‘Oh, OK.’ Louise still looks worried. ‘I didn’t eat beef for a week after I sawCowspiracy– that probably helped the environment, didn’t it? And I only eat bacon when I’mreallyhung-over, or when I’m comfort-eating after another failed audition or an argument with Sven.’
I hold back an eye roll because – the truth is – she and Sven never fucking argue. They’re both too nice.
Louise has been dating Sven for nearly three years now, and they’re, like, the most gorgeous, sweet couple ever – everyone says so.
But they’re not exactly perfect, I remind myself. We all know their sex life is dull AF. But they’re close enough to make my whole body surge with a jealous fury I hate, whenever I walk in on them giggling together in the living room in that soul-contented, intimate way only long-term couples have. Obviously I’m happy for them and I love to see my friend happy, but also, ugh, fuck them both for finding something that has proved so impossible for me.
‘So you slept with him and stayed over for a morning walk, but there will definitely be no second date for this…’ Bibi smoothly changes the subject. She knows of my vein-deep petty-bitchery when it comes to other people’s joy. ‘… what was his name again?’
‘Andrew,’ I confirm. ‘Although, he spent much of the date trying to persuade me to call himAnd.’ I make a face. ‘Not Andy or Drew, or some other fairly standard Andrew derivation – butAnd.’
‘Imagine’ – Bibi can’t hide her smile – ‘when youguys introduced yourselves, you’d be all, “Hello, we’re Estherand And!” Try saying that out loud without having a seizure.’
‘It’s not a name, it’s a conjunction!’ I am outraged. ‘But you can talk,Belinda.’ I raise an eyebrow at Bibi and she laughs.
‘Wrong. My name isdefinitelynot Belinda.’
‘Damn you.’ I shake my fist. ‘Er, Brianna?’ She shakes her head.
When Bibi moved in here a few years ago, she made the mistake of confirming Bibi is actually a nickname. She wouldn’t tell us her real name, and we’ve been trying to guess it ever since – without success.
Louise shuffles in even closer. She smells familiar and warm and I let myself be parented in this small way. If Bibi is the stern voice of reason in our flat, then Louise is my emotional support animal. ‘I’m really sorry, Esty, I know you had high hopes for this date.’
Despite myself, I start to well up.
‘I’m just so sick of it, you guys.’ I use her dressing gown cord to dab at my watery eyes. ‘I feel like I get my hopes up every time, even though I promise myself I won’t and know it’s idiotic to keep believing. I exchange a few messages with someone’s photos and they seem so amazing. Until I show up to a dude who looks and acts like Fred West’s much older and much creepier uncle. It makes me feel so stupid and sodisappointedevery time. I’m drained by it all.’
Bibi gives me an uncharacteristically kind stroke through the robe. She’s not usually one for overt sympathy; thingsmustbe bad. ‘Ah, love, youhavehad a bit of a rough time of it on the romance front recently.’
‘I really have!’ I say, feeling ennobled by their sympathy. ‘Remember that lad who wouldn’t stop touching my hair? Or the foot fetishist who spent the whole time complaining that I hadn’t worn sandals for our date? Or the anti-vaxxer who kept trying to put fridge magnets on me to prove I’ve become magnetized since my Covid jab? Oh, or that dick who said he didn’t need to wear a condom because Febreze had made him immune to STDs?’ I sniff dramatically. ‘Then there was that bloke who turned out to be working for a multilevel marketing scheme and Tinder was where he found customers slash victims.’
‘Don’t forget that man who put porn on the telly within five minutes of you going home with him,’ Louise adds helpfully.
‘How could I?’ I sigh. ‘Never mind the two years of options I missed out on thanks to the pandemic.’
Bibi tuts. ‘I told you, you should’ve Zoom-dated like everyone else.’
‘I never understood the point.’ I shake my head. ‘If you couldn’t meet up and check for a deformed penis, what was the point in months of video chat? Plus, Zoom felt too much like work.’ I look down at my own lap. ‘I mean, I’m doing everything they tell you to do – I’mputting myself out there. I’m stayingopen. I’m experimenting with men who don’t necessarily seem like they’d be my type. I’mlowering my standards. I’m agreeing to a second date even after they leave a massive immoveable shit in our toilet.’
Louise looks suddenly alert. ‘I think he was the one who broke our loo, y’know! It hasn’t worked right since.’
‘He was a fucking treat,’ Bibi mutters but it doesn’t slow me down.
‘I swear being twenty-nine changes everything when you’re dating. Men think you must be horrified by the prospect of turning thirty and that your biological clock is now a bomb, so you will now accept any kind of shitty bull-type bullshit from them. And the sad thing is that I secretly kinda think Imight.’ I blink hard, looking at my two best friends. ‘But none of these epic losers even like me!’
They’ve heard this speech before, but I keep giving it becauseI knowthey don’t get it. Not really. Bibi is happy on her own and Louise has Sven. They can make all the right tutting and hmming noises they like, but they don’t know how frustrating it is to be me. They don’t know how much I hate myself for not feeling complete on my own. How much I hate that I’m not strong enough to do all this without a Someone. How much I hate that I used to love being single and dating and laughing at the awfulness of it. They can’t understand how much I hate that the last year of my twenties has changed something in me; how my stomach churns at the sight of babies. How my eyes follow elderly couples along the road wondering if I will die alone. How it physically hurts to see all my friends pair off, one by one. They don’t know that I’ve applied forDinner Date, Take Me Out, First Dates, Married at First Sight, theGuardian’sBlind Date, and evenLove Islandin a moment of desperation.
Sometimes I wish so hard that I could have a quick – the briefest! – look five years into my future. If I could just see that I’ve met someone great and am happily settled down, then I think I could relax. I could enjoy my life for what it is now, without going about with this constant gnawing worry in my stomach. The worry that it won’t work out for me. That Iwillbe the one person who never meets anyone.
A depressing silence falls over us. TheBBC Breakfastpresenters introduce yet another segment about some kid raising money for attention (charity) and I study the yellow damp stain on the ceiling. It’s spreading – getting bigger every day – but I’m too scared of our bully landlord to do anything about it.
I feel haunted this morning. I have that kind of hangover you can’t really call a proper hangover because I don’t actually feelthatill. There is no headache or sickness, but there is the ever-present feeling of despair that keeps sweeping over me in waves. Lou, Bibi and I prefer the termpangovertobeer fear, because a) it hits you in pangs all day, and b) we don’t drink beer, we only drink pink wine with insulting novelty labels that call us ‘Wine slut’ or ‘Basic bitch’. Either way, I feel like my life is over – that I’ve ruined everything – and I can’t pinpoint any particular reason why.
Aside from the obvious, of course: that I am departing my twenties in a few months with what feels like nothing to show for it. I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in ages, I live in a rotting old flat, and I cannot, for the life of me, get my eyebrows to fucking match.
I know I should be happy being single;I know that. I’m an adult woman with a fun job and friends I adore, but something in me keeps wondering. Wondering what if thereissomething I’m missing out on? What if all the Netflix rom-coms starring Vanessa Hudgens that I totally watch every time the algorithm tells me to are right? That you can’t have a fulfilling life without a partner? Sometimes at night, when I’m lying in my big bed alone, I remind myself how good this is; how nice it is to have the whole mattress to myself and how fewer pubes you have to deal with when you’re single. But but but. Something in me keeps wanting and hoping. Because sometimes it’d be nice to find a pube that isn’t mine.
‘This is fucking depressing.’ Bibi shoves me off. ‘And I have the solution.’
