last moments of showing the outside world I’m capable of having a relationship. Right now, only Simon and I know we’ve disintegrated. My friends and colleagues still believe that April might have the ability to meet a nice man and get past date five. Their doubts about me are fading. They’re thinking ‘how nice’. As soon as I message Megan to reveal the ending, that veneer will collapse. The narrative will revert back to April trope. I’m going to have to go through the painful and humiliating process of telling everyone I told about Simon that, no, actually, it didn’t work out. I’ll have to endure the re-explaining of what happened, the ‘well he doesn’t deserve you anyway’ lies when, secretly, they’re thinking, ‘hmm, I do wonder if there’s something not quite right about that one’ before they get on with their own business and their own lives and their own relationships that they seem to find so, so much easier than I do.
April: On my way home. It’s over. Before it even began. Not good.
No one asks if I’m all right as I weep silently along the District line, staring out at the blackness. Two tourists, armed with cameras and stinking of sun cream, notice the tears and discuss my predicament in a hushed language I don’t understand. But they decide to do nothing.
The moment I get signal, my phone vibrates with replies.
Megan: Fuck
Megan: I’m so sorry hon.
Megan: I’m here. I’ve just run out to get replacement Gü. Multiple Gü.
Megan: You WILL get through this.
I shakily reply ‘I love u xxx’ and focus on trying to ravel myself back in again. It is just a man. One man. I can handle this. I’ve been here before. Many, many times. I focus on my ribcage expanding and contracting, on my breath coming in and out, even if it is in short, sharp bursts of sadness. The carriage judders to a halt at South Kensington and I’m the first to get out when the doors slam open. I cannot handle the crowds of dawdling tourists, not today. I jump off and run to the steps, elbowing a stressed mother pushing a buggy towards the Natural History Museum exit. She shouts after me, and I find myself muttering ‘fuck off’ as I run past. I don’t even feel guilty. All I can think is that she deserves it, with her three children and her life all together, getting in my way when I’m falling apart and will probably never be able to have what she has – no matter how hard I try. I dodge down the side roads, to the little mews where Megan’s flat hides. I scrabble with my key, the tears really streaming now, and, when I’m through the door, Megan is there. Arms wide open, a chocolate Gü in each hand, looking just as upset as I feel. I fling myself into her and cry myself dry.
Here are the red flags I ignored about Simon because I was so desperate for him to be the end of dating hell: yes, he did always message back but he never called me. Every time we arranged to see each other, I had to fit in around his diary, not the other way around. His parents are still together, but he mentioned during our third date, after three martinis, that ‘I really don’t think they love each other, or ever have’, which is bound to impact his view on healthy relationships. He rarely asked me any questions about myself and looked bored at the answers. He once referred to his ex as ‘a bit crazy’. He sneered when I mentioned my friend Chrissy and her battle with depression, saying it’s ‘a bad habit’. He admitted he only volunteered at the shelter that one time to meet women and thought it was funny.
The main red flag? He said he was looking for a ‘partner in crime’ which everyone knows is shorthand for ‘a woman who isn’t real’.
‘I still don’t understand it,’ I tell Megan, lying on the sofa, exhausted and blotchy.
‘There’s nothing to understand. He’s just a dick.’ She’s curled her feet up under her and the gold from the sun hits her black hair, turning it grey.
‘Is he, though?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s not done anything wrong.’
‘He’s a man, of course he’s done something wrong.’
‘No, it’s me. There’s something wrong with me.’ My voice breaks and Megan leans over and gently strokes my leg and whispers the sorts of lies one has to whisper to