Kate smiles, a little ruefully.
‘So, what’s the new role?’ I ask.
‘The main character! Mollie Ralston. It’ll be an easy gig! Basically, I just have to be freaked out and neurotic the whole play. So much easier than playing Des.’
‘Sounds really cool!’
‘Yeah, it should be!’ Kate says, her eyes bright and hopeful.
‘Fingers crossed!’ I hold up my crossed fingers and Kate crosses hers back.
‘Want a hot chocolate?’ I ask.
‘Nah, I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Oh, another postcard arrived,’ she tells me, gesturing at a postcard of an exotic beach, half covered by some junk mail on the coffee table. I pick the postcard up and turn it over to read the message. It’s from my mum and dad who are on a round-the-world cruise.
Hi Darling,
We just left Phra Nang beach in Thailand. It was paradise! Absolutely beautiful. Although your dad thought it would be funny to eat deep-fried crickets in Bangkok and was running to the loo the whole time! About to get back on the cruise ship now. Next port – Penang – Malaysia!
Love and miss you!
Mum XXX
I turn it over and look at the beach again. It really is beautiful. Shimmering blue water, cloudless sky, white sand. I can just imagine my mum lounging by the sea, with one of her favourite detective novels open on her lap, her ridiculously wide-brimmed sunhat casting shadows over her face, and my dad, no doubt wearing one of the cringe-worthy Hawaiian shirts he always packs for holidays, sprinting off to the loo every five minutes. I feel a pang of longing for them. My parents are so sweet. They met at a school disco when they were seventeen. Love at first sight, apparently. I know my mum would love for me to find someone and have something similar to what she’s got with Dad but I don’t think she realises that, these days, you’re more likely to find lust at first swipe than love at first sight.
I head over to the fridge and stick the postcard to the door with a magnet, next to all the others from my parents’ cruise. They’ve been away for around three months now, and still have a couple of months to go. Unlike most of my friends’ parents, mine are in their late sixties and retired a few years ago. They tried for a child when they were younger but, in the end, they just gave up on the idea. Then, when my mum turned forty, she suddenly got pregnant with me. Completely out of the blue. Her little miracle, she used to say.
I take a quick photo of the postcard stuck to the fridge door and WhatsApp it to my mum, adding a little note with a ton of kisses. I leave Kate in peace to read her script and head to my bedroom where I take off my work clothes, donning a pair of pyjama bottoms and a hoody instead. I put on some mellow music and light a candle. Having created the right ambience, I turn on my laptop and open up my novel. I really need to finish it. So far, my literary ambitions’ peak was at the age of twenty-two when I won a poetry competition and had my rhyming couplets emblazoned on London Underground trains. It was the coolest thing. Naturally, I took a ton of selfies next to my poem on various different lines, I even bragged about it in my Twitter bio, but, eventually, my poem got replaced by ads for holiday destinations or recruitment sites or whatever, and too many years have elapsed for me to cling to that glory any more. Now the only real traces of my poem are a framed photo I took of it, which is proudly displayed above my desk, where my laptop sits, containing my half-written novel – a modern-day retelling of Madame Bovary, which is set in Lewisham instead of nineteenth-century France.
I write a paragraph, but the words aren’t coming out right. My sentences are convoluted and my attention keeps wavering. Sandra wouldn’t trick me, would she? She can be a little odd sometimes but she’s not mean. And yeah, she was a bit disappointed when I wouldn’t join her knitting club but it’s hardly the kind of thing that warrants revenge. She wouldn’t be that petty. But if it wasn’t her, then it must have been a stranger and who would go to the effort of photoshopping a load of pictures just to wind a random person up? People just don’t do that. I minimise my novel and log on to Dream Dates again. A new message pops up on my screen.
Cityboy33:
All right missus,
Lookin for a partner in crime sum1 as dirty n naughty as me. Reckon it cud be u ;) wot u think?
X Baz
I shudder and hit delete. At least ‘Baz’ had the courtesy not to attach a dick pic. I reread my messages from Daniel; they seem so surprisingly well adjusted in comparison. I click through his pictures and find my gaze lingering on one of him sitting at a restaurant, smiling with a sort of wry half-smile. He really is gorgeous – in a completely different league to the guys I’ve been dating. His jaw is lined with stubble and his hair is thick, dark brown and soft-looking, with loose curls swept away from his face, apart from one stray lock falling across his forehead. His eyes are so piercingly blue that they would be quite intimidating if it wasn’t for the dark girlish lashes lining them. He’s got a tiny gold stud midway up his left ear. I don’t think I’ve seen a guy with a piercing there before. It’s so cool. Original and stylish, just like I specified. Oh, screw it. I may as well message him. It’s not like I’ve got much to lose from simply sending a message. Either he’s a catfish and I’ll end up writing him off as yet another internet weirdo, or he’s for real, in which case… I want to meet him – though he’s more than likely to be an arrogant fuck-boy with a face that good.
I start drafting a reply.
Sophialj:
Hi Daniel,
Maybe I could be the Bella Swan to your Edward Cullen?
I type, smiling to myself. I reread it. Actually no, what am I doing?! I think that’s funny but he might not get that I’m being ironically naff. Okay, I’ll just write something normal, something casual. I can always reveal my truly witty self at a later date.
Sophialj:
Hi Daniel,
I’m really glad you got in touch and weren’t put off by my crazy profile! I did in fact set it up as a bit of a laugh – I wasn’t really expecting to actually meet anyone through it! Sorry I couldn’t make it to the pub last night, I only picked up your messages this morning. Perhaps you’re free for a drink tomorrow evening? I’d love to hear more about Esther, volunteering, and what it’s like to look just like Robert Pattinson.
X
Sophia
I reread the message. I’m really glad you got in touch. That sounds too keen. I delete ‘really’ but ‘I’m glad you got in touch’ sounds too formal, like I’m sending a work email or something. I’ll just delete it and start with, ‘I’m glad you weren’t put off by my crazy profile!’ Yes, that sounds better – lighter and happier. The rest of the message is fine. Interested but not desperate, friendly but not full-on. With a small thrill of excitement, I hit the send button. I can hear Kate shuffling about next door and quickly log off the site, opening up my novel again.
‘Sophia…?’ Kate knocks on my door whilst simultaneously turning the knob and pushing it open. I’ve told her a million times that opening the door while knocking defeats the point of knocking in the first place but it’s a habit that she just can’t seem to break.
‘What are you up to?’ she asks.
‘Reading,’ I reply.
She lingers in the doorway. ‘Do you want some pasta?’
‘What with?’
Kate shrugs. ‘I don’t know, pesto or something?’
‘Yeah, go on then.’
‘Cool.’
Kate closes my bedroom door. Culinary prowess has never been our strong point. In all the years that Kate and I have lived together, our meals have rarely digressed from