Chapter 6
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.’
If ever there was a good time for a meteor to hit East London, it would be now.
Trinkkumpel, a German-themed bar in Hoxton, is crammed full of apprehensive, perfume-drenched singletons, all covertly checking each other out before the speed dating event begins.
I grab a wine and curse Alex Steward for convincing me that this was a good idea.
I don’t want to be brave any more, I want to spend my Friday night being a monumental coward at home in bed, eating a chocolate orange.
Above the bar, where the dirndl and lederhosen-clad staff Oktoberfest themselves into a frenzy, is a board stating that they serve over thirteen different types of sausage and I chuckle to myself, thinking how fitting that is given the number of men in attendance.
The bar itself is a traditional, if somewhat kitschy Bier Halle: a basement dwelling with wooden tables and red-tiled pillars holding the weight of the thick ligneous ceiling beams. On weekends they have Bavarian folk music (no doubt oompah based) and every second Wednesday they have speed dating.
My large, white name tag and I take a seat at table six out of fifteen.
I look down at the empty match card: a list of numbers with a yes or no box beside them.
These are to be filled out after the end of the three minutes, probably so they don’t see you viciously stabbing the no box with your pencil while they’re sat in front of you.
There’s also a small space to jot down any pertinent information, like their name or the fact that they also love Oreos and breathing.
Or just to write Help me and slip it to security.
I smile politely at the woman sitting to my right. She’s probably late thirties, brunette, perfectly groomed, wearing a red sparkly dress and equally dazzling earrings. Compared to her, I am hopelessly underdressed. I knew I shouldn’t have asked Naomi for advice.
‘Wear whatever you want, just don’t show up in a feckin’ ballgown, missing a slipper. Disney desperation isn’t attractive.’
I went for jeans, a blue top and a smart blazer, now wishing it made me look a little less middle-aged.
I’ve seen a resurgence in this look recently but mainly on twenty-five-year-olds who still drink coffee for fun and not survival.
If this blazer had shoulder pads, I’d be power dressing my way back to 1989.
The first man sits down in front of me, smiling as awkwardly as I am. If this was a business meeting, I’d be far less tense, but I’m not sitting across from a client asking him what the last book he read was, or if he has any siblings.
‘Stan,’ he says, pointing to his own name badge. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Stan must be early fifties, though his eyebags make me think he had a tough paper round as a child.
Right off the bat, he’s not my type: gold jewellery, skinny jeans that are visibly cutting him in half and a matching denim jacket.
However, the way he’s unabashedly eyeing up Miss Red Dress, I can tell I’m probably not his type either.
He could at least pretend to be interested.
His gaze eventually returns to me. ‘It’s all right in here, innit?’ he comments before taking a swig from his giant beer stein. ‘Those Germans know how to pull a pint. Shame about all the other stuff.’
I pause, tempted to ask exactly what he means by that, but ultimately let it slide, choosing not to spend the last two minutes of our time discussing the Second World War.
‘Yeah, they do a nice Riesling,’ I reply. ‘I’m not usually a—’
‘Where’s that accent from then? You Scotch?’
Scotch? If my Scottish friend Nicola heard this, she’d strangle him with his own gold chain. His eyes lock on to the red dress again. I frown.
‘Scottish? No, I’m from Whitby originally but I’ve lived in—’
‘Ah, oop north,’ he interrupts, in the worst attempt at a Yorkshire accent I’ve ever heard. ‘I’ve never dated a northern lass.’
That’s because we have taste, Stanley.
I take a large gulp of wine before I continue. ‘I’ve lived in London for years, so my accent probably isn’t as strong as it—’
‘Hackney born and bred,’ he declares, interrupting me for the third time. ‘Two kids, live with their mum. She got the house.’
‘Good for her,’ I mutter, under my breath. ‘How old are your kids?’
‘Sixteen and eighteen. How many you got?’ Christ, now he’s practically turned his chair to face that poor woman. I feel sorry that it’s her turn next but delighted that our chat is almost over.
‘Six kids by seven different fathers,’ I reply, aware that he’s not even listening. ‘Good kids. They wrote to me every week when I got sent down for armed robbery.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘And arson.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, and murder. A big one.’
The sound of the bell ringing cuts me off before I claim responsibility for the Great Plague of London in 1665. We get thirty seconds to fill in our cards before a second bell rings and the men move on.
After scribbling, Stan nods at me and stands up, practically elbowing the man leaving the table beside us. Unsurprisingly I tick ‘no’ and wait for my second date, a man who looks like he’s been made using AI filters.
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Jasper.’
I want to touch his face and see if he glitches. Even with the age range of thirty-seven to fifty-five, it’s hard to tell exactly how old he is. He has a sprinkling of grey hair but could easily pass for mid-thirties whereas, at forty-five, I could easily pass for forty-four.
‘Sophie,’ I reply, grinning like a halfwit. Good Lord, he’s handsome. I wonder if that woman will lend me her red dress for the next three minutes.
Desperation isn’t attractive.
Shut up, Naomi.
‘Have you been here before?’ he asks. ‘I had no idea a bar like this existed. It’s rather fun.’
He sounds like my boss Rupert Nighy, an Eton alumni, who can only be described as posh, privileged and unbearably pretentious. However, unlike Rupert, Jasper already seems far less up his own arse.
‘First time here,’ I respond, cheerfully, ‘and first time speed dating.’
He smiles, flashing a mouthful of perfectly straight, white teeth. ‘I must admit, I’ve attended a few of these events. Far more civilised than swiping faces on a phone, don’t you think?’
I bob my head in agreement as he sips his gin and tonic.
This beautiful man and I have common dislikes.
‘So what do you do for work, Sophie?’
‘I work in digital marketing. You?’
‘I have two vegan cafés. Pianta. Maybe you’ve been?’
This beautiful man owns his own business and is obviously successful enough to pay for those veneers.
‘Hmm, I don’t think so,’ I reply, knowing that I absolutely have not.
I did once visit a vegan restaurant (the only place we could find that wasn’t fully booked) where even the staff looked unhappy to be there.
I got food poisoning from a mushroom stuffed with tofu and rice and spent six hours on the toilet.
‘I have colleagues who are vegan,’ I tell him, deciding not to share my bathroom trauma, ‘so they undoubtedly have been. They tell me it’s hard to find good vegan food nowadays.’
‘Carnivore then?’ he asks, his smile showing a little less teeth. ‘You should visit us. I’m sure I could have you eating vegan within a month.’
The delicious steak baguette I had for lunch disagrees. ‘Hmm, I’m more omnivore than carnivore,’ I assure him. ‘I eat vegetables too!’
He sighs. ‘Maybe you’re just not an animal lover . . .’
‘Excuse me?’
I’m offended. Of course I love animals, I gave my neighbour’s yappy dog Rocco a leftover chicken breast last week.
‘I’m just saying, it’s hard to have compassion for something you’re eating.’
This beautiful man is a pompous arsehole.
There are two vegans in my office, Eric and Abbie. They don’t criticise what we eat and, likewise, we’ve never judged them, apart from that one time Eric brought in the foulest-smelling vegan mac and cheese and we all threatened to report him to HR.
The bell rings again and he reiterates just how nice it was to meet me, while updating his match card. I update mine with a big cross and a small doodle of the bacon cheeseburger I plan to have on the way home.
The rest of the dates are far less noteworthy. Bland even. Including Vincent the illustrator, who was sweet but wore the same Star Wars T-shirt I bought for Naomi’s twins.
‘You remind me of Jyn Erso.’
‘Sorry, who?’
‘From Rogue One. The movie. I mean, obvs not identical, you have a larger nose, and the actress Felicity Jones is stunning . . . Not that you’re not attractive, you absolutely are, it’s just . . .’
I stare at him blankly, my fingers instinctively reaching towards my nose. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask him.
He sinks into his seat and smiles sheepishly. ‘Nervous, I am.’
Then there was Marcus, the recently divorced sales manager who was obviously handling it well.
‘Yeah, I’ve never been to one of these events. It’s a lot easier to just meet someone at work and start an affair with a guy called Adam who drives a piece of shit Punto.’
I smile awkwardly as the reason for his divorce becomes clear.
‘Sophie, huh? My ex-sister-in-law’s name is Sophie. Absolute bitch.’
The only yes tick of the evening belonged to Martin, an orthodontist with a quiff and pet dad to two Bengal cats.
‘Fred and Ginger. They shout a lot.’
I don’t tell him that I stopped wearing my retainers four months after my Invisalign treatment during lockdown because I have more money than sense apparently.
He was funny, sweet and I get the feeling that he also ticked yes. How exciting.
By the time my last potential boyfriend sits in front of me, I’m glad it’s coming to an end.
I’m just finishing putting a big fat X alongside Richard, a bus driver who rudely sat so far away from me there might as well have been a Perspex window between us. Maybe I should have tapped my Oyster card on his head.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m—’
My stomach drops into my shoes. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘Hi, Eddie.’
Why is this happening? If this man and I had any kind of chemistry, it would have shown itself by now. Shit. I cannot leave. Unlike Kieran, I cannot hide under the table and look for my pen. I’m screaming inside. Right now even Jasper is a more attractive prospect.
‘Sophie!’ he exclaims, his annoying face breaking into a grin. ‘I didn’t recognise you with your hair down.’
While it’s true my hair is usually pulled back into a bun for work, my face is exactly the same as it was last week.
He, on the other hand, has decided to spray tan himself into a living, breathing, walking carrot.
I just smile. I still have to be pleasant to this man for work, no matter how odious I find him.
‘My app not good enough for you?’ He laughs at his own joke before lifting his beer towards his unfunny little face.
‘I could ask you the same,’ I reply. ‘All those new sign-ups you’re about to get. I thought you’d be straight in there.’
His face falls. ‘It wouldn’t be ethical. Companies have been sued for . . .’
I zone out again as he quotes statistics and some sort of ethics code regarding client privilege like he’s some big-time lawyer.
What a load of crap. He’s not on the site because, just like me, he knows it’s terrible.
Besides, he’s almost forty and probably too old for that Gen Z market he’s so keen to target with his new sexy logo.
‘Quite right,’ I reply. ‘It would be unprofessional mixing business with pleasure. Glad we’ve established that before we both divulge anything too private here.’
‘Yes . . . well, I mean, let’s not be too hasty—’
‘So happy you agree! That’s a weight off my mind. Small talk only. Right, babe?’
He nods reluctantly.
‘So, tell me, Eddie, what was the last book you read?’