My dating life has always been quite active, especially in my thirties when I had disposable income and great hair, so I’ve never had a problem finding someone. I’ve had a problem finding ‘the one’.
Advice from my circle of friends varied. From shoulder shrugs while mumbling ‘no idea, mate’ to recommending self-help books on how not to die alone, finally some useful guidance was offered by my oldest female friend.
‘It’s like the definition of insanity. You’re doing the same things over and over expecting a different result. Meeting women for the sole purpose of dating is just, well, a bit desperate. Your ideal woman might be living in a different city, with different interests. Forget about dating. Broaden your horizons. Agree to do things you wouldn’t normally do. Accept invites to places you wouldn’t normally go.’
This resonated loudly. She was right. My dating routine hadn’t changed in years. Same places, same approach, same outcome. I’d hoped that if I just kept at it, my ideal woman would eventually turn up. It was obvious I needed to try something new.
I turned my focus away from dating apps and my usual boozy haunts. These had never produced any tangible results. I had to approach this from a different angle. I had to think outside the box.
So I gave myself one year. One year to say yes to everything.
Did I want to learn how to bowl? Nope. But I did it anyway. Two weeks of terrible aim and ridiculous shoes led to the opportunity to meet the attractive cousin of a fellow amateur bowler. (She dumped me three weeks later for being an android user. She just couldn’t get past it.)
Did I want to go on a five-day singles’ wilderness holiday, organised by a colleague? Absolutely not. It was a huge mistake. Camping is awful. I’d rather be single forever than publicly fail at building a fire again.
As the year continued, I soldiered on. There were pottery classes where I made a spoon rest, not knowing that a spoon rest was a real thing that I’ll absolutely never use. Wine tasting where I discovered that all wines just taste like wine, and a trip to Venice where I audibly screamed at a large rat running over my shoe before it disappeared into the canal.
Did I want to spend the night in a haunted jail? Actually, yes, but that feeling soon passed when it turned out that the scariest thing there was the lack of toilet facilities.
My final yes required me to accompany my advice-offering friend to her sister’s student art show. After forty minutes of nodding at exhibitions I didn’t understand, I met a woman who was as clueless about art as I was. If I hadn’t said yes, we’d never have crossed paths. We’ve been dating for four amazing months, and I’ve asked her to go on holiday with me. Anywhere except Venice.
I hope she says yes.
I’m full of both inspiration and admiration for this man. He made shit happen. He’s done more in a year than I have in two decades.
I’m quite excited. I can do this. I can step out of my comfort zone and say yes to new experiences, even if I hate every second. Dating apps, group activities. . . Who knows, maybe along the way, I’ll find someone who makes my heart flutter even more than Charlie Fox ever did. It’s a tall order but I’m hopeful.
I’m still not saying yes to astrology, though.
Chapter 3
There are three main teams at The Nighy Agency: client accounts, strategy and creative. I manage the accounts team, but as our agency is smaller than the larger powerhouses, I get involved in many aspects of the campaign with all departments. We’re situated on the third floor of a large glass building but the office space itself isn’t quite as progressive or modern as others I’ve seen. We have an open-plan floor, two conference rooms, a small kitchen, a couple of huddle areas and, thankfully, an excellent coffee machine. But there’s no pool room, no oddly shaped couches or beanbags to lounge on, no beer on tap and no bring your dog to work day, which quite frankly is a breach of human rights, as Susan in accounts has a Pomeranian.
It’s a good place to work, however. It has a laid-back vibe and everyone works their butts off without too much fuss. No dress code, although I do smarten up for client meetings, especially if they’re old school. Patricia Bloom, who owns three bridal boutiques, wouldn’t part with her money if someone turned up to a meeting in combat trousers and an oversized jumper.
Monday mornings can be a tad hectic, dealing with the emails and potential problems which have emerged over the weekend. We have twenty staff, most of them great to work with (except mediocre copywriter Shelley, who’s engaged to owner Rupert and can’t quite understand why rose petals aren’t thrown at her feet every morning when she graces us with her presence). She’s around twenty years younger than Rupert, who’s my age but he has far less hair and a more substantial backside. Her dad is a disgustingly wealthy entrepreneur (currently a dragon onDragon’s Den) and Rupert is a bumbling idiot, friends with the political and financial elite and without doubt knows where the bodies are buried.
‘Sophie. Just a heads up that Eddie Bailey from Flirt First is on his way in.’
I sigh, turning around to see Rupert standing with a cup of coffee. His face looks unpleasantly pink. ‘Did he say why?’
‘Didn’t ask,’ he replies. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out.’
He walks to his office and closes the door while I inwardly groan at the thought of having to have yet another meeting with Eddie bloody Bailey, given that he’s already signed off on the whole campaign. It would have taken him two seconds to garner some useful information, but Rupert doesn’t care. Despite his puzzling apathy towards his own business I hope that he has plans to eventually expand. My promotion and resulting increase in salary don’t seem quite so impressive six years on when a tub of butter now costs three thousand pounds.
‘Bad luck,’ says the voice from the desk in front of me. ‘Every time he’s in he wants to talk about his keto diet. Being bored to death on a Monday is the worst possible start to the week.’
The look of defeat on my face makes Kieran laugh.
‘I’d pay good money to never have to sit through one of his nutrition monologues again,’ I say, wearily.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ Kieran replies. ‘Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver.’
He’s absolutely my favourite person at the agency. A six-foot-three, twenty-five-year-old, bearded social media manager, who, like most, works from home two days a week. I love homeworking. I can do it all in my pyjamas and I’m there to collect all the Amazon packages I’ve bought on impulse after three glasses of wine. The other three days are spent at our desks, Kieran’s situated directly in front of mine. We’re like Jim and Pam fromThe Office, if Jim saw Pam as less of a love interest and more of a mother figure who brings in doughnuts on a Monday. Rupert is the only one who has his own office, which he uses to spray liberal amounts of Creed aftershave and shout about the Wi-Fi speed. I pick up the phone and dial reception.
‘Eesha, do we have anyone in meeting room two this morning?’
I wait while she brings up the diary. ‘Susan has it booked from twelve until two so you’ll need to dispose of Eddie’s body before then.’
