“Yeah, well.” Vanya clears her throat. “I’d say my intuition is more finely attuned to love than parking wardens.”
“I wish you wouldn’t perpetuate these ridiculous notions,” Dee scoffs.
“What notions?” I ask.
“About love and relationships having anything to do with destiny.”
I’ve known Dee since we were children; we met at age eleven, in the girls’ bathroom on the first day of school. She had a long black fringe covering half her eyes and wore this serious expression. She grabbed me by the elbow as I was leaving the loo. I thought she was about to steal my lunch money, but she pulled me close and told me I had the back of my skirt tucked into my knickers. She saved me from humiliating myself in front of my new classmates, and she’s had my back ever since.
Dee exhales loudly through her nose and shifts into fifth gear with a clunk as we merge onto the motorway.
“Look, I’m going to say something controversial now, OK?” she says.
“Brexit was a good idea? Brad Pitt hasn’t aged well? You think we should all take up smoking again?” I give her a goofy smile as I try to think of what else might qualify as a controversial statement.
“No. I don’t think you should have broken up with David.”
I shake my head, and Vanya makes a prrrrft sound from the backseat.
“David wasn’t the one, Dee. He was lovely, but you know—”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know what it is you’re holding out for. David was decent and kind.” Dee glances across at me, her eyebrows knitted in concern. “I just want you to be happy, to have someone to share your life with.”
“I have you guys!”
“Yeah, but Neil and I are leaving London in a few months.” Dee sighs. “And Vanya. Well, Vanya is a bad influence.”
“I’m not a bad influence—I’m the fun one!” Vanya says, raising her arms above her head to do a seat dance, as though this will illustrate just how fun she is. To be fair, Vanya is the fun one. On a night out, she will be the person to suggest getting shots at two a.m., but it will be Dee who holds your hair back when you’re throwing up in the loo later.
“I worry with all the stuff you’re doing for the website, seeking out these crazily romantic tales. Plus, with your parents’ story”—Dee nods to my hand, which is toying with my pendant again—“it’s made your expectations a little . . . unrealistic.”
“Look, I wouldn’t say I’m being especially picky. I know what I want and I don’t feel like I should have to settle for less.”
“And what exactly is it that you want?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” I say. Dee raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, if you forced me to write a list, I’d want a man who is kind, charming, well dressed, well read, ideally musical, someone who likes the same things as me, no one too complicated. Is that really too much to ask?”
“On dating apps, it is,” says Vanya.
Dee reaches a hand across the car to squeeze mine. “I think you have to start factoring in the statistics.”
As teenagers, while I had posters of Busted and the Pussycat Dolls above my bed, Dee decorated her walls with the periodic table and a photo of Albert Einstein. She’s the Monica to my Rachel, but it works and I’ve often been the beneficiary of her practical nature. When Mum died, Dee was the one who kept me upright when all I wanted to do was lie down and sink into grief. She ordered the funeral flowers because I couldn’t get the words out over the phone; she moved in with me for a month because I didn’t want to be alone. She was my Ariadne’s thread, leading me out of a dark labyrinth. But now, two years later, I still catch her looking as me as though I might break at any moment. I yearn for our old dynamic, where we were equals and I wasn’t the frailer half who needed parenting by a friend.
“Dee, I know I’m talking to a math teacher here, but not everything in life boils down to math,” I say, with a smile.
“You have to believe in a little magic when it comes to matters of the heart,” says Vanya.
Dee rolls her eyes.
“A: Everything does boil down to math, that’s the beauty of math. And B: Not everyone gets some Hollywood-style meet-cute. I don’t want to be the harbinger of doom, but the number of eligible guys over thirty is only going to get smaller. If you play the field for too long, only the divorcés and weirdos will be left.”
“What about me? I’m single,” says Vanya indignantly.
“You love the weirdos. You actively seek out the weirdos.”
“That’s true,” says Vanya, pulling down her red beanie hat and drumming out a tune on the back of Dee’s seat with her fingers.
“Look, all I know is, if I can’t have a love story like my parents had—world stops turning, soulmate kind of love—then I’d rather be on my own.” I pause, weighing my words, anxious not to offend my oldest friend. “And, you know, Dee, I’m not a baton you have to pass on. I’m not going to fall to pieces if I’m on my own for a bit.”
“It’s not that, Laura, of course it’s not that. I didn’t mean to suggest you need to have a man in your life. All I’m saying is, I thought David made you happy—happier.” Her lips twitch into a smile. “I just don’t want you holding out for something that doesn’t exist. These couples you interview for the site—you should go back and talk to them in six months when the oxytocin has worn off and they’re arguing about how he leaves his sweaty running gear loose in the laundry bin and stinks out the whole damn bathroom.”
“You’re really selling married life to us, Dee,” says Vanya.
Dee ignores her and shoots me a wide-eyed look, clearly worried she’s caused offense.
“And you’re not a baton I’m trying to palm off. Even if you met Prince bloody Charming and rode off into the sunset, I would never let go of this baton.” She points a finger back and forth between us.
“I know. Me too,” I say, feeling a gush of love for this woman.
“Right, anyway, I’ve said my piece.” Dee blinks. “This conversation isn’t passing the Bechdel test, so let’s talk about something else.”
Dee is obsessed with the Bechdel test. It’s a checklist used to see whether women are being represented as well-rounded characters in fiction or film. Essentially, to pass the test, two female characters have to have a conversation about something other than men. On feminist principle, Dee won’t watch or read anything that doesn’t pass.
“Is us talking about the Bechdel test enough for us to pass the Bechdel test?” Vanya asks, pulling on her seatbelt strap and leaning forward between our seats.