Aged thirty-two, she should’ve ignored the wholly concocted peril of ‘having passed thirty while single.’
Harriet knew Jon was the end of this particular road before she met him. She’d had second thoughts on the day, along the lines of ‘I can’t face another night like the others.’ She was folding her cards and leaving the casino, and therefore, tried to cancel him.
She thought the tricky: ‘it’s not you, it’s me (and how can it be you, I’ve not even met you yet)’ exchange deserved the respect and nuance of a phone call, however awkward that might be. But when she rang, she got the dead tone of a phone that had been switched off. An exploratory WhatsApp was left on Unread.
She later found out Jon had been deep in the warren of a factory testing hot water crust pastry for a cheese and pineapple pie. (‘Misconceived,’ he said, later.) Harriet never toldhim why she’d been trying to get through. Perhaps the fault in their stars had been there from the outset. They were the cheese and pineapple pie.
Given her conscience wouldn’t let her no show, Harriet got her closest thing to glad rags on, a grey woollen dress that looked nice with red lipstick, which she rubbed off in the taxi, worrying it was too provocative a signal. She girded her loins for another evening of working out how many drinks was polite – but not to the point of misleadingly encouraging – and took up a pitch in her beloved Alfred Bar.
Harriet was hopeless at internet dating. Really, just shit at it. She didn’t sell herself well, didn’t choose well. By contrast, Lorna and Roxy were both masters, always habitually seeing someone or other for light-hearted larks, queuing offers up like hits on a playlist. At first, Harriet bought into their encouragement that she simply wasn’t confident enough. She would be sensational once she hit her stride!Nope.
Harriet ended up wondering at how unassertive she must be, or how desperate she must’ve seemed, given the distaste and outrage her post-date polite rejections met with. She wasn’t remotely prepared for the volley of passive aggression a simple ‘exercising of her right to choose her sexual partners’, met with.
Oh come on, Harriet!! You’ve not given this a chance. How about we try next week?
Yeah I know I said I wanted a second date but when I thought about it, I realised I wasn’t bothered either actually. Onwards & upwards eh, have a nice life
What exactly is a ‘spark’ and would you really expect to find one after an hour and a half?
That’s a shame I thought we had a great time. tbh getting really worn down by the way women say they’re looking for a nice man then bin you off for vague reasons.
Dave is typing
Dave is typing
Dave is typing
Dave is typing
Dave is typing
OK whatever.
‘I see the issue here,’ Lorna said. ‘You don’t do casual. Every encounter ends up having meaning, for you. What Dave Is Typing thought of me would live in my brain for a fraction of a microsecond. You always care what people think of you, which is wonderful, but sometimes to your detriment.’
Roxy – usually more circumspect than Lorna, though to be honest ‘more circumspect than Lorna’ was a ‘most fragrant goat’ prize – concurred. ‘Block them and move on.’
Lorna had offered an absolutely on-the-money descriptionof Harriet’s psychological make-up, except Harriet wanted a boyfriend, not therapy breakthroughs.
Actually, the app had made her wonder if shedidwant a boyfriend.
Singlehood had a lot to recommend it, she realised, even if the rent on her city flat was fairly crippling. She was skint, but complete. Thanks, app. She long-pressed the image on the phone screen so the icons wobbled, and clicked the X to rid herself of it. She only had the formality of this ‘Jonathan Barraclough’ with the uncontactable phone, to endure. With one bound, she’d be free.
So there was Harriet, on one last job before retirement, swinging her feet, sipping a red wine, under Alfred Bar’s ceiling jangle of mismatched pendant lights. He was twenty minutes late, and although she didn’t know this man, something in his fastidiously polite and grammatical correspondence made her think this was unusual.
A bloke who looked the spit of that tennis player crashed through the doors and roared: ‘HAVE YOU GOT AN ICE BUCKET OR SOME SORT OF SIMILAR RECEPTACLE!!?’ at the frightened bar staff, who surrendered a washing-up bowl, and proceeded to puke violently into it, observed by the stunned clientele.
One of the bartenders handed him a napkin and he dabbed at his mouth.
‘Food poisoning,’ he gasped, to the general company, when he got alternative use of his throat muscles back. ‘Occupationalhazard. I’m so sorry.’ Louder: ‘Never eat a Scotch egg made by a Chelsea fan!’
The room erupted in a light smattering of applause and he gave a small courtly bow. He darted off to the men’s room, insisting he’d rinse the washing-up bowl,no, no,he insisted,you can’t be dealing with that, you’re not paid enough!
Harriet pondered what had happened; at least this would be the shortest date yet. She finished her wine and prepared to leave. What was the etiquette here, would he prefer her to simply disappear, like she hadn’t seen the vomiting?
She opted to stay and do the proper goodbyes and get well soons. Though she wouldn’t have blamed him if he hid in the bogs until she’d gone.
To her surprise, an impressively unrumpled man reappeared by her table.
