I start to laugh. ‘I know they’re not perfect, I’m not that naive. It’s just a reminder that I don’t have anyone.’
‘Well, you still have me, and luckily for you, I happen to believe the earth is round.’
‘And the haemorrhoids?’
She sighs. ‘Size of Jupiter, mate. I’ve given birth to twins. By the way, what was the good news you mentioned?’
‘Oh shit, I nearly forgot! I nailed that work campaign!’
‘The terrible flirty app one?’ she asks. ‘That’s my girl, I’m proud of you! Only someone truly gifted could have tackled that.’
‘I know, right! I nailed it.’
‘Absolutely. You’re amazing and. . . hang on. . . Michael! Grant! I swear to God, if you’re sliding down the stairs in that washing basket again. . . ! I need to run. Soph, they’re driving me nuts. I’ll message you tomorrow, but well done!’
The call disconnects while I bask in her compliments. I already feel less hopeless because, as usual, Naomi is probably right. Both about me being amazing and that I need to get out there again. The only problem is, I have absolutely no idea where to begin.
Chapter 2
My plans to sleep until midday and have coffee and pastries in bed are scuppered at 7 a.m. by the sound of the dog barking in the flat above. As much as I love this flat, the walls are clearly made from tracing paper. You could hear a fly fart from the top floor.
The cause of the dog’s barking this morning, according to owner Gillian’s equally loud accompanied yelling from 2b, is ‘absolutely bleedin’ nothing’. I’ve met Rocco, the chocolate-coloured Chihuahua, on several occasions and can confirm that, although an undoubtedly sweet and good boy, he barks at everything, including people, cars, his own reflection and fresh air. Sometimes I think that people who have yappy dogs in flats are selfish arseholes but then I remember that some people need a little bit of joy in their lives, and I should just invest in some earplugs. Mostly the former, though. I’m not a saint.
I sit up and yawn, reluctant to move anywhere at such an ungodly hour. I showered last night and as I haven’t been working down the mines, I skip it this morning. Keeping my pyjamas on all day is a far better use of my time. I pull open the curtains and I’m greeted by the most miserable-looking July morning ever. I watch the rain batter my windows then close the curtains again. It’s too early for weather.
Unsurprisingly, I’m still ruminating over Charlie Fox and my conversation with Naomi last night. It wasn’t so much that an old crush was getting married, it was the realisation that I’m still just as single as I was twenty-five years ago.
Since Jason, I’ve never become involved with someone with a future in mind. I’ve had dinner in mind and sex in mind, but I’ve never imagined meeting the parents, choosing a ring, moving in together or even giving up a side of the bed. I seem to have unconsciously built a little fortress around me, defending me from any future emotional attacks. No one comes in and I rarely go out.
But I’ve also built a life for myself. A career. A home. The thought of inviting someone to share that life isn’t something I’ve ever given much thought to. However, I don’t feel miserable that I’ve missed out on a great relationship because I was too focused on my career. I love my career. I’m great at my job. I’m just starting to feel a little sad that I’ve never opened myself up to the possibility there was room for both.
By the time I’m on my second cup of coffee and the pastries have been reduced to atoms, I’m powering up my laptop. If Google can tell me how to perform a lobotomy, it can surely tell me how to find the love of my life.
There are 7,920,000,000 results. Of course, the ‘experts’ are top of the page but as I scroll down, I’m convinced that they are only experts at search engine optimisation.
Be happy! Happy people are more likely to find love.Yeah, then explain why my late Aunt Brenda, the most miserable human being to ever walk the earth, was married twice and had at least four affairs that we know of, including the minister who officiated her second wedding.
Don’t seek romance, seek partnership.Am I looking for love or starting a law firm?
Look to the stars! Zodiac compatibility. My moon is currently rising in absolutely fucking not.
Take time to be by yourself. How much time? Is forty-five years long enough?
Try online dating!I thought you wanted me to be happy.
Then come the articles about being more ladylike, learning how to cook for your man, wearing less make-up, and continuing with the myth that women cannot drive or pull mythical swords from stones. . . I might have made that last one up but I’m sure it’s out there, somewhere.
Just as I’m about to click off and go back to the lobotomy tutorial, I see an article in theLondon City Newsthat catches my eye.365 days of Yes by Alex Steward: How to find love in unexpected places.
Unexpected places? Prison, I think to myself. I bet he’s going to say prison.
Eye-rolling at the ready, I click on the link and begin to read.
Being a single man in your forties never used to be a problem. At one time we were proud bachelors. Sophisticated. Out there being manly, mixing martinis and sewing our wild oats. Casually dating but never committing.
Nowadays, it’s a red flag. Never married? No children? Avoid like the plague. Cries of ‘There’s obviously something horribly wrong with him!’ echoing throughout the land, while my mother sits quietly, wondering if there is any hope left for me at all. Sometimes I wonder that myself.
My bachelor status wasn’t a deliberate choice. At forty-three, my oats are no longer wild, I don’t like martinis, and above all, I don’t want to be single any more.
