“I swear this is cheaper than a takeaway,” Paul says, tucking into his pad thai. Every week he says he’s going to try something different from the menu. Every week he doesn’t. He and Miranda have been together for five years and are annoyingly perfect for each other, but they don’t rub it in, which I appreciate. I’m not lonely. But there are some couples who make you realize you’ve been alone for quite some time. My last proper boyfriend was two years ago, give or take. And it wasn’t even that proper. Does seven and a half months count? I like to think it does or it’s even sadder than I thought.
The waitress brings us our second carafe of house red, and Wham!’s “Last Christmas” plays on a never-ending rotation of festive music as fairy lights twinkle on and off behind the bar. Outside it’s dark and bitterly cold—a stark contrast to in here, and to our Thai food, which is so entirely warming it makes me want to book a holiday to distant shores. I’ve not been to Thailand and I make a note to look at prices for a break sometime next year. Which begs the question of whom I would go with.
Miranda no longer goes on holidays without Paul, which is fair enough when you only get twenty-one paid days per year. I get twenty-five, but I don’t remind Miranda of this when we chat about how I’ve managed to save up a few days to go home and see my parents and stay with them in between Christmas and NewYear’s. I save up those days every year. I’m meticulous about it. I pull out my phone to set myself a reminder to ask a few old uni friends if they’d be up for a chilled Thailand trip next year, and find a message on my phone. While I’m opening it up, a third carafe arrives, and Miranda and Paul look at it and then at me in confusion. None of us ordered this, and none of us are volunteering to tell the waitress.
“Things are going to get messy,” Miranda declares in a sing-song voice, before giving me a wicked look and spooning some of her yellow curry into her mouth.
Davey has messaged a simpleHi,twenty-five minutes ago. I look at the message and bite my lip to prevent a smile from forming. It will lead to questions from my best friends, which will suddenly turn into an inquisition.
The reason I pulled my phone from my bag is entirely forgotten and I message back an equally simpleHi.
He’s online and replying.Is it weird I’m messaging you again? After I sent it, I thought this might come across as weird.
It takes me a moment to think and I reply honestly,This is kind of weird. But good weird.
Yeah, that’s what I was hoping for. How’s your day going?
Miranda coughs pointedly and then says, “Excuse me. Phones? At the table? Didn’t we agree we wouldn’t be those friends who Instagram their nights away while out with each other?”
I look up and apologize, while making no effort to put my phone down. I reply to Davey quickly,It’s still going actually. Can I message you later?
Sure,he says and signs off.
It’s Paul who knows something’s amiss. “You’re smiling. She’s smiling,” he says to Miranda, handing her the invisible baton to investigate further.
“Ye-e-es,” Miranda says slowly. “Thank you for the subtitles.”
Oh no, she has that schoolmarm voice that says I’m not getting out of here alive. Only there’s nothing to tell, so this should be easy. I wait for the questions to begin.
“Who is he?” Miranda cuts to the chase and tops up my wineglass. She nudges it toward me as if it’s truth serum.
“No one,” I say far too casually and then regret it immediately. I try a better tone. “I mean…actually he really is no one. He rang me by mistake yesterday afternoon and we got chatting. He’s nice. He lives in the US and he’s moving here in a month. That’s it. The whole story.”
Miranda’s mouth drops open and, in a very quiet voice, she asks, “You spoke to a man who rang you by mistake and you’ve managed to get him to move continents for you, in under twenty-four hours?”
I laugh so hard I spit wine, which is so incredibly unattractive, but my friends have never cared about that kind of thing. “Of course not,” I say and then explain the situation, with a bit more detail thrown in. At the end they both hurl questions at me.
“Will I like him?” Paul asks.
“Is he fit?” Miranda asks.
Paul gives her such a look.
“I think you’re both jumping the gun a bit here. Nothing’s happening. And, Miranda,” I say, “I don’t know what he looks like. He hasn’t added a profile picture.” Although I do really hope he’s fit. But I don’t know why. What does it matter, really? Let’s say we do get along and become friends when he moves here, then who cares what he looks like? What kind of shallow people care what friends look like?
“Have you looked up his social-media accounts?” Miranda says, and immediately grabs her phone and opens Instagram.
“No,” I reply. “I don’t know his last name. And I don’t immediately stalk social media for guys I’m”—what am I doing withDavey?—“messaging,” I finish. This is a lie. I do absolutely always stalk social media for guys I’m messaging. But I’m enjoying not having been able to do this, so far.
“Hannah Gallagher,” Miranda chastises. “Why don’t you know his last name?”
“It’s not come up in conversation.”
“How old is he?” Paul cuts in.
“Twenty-nine.”
Miranda folds her arms. “Thatcame up in conversation then.”
