Megan squeezes my knee. ‘I know, honey. Aren’t we bloody all?’
Things I’ve tried, to make it work with men
Being truly authentic and open and myself
The result?
‘I’ve never had to have this many conversations about my feelings before. It’s all a bit too much.’
Backing off and playing it cool
The result?
‘There’s something missing, you know?’
Just allowing it to happen naturally: ‘The right guy comes along when you’re not looking for him’
The result?
I did not have sex for a year and a half.
Being ‘less picky’
The result?
I ended up ruining my life for two years with Ryan and all the things he did to me.
Being ‘more picky’
The result?
Literally no matches. At all. On any dating service. But then I was so traumatised after Ryan, I only liked about one in two hundred.
Going for someone older and more mature
The result?
‘I like you, April. But I’m not sure I like you enough to introduce you to my children.’
Going for someone younger with less baggage
The result?
‘You’re not, like, one of those crazy 30-something women who are desperate for babies, are you? Oh my God, you are, aren’t you!’
Being open and brave, and never losing hope: ‘Just keep putting yourself out there’
The result?
Simon.
I lose the rest of my Saturday in a wretched spiral of loathing and self-doubt. I hate myself for how hard I’m taking this. I hate myself for how un-normal I seem to be. So it was six dates, so he didn’t like me, so he’s actually a dick, so he’s not The One after all. So what? I know that’s what I’m supposed to be thinking. I’m supposed to shimmy like Beyoncé and know my worth. I’m supposed to go out and get hammered and show him what he’s missing, and, in doing so, not think about him once. Then Simon will subconsciously realise I’ve moved on and it will prompt him into realising what a huge catch I am and, unable to believe he’s lost me, he’ll turn up and make a heartfelt plea. But it will be too late. I’ll tell him to go home. I will be too full of healthy levels of self-esteem for a shit like Simon. He will torture himself every day for the rest of his life about what he missed out on. I will never think about him ever again.
This is what would happen to Gretel.
I’m not Gretel though. I am April.
And instead April goes through every single message we sent, focusing particularly on any nice ones, to further prompt her heartache. April loses her whole day in a Google hole, reading psychology blogposts about different attachment styles, and occasionally stumbling with her laptop into Megan’s room whenever she has a breakthrough.
‘Simon is an avoidant attacher,’ I announce, eyes wide with the revelation, like I’ve just started speaking in tongues. ‘He told me his parents moved him around loads in the first two years of his life. Look! Look here! It’s just his attachment style. If I can convince him to go to intense psychotherapy, in about two years we’ll be perfect for each other.’
Megan doesn’t look up from her Times Style supplement. ‘I’m disconnecting the router.’
‘I still get 4G.’
‘I’m confiscating your phone.’
My mum rings for her weekend phone call to hammer home the existential crisis.
‘How’s it going with the new fella?’ she asks, ripping open the wound and tipping some gangrene into it. I don’t even have to reply. ‘Oh dear. Already? Again? I wish you’d listen to me and stop doing this to yourself.’ I lift my head upwards and focus very hard on the crack in my bedroom ceiling, the one that makes it look like its hatching. Mum sighs down the line. ‘What happened this time?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought it was going well?’
‘SO DID I!’
I shout so loud Megan runs into the room to check I’m OK, Sudocrem decorating her face in little splodges. I point to my phone and mouth ‘my mum’ and she nods in understanding and retreats.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, darling, I was just asking.’ She’s all sniffy and snippy and acting like she’s the victim. Oh yes, this is how phone calls with Mum go. It’s like paint by numbers, but you replace the numbers with emotions like ‘guilt’ and ‘exasperation’ and ‘shame’.
‘I know, I know. I’m just upset.’
‘So he dumped you?’
‘Well, we weren’t technically going out.’
‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘Mum!’
‘You did, didn’t you? How many times do I need to tell you?’