Chapter 1 #2
He still looks hot: blue suit, undone tie, and a little silver now creeping into his hair.
His fiancée is stunning, blissful and completely unaware that some sad case in London is pining for her fiancé, a man who has probably forgotten she ever existed.
I should close the app but I can’t stop looking at the photo.
I’ve never been that happy in a relationship.
In fact, I’m not sure I’ve been that happy ever, apart from that time I found a rogue onion ring hiding in my Burger King fries.
I throw my phone down and scream into a couch cushion. What the hell is wrong with me? Why has my love life been such a disaster?
My longest relationship was with Jason Turner for seven years.
Three months was the length of my last relationship with Harry.
One is the number of flings I’ve had this year and zero is the number of times I’ve ever been in true, glowing, Instagram worthy love.
I might be a work legend, but it appears that not only am I rubbish at keeping my kitchen clean, I’m also just as useless at dating.
I barely think about my past relationships, Jason especially because even after all these years, I still hate him.
Seven years with a monobrowed marketing manager who had a masters in gaslighting.
This was in 2002 when I was twenty-two and before I was even aware of what gaslighting was.
Only three of those years were good, the other four were spent picking my self-esteem up off the floor.
I shudder at the thought but remind myself that the company he set up in 2018 is now under investigation for fraud.
‘Hey, Alexa. Call Naomi.’
I’m having trouble understanding you.
‘Call Ny-OH-mee.’
Naomi Campbell is an English model and—
‘Alexa, stop. Just. Stop.’
I’m sorry, I didn’t understand the question.
‘Forget it,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
I pick up my phone and call her like a normal human. This time she answers.
‘Soph, I totally meant to call you back, it’s just been—’
‘I was on Instagram and Charlie Fox is engaged and I have no one. I should have someone. Why don’t I have someone?’
There’s a short pause. Then a weary sigh. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You cannot possibly still give a shit about Charlie Fox.’
For a self-sufficient, pigtail-sporting, poultry-raising free spirit, Naomi Bridgers sometimes shoots from the hip with an AK-47. It’s very confusing at times.
‘Don’t you sigh at me,’ I reply. ‘I’m very upset about this, you know. I loved him.’
‘No, you had a crush. A hundred years ago,’ she says. ‘I had a crush on Keanu Reeves but you don’t still see his posters all over my walls.’
‘Left wall, art studio,’ I inform her.
‘This isn’t about me.’
‘He looked really happy,’ I say, my heart continuing to sink. ‘They all looked—’
‘Have you tried not stalking on Instagram when you’re alone and ninety per cent chardonnay?’ she asks.
‘Wait, how did you—’
‘It’s always chardonnay. You very rarely get maudlin on pinot.’
‘Fair point,’ I agree. ‘But for your information I wasn’t stalking him, I just happened to see him tagged in Kara’s post.’
Naomi had never been particularly fond of Charlie. Pretty boys weren’t her thing, and she always thought he was too full of himself.
‘Look at him, strutting around like a pound-shop John Travolta. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. He’s boring as hell. Full of stories about being drunk, shagging birds and listening to obscure bands no one has heard of.’
Admittedly he was a little boring, but I overlooked that in the name of love. ‘So, tell me,’ Naomi says, ‘what’s his future wife like then? Five foot ten and fifteen years younger? Hang on . . . Boys, get to bed or I’ll send your dad up there.’
I hear one of the boys laugh at the prospect of this. She might as well have threatened to send a teddy bear up there to discipline them, it would have been just as effective. Accountant Philip Bridgers is the poster boy for placidity.
‘Hmm, I’d say about five three,’ I reply. ‘But yeah, she looks younger. Mid-twenties, I’d guess, but you can do a lot with Botox these days.’
‘Well, you could have someone Botoxed, five three and mid-twenties if you wanted.’
I frown. ‘Why would I want that?’
‘I’m just saying, if you actually made an effort; you know, left the house on a Saturday night . . . or any night . . .’
‘Why are you now my mother?’
Naomi laughs. ‘Sorry. You know I only want good things for you. I want to see you happy! Oh, and speaking of your mum, I was shopping last week, and I saw her on Whitby Bridge. She was holding hands with a cutie. He looked like Bryan Cranston in khaki shorts and a trilby.’
That doesn’t sound like Derek (who would have worn his grey work suit to bed, given half the chance) or George (who looked more like Brian Blessed than Bryan Cranston). Is this someone new?
‘God, even my mum is dating,’ I say despondently.
‘You should be too!’ Naomi insists. ‘Get yourself out there and stop thinking that everyone on Instagram is as perfect as they seem. You know Lucy Bainbridge from school? Looked like a thumb in the yearbook photo? She isn’t a married model who lives in Dubai.
She actually lives in her car, isn’t allowed to own a dog and works at Marks and Spencer in Croydon. ’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
‘It could be true. All I’m saying is, for all we know, Charlie Fox has haemorrhoids the size of golf balls and his future wife is a flat earther.’
I start to laugh. ‘I know they’re not perfect, I’m not that naive. It’s just a reminder that I don’t have anyone.’
‘Well, you still have me, and luckily for you, I happen to believe the earth is round.’
‘And the haemorrhoids?’
She sighs. ‘Size of Jupiter, mate. I’ve given birth to twins. By the way, what was the good news you mentioned?’
‘Oh shit, I nearly forgot! I nailed that work campaign!’
‘The terrible flirty app one?’ she asks. ‘That’s my girl, I’m proud of you! Only someone truly gifted could have tackled that.’
‘I know, right! I nailed it.’
‘Absolutely. You’re amazing and . . . hang on . . . Michael! Grant! I swear to God, if you’re sliding down the stairs in that washing basket again . . . ! I need to run. Soph, they’re driving me nuts. I’ll message you tomorrow, but well done!’
The call disconnects while I bask in her compliments. I already feel less hopeless because, as usual, Naomi is probably right. Both about me being amazing and that I need to get out there again. The only problem is, I have absolutely no idea where to begin.