5
Daisy liked to walk through the quiet streets just as the sun came bursting over the horizon. The concrete smelled of cool morning. She stopped at Place du Tertre, stared at an empty bench, and shook her head before continuing on her way.
Mia woke up one hour later. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite the bay window.
She lifted the cup to her lips, then caught sight of her friend’s computer and crossed over to the desk.
First sip. She checked her inbox, skimming through everything that reminded her of professional obligations.
Second sip. Not finding what she’d hoped for, she closed the laptop.
Third sip. She turned to look down at the street below and thought of her moonlit jaunt the night before.
Fourth sip. She opened the laptop again and went straight to the dating website.
Fifth sip. Mia carefully read the instructions for creating a profile.
Sixth sip. She put down her cup and got to work.
CREATING A PROFILE
Are you looking for a relationship? Definitely, No Way, Let’s See What Happens.
Let’s see.
Your marital status: Never Married, Separated, Divorced, Widowed, Married.
Separated.
Do you have children?
No.
Your personality: Considerate, Adventurous, Calm, Easygoing, Funny, Demanding, Proud, Generous, Reserved, Sensitive, Outgoing, Spontaneous, Shy, Reliable, Other.
All of the above.
Please make a single selection.
Easygoing.
Your eye color.
Right. I’d be perfect for you, if only my eyes were a different color.
Does “blind” count as a color?
Your physique: Normal, Athletic, Skinny, A Few Pounds Overweight, Plus-Size, Stocky.
It’s like the entry form for a cattle fair! Normal.
Your height.
In centimeters? No clue. Let’s say 175. Any more and I sound like a giraffe.
Your nationality.
British. Bad idea: we turned off the French with that whole Waterloo thing. American? Not much better, as far as the French are concerned. Danish? Makes me think of pastries. Mexican? I don’t speak Spanish. Irish? My mother would kill me if she found out. Icelandic? Nah, they’ll expect me to recite Björk all day long. Latvian? Sounds good, but I’d never have time to learn the language. Then again, it would be fun to invent an accent and speak a made-up language, given that the likelihood of meeting a real Latvian in Paris is pretty slim. Thai? Let’s not go there. New Zealander? I have always been good with accents!
Your ethnic origin.
Didn’t we learn anything from World War II? What is it with questions like this?
Your vision and values: Religion.
Right, because religion is the only way to define your vision and values? Agnostic—that’ll show them!
Your views on marriage.
Blurred.
Do you want children?
I would rather meet a man who wanted to have children with me than a man who just wanted to have children.
Your level of education.
Oh, crap! A lie for a lie, let’s say PhD . . . No, I’ll just end up with a bunch of boring nerds. Okay, a First seems like the ticket . . .
Your profession.
Actress, but that would be playing with fire. Insurance agent? No. Travel agent? Not that either. Nurse? Even worse. Soldier? Definitely not. Physical therapist? Nah, they’ll just want massages all the time. Musician? But I can’t sing. Restaurant owner? Hmm, like Daisy . . . Good idea.
Describe your job.
I cook . . .
A bit over the top considering I can’t even make an omelet, but to hell with it!
Your sports: Swimming, Hiking, Jogging, Pool and Darts . . .
Hm. Is darts really a sport?
. . . Yoga, Martial Arts, Golf, Sailing, Bowling, Football, Boxing . . .
I wonder how many women put “boxing.”
Do you smoke?
Occasionally.
Best to be honest or else I could end up with an antismoking fanatic.
Your pets.
My soon-to-be ex-husband.
Your interests: Music, Sports, Cooking, Shopping . . .
Shopping? Great choice, that just oozes intelligence! It would go perfectly with “boxing,” up there. Dancing? Nah, they’d expect me to squeeze myself into a tutu—let’s not risk disappointment. Writing? Sure, writing is good. Reading too. Cinema? No. No. No! Absolutely not. The last thing I need is a film buff. Museums and exhibitions? Depends. Animals? Negative, I don’t want to spend my weekends visiting zoos. Video games, fishing and hunting? Yuck. Creative leisure pursuits? Am I supposed to know what that means?
Going out: Cinema.
Yes. But we’ll have to just say no.
Eating out.
Yes.
Evenings with friends.
I’m all set with that for now.
Family.
Kept to an absolute minimum, thank you very much.
Bars/Pubs.
That’s a yes.
Nightclubs.
That’s a no.
Sporting events.
Double no.
Your taste in music and films.
I feel like I’m getting the third degree here! Enough with the interrogation.
WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR IN A MAN
Height and physique: Normal, Athletic, Skinny, A Few Pounds Overweight.
I couldn’t care less!
His marital status: Never Married, Widowed, Single.
All three.
He has children.
That’s his business.
He wants children.
We have time.
His personality.
Finally! I thought you’d never ask . . .
Considerate, Adventurous, Calm, Easygoing, Funny, Generous, Reserved, Sensitive, Outgoing, Spontaneous, Reliable.
All of the above!
DESCRIBE YOURSELF
Mia’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, unable to type a single word. She went back to the homepage, entered Daisy’s email for the username and chives once again for the password, and read her profile.
Young woman, loves life and laughter, but with challenging working hours. Restaurant chef, passionate about her job . . .
She copied-and-pasted her friend’s profile, then clicked the button to confirm her registration.
Daisy opened the door to the apartment. Mia slammed the laptop shut and jumped to her feet.
“What exactly are you up to?”
“Nothing. Just checking my email. Where were you? It’s early, isn’t it?”
“It’s nine o’clock and I’m back from the market. Get dressed—I need a hand at the restaurant.”
Mia understood from her tone of voice that the matter was not up for debate.
After they finished unloading the crates from the van, Daisy got her friend to help her take inventory. She listed her purchases in a notebook while Mia, following orders, distributed the food.
“You don’t think you’re exploiting me here just a teensy bit?” she said, rubbing her lower back.
“Oh, you poor thing. I do this myself every day, so it’s nice to have a bit of help for once. Did you go out again last night?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Come wait tables here with me again tonight—that’ll tackle your insomnia, believe me.”
Mia went into the cold room, carrying a box of eggplants. Daisy called her back.
“Wait! We keep vegetables at room temperature, otherwise they lose their flavor.”
“I’ve just about had enough of this!” Mia said, turning around.
“But the fish does go in the refrigerator.”
“Ugh.” Mia turned around again. “I wonder if Cate Blanchett ever has to pack fish into restaurant fridges,” she shouted from the walk-in.
“Let’s talk about it after you’ve won an Oscar.”
Mia emerged with a slab of butter, grabbed a baguette from the bread basket, and sat down at the bar. Daisy brought the rest of the food through and finished putting it away.
“I accidentally stumbled upon something funny while I was checking my email,” said Mia, her mouth full.
“And what was that?”
“A dating site.”
“Accidentally, you said?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die!” said Mia.
“I told you not to go through my stuff.”
“Tell me this. Have you actually met men that way?”
“What are you, my mother? Don’t look so shocked. It’s not like it’s a porn site, you know.”
“I know, but still . . .”
“Still what? On the bus or the métro, or even walking down the street, people spend more time staring at their phones than looking at what’s going on around them. The only way you can get anyone’s attention these days is online.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Mia. “Does it actually work?”
“I’m not an actress, I don’t have an agent, I don’t have any fans, I don’t do red-carpet events, and there aren’t any pictures of me on magazine covers. Given that I spend most of my life inside a kitchen, I don’t fit the profile of a desirable woman. So yes, I joined a dating site, and yes, I have met men that way.”
“Any nice ones?”
“Nice ones are rare, but you can’t blame the Internet for that.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The first date, for example. How does it work?”
“Same as if you’d met in a café, except that you know a bit more about him.”
“Well, you know what he chooses to tell you, anyway.”
“Once you learn to read between the lines of a profile, you can usually tell the difference.”
“And how do you learn to read between the lines?”
“And why do you care?”
Mia thought about this.
“For a role,” she said evasively.
“For a role,” Daisy muttered. “Of course.”
She sighed and sat down next to Mia.
“The username often tells you quite a bit about a guy’s personality. ‘Mum, I’d like you to meet Teddybear21, who is much kinder and gentler than Maximus_the_Menace, your own personal favorite.’ How about Misterbig—subtle, eh? ElBello? Maybe just a bit vain . . . Or how about this: I once received a message from a guy who went by the name of Gazpacho2000. Can you imagine getting hot and heavy with a Gazpacho?”
Mia burst out laughing.
“Then there’s what they write about themselves. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they say, not to mention the spelling errors. Honestly, it’s pathetic at times.”
“Wow. That bad?”
“My chef won’t be here for another hour. Why don’t we head home and you can see for yourself?”
Back at the apartment, Daisy logged on to the dating site and gave Mia a demonstration.
“Here. Have a look at this.”
Hi, are you beautiful and fun? If the answer’s yes, I’m the man for you. Not only am I loads of fun, but I’m also charming and passionate . . .
“Sorry, no match, Hervé51, since I’m ugly and boring . . . Seriously, though, where do they come up with this crap? And look,” she went on, “here it shows the guys who have visited your profile.”
A new window opened, and Daisy scrolled through the roster of potential suitors.
“This one describes himself as calm, and I believe him—it looks like he smoked a bong before taking the picture! And it was taken in an Internet café, of all places . . . how reassuring. And look at this one: I’m looking for someone to pose for me . . . Please, say no more.”
She moved on down the list.
“That one looks okay,” said Mia. “Never married, adventurous, executive, likes music, going to restaurants.”
“Not so fast, check this bit out,” said Daisy, pointing out another line: “I’ll bet you a bag of Kinders that you read my profile all the way to the bottom. You can take your chocolates and shove them, Dandy26.”
“And what are those over there?” Mia asked.
“The profiles automatically selected by the site. Based on what you enter about yourself, they have compatibility algorithms that suggest matches for you. It’s the digital equivalent of a matchmaker, with a dash of chance.”
“Let’s try it!”
Other profiles appeared, some of them provoking huge gales of laughter. Mia paused on one of them.
“Hang on, that one looks interesting. Look!”
Mia bent over the screen.
“Hmm . . . ,” Daisy said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Novelist?”
“So? That’s not a bad thing.”
“I’d like to see what he’s published first. Any guy who claims he’s a writer and is still working on typing the first page of his novel is the type of guy who takes a dozen acting classes and suddenly he’s Kevin Spacey, or who fiddles around with three chords on a guitar and now he’s John Lennon. They’re just looking for a sucker to bail them out while they marinate in the juices of their artistic careers. And believe me, there are lots of those guys around.”
“I think you’re being extremely harsh. And cynical. Also, for your information, I took acting classes myself.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been out with a few of those losers. Although I must admit your writer here does look like a nice guy from the picture, with those three huge sticks of cotton candy . . . He must have three kids.”
“Either that or one giant sweet tooth!”
“Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to preparing for ‘your role.’ I have to go set up the lunch shift.”
“Wait a second. That little envelope icon and the speech balloon under the photo . . . what are those?”
“The envelope contains any messages he sends you. And that speech balloon, if it’s green, means you can connect to chat with him. But don’t start messing with that, and certainly not from my computer. There are also certain . . . codes and customs you should know about.”
“Like what?”
“If he asks you to meet him at a café in the early evening, it means he’s hoping to get laid first, then eat dinner afterward. If he mentions ‘restaurant,’ that might be better, but you have to find out where he lives. If it’s less than five hundred yards from the place he’s chosen, that tells you a lot about his intentions. If he doesn’t order a starter, he’s a cheapskate. If he orders for you, he’s a super-cheapskate. If he just talks about himself for the first fifteen minutes, run for your life. If he mentions his ex within the first half hour, he’s not over her. If he starts digging around with questions about your past, he’s the jealous type. If he asks you about your short-term plans, he’s trying to gauge if you’ll sleep with him that night. If he keeps checking his mobile, he’s got several prospects going at once. If he tells you how unhappy he is, he’s looking for a mother, not a lover. If he goes on and on about the wine he chose and how great it is, he’s a show-off. If he tries splitting the bill, chivalry is dead and so are his chances of a second date. And if he says he’s forgotten his credit card, your Romeo might just be a con artist.”
“And us? Are there rules for what we’re supposed to say or not say?”
“Us?”
“You, us, whatever. I’m asking: What is one expected to do?”
“Mia, I have to work. ‘We’ can talk about this later.”
Daisy stood up and walked away.
“And don’t do anything silly on my computer! I mean it. This whole thing is not a game.”
“That never even crossed my mind.”
“My God, are you a bad liar!”
The apartment door banged shut.