I want them. Why do I still fancy men so much? What’s wrong with me? Why are they all so broken? Am I broken for still wanting to be with one, even after everything? I should be alone. That’s the only healthy way to be. BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE. I hate men, that’s the problem. GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH – they’re so entitled and broken and lazy and wrong and … and …
Hang on …
My phone.
HE MESSAGED BACK!!!
WITH A KISS ON THE END!
Never mind.
Forget I said anything. It’s all good.
‘I think I’m going to fall in love with him,’ I tell Katy, as we stand by the dilapidated kettle, waiting for it to gurgle into a lacklustre boil.
‘Maybe a little bit soon for that, don’t you think?’
‘I know. But I also, like, know, you know?’
Katy closes her eyes for a little longer than necessary, which is fair enough. I can hear what I sound like with my very own ears. I am not this person. I am not this woman. Although I am, I am. ‘You’re getting carried away again, aren’t you?’ She’s washing out our mugs using the tiniest amount of Fairy Liquid, which has the note ‘please use sparingly’ on it, like the charity we work for can be saved from financial annihilation by more efficient washing-up.
‘It’s been five dates! Five! Do you have any idea what a milestone that is? I googled it, and it really, really is.’
‘Didn’t we talk about googling relationship stuff, April?’
‘I can’t help it. We work in an office with unrestricted Internet access and I’m not Gandhi. And even he, I am sure, would google “what to expect after five dates” if he was in my position.’
She laughs loudly enough that heads jerk up around the office. I shh her as I pour the coffee out of the cafetière into three mugs. She splashes in the milk equally and I giggle with her, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt at her amusement. Katy’s been married for four years, to a man who completely and utterly adores her. She’s all smug and I-wouldn’t-be-like-that and chilled, which is so easy to be when you’ve been married for four years, to a man who completely and utterly adores you. I would be just as chill if I was married to a man like Jimmy. Bored as fuck, but chill.
We clatter back to our desks, through an office fizzing with Friday energy. The end of the week is tauntingly in sight. Shoulders relax as people tap at their keyboards, meetings are laced with jokes, and the radio’s been cranked on. No one is working quite as hard as they should be and their Monday-selves will hate their now-selves for being so lax. But that is then and this is now and I have a sixth date and a whole weekend and the hope of the beginning.
I attack my phone the second I’m sitting down. The sweet agonising apprehension of waiting for a red blob containing a message alert – my future mood totally dependent on it. For a millisecond, as I wait for my screen to unlock, I imagine it all disintegrating. Maybe I’m overhyping the connection, maybe he won’t have replied, maybe I’m delusional and mental and he’s figured this out and will now ghost me without explanation. I’ll have to start over again. Pick myself up and out of the dust again. Try to find the faith again. A dark chasm yawns open in my stomach … but wait!
There’s a message!
He’s replied!
I’ve been rewarded for leaving my phone at my desk while I made coffee. I successfully tricked the Love Gods with my trip to the kitchen to make a hot drink. They thought I was ambivalent about Simon’s reply and therefore sent it to me, but the joke is on them because I didn’t even want this coffee. I just needed a reason to be away from my phone.
‘Your phone buzzed,’ Matt tells me unnecessarily as I stare at it in my hand. He’s peering at me over his monitor, his eyes kind through the thick black rims of his glasses. ‘Is it Simon?’
I nod. ‘I think so. Can’t open it to tell yet though, can I?’
‘Why not? Of course you can.’
Katy plops his drink down in front of him and he nods a thank you. ‘Google probably told her not to,’ she says, taking her seat next to him. She pulls her keyboard towards