1
Dating in your thirties canfeel like a relentless game of romantic musical chairs. It starts out quite fun, but then the music gets too loud, and all the good, well-adjusted, stable chairs start disappearing. You’re left with a room full of wobbly three-legged stools that are probably going to give you splinters. You begin to panic; it feels like a race you can’t all win—what if you’re the last one standing with nowhere to sit? Maybe you should just grab the first chair you can, even if it looks uncomfortable, smells, and gives you little to no support. Because you’re tired and it might be better than the floor.
Chloe Fairway was only too familiar with the chair dilemma. Which is why she found herself heading into Soho on a Wednesday night to meet “Tom, 36,” even though she’d much rather have been at home eating buttered toast and watchingTheTraitorsin her pajamas. Because she knew that if you wanted to find love, you had to keep dancing, keep swiping, keep “putting yourself out there.” Because the next guy might just be theperfectchair for you, the one you could cozy up in for the rest of your life, the one that made all those uncomfortable chairs worthwhile.
From his profile picture, and the few texts they’d exchanged, Tom seemed…hopeful. Though the first rule of online dating was not to get your hopes up. You had to go in with low expectations. Chloe got to the pub early and chose a table near the window, away from the noise of the TV blaring behind the bar. Tom had picked the venue. She wouldn’t have chosen a place like this, with the football playing, sticky carpets, and a happy hour where everyone looked miserable.
She checked her reflection using her phone camera, then frowned. She’d rushed from work, still dressed in her standard uniform: skinny black jeans, gray blouse, hair scraped into a bun. At home, her wardrobe was full of vintage blouses, wide-legged trousers, cute capes, and colorful cloche hats. But those belonged to a version of herself she rarely got to be. At the end of her first week at McKenzie and Sons, her boss had informed her she would need to dress more professionally. Her hair needed to be up—loose, it was “a distraction”—and her colorful clothes were “too theatrical.” So she’d dulled her weekday palette to a safe blur, tamed her curls into a respectable bun, and played the role of “sensible PA.”
Now she did what she could. She unpinned her hair, shook out her long auburn curls, then applied a swipe of red lipstick. What was it Coco Chanel said—“If you’re sad, add more lipstick and attack”? Chloe didn’t knowwhatshe was supposed to beattacking, and suspected Coco Chanel had never had to contend with internet dating, but the sentiment felt empowering.
Tom arrived, fourteen minutes late, clutching a bicycle helmet as he scanned the bar. His blond hair, damp with sweat, was slicked across a lightly freckled forehead. When he spotted her, he waved, then smiled, revealing two prominent canine teeth. Those fangs had not been visible on his profile picture. No. Do not judge someone on their teeth. It’s personality that counts.
“Hi, Chloe?” Tom said, hurrying over to her. “Am I late?”
“No, no, I only just got here myself,” she lied. Because that was the second rule of online dating: don’t sweat the small stuff.
As she stood up to greet him, she braced for his reaction. Her height was clearly listed on her profile, but men often failed to register it. She’d been greeted on first dates with “Whoa, it’s the BFG!” and “You didn’t say you were plus-sized.” Chloe was a slim five feet ten, but she had broad shoulders and big hair, so the whole effect was that of someone who took up space in the world. Luckily, on this occasion, Tom didn’t react, he just gave her a sweaty hug and then sat down. She noticed he smelled faintly of cigarettes, despite listing himself as a nonsmoker.
“So, Tom—” she began, but he was already rising from his chair.
“Sorry, do you mind if we swap seats? Just so I can keep half an eye on the score?” he asked, nodding toward the television. Chloe did mind. If he’d wanted to watch the game, he shouldn’t have arranged to meet her. But she said “sure” and relinquished her chair. There was no point starting things off on the wrong note.
“So, have you come far?” she asked him, trying not to mind about the seat swapping and the smoky smell.
“Yeah, Hackney,” he said, snapping his fingers at the bartenders.
“I think we need to go up, order at the bar,” she said.
“Ah, okay,” he said, making no move to get up.
“I’ll go, shall I? What would you like?” she offered.
“Pint, lager, thanks. I’ll get the next ones,” he said, flashing her a toothy grin. Chloe walked to the bar with a heaviness in her step. This was the worst part, when you knew straightaway that it was a no, but you still had to spend a polite amount of time in the person’s company. She pictured her cozy seat on the sofa next to her dad, the chocolate Easter egg she hadn’t eaten yet,TheTraitorstheme tune starting…No, don’t torture yourself, it will only make it worse.
It seemed to Chloe that in the two years she had been off the market, the dating arena had morphed into a hellscape. Either that, or post thirty, the pool had shrunk to a puddle. In the last three months alone, she had been stood up, ghosted, and sent all manner of explicit, unsolicited photos. She’d met men so lacking in basic decency, she genuinely wondered how they convinced anyone to sleep with them. Belchers, groin scratchers, men who swore constantly, men who asked no questions and had little idea of what was going on in the world. These experiences made her fear she would always be alone, but they also made her fear for humanity. Where had all the good men gone?
“Love your hair,” the bartender said as she poured Chloe a glass of wine. She had a sharp black pixie cut, a nose ring, and smudged mascara beneath her eyes.
“Thanks,” Chloe said, noticing a rose tattoo curled around the woman’s wrist. “I love your tattoo.” They shared a brief smile, and Chloe watched the barmaid reach a finger to her ear, as if trying to block out the noise from the TV overhead.
“Hey, lady, can you turn this up?” said a man in a baseball cap, perched at the bar.
The bartender gave him a tight smile and clicked the volume up a single notch before turning back to Chloe.
“Just give it here,” the man said, motioning for the remote. But Chloe reached across the bar and plucked it up first.
“I got it,” she said sweetly, turning the volume down three notches.
“Hey, lady!” the man cried.
Chloe shot him her most charming smile. “I can’t hear myself order. Give me two minutes?” He looked ready to argue but then turned back to the TV with a scowl.
“Thanks,” the barmaid whispered, as she poured Chloe a pint. “I always get a headache when the football’s on.”
Without a word, Chloe slipped the remote into her lap, popped out one of the batteries, and wrapped it inside a folded five-pound note. She passed it to the barmaid, who let out a soft laugh and gave her an appreciative smile. Then Chloe cheerily passed the remote back to the man in the cap. “Enjoy the game.”
Back at the table, Tom reached for his pint, then finally turned his attention to her.
