‘I thought the saying was throwing shit?’
She laughs. ‘Same thing?’
‘Same thing.’
We go about spooning sugar granules into mugs.
‘So, tell me about Joshua,’ she prompts, pouring water into the cafetière.
‘There’s not much to tell. We’ve just been messaging.’
‘You have a photo?’
I pull his profile onto the screen and show her.
‘Oh, he looks nice! He has a kind face.’ She commandeers my phone, taking it fully off me and flicking through the rest of his snaps. ‘Oh, he’s climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, that’s cool.’ I nod. I guess it is. ‘Oh, he looks quite hot in this one.’ I lean over and nod again, non-committal. I’ve hardly looked at photos of Josh. Past Me would’ve closely studied each one for any insights into his soulmate potential. Psychoanalysing every atom of every photo. Wondering what climbing Mount Kilimanjaro means about his childhood, and wondering if getting that out of his system means he’ll now be ready to be a good father or something. Now, since my epiphany, I can see the photos with detachment. I look at the Mount Kilimanjaro pic and bet he cannot believe his fucking luck that he gets to put that on a dating profile. I imagine how great he feels every time a new match says, ‘Mount Kilimanjaro? Wow, cool’, and he can then talk about how amazing it was, and how important it is to push yourself. If I’m ever to love someone who has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, I will love the person who does it and yet never, ever, tells anyone. Maybe they’ll quietly tell me on their deathbed. ‘Oh, yes, darling, something I forgot to mention. I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro once. Yeah, in the dead of night. Didn’t want anyone to see me. No, never took any photos. It was cool, I guess, but it didn’t change me as a person. I was just bored one day and happened to be in Kilimanjaro so I thought I may as well.’
That man, I would marry that man in an instant.
Though he wouldn’t marry me because I’m not Gretel enough.
Katy pores over the rest of the collection Josh has put together to convince women he’s worth a swipe. There’s the ‘him laughing in a group’ one, and the ‘him at a coffee making course to show he has interests’ one and the ‘him taken from an angle where his cheekbones look better than they are’ one. She hands my phone back and says what she’s said many times before: ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’
‘Hmm.’
‘No, I really have.’
I add milk to Matt’s drink and hide a smile. There’s this kind of determined optimism coupled-up people force upon single people about their chances of love. I used to cling to their words like they were wise oracles, believing them when they said, ‘of course there’s someone out there for you’ and ‘you are so lovable’. But now I’m thinking it’s all bullshit. I mean, there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary that suggests no, I am not lovable. Out of all the men I’ve been with, only one has actually said the words ‘I love you’ out loud, but then he also raped me and emotionally tormented me so I don’t think that really counts. I mean, it’s surely crossed Katy’s mind that maybe there is something significantly wrong with me? That, maybe, actually, there isn’t someone out there who can put up with all my countless personality failures? Whatever it is, Katy seems happy that I’m back sharing with her again and it’s nice not to have the awkwardness of me freezing her out. It’s nice to know I can still relate to her when I’m not just performing the ‘poor vulnerable April’ act.
I hand Matt his coffee and he mouths ‘thank you’, still engrossed in his shift. I clatter down in my chair, and think I should probably look through the inbox, to check he’s going to be OK. Make sure there are no addicts in there. Two weeks ago we had someone write in about their alcoholic father and Matt went to the bathroom for a very long time. I enter all the security codes and pull up the list of questions that came through overnight. There’s someone who wants to know if you can get pregnant from pre-cum. There’s someone who thinks their penis isn’t big enough. There is a boy who is really struggling with a break-up from his university girlfriend. So far, so non-triggering for either of us. Then I click on the next one and know right away, just from reading the first line:
Message received: 11:02
I’m probably making a big deal of nothing, I’m just a bit confused …
My mouthful of bitter coffee intensifies. It takes a moment to swallow. I click off the question and glance over at Matt, who is fixated on his screen, tip-tapping out a reply, nonplussed. I feel a huge swell of gratitude towards him, that he’s the one taking this shift and not me. That he’s the one who has to unpick the inevitable clusterfuck of a young girl’s pain and confusion over his cup of not-very-good coffee. I try to distract myself from what Matt’s dealing with by powering through my emails. I am emailed to be told my budget has formally now been cut by two thousand pounds and yet I’m still expected to do all the things I’m supposed to do with less money. I am emailed about another email to say to ignore what’s been said in the previous email I haven’t got to yet, and told that the real email will be coming in an upcoming email. I’m emailed about a meeting we’re having to discuss how the charity can reduce the amount of email it sends.
When I get a moment, I log in to my personal inbox and sigh when I see the subject title.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hen Do
April!!! How are you?? OMG, it’s so weird that you’re not on Facebook and such any more. Makes me realise how much I rely on it to communicate. HOW ARE THINGS? I realise I have NO IDEA because I also use social media to know everything that’s going on with my friends’ lives. TERRIBLE, isn’t it? We should meet up properly soon and have a really long catch-up. I miss doing that. Sorry I’ve been rubbish. It’s just been such a whirlwind planning the wedding. Especially as Control-Freak-Chrissy has, of course, insisted on doing it all herself. Oh God, I’m talking about myself in the third person … Not good.
ANYWAY, I had the hen do all set up as a group chat online, and then realised you can’t see it. I know you said you’re free that weekend, but I’ve not given you the deets. Here they are: Right, so we’re going to Brighton. Nothing cheesy! I promise! We are too old for penis straws and butlers in the buff now, I reckon. 33 is not 27! We’ve got the top floor of a nice restaurant booked for the whole evening, so we can just stay there and get wankered. MAYBE, if we’re really drunk, we’ll end up in a club. But, to be honest, there’s at least five of us either preggers or breastfeeding, so I reckon we’ll just end up going back to the Airbnb and chatting with cups of tea. Then we’ll go for brunch the next day, maybe pootle around the Lanes. Very chilled! It all comes to £150 which I hope is OK with you? Again, sorry. All of this is in the group and I totally forgot to loop you in. My bank deets are 44-52-87 and 90827536. I’ll email again about trains down. SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU! I can’t believe it’s coming up so soon. WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHERE DID THE TIME GO?