Ooooooh, there’s an idea!’ Carlina’s interested now.
‘Absolutely not.’ I say.
‘What about a sexy text?’ she asks and I contemplate it a little. I’m not averse. Lucas and I used to sext in the beginning, and it was quite a turn-on, especially at work, where there was nothing I could do about it until later on. I’d sit at my desk and squeeze my thighs together, waiting for my phone to light up with a smutty message. It was thrilling. I could be down for a sexy text.
And so, when I’m back at home, drinking my inhibitions away with a glass of wine, I tap out a mildly suggestive text, and it’s replied to, and each time I get a fraction more smutty, until he’s left in no doubt about exactly what I’m conveying, and his status on WhatsApp remains online, instead of last seen. We text like this throughout the week, but still no date is forthcoming, and when I ask about plans, he keeps it vague. It’s annoying, and also possibly a little embarrassing, because in the heat of it all on Wednesday night, I definitely did text a photo of my boobs. First in a pretty lacy bra, and then out of it. And in return, I got a crudely shot five second video of Tim from Lydia’s fancy party, dick in hand, jacking off with his pants pulled down and his duvet pushed to one side.
‘I think you’ve overshot with this one,’ Carlina says, when I have to admit that despite all the saucy messages, my suggestion of Thai is still yet to materialise. I keep schtum about the visuals. She’d only want to see the home movie I still have on my phone. ‘It’s all about balance. Not enough allure and you risk being friend-zoned, but if you lay it all out there, where is the mystery and intrigue? Don’t worry though. How is the swiping going?’
‘Well, I haven’t really started in earnest yet,’ I admit, and she looks aghast. ‘I was hoping I’d be getting a date with Tim.’
‘Cast your net wide, woman,’ she says. ‘Focusing on one loser dude ain’t it, chief. Look, let’s have a swipe now. It’ll take your mind off Tim, and if you haven’t had any matches by the end of the day, the Friday drinks are on me.’
The truth is, I’m a little nervous. This is new territory for me, and I feel wide open and a little vulnerable, despite the vibe I was going for on my own profile, so I’m yet to swipe at all. But Carlina and Mickey scoot over and we huddle over my phone, fishing for matches. Carlina analyses each profile for a split second, barely allowing enough time to look at the photos, let alone read the profiles before barking out yes or no at me, but Mickey is the opposite. She reminds us it’s not a sprint. There are no prizes for swiping fast, and that it’s easy to miss stuff when you don’t take the time to look. She carefully taps into each profile and scrutinises the photos. Pores over the bios. Swipes left or right for me after consideration.
‘There you go!’ she squeaks as the jaunty It’s A Match text appears on screen, and even though the dude is one of those ripped, tattoo-covered types with long hair in a topknot and a bushy beard, which isn’t really my thing at all, the thrill of him swiping right on me is enough to make me think about dropping him a message.
‘Gym Rat Jesus!’ Carlina howls. ‘What’s the point? He’d be more into grunting at himself in the mirror whilst doing deadlifts than much of anything el
se. Bet he sits on his hand before he wanks. Unmatch!’
‘She’s not doing this for you, Carlina,’ Mickey retorts, and I have to admit she has a point. Then again, looking at the photo, I think perhaps they both do.
‘I’ll tell you what, if he messages me then I’ll say hi. That okay?’
‘Keep going,’ Mickey encourages. ‘London’s a giant place. There will be heaps of guys queuing up to go out with you. You just need to find each other.’
By the time I’m home I’ve had more matches and a few messages. None from Gym Rat Jesus but the nicest and least pervy of which comes from Greg, who lives in Kentish Town and has a couple of cats called Vic and Bob. I’m feeling way more upbeat and enthusiastic than earlier on, and we message all evening, and the next day, too. I don’t think about Tim at all and our Friday after work drinks are not on Carlina.
It doesn’t take long for us to swap numbers, and then, we hop over the stepping stones of text messages, voice notes and photos until he suggests it might be nice to go for a drink. No pressure, he says. We can keep it casual. How about one night after work? He’s not uneasy on the eye, and so far we seem to have got on well, and although I’m not entirely sure I needed to wake up on Monday morning to no less than seven pictures of Vic and Bob doing various catty things (curled up on Greg’s bed, sitting on the windowsill, eating kibble) I don’t feel like it’s a reason to decline and so we make a date for Friday evening. I’ll be skipping The Whippet and I’m not mad about it.
* * *
Everybody notices I’ve made an effort on Friday and it makes me think I’ve been in a bit of a rut. Lily makes a point of telling me how pretty my make-up is and how nice it is to see me wearing something besides jeans and baggy sweaters, which, if truth be told, makes me feel boring. Lexi asks where I’m off to.
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