Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
I spent the next morning trying to replace my stolen smartphone as I realised that, now, I couldn't live without one of the little buggers. Damn. I borrowed Finn’s phone to cancel all of my cards the night after my run in with the Cronx Massive, so that was at least one headache dealt with.
I had to write off my Tastecard, not to mention my beloved coffee points—one latte off from a free one as well. Oh well, that was my desertion tax.
“So anyway, what happened last night?” asked Finn.
He dribbled out shards of cornflake shrapnel as I relayed a blow-by-blow account of my first lukewarm online encounter.
“Right, so when’s your next one?” Finn shovelled heaped spoonful after heaped spoonful of dry cornflakes into his mouth. He hated milk, by the way.
“Dunno. I can’t seem to entice anyone out, even though I’m chatting to about twenty fellas at the moment. I keep forgetting what I’m saying to them as well. I genuinely think I need some kind of filing system.”
“Where’s Mum this morning?” as he asked that, Finn spun his laptop around to showcase a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet that he had created specifically to keep track of people that he was chatting to on dating apps.
“Taking a delivery at the shop. The Dutchman’s delivering a load of stuff for her.”
“Yeah, and the rest. Dirty bastard,” grumbled Finn.
“She fancies him. What’s the problem?”
“His wife.”
“Fair point,” I agreed.
I stood up, snatched my jacket from the banister, packed my utterly pointless man-bag that contained nothing but a phone charger and shuffled off to work.
After my harmless morning banter with the temp on reception, I sloped off to do some personal printing, only to be pounced on by my ridiculous boss.
Neil was a Yorkshireman that lucked out by marrying a very rich woman that owned a television post-production firm, which he managed.
“Mornington lad,” said Neil as he glided towards me with his ‘I’m a Twat’ mug.
“Morning…ton. Who’s that on reception?”
“Oh, Lucy, from the agency apparently. Joel’s off on holiday to Costa del something or other, so we’ve got someone prettier to look at for a couple of weeks.”
Urgh. Neil spluttered a disgusting, pervy laugh as I curled my lip in dismay. How dare he speak of my work-crush, Joel in such a way? I decided to be the bigger man and move the conversation on anyway.
“What’s the matter with this bloody thing? It keeps saying ‘job cancelled’,” I mumbled.
“Oh yeah, your P45’s in the post, lad!” Neil winked at whoever was in earshot and cracked up way too much at his own joke .
“That’s all right, I had a second interview with The Sound Lab last week. Head of Sound, mate.”
“You what?” said Neil, gobsmacked, worriedly running his stubby fingers through his plaited beard.
“Only joking.” I pointed a finger gun at him with the safety catch on. “They didn't get me back for a second interview,” I mumbled.
“Ha. Right. Sorry, what?” said Neil, anxiously twisting his newly-injected Turkish hair plugs.
“Nothing.”
“Thought not. Heavy night last night then, lad?”
“Something like that, yeah,” I said, trying to end the encounter as abruptly as possible.
“What d’ya get up to?” he probed.
“A date,” I muttered.
“Fucking yes, son! Ay’up, was it one of the ones off them apps? The swipey ones?”
“Yeah, it was pretty swipey,” I replied.
“Fucking yes. Any action?” Neil rotated his hips in a weird figure-of-eight-like motion that looked like the complete opposite of what sex should ever be.
“No. I opted to have my phone stolen instead from a gang of so-called ‘Apple pickers’.”
Neil paused, then burst out laughing. “You’re into some right weird shit, you kids, aren’t ya? ‘Ere, you wanna try that Sliderr. It’s the nuts. Loads of fanny on that.”
“What? You're married, you dirty bastard. Also, it may have escaped your attention, but I’m not after any ‘fanny’,” I said, whilst still trying to process why Neil was using that word in this day and age.
“Oh yeah, I forgot. Anyway, settle down, lad, my brother showed me. Come on, what do you take me for? ”
“I thought you only had a sister?” I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Brother-in-LAW, I meant. Christ, what is this, Spanish bloody question time?”
“Hang on, why would your brother-in-law be using a dating site if he’s married to your sister?”
Neil paused and then gave up working out what he was going to say next. “Sliderr. Trust me, lad. Soo-focking-perb. Apparently,” he said, projecting an animated chef’s kiss.
“Why’s it called Sliderr, anyway?”
“Sliding into your DM’s and all that rubbish. Come on, lad, you’re young… Ish.”
“Thanks. Oh, you know that ‘I’m a Twat’ on your mug doesn't work if it’s on the side? It should be on the bottom, so that when you drink it, people think you're a twat for not knowing it’s on there,” I said with just the right pinch of smug.
“Yeah, but if it’s on the side, then everyone can see I’m a twat all the time.”
“That they can, Neil. That they can.”
It was lunchtime. I was in a right strop after spending the best part of ￡500 on a new smartphone (albeit spread over a few years), after finding out that phone insurance was actually a thing.
On top of that, all of the best benches around my favoured lunchtime spot on the South Bank were being hogged by pesky tourists.
I’d made the error of buying myself a takeaway salad as well, so I couldn’t eat on the move.
I thought I’d dilute my bad mood by having a quick swipe on Kindred .
After pinging a load of matches that I hardly fancied, just to boost my ego, I came across a familiar face.
Coincidentally, it was someone from my brief cyber-past––Ben, the dangerous-looking steam-punk leather vamp that I had ignored in favour of Rob, the dangerous-looking winkle picker monster. So, I pinged him.
Ten seconds later, a white speech bubble appeared in my message section.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ I typed lazily.
‘Yeah. I was actually gonna message you before, but was a bit busy with real-life stuff. Anyway, thought you looked kind of corruptible, so thought I’d try and entice you out. I see you're only around the corner from me. I’m in the South Bank too. What say you?’
‘What said I’ was ‘Yes, please’, despite it being a Monday. Still, I couldn't believe how quick and easy this dating app game was. I mean, it’d be rude not to go out and play, wouldn’t it?
I went back to work with such a thrill that I unofficially gave myself the rest of the afternoon off.
I was way ahead editing an awful programme about some terrible people from Dudley starting a bar in Tenerife, so decided to spend the rest of the afternoon lightly brushing the front of my new phone with my finger.
And why not? Watching the animation of a match snapping together was starting to give me an instant adrenaline rush.
It was nearing the end of the day. Unfortunately, I had my ‘Monday shirt’ on. It was my least favourite article of clothing, and I was only wearing it because:
It was Monday and why would you ever go out on a Monday?
All my best weekend stuff was in the wash.
I had left the house with absolutely no intention of doing anything except going to work, stopping at the Sainsbury’s Local on the way home to hover around the ‘Whoops trolley’, then catch up on a bit of late-night swiping, and:
Joel, my aforementioned work crush, was on holiday in the Costa del something or other, so it didn't really matter what I looked like.
Anyway, I was just about presentable enough for a quick flirt-ette. Annoyingly, Ben wanted to meet at 8pm for some reason, so I had to hang around and kill some time for a couple of hours, which was a real bore. And none of my inner circle of cronies were around for a ‘transfer’ pint.
Mind you, I didn't want to start hitting the sauce before I met him, just in case I got too rat-arsed before he turned up. I also didn't want to pile in the coffee either and end up with teacher breath, so I decided to remain at work and ended up demolishing the remainder of the water cooler.
It was approaching 8 o’clock. I took a final glance at Ben’s profile pictures, so that it was engraved into my brain what he looked like.
I noticed that he’d uploaded a new picture of him dressed in a PVC army uniform, holding what looked like a table-tennis bat, which seemed like an odd choice of accessory to accompany that particular outfit.
Well, at least I now had my opening question.
We arranged to meet at a famously cheap public house fondly nicknamed after a piece of dessert cutlery.
It was a fleeting affair and a spontaneous last-minute date, so neither of us expected anywhere too posh.
Besides, you simply cannot sneeze at somewhere that does curry and a pint for just the right side of a fiver.
I started to feel nervous as memories of my introductory online date made me worry about what might be in store.
Still, I can’t deny that I was excited. As I was about to learn, it didn't matter how painful an online date was, you’d always come back for more.
And already I was not only hungry for more, but also for some aforementioned cheap curry and deliciously greasy poppadoms.
I arrived at the pub early and ordered a weak lager to slurp on whilst I waited for Ben.
I didn't have to wait long. He turned up on time, dressed in his distinctive Steam-punk style and oozing sex appeal. I was loving his vintage vibe, jet-black hair, tied up in a springy, acceptable man-bun, dark, vampy eyeliner and one hell of a solid chest, teasing me with a peep through the slightly unbuttoned crisp, white flouncy shirt. He smelt like something you’d eat for dessert every day if you hadn’t just bought a three-month subscription to yet another diet app.