For Robbie to make such a concession was pretty good going, and as much help as I was going to get from him, so I thanked him and we both turned back to the sandwich platters. Then my phone buzzed, then buzzed again – a double notification. I reached for it and flicked the screen to life.
Is it feeling kind of like groundhog day there, Aquarius? asked the astrology app.
And Tinder had a message for me, too. Well, an image. An image of a penis that looked almost uncannily like a potato. A dodgy, misshapen one that would have been on a one-way street to the compost, had it turned up in my kitchen.
‘You’re not wrong,’ I told Stargazer grimly.
Seven
Is that romance making your heart beat faster, Aquarius, or did you just run up the stairs?
Over the next couple of weeks, I spent many, many hours on Project Pisces. Just narrowing down my pool (gettit?) of potential dates to those who had actually been born between February 19th and March 20th was my first challenge. It felt kind of rude and abrupt to ask someone their zodiac sign as soon as I’d matched with them – but then, if I was going to do this thing systematically and scientifically, as I’d promised myself I would, I couldn’t go wasting my time and theirs exchanging chit-chat with blokes who were born under the sign of Sagittarius, when I was only going to get around to dating them in several months’ time – could I?
So I kept my approach pretty simple. I got a match, maybe a bland ‘How’s it going?’ message (or maybe a dick pic, but I was getting so used to those that they barely registered – the ‘delete, block, ignore’ sequence was so ingrained now, I was sure I could do it in my sleep), and I replied cheerfully with a ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking, but what’s your star sign?’
Helpfully, some guys already had theirs listed on their profile, and that made it easier, although I didn’t swipe right on every Pisces man – of course not. There were just as many of them, it seemed, who had pictures of themselves with some poor drugged tiger in Thailand, or with their ex-girlfriend’s face half cut off at the edge, or wearing a baseball cap backwards, and I had standards to uphold.
The responses I got to my question varied. A high number thought it was hilarious to reply informing me that they’d been born under the sign of the ram, bull or goat, and therefore – you guessed it – they were horny. Delete, block, ignore. Some asked, ‘My what?’ in which case I’d ask the question again, and helpfully tell them that if they told me when their birthday was, I could work it out myself. And, of course, a high proportion simply ignored my question and never messaged me again.
Lying on my bed with Frazzle purring on my feet, I asked myself over and over again whether all this was worth it, and whether I shouldn’t find some other way to spend hours and hours of my leisure time, like training for a marathon or painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or something. But I’d set myself this challenge, embarked on this project, and now I felt strangely compelled to carry on with it.
By the end of April, I was regularly exchanging messages with Mitchell, who met my criteria but was working away in Glasgow for a couple of weeks; Rich, who was a nurse working in accident and emergency and whose shifts seemed to have been planned to coincide with my time off; and Paul. Pisces Paul – it had a nice ring to it. His pictures showed a nice-looking guy with glasses and a beard, he lived in South London too, and soon he suggested that we should meet up one evening in a local park for a glass of wine, as the weather was so nice.
At first, when he’d suggested it, I’d fleetingly thought, In a park? What’s wrong with a pub, like normal people go to on dates? But I’d dismissed the thought – the early May weather was glorious, the cherry trees laden with blossom and the sky a clear blue day after day – not that I got to enjoy very much of it, because I spent all my days inside a pub. So I decided that Paul was on to something. An al fresco date would be fun. It would be different. And crucially, it would be cheap – my wages didn’t amount to much and Paul, who’d told me he was studying for a PhD in medieval literature, was probably even skinter.
When the day of our date came, I finished the prep for the Sunday roast at the Ginger Cat and the main rush of service, and escaped upstairs to my flat at three o’clock to get ready, leaving Robbie in charge. I showered and washed my hair, then stood in front of the mirror trying to gauge its mood. My hair, I often thought, was like a particularly troublesome child. I was like the little girl in the nursery rhyme, except instead of one curl I had about a million of them, and it wasn’t me who was very good when I was good, and horrid when I was bad, it was my stupid hair.
If I spent a fortune on sulphate-free shampoo, argan oil conditioner, mousses and serums, it often behaved itself, falling obligingly into ringlets that looked more copper than ginger. But if I compromised on products, if the weather was wet, if I’d been simmering stock in the kitchen, or sometimes just because it felt like it, it rebelled and transformed into something you’d scrub a burned pan with. If I resorted to straighteners, it threw an almighty strop and turned into a mass of broken strands and split ends.
Compared to my hair, Frazzle was totally undemanding.
Today, I carefully soaked the excess water off it with an old T-shirt, ran three different smoothing potions through it, and ever so gently allowed my hairdryer’s diffuser to breathe on it for a few minutes. There was a moment when I thought it would take exception to that and poof out into a frizzy mess, but I stopped just in time, added more serum and ran my fingers through it gently, then sighed with relief as it dropped into soft curls.
I pulled on a yellow cotton skirt I’d found in a charity shop, my trusty canvas trainers and a white T-shirt, hastily applied some make-up and headed out, stopping at the corner shop for a bottle of Californian rosé and a bag of cashew nuts. I was starving, and Paul hadn’t mentioned anything about food. Maybe, if it went well, we could grab a takeaway pizza later or go for a curry, but I wasn’t going to ruin the date before it even started by unleashing my hanger on poor, unsuspecting Paul.
As I hurried towards the park, I checked my phone. There was no message from Paul cancelling; just a screen grab of a map with a pin dropped in the centre of the park – where he wanted us to meet, I guessed, which was thoughtful. The Stargazer app reminded me again of the romantic nature, thoughtfulness and sensitivity of Piscean men – he certainly seemed to be living up to that so far.
The park, on this beautiful day, was full. There were kids playing on the swings, groups sitting at the wooden tables outside the café with coffee and (I noticed enviously) cake, a group of teenagers playing volleyball, and couples strolling hand in hand along the pathways. For a second, I allowed my mind to imagine that, soon, Paul and I might be among them, but then I pushed the idea aside. It was only my second date; there was no way I’d meet Mr Right – or even Mr Right for Now – so soon. And besides, if the app was to be believed, Pisces wasn’t even a good match for me. This wasn’t supposed to be love at first sight.
I made my way towards where the pin on the map had directed me, which I realised was the bandstand, perched high on the hill. The wine bottle was running with condensation by the time I reached the top, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I willed my hair not to frizz in the heat, and congratulated myself on my good sense in wearing trainers.