target match until you’ve got the perfect shortlist.”
“Let me see.” I head round the sofa to look over her shoulder. The screen of her laptop is filled with male faces, and I blink at them. They all look nice to me. The guy with the stubble in the righthand corner looks particularly cute. His expression says, “Pick me! I’ll be kind to you!”
“He looks sweet.” I point at him.
“Maybe. OK, what next?” Sarika consults a typed list on her phone. “No vegetarians.”
“What?” I stare at her in shock. “No vegetarians? What are you saying? Sarika, how can you be so narrow-minded? Your sister’s vegetarian! I’m vegetarian!”
“I know,” she says equably. “But I don’t want to date my sister. Or you. Sorry, babe. You know I love your halloumi crumble.” She reaches out an arm to squeeze my waist affectionately. “But I want someone I can roast a chicken with.”
She clicks on Filters and a box appears with four headings: Yes Please!, Don’t Mind, Not Ideal, and Deal-breaker.
“Deal-breaker,” says Sarika firmly, starting to type Vegetarian in the box. After two letters, the word Vegetarian autofills and she clicks on it.
“You can’t rule out all vegetarians,” I say in utter horror. “It’s prejudiced. It’s…is it even legal?”
“Ava, lighten up!” retorts Sarika. “Now, watch. This bit is fun. Apply filter.”
As she clicks, the photos on the screen start to shimmer. Then, one by one, big red crosses appear in front of faces, scattered over the screen. I glance at the cute guy—and feel a nasty lurch. There’s a cross in front of his face. He looks as though he’s been sentenced to execution.
“What’s going on?” I demand anxiously. “What is this?”
“It’s called ‘Last Chance,’ ” explains Sarika. “I can reprieve any of them by clicking on them.”
“Reprieve him!” I say, pointing to my favorite. “Reprieve him!”
“Ava, you don’t know anything about him,” says Sarika, rolling her eyes.
“He looks nice!”
“But he’s vegetarian,” says Sarika, and presses Done.
The screen shimmers again and all the guys with crossed-out faces disappear. The remaining guys swirl around the screen and then assemble again in neat rows of photos, with new ones taking the place of the vanished.
“Great,” says Sarika with satisfaction. “I’m getting somewhere.”
I stare at the screen, slightly traumatized by this culling process.
“It’s brutal,” I say. “It’s heartless.”
“Better than swiping,” puts in Nell.
“Exactly!” Sarika nods. “It’s scientific. There are more than eight hundred possible filters on the site. Height, job, habits, location, political views, education…The algorithms were developed at NASA, apparently. You can process five hundred guys in, like, no time.” She consults her list again. “Right, on to the next. No one over six foot three.” She starts typing again. “I’ve tried super-tall. Doesn’t work with me.”
She presses Apply Filter, three red crosses appear, and within seconds a new selection of guys is gazing out from the screen.
“Apparently one woman kept on applying filters until there was only one guy left on the screen, and she contacted him and they’re still together,” Sarika adds, scrolling down the typed list on her phone. “That’s your ideal.”
“It still feels wrong,” I say, watching the screen in dismay. “This can’t be the way.”
“It’s the only way,” Sarika contradicts me. “Basically everybody dates online now, right? Eve-ry-bo-dy. Millions of people. Billions of people.”
“I guess so,” I say warily.
“Everybody dates online,” Sarika reiterates clearly, as though she’s giving a TED Talk. “It’s like going to a cocktail party and everybody in the world’s standing there, trying to catch your eye. That’s never going to work! You need to narrow it down. Ergo.” She gestures at the screen.
“ASOS is bad enough,” puts in Nell. “I searched for white shirt yesterday. You know how many I got? Twelve hundred and sixty-four. I was like, I don’t have time for this shit. I’ll take the first one. Whatever.”
“Exactly,” says Sarika. “And that’s a shirt, not a life partner. No more than ten minutes from tube station,” she adds, typing briskly. “I’ve had enough of schlepping to flats in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re ruling out guys who live more than ten minutes from the tube?” My jaw sags. “Is that even a thing?”
“You can create your own filters, and if they like them they add them to the website,” Sarika explains. “They’re considering my one about hair-washing frequency.”
“But what if the perfect guy lives eleven minutes from the tube station?” I know I’m sounding agitated, but I can’t help it. I can already see him, drinking his coffee in the sunshine, wearing his