Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 3

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Is it worth watching the American version of The Office if I’ve seen the British one?

I soon realize I can’t do this alone. Something as simple as filling in an online dating profile is beyond me; I don’t know where to start or even which app to choose. With a pang of alarm, I realize I am thirty-eight and have never dated. I had a boyfriend at secondary school, Tim, then there was Andrew in my first year at Bristol uni, then I met Dan. All three were friends first, so I’ve never been on a date with someone I didn’t already know. The idea of trying to “sell myself” in an online profile makes me cringe. Reluctantly, I cross the office to talk to Steph and Kelly, two colleagues in their twenties who work in sales. If anyone knows about dating apps, they will.

“Hi,” I say, interrupting their conversation about the TV show Traitors .

“Hi,” Kelly says, turning to look at me. “Did you want to talk about ad layouts for the gallery piece?”

“Um, no, this isn’t about work—well, it is, kind of.” I clear my throat, embarrassed to ask. “I need to join a dating app and don’t know where to start. If I took you both for a drink after work, could you help me?”

Their eyes light up and they clap their hands. “Oh yes!” cries Steph. “I knew this day would come. My calling!”

“Makeover!” Kelly squeals.

“No, no, I don’t need a makeover, just a dating profile. It’s for work.”

Steph and Kelly are both what I’d call “next-generation beautiful.” They’re hot, but a lot of work goes into it. A lot. There’s contouring makeup, eyelash extensions, and fake nails, which must preclude them from doing any washing up. Steph’s balayaged hair is neatly pressed into waves, while Kelly has blond extensions down to her waist. I can’t imagine anyone with children having this level of commitment to looking good.

“You came to the right place,” says Kelly, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “Of course we’ll help you.”

—

They’re both free after work, and Dan’s mum is taking the kids out for her birthday this evening, so I don’t need to rush home. Kelly suggests the Botanist, a trendy cocktail bar on Milsom Street.

“Okay, first things first, profile pic,” says Steph, scrolling through photos on my phone. “Found one.” Steph holds up my screen to show Kelly a picture of me in a bikini.

“That’s from my honeymoon! That’s not what I look like now.”

“Have you got any more bikini shots? You might as well show a full-body shot, you’ve the figure,” Steph says.

Kelly nods. “You need to identify your selling points. You’re hot, that’s all anyone cares about.”

“Thanks, but no, I haven’t worn a bikini since I had children, and I don’t think I’m comfortable putting a half-naked photo of myself online.”

“This one?” Kelly asks, showing me a photo of myself and Dan at a concert. “You look young and up for it here. We could crop him out.”

“That’s because I was young. I was twenty-eight. No, please don’t look at any photos more than two years old,” I tell her.

“You literally have no recent photos of yourself. Look, your selfies file is all just pictures of your kids,” Kelly says, showing me a picture of Ethan grinning with a mouth full of Cheerios.

“I can take one now,” Steph offers, tilting her head in sympathy. “The lighting is good in here. Do you have any makeup you could put on?”

“I am wearing makeup,” I tell her, and she leans forward to inspect my face, as though she doesn’t believe me.

“Where?”

“Let’s come back to the photo,” Kelly suggests, patting my hand. “We’ll do that at the end.”

“Fine,” says Steph, taking a sip of her white wine spritzer. “Right, so are you looking for love, friends, coffee dates, or hookups?”

“None of the above,” I say.

“You have to put something,” Steph says. “If it’s for a dating column you should say you’re looking for love. I don’t think the hookup scene here is Bath Living material.”

“Fine, put that. Though is it disingenuous if that’s a lie?”

“Don’t worry, everyone lies online,” says Kelly. As she scrolls to the next screen, I lean over Steph’s shoulder to see what she’s doing. “Right, interests. What are you into? Music, nature, gaming, self-care?”

“Are those the only options?” I ask.

“No,” Steph says. “It can be anything.”

“What am I into? Being a mum, my work. I have a cat, though I wouldn’t say I’m a ‘cat person.’ I don’t treat her like a fur baby or have a T-shirt with her face on it or anything.” I laugh, then say seriously, “Don’t put that.”

“Like, do you go to the gym, are you into yoga, macramé?” Kelly asks, her voice rising an octave with every suggestion. I shake my head. “Okay,” says Kelly slowly, and I can see it dawning on her, why I need their help with this. She turns to Steph. “She doesn’t need to be defined by her interests.” They go on to ask me about my star sign; my love language; my position on Covid vaccines; what my sleeping habits are; what I eat, drink, and dream; my Myers-Briggs personality type. Kelly lists a catalog of potential interests: aquariums, jujitsu, road trips, paddleboarding, activism, craft beer, TikTok, gospel singing, Marvel movies. It feels like the most invasive and bizarre job interview I’ve ever had.

“That is the weirdest list, I’m not interested in any of those things,” I say, exasperated. “Okay, just put theater, travel, and ‘trying new things.’?”

“Travel is good, that’s an easy talking point. Have you been anywhere interesting recently?” Kelly asks, looking thrilled to have found something.

“Nowhere recently, but I’d like to travel more in the future.” I pause. “If people are going to ask me where I’ve been, maybe don’t put travel.” I look at the list again. “Gin and tonic?”

Steph shakes her head. “Might put people off. Take pets off too. Divorced cat lady who likes G&Ts—it’s not a winning vibe.”

I sigh. “I don’t have time for ‘hobbies.’?” I wave the waiter over to order us a third round of drinks. “Can I put TV? Doing household admin? Being a parent?”

“People really just go on the photo,” Kelly says, patting my arm sympathetically, then stopping when she remembers we don’t have a photo either.

“You need to give people something to go on,” says Steph. “I met my boyfriend because on our profiles we both love Roblox and we both want world peace. He DMed me suggesting Roblox might be the answer to world peace.” She makes a lovesick grin. “It was so funny.”

“See, there’s someone out there for everyone,” says Kelly, “even Steph. Now, the fun part. What are you looking for in a man?” Kelly asks, swiping to the next screen. “I assume man? You’d widen the net if you put both.”

“Just a normal, nonpsycho, ordinary man,” I tell her.

“You need to be more specific,” says Steph.

“Okay, then I guess someone kind, funny, smart.”

Steph pretends to yawn. “Boring. Everyone wants that. I’m thinking height, hair color, age, build. Do you want them to work out? Do you care about their politics or if they eat meat? Do you have a thing for facial hair? Are there any sexual proclivities they need to be on board with?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Ideally taller than me, average height, I guess over five ten. Around my age, I don’t know, older than thirty-five, younger than fifty.” Kelly and Steph simultaneously scrunch their noses up at the idea of fifty. “Okay, forty-seven. Forty-five?” They both nod, deeming forty-five to be acceptable for someone my age.

“Kids, no kids? Wants kids? Are you done with kids? Can you even have more kids?” Steph asks, swiping to the next set of questions.

“Those don’t feel like first-date questions.”

“People want to know these things, but fine, put ‘not sure,’?” Kelly instructs Steph. Then Steph lifts the phone, cries, “Smile!” and snaps a photo.

“We’ll use this one for now. Don’t worry, I’ll add a subtle filter to even out your skin tone.”

“Don’t add a filter,” I say. “I want to look like me.”

“You need a filter. Everyone uses a filter.” She hands me back my phone. “One profile, good to go.” As she says it, the phone pings with a notification from the app. “Ooh, someone likes you already!” says Steph, clapping her hands in delight.

“Don’t look so terrified, I love this for you,” says Kelly, putting an arm around me. “Dating is like riding a bike. You just need to get back in the saddle and then the muscle memory kicks in.” She winks. It’s unnerving.

I thank them both for their help, then settle the bar bill. On the bus home, my phone pings with notifications and I scroll in wonder at this portal to potential dates. Could I fancy Hamish, forty-three, with his bulging biceps and interest in falconry? What about Paul, thirty-eight, who has a photo of himself at the top of a mountain, his arm around some poor cropped-out girlfriend? What went wrong between Paul and this girl? Is she on the apps too? Does she know Paul is using a photo with her shoulder in it to try to get laid? Then I remember Dan was on these apps. He signed up just weeks after he moved out. He will have answered all the same questions. Did he use a photo of us and crop out me? Is that how he met Sylvie? What if his profile is still active? What if I’m scrolling and I find a photo of cropped-out me?

My mood shifts. I don’t want to be thinking these thoughts. So, I flick over to Instagram and open my favorite account, @paulhollywoodkneadsdough, which features videos of, you guessed it, Paul Hollywood kneading dough. It’s comforting, hypnotic, sexy for reasons I can’t explain. Then I get so absorbed in Paul pounding a focaccia dough that I miss my stop.