let me work mostly at home. But I’m always trying to expand my horizons. If you ask me, life’s too short not to expand your horizons. You should always be thinking: This is OK…but what else could I be doing?
“All the more reason to go to Italy and focus on writing your book,” says Nell firmly. “Harold wants you to do that. Don’t you, Harold?”
In answer, Harold emits a soulful “wahoo!”—sometimes he sounds just like a wolf—and Nell laughs. She ruffles Harold’s head with her strong stubby hand and says, “Idiot dog.”
We’ve been friends since Manchester uni. Nell, Sarika, Maud, and I all met in the university choir and bonded on a tour to Bremen. Sarika had barely spoken a word till then; all we knew about her was that she was studying law and could sing a top C. But after a few drinks she revealed she was secretly sleeping with the conductor and their sex life was getting a bit “dark.” So now she wanted to dump him but also stay in the choir, and what did we think? We spent a whole night drinking German beer and discussing it, while also trying to elicit what “dark” meant, exactly.
(In the end, Nell crashed her glass down and said, “Just bloody tell us, OK?”)
(It was a bit gross. Not worth repeating, or even thinking about.)
Anyway, Sarika did dump the conductor, and she did stay in the choir. That was fourteen years ago now (how did that happen?) and we’re still friends. Of the four of us, only Sarika still sings in a choir—but, then, she was always the most musical one. Plus she’s constantly on the lookout for a man whose interests chime with hers, and she reckons London choirs are a good place to start. Along with cycling clubs. She joins a new choir every year and switches cycling clubs every six months, and there’s been a pretty good yield of guys.
I mean, three serious possibilities in two years. Not bad, for London.
We all live near one another in north London, and even though our lives are different in a lot of ways, we’re closer than ever. We’ve been through a few roller coasters these last few years. We’ve shrieked and clutched one another’s hands, both literally and…whatsit.
Not-literally.
Metaphorically? Figuratively?
Great. I’m going on a weeklong writing course tomorrow and I don’t know what the opposite of “literally” is.
“What’s the opposite of ‘literally’?” I ask Sarika, but she’s tapping intently at her laptop, her dark shiny hair swishing the keys. She’s often to be found tapping intently at her laptop, Sarika, even when she’s round at Nell’s. (We tend to gather at Nell’s place.)
“No smokers,” Sarika mutters, presses a key, and peers closely at her screen.
“What?” I stare at her. “Is that work?”
“New dating site,” she says.
“Ooh, which one?” I ask with interest. Sarika has more cash than any of us, being a lawyer, so she’s the one who can afford to join the expensive dating sites and then report back.
“No psychics,” replies Sarika absently and presses another key, then looks up. “It’s called Meet You. Costs an arm and a leg. But, then, you get what you pay for.”
“ ‘No psychics’?” echoes Nell skeptically. “How many psychics have you dated, exactly?”
“One,” says Sarika, swiveling toward her. “And that was more than enough. I told you about him. The one who reckoned he knew what I really liked in bed and we argued about it and I said, ‘Whose body is it anyway?’ and he said, ‘It’s for both of us to enjoy.’ ”
“Oh, him,” says Nell, light dawning in her eyes. “I didn’t realize he was a psychic; I thought he was an arsehole. Is there a ‘no arseholes’ filter?”
“Wouldn’t work,” says Sarika regretfully. “No one thinks they’re an arsehole.” She turns back and taps at her keyboard again. “No magicians.” She types briskly. “No dancers. What about choreographers?”
“What’s wrong with dancers?” objects Nell. “They’re fit.”
“Just don’t fancy it,” says Sarika, shrugging vaguely. “He’d be out every night, dancing. We should keep the same hours. No oil-rig workers,” she adds as an afterthought, typing again.
“How does this site work?” I say, baffled.
“It starts with all your deal-breakers,” replies Nell. “It shouldn’t be called Meet You, it should be called Sod Off You. And You. And You.”
“You’re making it sound really negative,” protests Sarika. “It’s not about telling people to sod off, it’s about being super-specific, so you won’t waste time looking at unsuitable people. You keep honing your