Yoni love class that meant everyone had their vulva massaged by a teacher wearing a beaded kaftan and latex gloves. It was supposed to cleanse their energy and encourage deeper orgasms. Emma had orgasmed in front of an audience of six other women who’d paid £350 for the half-day workshop and who then afterwards took it in turns to hug her in congratulations.
‘Oh god,’ said Emma, ‘I’d never do that again. I think it was her herbal steam that gave me that recurring thrush, you know. No. This is just lolling about on mats in our Lululemon, but it works! Denise at work did it and said she cried in class and then got on with her life. That she really felt her energy shift. In fact – let me text her for the name.’
Nadia had never known anybody as interested in the ridiculous and the sublime as much as Emma. That was probably why they got on – Emma encouraged Nadia to experiment more, to be a little braver, and Nadia made Emma a little more thoughtful. She smiled at her friend as she texted, and looked out across the restaurant. It was almost full, and she lingered her gaze on a table of City boys across the room. It could be any one of them, she thought, surprising herself in her hopefulness. Literally, if it is for me, the guy who wrote it could be in this very room.
‘That guy could literally be anywhere, couldn’t he?’ she said, as much to herself as to Emma.
‘I’m telling you,’ Emma said, setting her phone back down on the table, screen-side down. ‘Write him back! You’ve got nothing to lose.’
Nadia hesitated. She didn’t. There was nothing to lose. Because if she wrote back and it actually wasn’t meant for her, the only person who would know was him. And they were strangers. Nadia could even laugh it off and say she thought she was writing to somebody else too. And if the guy turned out to be an axe-wielding serial killer who lived with his mother and had voted LEAVE, Nadia could simply deny she was the author of any return note. She could blame Emma. Feign total ignorance.
Emma bent down to her bag. ‘Hold on,’ she said, rustling through her stuff. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
She resurfaced with a notebook and two pens, victorious. Nadia watched her open it on a fresh page, and write in loopy cursive: ‘TRAIN GUY ADVERT’.
‘You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?’
‘Yup,’ said Emma, pen poised above the page. A waiter came and topped up their glasses. ‘We’ll have another bottle, please,’ Emma said to him. ‘I think my friend is going to need it.’ Nadia smiled at him weakly.
‘So. I’m thinking you should be direct about this,’ Emma said. ‘His advert contained a compliment, but wasn’t too sickly, and that was cute, right? That hit the right note?’
‘If it was for me,’ Nadia said.
‘If it was for you, his tone was just right, right?’
‘Well, we’re here still talking about it and thinking of writing back to him, so … yes. The boy did good.’
‘The man did good.’
‘Man, yes,’ said Nadia, not realizing how good it felt to make the distinction between man and boy. She was twenty-nine. She should be dating men. ‘And listen, I don’t want to sound too desperate or anything, though, you know? That’s important.’
‘Well, you’re not desperate, is the thing.’ Emma seemed to have a flash of inspiration, and she held up a finger as if to say, hold on! ‘What about …’ Emma started to scribble something down, smiling to herself. The waiter delivered a new bottle and asked if they wanted fresh glasses. Nadia said no, eager to get rid of him, in the nicest possible way, so she could see what Emma was writing. Emma passed the paper over to Nadia, who silently read:
Hey sexy papa, your advert hit my heart so hard it hurt, and I can’t wait for you to hurt me a little more. I’ll bring the whips and chains, and you bring your dazzling charm. Friday night work? Love, the devastatingly cute blonde on the 7.30.
‘Close,’ said Nadia, laughing. ‘Definitely a great start.’ She took the pen and paper off her friend and turned to look out through the window for inspiration. She watched a couple a few years older than her, maybe in their mid-thirties, making out against a lamppost like teenagers. Summer did that to people. Made them act