. . . a new plan
It appears that I have found myself at the precipice of two heartbreakingly true realisations.
I knew exactly what this was when I agreed to it – I was the one who made the rules, for God’s sake!
And somehow, I have let myself become enthralled by a man who wants – nay, needs – to be nothing more than a friend.
I blame the close contact and the shared rooms and that perfect proposal kiss.
I have Stockholm-syndromed myself into falling for him.
And, yes, I’m aware that’s probably not the correct application of Stockholm syndrome.
I’m not prepared to leave him and to start toughing this journey out on my own.
Misplaced feelings or not, he does make this whole thing significantly easier.
So, there is only one thing to do – burn these feelings of mine to the ground.
And the best way to do that is to throw myself into as many dates as possible.
There’s no way I can still like Noah if I am busy committing myself to anyone and everyone else.
I only have so much capacity for human affection and I need to divert it asap.
It’s probably for the best; I’m seven weeks in and only eleven dates down.
There’s no way I’m making it to eighty at this rate, so it’s time to be more proactive and pick up the pace.
I’ve alerted Analeise, I’ve told my sisters and I’m searching for new avenues myself.
You’d be surprised how many mixer events actually exist, especially for nomads and tourists.
After many hours of scouring I pencilled down a few and started to look into tickets to various book clubs and walking groups, but then Ana came in with a big ticket – an English-speaking speed dating, taking place on Saturday.
I was reluctant at first . . . I don’t think I am the type of person who would fare particularly well with a speed-dating setup, but then Analeise told me each one could count as an individual date.
Plus, I can’t think of a better way to speed-run Noah out of my life.
At least, I thought it would be until Noah heard about it and insisted he came along too.
I tried to put up resistance – I need a break from him wherever I can – but he signed up before I could finish convincing him that it would be a terrible idea.
Plus, what was I supposed to say? I said I’d help him find someone and recently all I’ve done is resent his dates from afar.
Maybe I need full immersion therapy. Seeing him with eight other girls tonight should be enough to knock my feelings clean from my head.
I take a sip of my white wine and relish in the crisp and exceptionally cold mouthful.
But even as it washes sweetly over my tongue, I can’t bring myself from fretting about the hour to come.
The tables and chairs are all set up in the middle of the floor, each station ready for the pairs who will be sitting there in no time.
It looks far more unsettling empty, threatening the horrors that await me later in the night.
I swallow again. There is not enough wine in this glass to prepare me for this experience.
‘Smile!’
Noah points his phone at me, snapping pictures before I can truly register them.
‘Perfect,’ he says, flashing my startled face back at me. ‘Your followers are going to eat this up.’
Since I started posting more regularly, as per Noah’s advice, my socials have seen significant growth.
People are finally starting to believe that I may be more than just ‘the dating-app breakdown girl’ and have started to take my column more seriously as a result.
Yes, there has been a fair share of weirdos, one of which I even went on a date with (thanks Timothy), but the majority of people have been lovely and supportive, and some of them even think I’m kind of cool.
‘I’ve been thinking about tonight . . .’ Noah says.
‘I know, you’ve talked about it incessantly.’ I roll my eyes.
He spent the afternoon counting down to it, making outfit suggestions and teasing me about what may be headed my way.
At 6 p.m., he insisted we get a move on so we could arrive early enough to scout out the best prospects.
Now here we are at the bar, thirty minutes early, only making the anticipation worse.
He doesn’t react to my snark, smiling on nonetheless as he leans in closer to impart his bright idea.
‘I thought we could make a wager.’ His lip curls.
‘A wager?’ I ask nervously.
‘First one to get an actual date out of this owes the other dinner.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say instantly.
He looks to me for a reason and I scramble for something palatable to say. I can’t possibly reveal the truth – that I feel a pull in my gut at the thought of Noah getting a real date out of this.
‘It’s not a fair fight; you’re better at this than me,’ I eventually say.
He laughs in response and I breathe deeply, knowing it was believable.
‘It’s because you doubt yourself too much,’ he says. ‘You’re hot and personable enough to be great at this. Just go in bold and show them what you want. Like this . . .’
He rushes the last part as the bartender comes over, smile bright as she asks us if we want any more drinks. He smiles back at her just as widely, elbow on the counter as he responds.
‘We’ll take two tequila shots and I will take your number, if it’s going.’
Her smile shrinks instantly, face pinching into something resembling disgust in a softer, more palatable ‘work friendly’ way.
‘You’re not my type,’ she says. ‘But I will get you those shots.’
I barely hold my laugh in as I wait for her to walk away. It comes out in full force once she’s gone, dribbling out of my mouth in disgustingly loud snorts.
Noah huffs. ‘It wasn’t that funny.’
‘You’re right – it was funnier,’ I say, before putting on my best mock-Noah voice. ‘ “Go in direct and show them what you want . . .” Yeah, I won’t be doing that, thank you.’
I try to stop laughing the best I can, but every time I come close I remember all over again and a fresh set of giggles forces its way up my chest, bolder and brassier than the ones before.
I thank my stars that he’s already taken it on the chin or the whole thing would come across as quite cruel.
He tries his best not to smile back at me as I laugh, but I can see the corner of his lips twitching, eager to turn upwards.
I manage to settle by the time she brings us our shots, focusing every ounce of energy I have into keeping a straight face.
She brings over three, offering to do one with us – I assume as a gentle act of pity.
It’s nice nevertheless and the three of us crash them together before backing them in one, salt and lime be damned.
I feel the warmth across my chest and the newly present burn in my throat.
Then the bell rings to take our seats and the joy drains from my body.
The rules are simple – girls stay where they are, guys do all the moving around.
Everyone has five minutes to talk before the bell goes off and you have to move on.
Each person has a scorecard, as well as a minute break between each session to quickly fill in said card.
You submit your cards at the end and compatible matches will receive each other’s contact details in two days.
The host went over them three times, which was great because my nerves settled enough for me to actually take it in by time number three.
Then the first bell rang and along came Conrad, smile stretched wide across his face as he said hello.
Apparently, that’s all he’s capable of saying.
Ever since I said it back, he’s been waiting for me to continue the conversation.
We’re down to three minutes and fifty-five seconds.
‘So, why did you come here today?’ I ask.
‘To Salzburg? I live here,’ he replies.
I clarify. ‘To speed dating.’
‘Oh.’ He doesn’t expand any further.
I opt for a different tactic. ‘So, what would you recommend I do in Salzburg? I’m here for a week longer.’
‘That’s up to you, really,’ he says plainly.
The bell dings. I thank God.
Conrad 1/5
‘So, I’m Amorie,’ I say, as date number two sits down.
‘That’s exotic. Where are you from?’ he asks.
‘England,’ I reply.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Yeah, but you’re clearly not from there ancestrally,’ he says.
I bite my tongue and zone out, counting down the seconds until the bell rings again.
Name’s irrelevant 0/5
The third guy is at least promising: polite, good teeth and genuinely engaged.
We chat about our hobbies, our upbringing and what it was like for him to grow up in Salzburg versus me in Brighton.
It’s a five-minute crash course on all things each other and it’s actually rather entertaining. I scribble down his score.
Leon 5/5
Then I steal a cheeky glance at his sheet . . . He rated me a two.
By the eighth date I’m more than ready to wrap it up, and let out a large, audible sigh as the final bell rings.
‘Was I that bad?’ Bastian, sitting opposite me, says jokingly.
I lie. ‘Of course not! Just reached the end of my social battery.’
He nods and gets up, allowing me to drop my forced smile and shake off the last hour of duds. I turn in my seat to collect my bag, but a pair of shoes meets my eyeline and a shadow looms over me. I look up to find the bartender standing in front of my table, a tray with two glasses in her hand.
‘Rough date?’ she asks. ‘Or should I say, dates?’
I nod back, scrunching my face into a grimace that I hope accurately reflects the pain I just endured. It seems to work. She shakes her head, as appalled as I am, before reaching for one of the glasses on her tray.
‘I figured that was the case – they looked painful from the bar. So I brought you this, on the house. You ordered wine earlier, yes?’
She places an over-filled glass of white wine in front of me, the glass frosty from the coolness of the drink.
‘Thank you so much!’ I say, taking a large and welcome sip.
It’s crisp and delightful, and more expensive than anything I’ve been buying. She lifts the second one.
‘I brought this one for me,’ she says. ‘I thought maybe you could use some better company?’
Her smile twists into something entirely different. Something bolder and fizzy that wakes the dormant butterflies from their near-barren cave. I nod silently and she gleefully pulls up the chair, one arm resting on the table and the other held out for us to clink glasses.
‘To terrible men,’ I say.
‘They don’t deserve our toast,’ she tuts.
‘You’re right.’ I purse my lips, searching for a new dedication. ‘To amazing bartenders that swoop in and save the day.’
We both sip slowly, eyes glued to each other’s faces, and I feel my stomach flutter at the rawness of it. It’s so intense and intimate that it makes my gut bubble, but I can’t look away. Her icy blonde hair falls across her shoulders and reflects the light mesmerisingly.
‘So, what made you sign up for speed dating?’ she asks, setting her glass down on the table.
I take another gulp, hoping the buzz from the alcohol gives me the illusion of game.
‘Wanted to try something new.’ It’s technically not a lie. ‘I’m attempting to date more while I travel – really get out there and meet people I wouldn’t meet back at home.’
She nods wistfully, eyes still locked on mine.
‘And how is that going?’ she asks.
‘Well, you saw tonight.’
She rolls her eyes in solidarity, taking another sip of her drink.
I can’t help but follow the glass as it touches her lips.
She notices. Of course she does – I don’t know how to be subtle.
But she relishes in my obvious interest, rubbing her lips together before staring back at me, a knowing glint in her eye.
‘So, these people . . . they’re all men?’ she asks abruptly.
‘Nope,’ I reply, quick and desperate to get it out there.
Her lips curl at the admission, twisting into a satisfied smirk. She holds my gaze longer, more directly, as she takes one last finishing sip.
‘I’ve got to go back to work. But if you’re still trying new things, I’m Lina.’ She hands me a napkin with a social media handle scrawled across it. ‘I’m free the next two days.’
I hold the napkin in my hand, reading over her username again and again. My heart leaps in my chest, mind flooding with possibility, but I stay strong. I have to keep it together at least until she turns her back to me.
‘I’ll take you up on that,’ I say.
She nods satisfactorily before sending a wink my way that damn near stops my heart completely. She is spectacular. And she wants me enough to give me her details. Looks like speed dating wasn’t so bad after all.