Chapter 4
One thing having a male best friend has taught me is that when men don’t answer their phone, or reply to their messages, it’s not that deep.
I know what it feels like – we all do – when the person you’re into seemingly goes quiet.
You start overthinking it, wondering if it’s something you said, something you did – something you didn’t do, even.
But watching Andy and his relationship with his phone has shown me the light.
If he’s not replying it’s because he’s not looking at his phone, or he’s busy, or he’s sleeping. It’s never for a reason.
That said… he’s working away at the moment and he’s so quiet. I remind myself that he’s busy but, I don’t know, I keep getting his voicemail. It’s happened twice already today.
Andy is a lawyer for a big tech company, I know he’s busy, and he’s in Sydney, so there’s the time difference too, but I’m still just a girl: my imagination gets the better of me.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Andy…’
Okay, he’s clearly not getting his calls. I’ll drop him a message, just to check he’s not dead. I’ll use those words; he’ll find that funny.
He did say this project was massive. I don’t pretend to have a clue what he’s doing exactly, but I’ve seen the hours he’s been putting in to get ready for it, so I know it’s a big deal. I’ll hear from him when I hear from him.
I toss my phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
I’ve been lying here for a couple of hours now, wasting time, doomscrolling on my phone while my laptop sits open next to me.
My currently untitled romcom (it’s gained and lost so many titles at this point) is open, awaiting my…
intervention. I keep changing things, big and small, trying to give it that bit of something that will make a publisher want it.
Problem is, I can’t even get them to read it, so it almost doesn’t matter what I do.
The cursor blinks at me, reminding me it’s there, waiting for me to do something. Well, it’s going to have to wait longer.
I roll onto my side so that the pillow supports my neck.
It’s aching – probably because I work in my bed, on a laptop, twisted up like a pretzel rather than at a desk in a comfortable chair with good posture.
But that’s the beauty of being a writer, isn’t it?
You can do it anywhere (even if the furthest you go is your bed).
I’ve been drinking tea and eating Maltesers – which reminds me, there’s one in my bed somewhere that I haven’t yet been able to retrieve – and contemplating everything.
And scrolling Instagram. And playing King’s Match, one of those mobile games, which is what I reach for when I’m trying to avoid downloading a different app… Matcher.
The funny thing about Matcher, though, is that while it is a dating app, it doesn’t really feel like a serious effort to find someone.
To me, it feels like something that exists within my phone, a bunch of computer-generated men neatly lined up, all waiting to disappoint me.
I don’t even meet them, I gave up on that long ago, I just go through the motions of swiping, chatting, letting it fizzle out.
It’s just something to do – sort of like playing King’s Match, which is far less likely to get you recognised by a random man in M I made it over an hour ago) causes a little to dribble down my chin and spill onto my T-shirt. The one that says: I’d rather be reading.
My phone starts ringing, snapping me from my thoughts. It’s not Andy though; it’s JJ.
‘Hello,’ I say, lying back down.
‘I have good news,’ she announces, no greeting, simply straight to business.
My heart starts pounding. Business! Has she… has she got someone to read my book?
‘Oh my gosh. Is it… Have you…?’
‘I’ve got you a date,’ she sings.
‘For… a meeting… with a publisher?’ I ask hopefully.
‘No…’ She pauses for a second. ‘A date-date. With a man. You know, those things where two humans go outside and flirt and then go home – or sometimes don’t go home – and touch each other. Wow. It really has been a long time, if you’re forgetting what one is…’
She’s teasing, to lighten the mood, but I can’t help but feel deflated.
‘Oh,’ is all I can say.
‘That’s your reaction? Oh?’ she replies.
‘I just… thought you were calling with a plot twist,’ I say. ‘For my book. Not my love life.’
‘If you put as much effort into your love life as you did your career…’ she starts.
‘Did you win an award for feminism in the workplace?’ I interrupt her.
‘I think a little girl-on-girl crime is necessary,’ she says. ‘Because you’re probably already in bed, wearing some dorky T-shirt, staring at a screen. Am I warm?’
‘No?’ I reply, but I don’t even sound like I believe myself.
‘Whitney, listen to me, okay?’ she starts, and I already know I’m not going to like it. ‘It’s Friday fucking night. You’re young, you’re single, your flatmate is away – you’ve got the place to yourself. You’re probably drinking cold tea and rewriting the same paragraph again and again.’
She’s right about the tea. Bold of her to think I have the confidence to rewrite a whole paragraph right now though.
‘You said I could find you a date and I have,’ she continues.
‘A real man, not one of those imaginary ones who live in your head. So you’re going to put on something tight and short and low, ideally something red, and you’re going to go meet him, and you’re absolutely not going to talk about your book. Okay?’
I sigh.
‘What if I say I’m busy?’ I reply.
‘Busy bed-rotting?’ she checks. ‘I could always send him over…’
‘Okay, no, right, fine, I’ll go, I’ll meet him,’ I insist. ‘If this gets me one step closer to losing our bet, and selling my book, then I’ll do it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ she replies. ‘Just give him a shot. Take him for a spin – even if you don’t ever plan on spinning him again.’
‘You should be the one writing romance,’ I tell her, deadpan. ‘That was so romantic, so beautifully put.’
‘Thanks,’ she replies – I’m sure she knew I was being sarcastic. I think she’s being sarcastic too. That’s why we make such good friends.
‘So, who is he?’ I ask cautiously. ‘This date. What’s his deal?’
‘His name is Pete – that’s all you need to know,’ she replies. ‘If I tell you everything then what will you have to talk about on the date?’
‘I imagine seeing which one of my excuses to leave he’ll believe,’ I reply.
‘You won’t want to make excuses to leave, he’s a ten, trust me,’ she insists.
‘By your standards,’ I tease her. ‘Your bar is on the floor.’
‘On the floor, the bed, wherever it lands – oh, you said bar,’ she jokes with a chuckle.
‘I do wish I were more like you,’ I confess. ‘I wish I had your confidence.’
‘Okay, tell you what. I’m going to do you a favour,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I’ll lend you my confidence – just for one night.’
I snort with laughter.
‘I mean it,’ she insists. ‘I’m sending it down the phone to you now. And I’m attaching it to a message with a time and location, for your date. Use my confidence, take care of it, return it to me at the end of the night. How does that sound?’
‘That sounds unhinged,’ I tell her. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ she replies – she sounds like she really means it.
‘I’d better go and get ready then, because I look like a mess, and I don’t think dry shampoo is going to cut it,’ I tell her, sniffing a clump of my hair.
‘It isn’t,’ she tells me without missing a beat. ‘Go, wash your hair, cake on some make-up, put on something sexy and just… try to have a good time?’
‘I will try,’ I promise her. ‘I mean it, I really will, I’ll give this one a go.’
‘Texting you the deets – and the confidence boost – right now,’ she replies.
As soon as we hang up the call I spring to action. I mean, she’s gone to all this trouble, and I know she really does want what’s best for me. I should go, try to have a nice time, and know that if I don’t, well, I can tell her ‘I told you so’, and she owes me.
As I go through the motions of washing and drying my hair, I try to remember what happened on my last date.
Was it the guy from Matcher, who spent forty-five minutes talking about cryptocurrencies and NFTs, or maybe it was the bloke I met at my cousin’s birthday party who took me to Nando’s and told me he’s a flat-earther while we waited for our food to arrive?
Obviously I stayed, I had food on the way, but I made my excuses as soon as I had finished, then dropped off the face of the earth. Pun intended.
When you think about those two, how bad can this guy be? He’d have to be a murderer or something to be worse than the guys I’ve dated in recent years.
I reach for my tea mug before reminding myself that it’s cold and grim – sort of like my love life. I’d better not make myself another one; I’ll get too cosy, and then I definitely won’t want to go anywhere.
I shake my head as I open my wardrobe. Has it really come to this?
I think about what JJ said – short, tight, low, red. I don’t think I own anything red, tight I can do (although not intentionally) and, I don’t know – could I achieve short and low by wearing something upside down?
Jokes aside, I do have a black strapless dress, which is kind of short, although not that low. It will have to do, or I’ll be late. Actually, I should check the time.
I grab my phone to see the details have come through from JJ, as promised, and if I leave soon I’ll be right on time.
She’s also asked for a selfie, so she can approve my outfit.
Don’t laugh, but I’m going to yank my neckline down a little, for the photo – yes, I’m sending my bestie and agent a sexy selfie – so that she thinks it’s more her cup of tea than mine.
But, as I said, mine are generally cold.
I can also see that I have a message from Andy, saying that he’s alive, but so busy.
That’s fine. I expected that. Plus, I’m sure that if he were here, he’d be making fun of me for going on a blind date.
He’d probably try – and succeed – at talking me out of it, offering me a night of eating pizza and playing video games instead. I wouldn’t take much convincing.
A reply comes through from JJ.
JJ
Well, she approves of my outfit at least.
JJ
Don’t be late!
Whitney
I won’t, I’m nearly ready.
JJ
And Whit, remember…
I chew my lip as I stare at my phone, waiting for her next message to come through.
JJ
Do NOT spend the night talking about your book!!!!
Jeez, what does she take me for? Does she really think that’s all I think about? All I care about? Yes, it’s pretty high up the list, but I’m perfectly capable of going on normal dates and being a normal human.
Even if it is only to prove a point.