Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
‘Pull my finger…’
I knew he’d go for a bit of old-school smut. He messaged me back and the LOLs rolled in. I played it cool, leaving three, sometimes six minutes between each message.
It was working. I even made up an absurd story about me having a slight stutter, so that I didn't have to go through the phone test with him. And yes, I’d even bought a burner phone so he didn't recognise my number. Jason Bourne had nothing on me.
I played the long game, and we began to build up a bit of a relationship online. We even started to have our own ‘in-jokes’, as was the way sometimes with these things. I just had to make sure I wasn’t using any of our old ‘in jokes’.
Usually by now, this sort of relationship could escalate into sexual content merely from one naughty trigger-word, but I wasn’t about to let that happen.
I’d purposely refrained from doing that.
Sometimes it was hard to resist such behaviour with ‘randoms’, but Harry wasn't a ‘random’ and besides, he’d probably kill me when he inevitably found out it was me.
I told him that I found the whole sexual conversation thing a bit tacky on WhatsApp, and that earned me a few brownie points and an extra couple of inches of nose growth.
I’d suggested a date for the hottest night of the week––Thursday––and he accepted. That meant that he was obviously still a fan of my waffling. He even told me that I was his ‘favourite’. That was the biggest accolade an online potential love interest can receive.
On D-Day, I went to work in my Thursday shirt. It was a new one that hadn’t even been worn yet. It still had some weird creases that I’d hopefully wear out during the day, because despite it being Harry I was going out with, I still couldn’t be bothered to get the iron out.
It was a good day. Not least because I managed to get that selfie with Neil so I could get him dumped later on.
For the date, I had picked one of those swanky little Central London cocktail places that you had to book in advance and get buzzed into. I intended to order mini-burgers and everything. One of the things I learned about Harry was that he really liked miniature food. I mean, who didn’t?
I opted to meet Harry outside as I had foolishly booked the table in my name, and thought that if I phoned up to change it, they’d think I was weird and cancel the booking .
My strategy was to turn up 10 minutes late as I knew Harry would be around 10 minutes late, and if he saw me waiting, he’d bolt and this whole meticulously executed plan would have been for zilch.
I wore my best gear, even down to my favourite pair of Paul Smith socks.
Clearly, I was making a lot of effort and it was because I really wanted to make it work with him.
I’d been lucky enough to meet someone that I’d had an invigorating connection with.
Not only that, but I was satisfied with him.
More than satisfied. I felt that if I could win him back, that would be it for me. I’d never do an Eric on him. Would I?
We all knew that the trouble with online dating was that it was so addictive.
Sure, people complained about all the shit dates, but they’d always go back for more.
Plus, the messages never stopped, so you were always getting bombarded with new options.
Because it was so easy, you’d never win the fight with that urge to spark up a conversation with someone, even if it was just a back-up.
So, to meet someone like Harry, I felt lucky.
It was totally worth giving up all the fun and games of online dating, meeting a new guy every night, the late-night kissing, the lottery of finding that explosive chemistry with someone that just lasts a night and somehow disappears by the second date, the adrenaline rush of receiving a new message from someone that you thought you had no chance with…
actually, hang on… maybe not? That was a lot of really good stuff right there. Only joking––I was ready.
And there was the small matter of completing the mission I got into all this for in the first place: to find my soul mate so that Mum could stop worrying about her youngest. Since she had her health scare, I wanted to do this more than ever .
At first I wanted to do it for her, but the more I dated and realised what a shallow pool I was paddling in, the more I knew that there had to be more to life.
I couldn't end up doing this forever. Plus, like everyone, I was going to have a sell-by date––a cut-off point where guys simply stop looking at my profile and automatically swiped left.
A time when you didn't realise how old you looked until someone mentioned it in a brutal way.
I wasn't prepared to let that happen. So here I was at the biggest date of my life––The Boss Fight.
I waited by the Pret-A-Manger on Broadwick Street in Soho.
It was a place I found infuriating, because they’d recently turned it into a ‘veggie’ branch.
This meant I couldn’t pick up a Ham & Cheese Croissant if ever I walked past there on my way to an after-work social gathering.
Anyway, I thought it would be a nice and discreet place to wait, as Harry felt the same about the place, and would therefore pay it no attention.
There he was, waiting outside the cocktail place.
He was early. He took his phone out of his bag and started texting me.
My stupid burner phone didn’t even have WhatsApp, and I actually had to pay for texts, so it was costing me a few quid.
The dulcet tone of the stupid whistling text alert that I couldn't work out how to change sounded.
‘Here.’
I exhaled dramatically and walked over to him.
“Oh. Um… hello,” he said, looking around with an expression that clearly said, ‘FUCK FUCK FUCK, PLEASE DON’T TURN UP NOW, brAD!’
“Hey. Listen… I need to…”
Before I could say any more, he realised what was going on here and his mouth caved into the most fearsome of shapes: a cat’s arsehole .
“You fucking Catweazled me?” he cried, repeating the question twice.
“C-cat fished , actually… but…”
Ironically, I started stuttering my words in the style of my creation, Brad. Harry held both of his hands up, puffed out his cheeks, turned around and stormed off.
“No, wait! Please. I didn't have sex with that German guy. I purposefully avoided it all night in fact.”
He stopped and folded his arms, awaiting further information. I explained to Harry that he’d come over from Germany and that I was trying to get rid of him and avoid having sex with him, but felt I owed it to him to at least put in an appearance since he’d come all that way.
“He booked the trip before we got together and I’d forgotten about it. I felt sorry for him, that’s all. Nothing happened, I swear,” I said.
“Oh. Right. So, why were you acting like such a prick, then? You dark-eyed me like I’d set fire to your mum’s cat. What’s her name. Layla?”
“Lilla, but let me explain.”
I then went on to explain the whole Freddy thing, that there’d been a terrible mix-up, and that I thought there was a husband on the scene and that he’d followed him to that hotel to kill me.
Gradually, his arms unfolded as he could no doubt see in my eyes that I was telling the truth, however ridiculous it sounded.
“You fucking Catweazled me,” he said at a lower volume that meant his bad mood was gradually diffusing.
“Yeah, I Catweazled you. But only because I fucked up and knew that I had to explain everything to you. I’ve never felt such a connection with anybody––and in every single way.
It’s like nobody else exists when I’m with you.
I felt awful without you after the short time we’ve had together.
It was worse than having no 5G. Hey, you're my 5G. And when they invent another G, that’ll be you. And so on,” I said.
He melted a bit more and I could see a smile creeping onto the left side of his mouth, so I suggested that we made use of my reservation in the mysterious, swanky cocktail bar.
We were buzzed in and shown to our table.
“You made the reservation in your name? You’re such a dick,” he said, finally smiling with both sides of his mouth.
Ah, he was back in the room.
We ended up having quite the splendid evening, and it seemed like there was hope of a reconciliation.
He had had a succession of awful dates and was clearly fed up of the online world as well.
He’d done it for three years, and told me that I was the only person that he had ever felt any sort of connection with in all that time.
I thought the ‘any sort of’ bit sounded a bit dismissive, but taking into account recent events, I chalked it up and moved on.
We went home separately, and on the way home he sent a text to my burner phone:
‘Thanks for blowing me out, Brad, you colossal turd muncher.’
At the weekend, I went to see Mum so I could rid Neil from her life. She seemed to be in quite a subdued mood, so I felt bad that I was just about to reveal what a scuz-bucket he was .
I was flicking through my phone and chuckling so that she’d ask me what I was looking at.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
Bingo.
“Oh, just some pictures from my work do. Look, that’s me and the boss,” I said, presenting her with the evidence.
“Oh. Hang on,” she said, putting her reading glasses on before continuing. “I know that little weirdo. Phil?”
“Neil, actually.”
She took a quick intake of shock-induced breath.
“Toe-rag. He invited me to a party and it turned out to be a bloody swinger’s do.
It was full of a load of old naked prunes.
Obviously, I never saw him again after that.
I got him to take me home immediately. Almost immediately.
It was actually quite fascinating, you know.
It wasn’t for me though, darling. Anyway, I’ve got another date lined up with Tony next week. ”
“Why not, eh? Good for you, Mum,” I chirped.
“Well, ‘solo’ and all that, as the kids say.”
“YOLO, actually.”
“You're such a smart-arse, aren’t you? So, what’s going on with you, then?”
I told her about Harry, and that I thought maybe this could be something good, and her face lit up even more.
“So, my plan worked then? Is he the love of your life then?”
“Well, it’s early days. We’ve only actually been out three times. Anyway, it’s all good with him now—thanks to you—so hopefully, y’know…”
“Ooh, I hope so darling, I really do,” she said, as she put down a couple of lilies to rub my hand.
She looked gaunt today, and for the first time, Mum actually looked ill.
She wasn't as chatty as usual, and I could sense that something was up, although I didn't pry.
If she wanted to tell me anything, she would.
Also, I didn't want to press for any bad news, so was kind of willing her not to say anything I didn’t want to hear.
She went back to her flower-arranging for a few seconds.
I could tell from the back of her head that she had something else on her mind. I was right.
“Danny?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“Why’s that prick got ‘I’m a Twat’ on the side of his mug? It doesn't work.”
“Well, it’s quite simple,” I explained. “He’s actually a twat.”
A week later, I met up with Harry again.
I had resisted going on any kind of dating app all week.
It was to prove a point to him and myself that I didn't need them anymore.
Besides, I knew I would be pushing my luck if he saw my mug pop up.
Mind you… obviously, I could question why he was on there, but this was a rabbit hole I quite simply did not want to slip down.
Not being on the apps myself, I had no way of checking up on him, so I employed the skills of a mate from the comedy circuit, Charlie, who himself was a connoisseur of the serial-dating world. Anyway, it turned out that Harry was clean. And relax.
Harry and I sat in a faux gastro-pub and we both went for the dirty burger––the item on the menu with the trendiest name. This was when we had ‘the conversation’.
“So, um… I was thinking. Are we gonna progress to exclusivity status?” I asked.
“’Er.. mind reader alert!” he said in a purposely cute and excitable way, repeatedly tapping both hands on the table.
“I reckon we should delete all of our apps and profiles and what-not, then.”
“What? Fuck off.” He laughed.
I frowned. He laughed again.
“Jokes! Okay, then. Get your phone out.”
We both drew.
I held my finger on the Sliderr app until it started shaking like a nervous bartender in a Western. I poked the cross. Bang. Dead.
“There. Now you.”
He opened a folder containing more dating apps than I’d ever seen in my life. Of course, I recognised most of them. Well, all of them, actually. Who was I kidding?
One by one, we both annihilated our dating careers. It was like the end of Goodfellas, when everyone got sent down or killed. It was finally over. We were now officially free.
“Oh, just one more thing…” said Harry.
“Which is?”
“Delete all your pictures of grot. I’ve got rid of all my cock shots.”
“Oh. Okay… well, I actually don’t think I’ve got any left.”
I scrolled through my photo album in full view, with more confidence than a man wearing socks and sandals. I, too, was now clean.
“Why have you got a picture of Dick Van Dyke on your phone?” asked Harry.
“Oh, that. Well, there’s a funny story there…”