Cat giggles. “Or Ryan Gosling found Rachel McAdams through Snapchat?”
“It’s too much! The guy I was talking to over Tinder, we haven’t met, and he asks me if I want to become friends on Snapchat. Why, I ask? Because we can send each other pictures. But what good will pictures do? I can’t talk to a picture.”
“Speaking of apps and hobbies, tomorrow we are putting your songs on OpenMic.” Cat says firmly. “We’ve been talking about it for too long, Charlie. And that’s something you say on a date, not taxidermy.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine”. We’ve been talking about putting my songs on OpenMic for a year. It was a new app where people could rate your music. Ratings scared me. I didn’t want to be judged and rated. My target audience, friends of my mothers, weren’t on OpenMic.
But I needed to shut Cat up once and for all. Maybe we could put the songs up, then I’ll take them down on the sly a day later.
***
Thirty minutes later, Suze, Julie, and I are sharing a bar table, waiting for the first round of speed dating to commence. The females sit in allocated seats whilst the blokes rotate around. We’ve been given score cards where we write the blokes’ names down and an area to add comments, and we all have to wear name badges.
So clinical.
The first guy sits down in front of me. He’s short, suited, and wearing glasses. Not my type, but I’m happy to have a chat for 2 minutes.
“Hi,” I smile.
He peers at my name badge instead of meeting my gaze. “Sorry, I can’t read that. Could you move your arm?”
Is this guy for real?
“You could ask me my name instead?” I suggest.
He tries to see past my arm, which I refuse to budge.
I watch him write down “Charlie” in very clear handwriting.
“So Charlie” He sits up, pushes his glasses up his nose like he’s doing an inspection. “What do you do for a living?”
I’m bored now, and it’s not even a minute in. “I work in IT.”
He nods approvingly and writes down ‘IT’ on the comment section beside my name. Clearly, I’ve ticked a box on his checklist.
“Great, and what is your favorite colour?”
I stare at him. “Why? What can you do with that information?” I don’t have a favourite colour, it depends on my mood.
“Ok, let’s move on. Favorite animal?”
Sweet Jesus, I’m being interviewed by a 4-year-old. “My favourite animal? To do what with, eat? Breed? Ride? Taxidermy? Beastiality?” He looks at me, waiting.
“You want a definitive answer? Fine, dogs.” A phone bleeps.
“Is that the bell ringing?” I ask with feigned regret. “Times up, I think”. “No, it’s a phone buzzing,” he replies deadpan. “So, do you like travelling?” I glare over to Suze, who forced this event upon us.
“25 fucking quid,” I mouth when she catches my eye.
“Yes, I like travelling”. I turn back to my date sarcastically. I need this bell to ring. “Where have you been?” “In my life?” He nods.
“You want me to list all the countries I have been to in my life?” He’s waiting.
“Right, well how about I’ll decrease the scope to this year, shall I? India and Seattle” Our vibrant conversation is interrupted by the bell to signal we move on to the next date. I glance over at the guy leaving Suze to join me. He looks about 18.
Jesus Christ.
We have 20 men to get through. It’s going to be a long night.
***
Speed dating doesn’t deliver us the men of our dreams, so we drudge home empty-handed at 11pm.
It wouldn’t have mattered if a Hollywood movie star had rocked up for a date; seeing Danny Walker in all his fierce, naked glory has now ruined my future love life. Every dick past this point will be sub-optimal.
My mind is still racing from the bizarre events of the day.
I hiccup loudly. I’m drunk after resorting to a round of shots to get me through the last 5 speed dates.
We turn the corner to the flat, and I stop abruptly on the pavement making Cat walk into the back of me.
“Jeeze, Charlie, watch it.”
There’s a black Aston Martin parked across the road from the flat. It sticks out a mile on our street.
My heartbeat races as soon as I clock eyes on it.
I recognise the number plate from Tristan’s house.
He’s here.
Why is he on my street? Does he know that I live here?
He is breaking so many rules in one day; it’s a tabloid’s wet dream. My wet dream too.
Thank god I’m wearing the black dress.
I climb the steps to the flat with the four of them chatting gibberish around me, oblivious to my heart palpitations. I can’t focus on a word they are saying.
“Cat,” I mutter without moving my lips. “Get your keys out NOW.”
“Alright, keep your knickers on.” She huffs, fumbling in her purse. I stare tunnel-visioned at the flat and ignore the Aston Martin.
I don’t have the courage to look over at the driver; my knees might not hold out. This is my territory. He’s not supposed to be here. I can handle him in glitzy bars or talking on stage at events, not here outside my flat.
We get in the door, and I slam it closed, collapsing up against it,
Now what? Knowing he is metres away is bringing on an angina attack. What the hell is he doing here?
Is he here to give me an injunction order to stop me talking about what I walked in on? Or personally deliver a P45? I’ve never been in this situation, but I’m pretty sure this is his fault. Ok, I did just barge in, but I wasn’t expecting a naked dick to be on display. It’s a tech company, not a titty bar.