‘He can’t really have been that boring?’ Kate tops up my glass of wine.
‘Trust me, he was.’ I take a glug.
‘But he seemed so sweet, with all those photos of him and his Labrador. So cute,’ she says wistfully.
‘Yeah, well, apparently a love of dogs doesn’t necessarily guarantee a good date,’ I sigh, thinking back to all those misleading pictures of him smiling with his family’s pet.
‘Oh well, you’ll find someone soon.’ Kate sounds reassuring as she opens a message on her phone, but even she must be beginning to doubt it. As my flatmate and best friend, Kate’s witnessed all my dating disasters: the Hugh Grant lookalike who turned out to be an ex-con; the creepy chartered surveyor who kept referring to himself in the third person (‘Isaac would like to take Sophia out.’ For the record, Sophia said no); the gorgeous photographer who seemed like a great catch until he requested foot photographs to masturbate over; the geeky journalist who drank too much fizzy water and then burped in my mouth as he kissed me goodnight… The list goes on and that’s just my dates, don’t even get me started on my exes.
First there was my university boyfriend, Sam. Six foot two with curly blonde hair and an IQ of 130, what more could I want, right? Well, a healthy disregard for vermin would have been nice. Sam ended up getting so wrapped up in his studies that he stopped cleaning his flat; carpets went unhoovered, bins went unemptied, pizza boxes piled up and eventually a couple of rats moved in. Not even mice – I can just about handle mice – I’m talking rats, big dirty rats! I might have been able to forgive him if he’d got rid of them, but when he simply named them Itchy and Scratchy and carried on studying, enough was enough.
So, I thought I’d go for the polar opposite after that (as you do when you rebound) and what could be more different to a vermin-loving, geeky Aberystwyth student, than a bisexual Italian hairdresser who’d probably need one-to-one tuition to get his head around Spot the Dog? Paulo was so ditzy that my friends dubbed him ‘the himbo’ – the male bimbo. But still, he was great fun. Even though it did get quite annoying how he’d always bang on about how ‘bellissima’ I’d look with shorter hair. He simply refused to accept that I wanted to keep it long so one night, he took it upon himself to gently chop it off in my sleep. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few weeks later he left me for a man. A man with short hair.
‘I reckon it’s a matter of perseverance. You just need to keep looking,’ Kate’s voice snaps me back to the present. I realise I’m twirling a lock of my hair around my finger, as if to console myself that it’s there, all grown back. Nice and long. Kate places her phone on the table.
‘Just Max saying goodnight,’ she says.
She takes a sip of her wine and looks at me with a sweet, hopeful smile. Poor Kate. She really wants me to find love. It must be hard when you’ve been with your boyfriend for four and a half years to see your flatmate so romantically destitute. She probably feels the same sense of guilty awkwardness witnessing my love life (or lack thereof) that rich people get when they scurry past homeless people on the streets.
But it was just so easy for Kate; meeting Max was effortless. We’d only been living in London a few weeks when we went to see the play where Kate first laid eyes on him. It was a production of A Streetcar Named Desire and Max was playing Stanley Kowalski. He wasn’t a far cry from Marlon Brando himself, with his wife-beater vest and muscles, and Kate was practically drooling the entire show. The second it ended, she hurried over to the stage door and hung about waiting to introduce herself, swapping numbers with him on the pretence that she was an actress and might need tips on getting into the London scene (even though at that point, she already had a role lined up at The Globe). A couple of weeks later, she and Max were an item and they’ve been smitten with each other ever since.
‘Seriously, you just have to keep looking,’ Kate insists.
I wind my hair up into a bun, wincing at the platitude that I must have heard a million and one times before.
‘Do you know what? Maybe it’s just not meant to be,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Some people just are, aren’t they? I should probably stop fighting it.’
‘Nah, it’s only a bit of bad luck.’ Kate bats the thought away. ‘I’m sure he’s just around the corner. One day, you’ll look back on all this stuff and laugh.’
‘You said that six months ago,’ I remind her.
Kate pulls an awkward expression and plucks at a loose thread on her leggings.
‘Well, at least it’s all good material for your novel,’ she chirps.
‘Yeah s’pose,’ I grumble. One of the perks of wanting to be a writer is that you can view all your crazy experiences as material, except now I’ve got enough for a trilogy.
‘Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places,’ Kate takes a sip of her wine.
I roll my eyes.
‘Kate, I’ve tried Match.com, eHarmony, PlentyOfFish, Guardian Soulmates, Tinder.’ I rap my fingernails against the table, trying to recall the full list. ‘OkCupid, Bumble, Happn, MySingleFriend, even Single bloody Booklovers. I’ve tried speed-dating, I’ve tried singles nights, I’ve tried—’
‘Oh, what about Dream Dates?’ Kate interjects, her eyes lighting up.
‘What’s Dream Dates?’
‘Saw it advertised today. Massive poster on the tube. It’s a new dating site. It had this really hot guy on the ad,’ Kate gushes.
‘Well, he was clearly a model,’ I point out. ‘It’s not like they’re going to use photos of the actual people that use it. The big, fat, hairy, hunchbacked…’
Kate sighs. ‘Come on, if you take that attitude, you’re never going to find anyone. You should try Dream—’
‘Leave it, Kate,’ I cut her off. ‘I can’t face any more.’
I get up to open the kitchen cupboard and pull out a bag of nachos. I shove a handful into my mouth and feel the delicious saltiness spread over my tongue. So good. I shove in another handful. At least food never lets you down. You open a bag of crisps and you know exactly what you’re getting. Predictable, satisfying, dependable crisps.
Kate eyes me warily. ‘Just one more site.’
I shake my head and crunch through another mouthful.
‘One more won’t hurt!’ she insists.
Ignoring her, I open up the fridge and retrieve a block of cheddar. I’ll just grate some cheese over these crisps and then pop them in the microwave. It’ll be even tastier. I find the cheese grater and start grating the cheddar onto the chopping board. I can hear Kate shuffling about behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m going to focus on grating my nice little mound of cheese instead. A singsong tone chimes through the kitchen — the familiar sound of Kate’s laptop firing up. I grab a bowl, fill it with nachos and sprinkle the cheese over them but as I turn to pop them in the microwave, I spot a dating site – Dream Dates – open on Kate’s computer. She looks at me guiltily as I snap the microwave door shut.
‘One more site and I’ll be off your case, I promise. I know you’ve tried them all and I know how crap they’ve been but I don’t think you should chuck the towel in just yet. Think of everyone we know who’s met their partner online. I reckon it’s just a matter of perseverance. Just give Dream Dates a try and if it doesn’t work out, then fine,’ Kate throws up her hands in mock surrender, ‘I’ll back off and you can stay home and eat all the nachos you want.’
The microwave pings. I reach inside. The cheese bubbles enticingly. I lean against the kitchen counter and give the bowl a few seconds to cool down.
‘It looks really good,’ Kate notes, gazing at the homepage. ‘According to the slogan, “Your dream date is just a few clicks away.”’
I scoff. ‘And the slogan of Match is, “If you don’t like your imperfections, someone else will.” And Guardian Soulmates promised I’d “Meet someone worth meeting” but look at me,’ I reach into the bowl, peel apart two gooey nachos and dangle one into my mouth.
‘It’ll take five minutes,’ Kate says pleadingly. ‘Okay, I’m entering your details. Female, 28, looking for man, between the ages of 20 to 40?’
‘20 to 40?’ I practically spit out a nacho. ‘I’m not dating a 20-year-old! And I’m not dating a 40-year-old either for that matter. Twenty-five is the youngest I’ll go to and 35 tops.’
‘Okay, so 25 to 35.’ Kate grins as she enters the age range.
‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this,’ I groan before munching another handful of crisps.
‘So, what do you want your username to be?’ Kate asks.
‘Something simple. Sophia and then my initials.’
‘Okay, so Sophialj.’ Kate types it in. ‘It’s available!’
‘Seriously?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘It’s hardly ever available. How new is this site?’
Kate shrugs. ‘Headline?’
I sit back down and take a sip of wine. I can feel it flushing my cheeks, making me a little light-headed.
‘Would like to meet the perfect man,’ I blurt out.
Kate scoffs. ‘Come on, Sophia. Be serious.’
‘I am being serious! That’s what I want, I want the perfect man,’ I insist. ‘I’m sick of dating noodle-obsessed weirdos and crazy ex-cons. I just want to meet someone decent for once, is that really too much to ask?’
Kate thinks for a moment. ‘But that’s not the same as perfect,’ she says.
‘It would be perfect for me.’
‘But saying you want to meet the perfect man makes you sound really high-maintenance.’ She pointedly raises an eyebrow, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
I shrug. ‘You asked what I want my headline to be.’
‘Fine! Well, let’s hope there’s a guy out there who’s put, “Would like to meet high-maintenance woman.”’ Kate types it in.
‘Do you know what?’ I declare, gesticulating with my wine glass. ‘Maybe it’s about time I start being a bit more high-maintenance. Raise the bar. No more loserish guys. Let’s go back to the age range.’
‘Why?’ Kate questions.
‘Because, do you know what? 25 is too young. If the guy’s 25 then he’s probably got the mentality of a 20-year-old. If he’s too young then he’s probably not done playing the field, he’s not going to want to settle down and it’ll just be a case of wham bam thank you ma’am.’
Kate smiles as she reaches for her wine glass.
‘Well, an older guy then?’ she suggests.
‘Maybe, but 35 is too old,’ I tell her. ‘If he’s 35, he’ll probably be some creepy bachelor that no one’s wanted to take off the shelf or divorced, which is way too much baggage.’
‘Okay… So what age do you want?’ Kate presses, a hint of impatience in her voice.
‘28? Actually no,’ I think aloud. ‘Men mature slower than us, don’t they? So at 28, he might still not have caught up. Maybe 30 or 31? No, a hot guy would have been snapped up by 30. Okay, 29. Yeah, 29. He’s spent his twenties focusing on his career, he’s got his own home and everything’s sorted and now he’s beginning to realise that something’s missing…’
‘You?’ Kate suggests.
‘Exactly. Me!’
Kate laughs and clicks back to the age range.
‘Okay, so 29 to… 29.’ She clicks enter. ‘Right, so your personal ad.’
I sigh. I could just use my standard one and paste it in. I’ve tried so many dating sites that in the end, I just created a folder on my desktop with the inconspicuous title of ‘Admin’, which actually contains all my best photos, my personal ad spiel, a list of my interests, likes and dislikes and all that jazz. It takes so long writing a good profile that there’s no point redoing it every time.
‘One second, I’ll get it. It’s on my computer.’ I put my wine glass down and get up to fetch my laptop from my bedroom.
‘Sophia,’ Kate calls me back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘My personal ad… It’s on my laptop.’
‘You’ve already written it?’ She looks confused.
‘It’s in my dating file,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a copy and paste job.’
Kate snorts with laughter. ‘Your dating file! Hah! What next? A spreadsheet for all the men you’ve ever dated?’
‘Shut up!’ I give her a little push.
‘Dating file! Hahahaha!’ Her eyes tear up as she falls about laughing.
‘Not all of us meet our ideal man the minute we move to London,’ I tut. ‘Some of us actually have to work at finding someone! And anyway, if you were dating, I think you’d find that having a dating file is actually quite efficient,’ I add, but Kate just roars with laughter and I can’t help cracking up too.
She wheezes, wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Sorry, Sophia, but that was just…’ She shakes her head, turning her attention back to Dream Dates.
‘Okay, so, personal ad!’ she says.
I stand up to make a second attempt at going to get my laptop but Kate tugs my arm, pulling me back down.
‘Not from the file!’ Her mouth twitches.
I look at her blankly. ‘Why not?’
Kate clears her throat and glances down awkwardly.
‘Well something’s clearly not working if you’re not meeting any decent guys the way you’re going about things at the moment. I’m not saying it’s you. It could be the sites but don’t you think it would be good to just start this profile completely from scratch? You said it yourself - no more loserish guys, seeing as this is the final attempt?’
I shrug. ‘Suppose.’
‘Just freestyle it.’
‘Freestyle it…’ I groan as I take a sip of wine.
‘Yeah!’ Kate replies, the light from the laptop screen illuminating the look of hopeful determination on her face.
I really can’t be bothered to create a whole new profile from scratch on yet another site just to attract yet another bunch of weirdos and fuck-boys, but Kate is so keen to help that I’d feel bad letting her down now. Suddenly an idea hits me. I’ve tried to find love – a genuine, open, honest connection – again and again. All I’ve wanted is to meet someone nice, kind, intelligent and fun, but that’s proven completely and utterly impossible. I’ve put myself out there, with my best photos and a smart, witty (and not to mention properly punctuated) profile, and all I’ve gotten in return is dates with creeps and bores, and unsolicited dick pics. Kate’s right, what I’ve been doing so far clearly hasn’t been working. Maybe being sincere gets you nowhere, maybe now it’s time to play the players at their own game, to fuck with the fuck-boys and dick around with the dick pic dudes. I’m done being nice sweet Sophia; my new profile is going to be a little different. I’m not going to look for love this time, I’m going to look for man candy with the most crass, superficial and crude profile I can imagine. It’s time to meet my ‘perfect’ man.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’ Kate asks.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know… Mischievously.’ She narrows her eyes.
‘Oh, no reason.’ I shrug innocently.
‘Hmmm…’ Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘So, what are you looking for?’
‘I’m looking for someone who’s a cut above the rest,’ I tell her. ‘He’s cool, he’s confident. He’s suave and sexy. He’s smart and super successful, he’s got an incredible job.’
Oh! What does Mr Perfect do for work? My gaze wanders over to the well-thumbed copy of The Stage on the kitchen counter. Maybe he could be an actor like Kate? I never get bored of hearing her talk about work. But then again, dating an actor as well as having one for a best friend might be a bit much.
‘Right, okay.’ Kate finishes typing and looks up from the keyboard. ‘Carry on.’
‘I’m thinking…’
Voices from the street outside drift through the open window, distracting me.
‘Pass dat ting, bruv,’ someone says.
I get up to close it and spot a group of teenagers huddled outside the council estate opposite, passing around a joint. A few of them are lounging on an old mattress someone dumped on the pavement a couple of days ago. No doubt too broke to pay Lewisham Council to come and pick it up. I fasten the window shut. I never used to mind living down this shabby old street; if I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve always had the cringe-worthily romantic notion that it doesn’t matter where you live, it doesn’t matter if it’s a little shabby around the edges, as long as you have love. I mean, look at Kate. She’s head over heels for Max and she’s happy with her lot – she doesn’t mind living in crummy old Lewisham. I sort of imagined that when I found someone, I’d stop noticing the rubbish on the streets and the loitering teens, too. But when you find yourself alone at 28 sitting in a cramped flat, with the closest thing you have to love being a softly lit dick pic on your phone, your romanticism starts to wear off. Since love isn’t softening the edges of my existence, why not just look for a stinking rich guy instead? Someone who lives in a beautiful part of London with big wide streets lined and tall spacious houses. The wealthy yang to my impoverished yin. Perhaps a banker. No, a banker would be too dull. Maybe he could be an entrepreneur. Yes! That’s it. A wildly original self-made millionaire.
‘He’s an entrepreneur,’ I announce to Kate as I turn from the window and sit back down.
‘He’s not some boring Etonian who’s just climbed through the ranks in law or finance, he’s done something original instead. He’s started his own business, but not just some crappy business, a multimillion-pound business, obviously.’
‘Multimillion-pound business?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes! Just write it!’
She gives me a weird look.
‘Just do it!’ I insist.
‘Fine,’ she sighs, shaking her head as she types.
I take another sip of wine, even though I’m already feeling pretty merry.
Okay, so I’ve figured out that I’m looking for a self-made millionaire, but what does he look like? Obviously, I have my preferences, I definitely prefer tall guys for example, though I’ve never considered myself particularly superficial when it comes to looks; after all, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? But of course, this profile isn’t about what’s on the inside.
‘He’s good-looking, like, really good-looking… He’s got dark hair, blue eyes, maybe a bit of stubble… Actually, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but he’s more muscular. Yeah, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but with the body of Daniel Craig. He—’
Kate sputters on her wine. ‘Stop, Sophia! Be serious, how many guys do you know that have the face of Robert Pattinson and the body of Daniel Craig?’
I shrug. ‘If I knew anyone like that, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
Kate rolls her eyes. ‘True. But seriously, I’m not writing that.’
‘But you told me to freestyle, that’s what I’m doing,’ I protest.
‘Yeah, but this is ridiculous!’
I top up Kate’s wine glass. ‘Oh, come on, just write it.’
‘Fine.’ She carries on typing. ‘You do realise that no one in their right mind is going to reply to this though, don’t you?’
‘No one in their right mind replies anyway,’ I remind her as I lean back in my chair. Of course, I know no one’s going to reply. Well, no one who meets the criteria anyway. As if a self-made millionaire who looks like Robert Pattinson would be doing online dating, but still, it’s quite fun to indulge in the fantasy and at least this profile is getting Kate off my back.
The sound of Kate typing trails off.
‘What else?’ She looks up from the keyboard.
Hmmm… What else does this guy have going for him? Oh, dress sense! I almost forgot!
‘He dresses well. He wears expensive, well-cut clothes, but he’s also got style, his own personal style. He mixes things up a bit. He’s not afraid to pair a vintage charity shop shirt with an Armani coat and—’
‘Are you actually serious?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Anything else, apart from a penchant for Armani? His character, for example?! His values?’
‘Dress sense is important!’ I say.
‘Sophia!’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘What’s his character like?’
Hmmm… His character. Even if this guy isn’t going to be the love of my life, he at least needs to be independent and self-assured. I can’t stand needy guys. When I was with Sam (this was pre-Itchy and Scratchy), he was so clingy, he’d get jealous if I went gay clubbing with my latex-loving uni course mate. And the himbo would moan whenever I wanted to stay home and write my novel. No, I definitely can’t be dealing with needy.
‘He has his own interests, his own life.’ I pause. ‘Obviously, he’s more than happy to go on fun dates, but he gives me a bit of space to do my own thing. Maybe he travels with work a bit…’ I think for a minute. ‘Yes, that would be perfect. He travels with work, so he comes and goes. Maybe we only see each other a couple of times a week but when we do, it’s always amazing. We don’t just sit in front of the TV day in, day out like boring couples, we go out to amazing restaurants. We go to the theatre, the opera…’
‘The opera?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Since when do you go to the opera?’
‘I don’t! But that’s because I haven’t met this guy yet, he’s going to take me,’ I explain.
‘Of course he is…’ Kate types it in. ‘What about hobbies?’
‘His hobby is arranging incredible, exciting dates,’ I tell her. ‘It’s his thing.’
‘I mean proper hobbies,’ Kate points out. ‘Wholesome hobbies.’
‘Fine,’ I sigh. ‘He volunteers at an orphanage then.,’ I mumble as I reach for another nacho.
‘An orphanage!’ Kate mocks. ‘How many orphanages do you know of in London?’
‘I don’t. But I don’t volunteer.’
‘Well, you help out with Lyn,’ Kate reminds me.
‘Yeah, but that’s not volunteering,’ I tell her, trying not to feel put out.
You see, Lyn might be an older lady who I visit every week and help out by doing the odd bit of shopping, but it’s not volunteering. She lives down the road, and while technically, at 74, she could be described as an old lady, she certainly doesn’t act like one. She’s like a friend to me but none of my mates my own age really get it. Lyn’s a great laugh, a born-and-bred East Londoner with a sharp no-nonsense wit you’d never expect from her benign-looking exterior. She’s a big fan of 1950s floral headscarves and bold red lipstick and even taught me how to wear my hair in victory rolls once. She’s incredibly sweet and caring and when I go over to her place on Saturday afternoons to watch Come Dine With Me, it’s one of the highlights of my week; it’s certainly not a chore or some kind of obligation.
‘Well whatever, scrap the orphanage idea, because I’m pretty sure they died out in the Victorian era. What kind of volunteering does he do?’
‘Does he have to do volunteering?’ I whine.
‘Well he needs to have something going for him, apart from a penchant for Armani!’
‘He is a multi-millionaire,’ I remind her, ‘But okay, if you say so…’ I think for a minute. ‘I know! He volunteers at an animal shelter. He loves animals. He has a cat. A fluffy one.’
‘How does he have a cat if he’s travelling all the time?’ Kate questions.
‘Because he has a maid.’
‘Right.’ Kate fixes me with an unimpressed look. ‘So, he has a cat and a maid?’
‘Yes!’
‘I’m beginning to see why you’re single.’ Kate shakes her head as she types it in. ‘Anything else?’
I think for a second. That must be about it. I’ve covered everything from looks to pets to voluntary work. What else is there?
‘I nearly forgot!’ I plonk my wine glass down on the table, feeling a headrush from the booze.
Kate looks up expectantly.
‘He’s got a massive cock!’ I add, grinning.
After all, I don’t want to end up with some super rich, gorgeous, well-dressed animal lover who’s crap in the sack. Sex is important too.
Kate nearly spits out her wine. ‘Shut up, Sophia. I’m not writing that!’
‘Fine, I’ll write it then!’ I grab the laptop and start typing away.
‘I can’t believe you!’ Kate laughs.
On second thoughts, I delete ‘massive’ and add 7 inches. No, 7.5 inches. Slightly above average, but not so big that it would be painful.
‘“Cock must be 7.5 inches,”’ Kate reads out, giggling. ‘Oh my God!’
Oh, and girth. I don’t want some guy with a spaghetti dick. He’s got to have girth too. I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger, making it bigger and smaller until it’s just the right size.
‘What are you doing now?’ Kate sighs.
‘Do you have a ruler?’
‘What? Why?!’
‘Can you just get me a ruler?’
Kate groans as she goes to get one from her bedroom.
A minute later, she returns.
‘Cheers.’ I take it from her and resting it against the perfect girth circle I’ve created with my right hand.
‘Okay, cock diameter must be 2.1 inches,’ I type the words in as I speak. ‘Shit, how do you work out the circumference from that?’
‘I’m sure Mr Perfect is smart enough to figure it out,’ Kate tuts.
I gaze at my ad dreamily.
‘Do you think 7.5 inches is enough? Or should I make it 8?’
Kate grabs the ruler to compare.
‘I’d go with 8,’ she says.
‘Okay, 8 it is.’ I edit the text. ‘Done!’
‘You do realise you’re going to get hundreds of dick pics now?’ Kate points out.
I shrug.
‘You’re crazy!’ Kate comments as she reaches for the laptop. ‘Right, photos…’
She opens up her Facebook account and starts scrolling through my pictures.
‘Let me get my laptop.’ I get up.
‘Not from the file!’ Kate yelps, grabbing my arm and pulling me back down.
‘This one’s nice,’ she says, hesitating on a terrible photo my mum took of me walking through Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon with no makeup on.
‘Nice?! It’s rubbish. I’ve got loads better than that.’
‘It’s nice. You look natural, at ease, approachable.’
‘I look pale and drab. Anaemic. It doesn’t even have a filter.’
‘You look natural. Guys like natural.’
‘No, they don’t!’ I grab the laptop. ‘Guys like hot!’
‘Sophia!’ Kate yanks the laptop back off me. ‘You said it yourself! What you’ve been doing so far hasn’t been working. You need to try something different—’
‘I didn’t mean upload an ugly pic of myself!’
‘It’s not an ugly pic!’ Kate right clicks onto the photo and saves it to her desktop.
‘It is! No one’s going to reply to that! Please don’t use that, Kate!’
Ignoring me, Kate goes back onto Dream Dates and selects ‘Add photo.’ I stand up, a little unsteadily, and drain the last of my wine.
‘Picture uploaded,’ she announces smugly.
I roll my eyes. ‘Right. Well now I’m definitely not going to meet anyone.’
I place my empty glass in the sink. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Kate clicks a few more buttons on the screen.
‘Your profile is now live,’ she trills.
‘Great.’ I skulk off to my room.