. . . a critique
‘Your dates are too small.’
‘What?’ I ask.
Analeise cocks her head to the side, slowed only by the delay of this café’s sub-par Wi-Fi.
‘They’re cute, and exceptionally written, yes. But they’ve all been relatively small so far. Run-ins and cafés and invites to house parties are great, but your readers need to see you really getting stuck in.’
‘I am getting stuck in! I redownloaded an app!’ I say.
‘And you went on four dates before you deleted it.’
I mutter under my breath. ‘You could sound less disappointed.’
She lets out a long, deep sigh, stilted by our fragmented connection.
‘I’ve loved your work so far, Amorie. The column’s performing well, but we can already see readers starting to dip off. It’s just quite . . . mundane. I mean, even you made it clear that your three dates in Berlin almost put you to sleep.’ She shakes her head.
‘There was a fourth, actually. And it was juicy.’
‘Oh?’ Her eyes light up on the screen.
‘Drunk, messy night, went back to his and everything,’ I say, watching as she practically salivates.
Describing my night with Sam as ‘messy’ may be quite the stretch, considering how smoothly it started and how easily it ended. But if she needs more drama, I can give more drama – even if it involves fluffing the truth.
‘Tell me more.’
‘You’ll have to wait for the column.’ I watch her shake her head with faux disapproval at my teasing. ‘But I guarantee it will bring those dropping readers back tenfold.’
‘Brilliant.’ She grabs her pen. ‘Can you get a draft to me EOD?’
‘Of course!’ I say.
‘And make it thrilling.’
‘Absolutely.’ I swallow.
‘I’m serious, Amorie. Initial data says you need more variety.’
I prattle a quick goodbye, assure her that there’s ‘variety’ to come, and exit out of the call before immediately feeling my stomach drop.
Just when I think I’ve finally found a groove, here I am back at square one – a hopeless case with no idea how you’re supposed to meet people.
There’s a reason I can’t write a thrilling entry.
It’s because nothing about me is that thrilling; I’ve always played it safe.
I moved to London with Sara as a safety net, I gave up on journalism because the café was an easier sure thing, and I stayed with a boyfriend I knew I didn’t love for years because it was easier than being alone.
I am bad at this. I don’t know how to take risks and go for things, and soon enough my readers will realise that too.
I take a deep breath and an extra-long sip of my latte before opening a fresh doc.
Date 8 – Bar-Crawl Bae
Who knew that a simple hostel night out would leave me pinned against a stranger’s door at two in the morning? But, hey, who am I to ignore sexual tension? That’s what this series is about, right? New, salacious experiences?
It’s a start for sure, but it’s hard to know where to go without diving into nitty-gritty detail.
And every time I think about including nitty-gritty details, I think about the fact that this is on the same internet that my dad uses.
But Analeise wants it saucy and captivating, and not boring.
And what’s less boring than some good old-fashioned smut?
The difference, however, is that the majority of smut that I’ve read, at least, comes from a lovely fictional place.
This is my life. My life on the internet, where it may remain for ever.
This is all too hard. I need a doughnut and maybe a nap.
I catch Noah by surprise as I let myself into our apartment (another he bagged for free, this time from a pet-sitting service – we have a cat). His neck snaps towards me and he freezes, hunched over the trainer that he was already halfway through tying.
‘Are you finished already?’ he asks.
‘Writer’s block. Apparently, my articles are “mundane”.’
I shove my bag on our kitchen island and pull up a stool so I can properly slump down in defeat. He drops his lace and wanders over, taking me in.
‘Who said that?’ he asks.
I huff. ‘My editor.’
‘Well, she’s wrong.’
‘Well, she pays me.’
‘Fair point.’ He shrugs. ‘So, what’s mundane about them?’
He grabs a water bottle from the fridge before chucking one across the marble surface towards me. I catch it one-handed, shocking even myself, before chugging it quicker than I anticipated.
‘The dates are too basic; she says I need to get out there more. Give my column more variety.’
‘And how do you do that?’ He pulls up his own stool.
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?’ I ask.
‘Okay, snarky.’ He smirks.
I mumble an apology. ‘Sorry. It’s just really frustrating.’
It’s hard enough doing all this in your home country, let alone a foreign one where you barely have your bearings to begin with.
I feel my body sink, head keeling over until my forehead knocks softly against the counter, arms wrapping around my head to enclose myself in darkness.
I let out a groan, soft at first and then louder a second later.
I shiver ever so slightly as Noah’s fingers brush my arm, raising each hair they touch on their way, before reaching around for my hand. He finally locates it, wrapping his fingers around it and giving a firm squeeze. I raise my head and catch his soft gold-flecked eyes staring across at me.
‘You’ve got this,’ he says assuredly. ‘We’ve got this. Come on, we’ll brainstorm ideas and get you back out there in no time.’
‘This isn’t your problem.’
‘Oh, but it is. I am an avid reader of your column. You can’t have the ink go dry on me now.’
I start to chuckle before I can stop myself, the sound running through me until I’m sitting up straight again.
It proves to be infectious, prompting Noah’s smile to stretch so far across his cheeks that, for a second, I’m worried they’ll rupture.
Our eyes meet again, both with the same spark of hope.
Now that I’m partially out of my head, I’m actually able to digest him in his current state.
‘Were you on your way out?’ I ask.
Though sitting comfortably on the stool, he’s clad in a sweat-wicking T-shirt and gym shorts, with trainers on his feet and a water bottle still clutched in his other hand.
‘Oh, yeah, I was. But it’s fine, I can miss it – we have a lot of planning to do. It was only this running club I found. They meet again tomorrow morning . . .’
He stops abruptly, eyes glowing in sync with the lightbulb that’s just gone off inside his head. My stomach clenches.
‘Nope.’
‘Am, come on!’
‘I don’t run.’ I stare back at him sternly.
‘But they’re so nice and sociable! And beginners are welcome! And everyone hooks up at running clubs!’ His eyebrows raise.
‘Really?’ I ask, ears pricked for gossip.
‘My aunt Lisa was part of one back in London and used to tell me some wild stories about the members. It hasn’t happened for me yet, but you’re built different so I have faith. Come on!’
I shake my head. There are beginners and then there’s me, a sweaty, panting disaster with two left feet and an ugly cardio face.
I don’t run to socialise and I certainly don’t run to date.
I wouldn’t trust anyone who looked at me twice while I was running.
But Noah keeps pushing and every second I stall is a second that his pleading grows more intense.
‘I didn’t even bring gym clothes,’ I say in protest.
‘You can borrow one of my T-shirts and I’ve seen you in leggings – I know you own some.’
‘Those are my travel leggings,’ I huff.
‘Leggings are leggings, they’ll do. Chuck ’em in the wash!’
I press on. ‘I don’t think you understand. I can’t do cardio. I’ll be sweaty and out of breath instantly.’
His lip curls. ‘Lots of people are into that sort of thing.’
‘Not the way I do it, I can promise you that.’
‘Well now I have to see it,’ he says.
‘No, you don’t!’
‘I promise it will be fun!’
I scoff. ‘You can’t promise me that.’
‘Yes, I can. Everything’s more fun with you there. Come on, Amorie!’
And looking at his bright, hopeful eyes, I know that he means it. But that’s because he’s never seen me exercise. If he knew any better, he’d ensure that he never did.
He leans further across the table, eyes sparkling with temptation as they lock onto my own.
‘What’s it gonna take to get you to come with me?’ he asks slowly.
‘One million pounds and your firstborn child,’ I reply bluntly.
He tilts his head to the side, putting on his best performance as he pretends to consider it.
‘Tempting, for sure. But I have a counter-offer. We order pizza for dinner, on me?’
I feel my stomach rumble at the mere mention of greasy carbs. Clearly a doughnut and a coffee are not enough to sustain a person all day. But is a free lazy meal enough to justify embarrassing myself in the streets of Prague? I am broke, yes, but am I that desperate?
‘I want extra cheese,’ I say. ‘Onions, mushrooms, peppers, jalapenos . . .’
He nods. ‘Sweetcorn?’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t insult me. And any form of doughball or garlic knot they have. A mozzarella stick too – any cheesy side, really.’
He stifles a laugh. ‘Anything else?’
‘Do you think they’ll have onion rings?’ I ask.
His laugh seeps all the way through this time.
‘I’ll find a place and get back to you,’ he says. ‘And while I do that, you can prep your outfit for the morning.’