‘Sorry, Walt,’ Chester replies before turning back to me. ‘There was also that time we caught you in flagrante delicto at the New Year’s Eve party…’
‘With the pianist,’ Bea adds – again, horrified I would fraternise with the help.
‘I was hugging him because he was crying,’ I reply. ‘Someone had upset him.’
And that someone was Bea, because she was incredibly rude to him – I know, that may be hard to believe.Not.
Wow, is this really what everyone thinks of me? That I don’t know how to behave at a wedding, how to dress, and that I would probably bring a plus-one who would lower the tone? Is that really, really what they think? Honestly, I know what this lot can be like, but this is just the worst. They really think so, so little of me. I’m in two minds not to go to the stupid thing.
‘Look, this is getting a little messy,’ Seph says, her voice the epitome of faux diplomacy. ‘Dad is being silly, and so is Chester. That isn’t the issue. You are… you’re fine. This is just about making sure that you feel like you fit in. And, yes, okay, that the first of February is the best day of my life.’
For a second it feels like my breath gets caught in my neck somewhere.
The first of February? As in, my birthday? My thirtieth fucking birthday?
‘It’s on the Saturday?’ I check, my voice unnaturally calm.
‘I know, a Saturday, how tacky, right?’ Seph says with a laugh. ‘We wanted to have the wedding on the Sunday, but Chester’s grandmother is incredibly superstitious, and it’s theirfamily tradition that a couple’s… consummation is not on a Sunday.’
‘Nanny is religious,’ Chester says, like it’s a reasonable request. ‘Thankfully, we were able to shift the day, relatively last minute.’
They’re getting married on my thirtieth fucking birthday because Chester’s gran doesn’t want them shagging on a Sunday? And it’s so dumb, because most weddings go on until at least midnight, so it will probably be a Sunday when they ‘consummate’ (even thinking it gives me the ick) regardless.
I can’t believe they’re taking over my birthday like this. They really do think so, so little of me. My God, my blood is really boiling now.
You know what? Fine. If that’s the kind of girl they think I am then maybe that’s the kind of girl I should be. I should go out and buy a new dress (one that breaks the C cup rule), I should still go to the wedding and have an absolute blast of a time (they’re paying for everything, after all), and I should take a plus-one with me… the absolute worst plus-one I can find.
13
I’m officially back on the apps.
It’s a tale as old as time: girl meets app, girl swipes right, girl gets disillusioned by the endless stream of underwhelming men and deletes the app in a fit of frustration. But this time, it’s different. This time, I’m not searching for true love, mind-blowing sex or (the most likely option of the three) someone to underwhelm me into swearing off men for life. This time I am a woman on a mission.
Matcher is always the app at the top of the app store. Everyone uses it; it’s as usual to see on a single person’s phone as Instagram is. All the cool kids are on Matcher (and most of them are single).
It’s funny when you think about how movies from a decade ago painted online dating as the last refuge of the desperate – introverts, weirdos, serial killers (and, if you were really unlucky, all of the above). Now, it’s just what you do when you’re single and/or bored. But instead of swiping through the sea of disappointing options with the vague hope of finding something decent, I’m using it with a specific purpose in mind. I’m looking for a grade-A wanker. Matcher’s finest export.
I fill out my profile with a bemused smile, adding a line that I’m sure will raise a few eyebrows:
Love getting into trouble and causing chaos? Want a free holiday to Australia? Drop me a message.
Then I start swiping right. On everyone.
It doesn’t take long for my phone to light up like a Christmas tree. Notifications are coming in faster than I can read them, my phone getting hot from the sheer volume of replies. I expected to get some interest, sure, but this is ridiculous.
Wow, I can’t believe that so many people are actually messaging me, and I have a sneaking suspicion it has less to do with my profile pic and more to do with me offering a free holiday in a cost-of-living crisis.
I start scrolling through the messages, but it’s overwhelming. How am I supposed to sift through all of this? I don’t exactly have time to vet them all, and I definitely don’t want to wade through the typical ‘hey beautiful’ or ‘what’s up’ messages. I need someone who stands out, who screams, ‘I’m the absolute worst, pick me!’
And then, one message catches my eye. It’s from a guy named Joseph. His profile picture shows a cute enough guy – blonde, with his hair long and floppy on top and short on the sides, who wears round-rim glasses that give him a kind of nerdy charm. But it’s the message that hooks me:
I’ll bet you’re getting a lot of messages from a lot of freaks. But I’m the freak you should choose.
I laugh out loud. He might be a freak, but at least he’s a funny one. And that’s more than I can say for most of these guys.
Normally, I’d take my time, maybe chat to him for a few days, before arranging to meet up. But I’m on a schedule, and if I’m going to pull this off, I need to move fast. Besides, the worse he is, the better it is for me, right?
I type out a reply:
