Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 4

Google searches:

Statistical likelihood of getting murdered by someone you meet online

Hobbies that don’t take too much time or effort

Dan Humphries, Bath, dating profile

Paul Hollywood focaccia fan fiction

When I was eight years old, I rode my bike into a wall. I was going down a steep hill and I couldn’t brake fast enough. I flew over the handlebars straight into the side of a house and banged up my face, chipped a tooth, and dislocated my collarbone. So, when people tell me something is “just like riding a bike,” I get wary. All I can think about is the potential for injury and that however cautious you are, you can’t account for all the other idiots on the road. Yet despite my misgivings, here I am, back on my metaphorical bike, having a drink in a bar on a Saturday night with a stranger I met online. Richard, thirty-seven, whose profile picture is him holding a giant wheel of cheese.

“So even if it tastes like Parma ham and it looks like Parma ham, if it’s not from Parma, then it’s not Parma ham, and you can’t label it as such,” Richard says, putting his pint down with a bang to punctuate his point. I scramble to pick up the threads of this conversation as I realize my mind has drifted to memories of cycling into a brick wall.

“So, you’re the ham police,” I say, trying to look enthusiastic.

“Technically, my title is ‘management and safeguarding of product regulation,’?” he says proudly. “I work across the whole EU.”

“Have you ever busted into a warehouse waving a gun, shouting, ‘Come out with your hams up!’ Ha ha,” I laugh, pleased with my own joke, but Richard remains stony-faced.

“We’re not armed. It’s a desk job. We enforce the rules through legal channels. Correction: I did once do a warehouse certification course, but we were there to learn, not to arrest anyone.”

“Right, no, I was joking,” I say, attempting a self-deprecating eye roll. Then I worry the eye roll might be interpreted as petulance, so I tack on a maniacal grin. Why are facial expressions so hard to get right? Subtly checking my watch, I calculate that I’ve been on this date for seventeen minutes. Is that all? Kelly tells me that an hour and a half is the absolute minimum you need to stay if you don’t want to appear rude. But I’ve already been on two other dates this week and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. On Wednesday I met Phil, thirty-four. He smelled of changing rooms and lectured me on nuclear fuel, though I couldn’t work out whether he was for or against. After an hour he said he had to go because he had a dog waiting for him at home. He didn’t suggest meeting again.

On Friday, I met David, forty-three, who “plays the saxophone, is a Gemini, likes monogamy and solo camping.” He told me I looked like “Mila Kunis on a bad day,” explained he was divorced—“no kids, thank God”—then started an inappropriate line of questioning about childbirth and how it had affected me “down there.” I left, telling him I had a dog waiting for me at home. I didn’t suggest we meet again.

Online dating is exactly what I feared it would be, and it’s made me feel a thousand times worse about being single. At home, alone on my sofa, I can delude myself into thinking that if I wanted to meet someone, I could. Now I see that might not be the case. Everyone normal is taken, online dating is horrible. I will die alone. I need to start contributing more to my pension. I should start weight training, so I can stay mobile well into my eighties.

Looking across at Richard, I try to evaluate whether this is a bad date, like the others, or whether I’m simply out of practice. Objectively, Richard is a good-looking human. He has a sharp blond hairstyle, tanned skin, and the kind of arms you only get from either being a professional woodsman or spending an unhealthy amount of time at the gym. But while he looks good, there’s something unnervingly cold about him. He’s like the villain’s henchman in a Bond movie, the guy who skis cross-country shooting at 007. He gets killed in the first five minutes, but no one really cares. He probably doesn’t even get credited with a name at the end, he’s just Henchman One, Richard from Bumble.

“So, remind me what you do, Anna?” Richard asks while signaling to the waiter for another round of drinks. Should I order a coffee to stop myself from yawning?

“I sell counterfeit Parma ham on the dark web,” I tell him, and Richard’s brow furrows. “No. Um, no. I am a journalist.” I pause. “Remember? We had a long conversation about it over text?”

Richard flushes. “Oh, right, yes, I’m online with a few people so it’s hard to keep track of people’s particulars.”

“Of course. Me too,” I say, reaching for my wine, even though I’ve just put it down.

In my urgent quest for a column, I replied to a handful of men who lived within a two-mile radius and were able to meet ASAP. David and Phil’s messages were fine, perfunctory, but I had higher hopes for Richard. His messages were excellent, his response time perfect. He asked me questions and gave thoughtful answers. We had a long back-and-forth about journalistic integrity. Honestly, given how good he was at messaging, I am surprised, even a little disappointed, to find how awkward this evening has been. In person, there is none of the warmth and intelligence he conveyed online.

“We had that conversation about the role of the BBC, remember?” I say, hoping to prompt his memory.

“Oh, right, yeah.” Richard scratches his neck, avoiding my gaze. “The thing is—and I’m going to be honest now, Annie, because it’s good to start things on the right note, isn’t it?”

Is it worth telling him that I hate being called Annie? Probably not. There’s a window of opportunity where you can correct someone who calls you the wrong name; after that, you have to either never see them again or just be that new name forever. “Because I’m so busy, it’s hard for me to engage with online dating in the way I’d like to,” Richard explains. “My day starts at six a.m. and often doesn’t end until past eleven.”

“Oh, do you have kids too?” I ask.

“No, I have a training regime.” Richard flexes his arm muscle to illustrate. The prospect of talking to Richard about bench presses and dead lifts makes me hanker for the heady excitement of the Parma ham conversation. “And I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but as a man, you need to engage in a lot of back-and-forth before anything materializes into a real-life meetup. Of those, only a few will turn out to be viable candidates.” Viable candidates? Is he conducting a lab experiment?

“Right,” I say, nodding slowly.

“It’s a numbers game. You need to put the time in, and there’s never enough time.”

“Never.” I finish my wine with a wince. It tastes like mulled sawdust.

“Hence, I outsource some of the initial back-and-forth. You probably won’t believe this, but I used to have trouble securing that first meeting in the flesh.”

The way he says “flesh” makes me flinch. “What do you mean? A friend helps you?” I ask nervously.

“Kind of,” Richard mutters, eyes glued to his pint. “There’s this app that can field messages for you.” He pauses, a flash of embarrassment crossing his henchmanly face.

“What, like AI?” I ask, and he nods.

“I’m only telling you this because we’re getting on so well. Obviously, I won’t use the app to text you now that we’ve met in person.”

“Obviously.”

Right. So, the nice, inquisitive guy I’ve been chatting with for the last few days was a computer. Well, it’s a column. Even if it makes me feel so depressed I want to throw my phone in a blender, it’s a column.

—

When I get home thirty minutes later, I find Lottie sitting on my sofa knitting a baby blanket, with Love Island on in the background and Katniss stretched out on the armchair.

“You’re back early. That’s not a good sign,” Lottie says, muting the TV.

“No, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to write an ‘aspirational’ column if it’s all this hellish.” I let out a sigh as I kick my shoes off. “Maybe I should meet your pecan man.”

“You might have missed your window with that one. Last I heard, he met some hazelnut heiress at a nut convention.”

“Wow. I just don’t know how to play this game anymore. In the seventeen years I was with Dan, all the rules have changed.” I crawl onto the sofa and flop my head into my sister’s lap. “I wish you could just meet people the old-fashioned way, in real life.”

“Yes, but that would still involve leaving the house. Eligible men aren’t just going to come and knock on your door.”

“Hi,” Jess says, sleepy-eyed, standing in the doorway dressed in black-and-white-checked pajamas, her fine blond hair ruffled into bedhead tufts.

“You’re still up?” I ask, getting up to give her a hug. At twelve, Jess has reached the age where she’s embarrassed by public displays of affection from me, so I take every opportunity to get my hugs in when we’re at home.

“It’s only nine thirty.” She pauses, then asks, “Was your date that bad?” I turn to frown at Lottie.

“She asked,” Lottie says, then tilts her head toward Jess. “Are you feeling any better about the Penny situ?”

“What’s she done now?” I ask, and Jess groans. Penny is Jess’s frenemy at school, the queen of Year Eight, arbiter of taste, and instigator of many tears.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says, then sighs as though loath to repeat it. “She said I was like the default character in a computer game. And she said it in front of the whole class, so now everyone’s calling me Default.”

“That is so mean,” I say, outraged, though also secretly impressed with the sophistication of children’s insults. When I was at school, you’d just get called “loser” or “specky git.” “Do you want me to call her mum?” I offer, then immediately sense I’ve said the wrong thing.

“No, Mum!” Jess throws her head back. “Do not call her mum.”

“She probably comes from an unhappy home,” says Lottie. “We should be feeling sorry for her.”

“MUM!” comes a wail from upstairs.

“Ethan is still awake too?”

“He was asleep,” Lottie says, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Can we have hot chocolate?” Jess asks, reaching down to stroke Katniss, who is winding a feline figure of eight around her legs. “I’ll make some with the Velvetiser.”

“Sure.”

As I leave the room, I hear Jess telling Lottie that Penny was annoyed with her because Jake Tenby sat next to her in assembly, but she doesn’t even like Jake anyway, so she doesn’t know what Penny’s problem is. Why didn’t she tell me any of this?

Upstairs, I find Ethan’s nightlight on. He’s sitting on the floor beside his bed.

“I had an accident,” he says with a sniff, pulling his head into his knees.

“It’s okay,” I say gently. At seven, Ethan is a little old to be bedwetting, but since Dan moved out, he’s had the occasional setback. “Why don’t you choose some clean pajamas, then come down for a hot chocolate. I’ll change your bedclothes.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” he says quietly.

“Of course not. These things happen, honey,” I say, kissing his head.

“Dad gets mad when it happens at his house,” Ethan mutters.

I bite back the urge to storm out of the house, beat on Dan’s door, and yell at him. It is an urge that overtakes me more frequently than is probably healthy.

“Well, he shouldn’t,” I say, stroking Ethan’s arm. “It’s not something you can control, and it’s easily fixed.”

Downstairs, I find Lottie pulling all my plain white mugs out of the kitchen cupboard, looking for the hand-painted colorful ones at the back. Jess is scrolling through my phone.

“Um, excuse me,” I say, holding out my hand.

“Mum, these guys in your favorites file are all totally beige.”

“That is private, thank you,” I say, swiping the mobile from her.

Jess shrugs. “So you’re dating now?” she asks, trying to sound casual, but I can see she wants to know.

“Are you looking for a boyfriend?” Ethan asks , pulling his Ninjago dressing gown around him, then clambering up onto the barstool next to Jess. Lottie hands him a hot chocolate with far too much cream for this time of night, and I lean over to scoop some off with my finger.

“No. I have everything I need right here,” I tell them, wrapping an arm around them both. “It’s just something I’m doing for work, research.”

“She just wants a new friend,” Lottie says, “to do things with.”

I glare at Lottie, nervous about where she’s going with this.

“How do you want your hot chocolate, Mum?” Jess asks me.

“Oh, just however it comes.”

“Kieran’s mum and dad are getting divorced. You could be friends with his mum?” Ethan offers.

“Or his dad,” Lottie says, hiding a smile behind her mug.

“Kieran’s dad loves BMX, though, and Mum hates bikes,” Ethan tells Lottie.

“I don’t hate bikes,” I say, irritated at this narrative of Dan’s.

When people ask why your marriage failed, they often want a simple explanation. Was there someone else? Did you have financial problems? But the truth is usually a million little things. One of our million little things was Dan’s sudden, all-consuming interest in road bikes.

The year before we separated, he became obsessed. Every evening, he would scroll biking websites, looking at kit he might need, spending money we didn’t have. He became evangelical about a “high-protein diet” and critical of me for choosing cornflakes for breakfast. Every weekend he would be off doing events with his triathlon club, and every evening he would disappear into the garage to train or tinker with parts. I know you shouldn’t argue in front of your children, and we tried not to, but they must have overheard a few clashes about the time and money he was spending on his new hobby. At the ages of five and ten, they concluded that we were separating because Mum hated bikes. I do hate bikes, but I don’t want them thinking that’s the reason our family fell apart.

“Tilly’s dad is divorced, and he hates bikes too!” Ethan says, bouncing up and down on the barstool.

“I am not looking for someone who hates bikes,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You should let these two pick your dates for you,” Lottie suggests. “They probably know you better than the algorithm.”

This makes me laugh out loud. “Right.”

“I can find you someone to date if you need me to,” Jess offers. “Someone way cooler than Sylvie.”

“I don’t need someone ‘cooler than Sylvie,’ it’s not a competition.”

“Her legs are longer than my whole body,” Ethan tells Lottie.

“No, they’re not. That would be impossible,” Jess says, pulling Ethan onto her lap to cuddle him like a little-brother hot-water bottle.

“They are,” he says, “I saw her in her underwear. They were up to my neck.”

And there it is, the cherry on my cake of a day: hearing about the length of Dan’s twenty-five-year-old girlfriend’s legs—from my children.

“Why are you seeing this woman half-naked?” Lottie asks.

“She moved in with Dad. She’s there all the time now,” Jess says with a shrug.

“What?” I say, unable to hide my surprise. Jess shifts uncomfortably, perhaps worried she’s said something wrong.

“He said he was going to tell you,” she says cautiously, and I try to regain my composure.

“Right, sure. No, he did, I forgot,” I bluff, then turn to Ethan and ask, “How do you feel about her living there?”

He shrugs. “She was there most of the time anyway.”

I can’t believe Dan moved someone in without telling me. The thought of him “moving on” so completely, of him cohabiting with someone, makes me feel nauseous. It shouldn’t be worse than him sleeping with half of Bath, but somehow it is.

“On that note, I think it’s bedtime,” Lottie says, reaching out to squeeze my hand beneath the kitchen island. I force a smile as I hug Jess and Ethan good night, then Lottie herds them both upstairs. Alone, I close my eyes and chastise myself for being so sensitive. It’s been eighteen months since he moved out, a year since the divorce was finalized. I should be over it. When Lottie comes back downstairs, she gives me a sympathetic look.

“It’s natural to be upset, you know,” she says, watching me closely.

I shake my head, not sure I can cope with more sympathy. “I’m fine, honestly.”

After saying good-bye to Lottie, I tidy up the kitchen, then head up to bed. Katniss follows me. She’s not supposed to come upstairs, but tonight I let her curl up on the end of my duvet, her low purr a welcome sound in the too-quiet room. Lying in bed, I look across at my cluttered bedside table, all the creams I keep forgetting to use. The table on the other side sits empty, wiped clean, a reminder that no one sleeps there anymore. I’ve always loved this bedroom, with its vaulted ceiling and large dormer window, but Dan’s presence, or rather his absence, still feels so evident. There are clothes drawers he emptied that I have not filled, his coffee stain on the carpet that never completely came out. The bed is king-sized, but I still sleep right over on the left. Does anyone sleep in the middle of a bed this big?

Lying in bed, scrolling Instagram, I click onto Dan’s account. There’s a new photo of him lifting weights at the gym. He would never have posted something like that when we were together. He looks so different now; his whole body has changed shape. He used to be an oblong and now he’s a triangle. Next, I look up @sylvielovenfitness. I’ve looked at her account before, so I know what she looks like—a young, Swedish Gwyneth Paltrow with a white-blond bob. She is more active on social media than Dan and has tagged him in a bunch of photos. There’s one of them out running together, ugh. One of her doing a headstand at the foot of her bed. Double ugh. Then one of her holding a door key, kissing a half-obscured Dan on the cheek. So naff. So cheesy. So unacceptable he didn’t think to tell me this.

This isn’t healthy, I need to unfollow him. Closing the app, I open Ethan’s class WhatsApp group and try to enlarge the photo of Tilly Bradshaw’s dad. He’s not unattractive, though the photo is too grainy to see his features clearly. I’ve never noticed him at drop-off, so he can’t be that hot.

What am I doing?

I’m not going on a date with Tilly Bradshaw’s dad just because he’s single and he hates bikes. Why does he hate bikes, though? Did his ex-wife become obsessed with cycling too? Does he have bike-related childhood trauma like me? Why does this small nugget of information immediately make him more interesting to me? Before putting my phone away, I mindlessly click onto Will Havers’s WhatsApp photo, curious to see what he’s chosen. It’s of a distant figure, presumably him, on a steep ski slope. It’s black and white. Of course it is. What a knob. “Look at me, I’m really good at skiing, as well as everything else.” Then I quickly delete my own WhatsApp picture, the one of me cuddling Katniss, in case anyone should make such mean judgments about my choice of photo.