I already knew that I wouldn’t. I won’t.
‘No one will care whether you do or don’t by the end. They just need to believe that you might. It’s all about the journey. We write for thereader, not for ourselves. Be true to you, obviously, but be true in a way that keeps them hooked.’
‘So . . . lie?’
She hesitated. ‘Stretch the truth. You’re notyouas you write this. You’re... an edited persona. The version of you that the world gets to see should be bubblier, pithier, always on.’
It was harsh advice, but advice that stuck nonetheless. I keep it in mind as I write the first piece.
Around a month ago, I had a breakdown. A very public, online breakdown. You may have seen it grace your phone screen – it’s probably why you’re here.
I can’t even pretend to be ashamed of it. Of course I broke down – the world of online dating sucks. In fact, dating sucks. Romance is long dead, or at least it is with the people I’ve been (un)fortunate enough to encounter.
So I’ve bought a global pass, packed my laptop and a suitcase of clothes, and I’m checking out the dating scene far and wide. Join me for the next six months as I flit around Europe and date around in a quest to find my one true love.
Yep, you heard that right. I’m going around the world in eighty dates and I am, of course, sharing it all with you.
I dive into more background about my dating life, what I’m looking for in a partner and just how I intend to get it on my travels. It’s all rubbish – I have no idea who or what I want. But I’ve read enough sizzly romance columns to know the kind of thing that sells.
By the time I’ve drafted, redrafted and read it through a couple of times, the train lulls to a stop and the tannoy announces that we’ve reached Brussels. I save the piece, slam my laptop shut and wiggle it back into my bag while I wait for the guy next to me to move from his aisle seat.
The gap between the train and the platform is larger than I expected, and wrestling my suitcase off the train takes more from me than I anticipated. I go to take a selfie for the article, take one look at my sweaty, dishevelled face and decide that it can wait.
But everything’s fine. I am fine. I am in a foreign country completely alone for the first time in my life, but it’s okay. I am a grown adult who has been buzzing around London by herself for over four years of her life. If I can navigate the District and Circle lines, I can navigate a different train system.
After a quick pep talk and some googling, I make it onto a train that will spit me out closer to my accommodation. I revel in the cleaner seats and better leg room, and count out the stops, following each one closely on my phone. When I get off the train, I exhale deeply. I can finally breathe and relish the fact that I worked out Brussels’ train system all by myself.
I strut through the crowd with a new sense of confidence knowing that, without the suitcase, they would buy that I’m just one of them – a local, a Belgian, a woman of the town who takes these trains every day without a second thought. I make my way to the gates, smiling at those around me as I, like them, shove my paper ticket in the slot...
Except it doesn’t work. No matter how hard I try.
My heart drops, confidence gone.
It’s not too busy a station – thank God this didn’t happen in Bruxelles-Midi – but you can tell it’s one of those that ebbs and flows with people as a train comes in. And right now, I fear that I am the plug in the ebbing system. A woman tuts aggressively. I make the mistake of looking back at her and am met with a newly formed queue of rolling eyes. I try it one more time... jam that stub right in the slot, but it spits my ticket out just as aggressively as the last three times.
It’s time to admit defeat. I grab my suitcase handle and awkwardly manoeuvre through the grouchy crowd.
‘You all right?’ A voice sounds from the back of the bunch.
I turn my head to find a set of eyes that pierce through me instantly, knocking the words right out of my brain. They’re so magnetic that it takes everything to pull away and survey the rest of this random stranger. He’s tall with clipped curly hair and can’t be much older than me, sporting jeans, a T-shirt, a khaki bomber, and a look of intrigue that makes my stomach twist. He’s so serene, so relaxed... I can only imagine what my flustered, sweaty being looks like in comparison. No wonder he’s staring so hard. And he is staring. Hard. He won’t take his eyes off me.
‘My ticket. It’s not working,’ I manage to say, the words shaky. ‘And I can’t see any staff to ask about it.’
I glance around again and note that the crowd from the train has entirely dissipated. The place is empty enough again to remind me that I’m alone. Stuck on the wrong side of the barriers, on the first day of my trip, in a place I’ve never been before.
This couldn’t be going worse if I tried.
‘I swear I bought the right one!’ I say.
I don’t know if I’m trying to justify it more to him or me. It’s just so unfair – I did my research and I bought the right ticket, but here I am completely solo with no way out to civilisation.
‘I’m sure you did,’ he says calmly.
I note the curl in his lip as he looks me over from top to bottom. It gives me the chance to do the same. His face is sickeningly cute. It makes my heart patter. I look away before it grows.
‘Where are you headed?’ he asks.
This man is a stranger. An incredibly cute stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. I can’t tell him where I’m headed. I can’t tell him where I’ve come from. I can’t tell him anything about me.
