Dear Alex

Prologue

While I’m in the lift down to the Single Mingle, I stare at my reflection and rehash my alias, Anastasia Edwards. For once, I’m pretty pleased with how I look. My dark brown hair is behaving, staying remarkably frizz-free and glossy at the top and falling into gentle waves around my shoulders. I’ve managed to master the smoky eye look thanks to a new Insta account my flatmate, who is also my cousin, Adam, made me follow, and I finally seem to have found a foundation that doesn’t make my pale skin look orange under strong lighting. Perfection.

As I retouch my lipstick (a saucy red I deem suitable for my new alter ego), I start having serious misgivings about whether I have the required mystique to pull off my new name. Almost immediately, though, the lift doors are opening in front of the registration desk. I know there’s no turning back. I hastily stuff my lipstick back into my sparkly clutch and plaster on a smile. Trying not to think about what my best friend Bea would say if she knew I was here under such morally dubious circumstances, I announce my arrival to a beaming receptionist who hands me my badge. The sound of my name feels unfamiliar on my tongue, and I hope she puts the slight hesitation in my voice down to nerves.

Why did I go down the Russian royalty route?! When it came to an alias, I thought an exotic first name and boring surname was cunning. Yet, now that the badge is situated unflatteringly on the neckline of my dress, I’m less sure that I can carry it off. How can scruffy homebody Alex Taylor become elegant Anastasia Edwards for an evening? I might as well have gone for Charade Smith or Mysteriana Jones.

Past the registration desk, there’s a huge bar space full of people awkwardly assembling into artificial little conversation groups. Oh God, I should have had that warm-up glass of wine with Adam before leaving. I knew it. Even more excruciating than the people desperately trying to make conversation are the hosts herding them into groups like rabid matchmaking sheepdogs.

OK Alex, I tell myself, stick with the plan . Sixty minutes maximum. Meet this shy Ryan guy. Give him a self-esteem boost. Maybe subtly give him a few hints to help with his future dating game. Easy. I’m a writer. I’m creative. I can do this. And I really have nothing to feel guilty about, I reassure myself, shushing Bea’s voice in my head. I’m just making amends. And sure, that might involve assuming a fake identity and lying to a man I’ve never met, but it’s for all the right reasons.

How am I even going to find him? There’s an ocean of bachelors ahead of me, circling the groups of women like sharks. I determine that while I might make the night more enjoyable by linking up with one of these girl gaggles and lamenting the shallowness of the dating pool, I’ll probably better accomplish my aim by being laser-focused on the task at hand: find Ryan, flirt shamelessly, and then leave, Cinderella-style, before the fairytale ends.

Steeling myself for an evening of awkward chat, I arm myself with a glass of courage from the bar and move in. Thank God for name badges . I discount a slightly sweaty Scott and a somewhat creepy-looking Robin. Robin has drawn a smiley face in the ‘o’ of his name, and I grimace. There are so many people here who could use my sage advice that I’m wondering if I should set up a dating advisory booth and charge. I keep scanning the room for Ryan. There’s a Bruce in his twenties, who already seems to be relying heavily on the bar to keep his balance. Who is called ‘Bruce’ in this generation? I plot a course around him and consider whether my judgemental attitude is why I’m still single.

Suddenly, I spot him. The name on his badge is written in a scrawl, but I can make out the ‘R’. He is exactly as I imagine him. A bland but not unpleasant face held in a slightly hopeless expression. Around thirty. A bit of a paunch. He’s standing at the end of the bar, loitering for a bit and looking around the room before choosing his poison. Probably to avoid making conversation with anyone , I think, aligning this with the Ryan I know from his messages. I take a sip of my wine and head towards him.

“Hi, I’m Anastasia,” I say, almost challenging him to disagree. He looks me up and down in a rather obvious way that doesn’t really tally with my image of him.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I ponder the maturity of having a second glass of wine within twenty-five minutes of arriving at the event. How does this fit with my resolution to make good life choices?

“That’s kind. A white wine spritzer, please,” I say, smiling, while very subtly pushing my first empty glass away from me down the bar. “Just a small is fine,” I add virtuously.

Watching Ryan order, I ponder all the gentle help I can give him, the womanly wisdom I can impart to help him up his game. I relish the boost I feel that comes from doing good, glowing with the anticipation of transforming shy Ryan into someone who strides out with twice the confidence he arrived with. Surprisingly, he launches straight into conversation. Something about the merits of beer over wine. Hmm, he’s less shy in person than his letters suggest. Before I can come to the defence of my dear old friend, the fermented grape, he’s already moved to the scarcity of good real ale pubs in central London.

“Hmmm,” I mutter non-committedly, as I take two slightly hurried sips of spritzer. This isn’t going quite how I expected. Ryan has now been waxing lyrical about breweries for five solid minutes. When does this tongue of his start getting tied? I think with an edge of panic. So far, I haven’t had a single opportunity to jump in and coax him out of his shell. I try to rearrange my face into an interested expression–a tightrope between not wanting to encourage him and not wanting to make him think he’s boring. Ryan seems completely unaware, however, and talks with the confidence of an expert about budget airlines, Mariella Frostrup, parking in Lambeth, tooth whitening, and the Isle of Sheppey. By the end of it, I’m almost as exhausted as my liver. Before I’m driven by sheer desperation to drink number three, I make a play for control of the conversation to steer into the more personal (surely the shyness will kick in then?).

“So, Ryan, what brought you here today?” I ask, smiling flirtatiously. Or at least my impression of flirtatiousness, which Adam tells me can also come across as ‘perplexed while doing mental arithmetic’.

Ryan laughs, “Oh, it’s Rich, not Ryan. That’s my handwriting, soz.”

Who says soz out loud? Before I can react and beat a hasty retreat, non-Ryan treats me to his next monologue, this time on handwriting, which I guess is at least partly responding to what I’ve said and therefore counts as conversation.

When he pauses to sip his carefully selected real ale, I jump in to start making my escape. “It’s been a real pleasure speaking to you,” I say brightly, “but I think…”

“Oh yeah. It’s been great,” he cuts in. “Anyway, look, you’re really nice, but I’m looking for a more traditional woman. No offence or anything.”

“Er…” I try to wade through the scrambled eggs inside my head for a response. I settle for saying “Er…” again. Which I think gets the point across.

Non-Ryan wishes me good luck before nodding over to a man called Clarke, who has mirror-shiny shoes and enough product in his hair to wax a boat. “He looks nice.”

“Thanks,” I say weakly.

I’ve repulsed the most boring man on the planet. Despite how uninterested in non-Ryan I am, the rejection dragon rears its fearsome head. I know I’m going to be obsessing over what I did wrong, but logically I know this Rich character knows nothing about me, and I barely said a word. I’ve been this way since I dated Chris. Chris, who I haven’t quite managed to shake my feelings for and who variously made me feel like the most loved, cherished woman on the planet and the most neglected. One day, I felt like his world, and the next, an afterthought.

I order a Diet Coke and try to press on with my mission, banishing the Chris thoughts to the depths of my psyche, where they will no doubt lurk until resurfacing at the most inconvenient time, usually the middle of a job interview, the ten minutes before I’m due to go on a date, or 3am on a Tuesday.

Moving through the room turns into a computer game. It’s incredibly crowded, and some people appear to have needed even larger doses of courage than me. Meanwhile, like those ghosts in PacMan, the networking hosts keep prowling around. When they find their prey, they hook them by the arm and drag them off to the most unsuitable person in the room. I shudder. MUST AVOID. I did a fine job finding Rich all by myself anyway.

Having done several more circuits of the room, I’m finally set upon by one of the hosts, a steely blonde woman with the grip of a WWF champ. “Hello there, Anastasia. What a lovely name! Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”

I’m frogmarched to a far-off corner of the room. In this nest, she’s stockpiled three other victims: a mortified-looking 20-something-year-old guy with a crew cut and tattoos, a cheerful but tipsy-looking woman my age, who under any other circumstances I would have liked to befriend, and Ryan!

Definitely Ryan. Very clear block capital letters. He’s not what I expected and could not be more different from Rich. Six foot, if not more, with curly black hair and attractive, designer-looking stubble. Wow. This guy doesn’t need the help of a drunken, non-traditional Russian duchess. I clock some pretty firm biceps in my speedy audit. I swallow hard and take a steadying breath, suddenly wishing I hadn’t had quite so much courage-wine. I remember that for tonight, I am not Alex Taylor. I am graceful, charismatic Anastasia Edwards. It’s time for those acting lessons I begged my mother for at sixteen to pay off.

He joins the others in a commiseratory nod toward me as the host disappears on her next prowl. There’s an agonising lull in the conversation before the drunk girl takes charge, cheerfully relaying some of her more awkward moments from the evening so far. At the same time, the young crewcut guy surveys us and silently decides we’re pensioners. I can see his brow furrowing as he contemplates his future life: drunkenly gulping back wine in the same bar a decade from now, fruitlessly searching for ‘The One’. He murmurs something and disappears, presumably in search of youth.

I steal what I hope are surreptitious glances at Real Ryan, noticing the way he runs his fingers over the ridges in his glass. He looks nervous, and I can’t say I blame him. I’ve never been particularly shy, but even I am struggling with the artificial nature of these forced interactions. Tipsy girl chats on, and I make a few interjections, trying to force a connection with Ryan. Ryan smiles and looks politely interested in the conversation, but he doesn’t really contribute or give me anything to latch onto. I feel myself panic when Tipsy Girl drains the last of her cocktail and makes her way back to the bar. We’re alone. Ryan seems happy enough to be sipping his beer in silence, but it’s agonising to me.

“So, are you strong and silent or bored and restless?” I blurt out. I could not be less Anastasia if I tried.

“Sorry?” He looks momentarily startled.

I redden. “Oh, you’re just… quite quiet.”

He looks mortified. “Am I being horribly rude? I’m sorry. This place is a bit of a first for me.”

“You’re doing fine. First for me, too. What made you sign up?” I ask nonchalantly, hoping to hear something about the wisdom of Agony Alex .

“Oh, someone suggested it. Thought it’d be a bit out of my comfort zone, so I forced myself to do it.”

“Oh, charming,” I tease. “You’re making me feel like a parachute jump.”

He briefly looks mortified again (his expression is quite endearing) but then grins, taking a swig of his beer. “At least with a parachute jump, you get an instructor.”

“Think of me as your instructor,” I jump in. “Buckle up. Now, what do you need instructing in?” I cringe the moment the words are out of my mouth.

“Not too much. I haven’t just escaped from an underground cult or anything…” he replies hastily with a laugh, “I guess, maybe a bit on small talk. Bit on flirting… Breaking into a group conversation. That sort of thing.”

“Oh God. I hate those things too,” I say, briefly forgetting my role as a life coach. “But er… I guess it gets easier with practice. I suppose everyone feels awkward at the beginning.”

He nods over to a trio of guests loudly chatting like they’re in an advert for Jacob’s Creek chardonnay. “How would you break into that group over there?”

“Hmm. I’d march over and announce myself and just say, ‘You all sound like you’re having fun. Can I join?’”

He looks unconvinced as another braying laugh echoes from the corner. “Maybe I can build up to that. It might take work… What about you? Why are you here?”

“Oh. I guess I’m a little impatient with online dating. My thumb has RSI from swiping left, and I’m a bit fed up trying to condense my character into three paragraphs of hilarious prose.”

I rattle on before realising that I’m pretty much just speaking as me, Alex, with the enigmatic Anastasia, Instructress in Love, temporarily forgotten. I switch back quickly. “Any other tips you’d like? You have full access to the mysteries of a woman’s mind here.”

He laughs, “Major conversational no-nos?”

“I’d say real ale, parking arrangements, and tooth whitening.”

“I think that goes without saying.” I can see his body start to relax slightly, and he seems to be genuinely enjoying our conversation.

“You would be surprised!” I say, nodding towards non-Ryan, who has collared the drunk girl from our happy band.

“Wow. Someone who needs more instruction than me,” Ryan says.

“You don’t really need instruction. Just a bit of a confidence boost,” I say, deciding it’s time to refocus on why I’m there. “You’re funny; you have a nice smile. You’re a good listener. Do you have any idea how unusual that is in guys? Most wouldn’t have paid attention this long…” I trail off, realising the wine is making me over enthuse.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” he teases.

I swat at him playfully. Flirtatiously even. Eeek. That isn’t part of the plan. It’s time to evacuate.

“Haha. Anyway, make sure you remember – you ARE a good catch. I better go before my Uber turns into a pumpkin.”

“Wait, wait. You’re a terrible instructor. Three tips, and you’re out of here? Can I at least buy you a drink sometime to say thank you?”

I suddenly feel flustered. My original mission feels like it’s gone a bit off-piste. Shy Ryan has suddenly developed an obscene level of confidence. It must be the glow from the Anastasia effect. A drink. Does he mean a date? That would definitely complicate things. I was meant to disappear once my work here was done.

On the other hand, rejection now would totally undermine everything I did to boost his confidence. Surely it would be better to cement my work so far and have one date before I mysteriously move abroad? I could re-frame it as a coaching session and firmly remove any romantic element from it. It’d be good for him. And he is very handsome. However, as his coach, I shall retain a professional detachment and not consider the way a solitary dimple flashes when he grins or that his eyes are a gorgeous, rich brown that would be the envy of the contact lens industry. I will remain professional. I will just stick to the mission. And anyway, I’m sure I can spare an evening in my busy schedule of looking for jobs and disdainfully overseeing Adam’s interactions with women to make time for such a noble pursuit.

He blushes deeply at my hesitation, and I’m so charmed by his shyness that I grab his phone.

“Sure, why not!” I exclaim and punch in my number before I have a chance to think better of it.