weirdos and crazy ex-cons. I just want to meet someone decent for once, is that really too much to ask?’
Kate thinks for a moment. ‘But that’s not the same as perfect,’ she says.
‘It would be perfect for me.’
‘But saying you want to meet the perfect man makes you sound really high-maintenance.’ She pointedly raises an eyebrow, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
I shrug. ‘You asked what I want my headline to be.’
‘Fine! Well, let’s hope there’s a guy out there who’s put, “Would like to meet high-maintenance woman.”’ Kate types it in.
‘Do you know what?’ I declare, gesticulating with my wine glass. ‘Maybe it’s about time I start being a bit more high-maintenance. Raise the bar. No more loserish guys. Let’s go back to the age range.’
‘Why?’ Kate questions.
‘Because, do you know what? Twenty-five is too young. If the guy’s twenty-five then he’s probably got the mentality of a twenty-year-old. If he’s too young then he’s probably not done playing the field, he’s not going to want to settle down and it’ll just be a case of wham bam thank you ma’am.’
Kate smiles as she reaches for her wine glass. ‘Well, an older guy then?’ she suggests.
‘Maybe, but thirty-five is too old,’ I tell her. ‘If he’s thirty-five, he’ll probably be some creepy bachelor that no one’s wanted to take off the shelf or divorced, which is way too much baggage.’
‘Okay… So what age do you want?’ Kate presses, a hint of impatience in her voice.
‘Twenty-eight? Actually no,’ I think aloud. ‘Men mature slower than us, don’t they? So at twenty-eight, he might still not have caught up. Maybe thirty or thirty-one? No, a hot guy would have been snapped up by thirty. Okay, twenty-nine. Yeah, twenty-nine. He’s spent his twenties focusing on his career, he’s got his own home and everything’s sorted and now he’s beginning to realise that something’s missing…’
‘You?’ Kate suggests.
‘Exactly. Me!’
Kate laughs and clicks back to the age range. ‘Okay, so twenty-nine to… twenty-nine.’ She clicks enter. ‘Right, so your personal ad.’
I sigh. I could just use my standard one and paste it in. I’ve tried so many dating sites that in the end, I just created a folder on my desktop with the inconspicuous title of ‘Admin’, which actually contains all my best photos, my personal ad spiel, a list of my interests, likes and dislikes and all that jazz. It takes so long writing a good profile that there’s no point redoing it every time.
‘One second, I’ll get it. It’s on my computer.’ I put my wine glass down and get up to fetch my laptop from my bedroom.
‘Sophia,’ Kate calls me back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘My personal ad… It’s on my laptop.’
‘You’ve already written it?’ She looks confused.
‘It’s in my dating file,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a copy and paste job.’
Kate snorts with laughter. ‘Your dating file! Hah! What next? A spreadsheet for all the men you’ve ever dated?’
‘Shut up!’ I give her a little push.
‘Dating file! Hahahaha!’ Her eyes tear up as she falls about laughing.
‘Not all of us meet our ideal man the minute we move to London,’ I tut. ‘Some of us actually have to work at finding someone! And anyway, if you were dating, I think you’d find that having a dating file is actually quite efficient,’ I add, but Kate just roars with laughter and I can’t help cracking up too.
She wheezes, wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Sorry, Sophia, but that was just…’ She shakes her head, turning her attention back to Dream Dates.
‘Okay, so, personal ad!’ she says.
I stand up to make a second attempt at going to get my laptop but Kate tugs my arm, pulling me back down.
‘Not from the file!’ Her mouth twitches.
I look at her blankly. ‘Why not?’
Kate clears her throat and glances down awkwardly.
‘Well something’s clearly not working if you’re not meeting any decent guys the way you’re going about things at the moment. I’m not saying it’s you. It could be the sites but don’t you think it would be good to just start this profile completely from scratch? You said it yourself – no more loserish guys, seeing as this is the final attempt?’
I shrug. ‘Suppose.’
‘Just freestyle it.’
‘Freestyle it…’ I groan as I take a sip of wine.
‘Yeah!’ Kate replies, the light from the laptop screen illuminating the look of hopeful determination on her face.
I really can’t be bothered to create a whole new profile from scratch on yet another site just to attract yet another bunch of weirdos and fuck-boys, but Kate is so keen to help that I’d feel bad letting her down now. Suddenly an idea hits me. I’ve tried to find love – a genuine, open, honest connection – again and again. All I’ve wanted is to meet someone nice, kind, intelligent and fun, but that’s proven completely and utterly impossible. I’ve put myself out there, with my best photos and a smart, witty (and not to mention properly punctuated) profile, and all I’ve gotten in return is dates with creeps and bores, and unsolicited dick pics. Kate’s right, what I’ve been doing so far clearly hasn’t been working. Maybe being sincere gets you nowhere, maybe now it’s time to play the players at their own game, to fuck with the fuck-boys and dick around with the dick pic dudes. I’m done being nice sweet Sophia; my new profile is going to be a little different. I’m not going to look for love this time, I’m going to look for man candy with the most crass, superficial and crude profile I can imagine. It’s time to meet my ‘perfect’ man.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’ Kate asks.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know… mischievously.’ She narrows her eyes.
‘Oh, no reason.’ I shrug innocently.
‘Hmmm…’ Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘So, what are you looking for?’
‘I’m looking for someone who’s a cut above the rest,’ I tell her. ‘He’s cool, he’s confident. He’s suave and sexy. He’s smart and super successful, he’s got an incredible job.’
Oh! What does Mr Perfect do for work? My gaze wanders over to the well-thumbed copy of The Stage on the kitchen counter. Maybe he could be an actor like Kate? I never get bored of hearing her talk about work. But then again, dating an actor as well as having one for a best friend might be a bit much.
‘Right, okay.’ Kate finishes typing and looks up from the keyboard. ‘Carry on.’
‘I’m thinking…’
Voices from the street outside drift through the open window, distracting me.
‘Pass dat ting, bruv,’ someone says.
I get up to close it and spot a group of teenagers huddled outside the council estate opposite, passing around a joint. A few of them are lounging on an old mattress someone dumped on the pavement a couple of days ago. No doubt too broke to pay Lewisham Council to come and pick it up. I fasten the window shut. I never used to mind living down this shabby old street; if I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve always had the cringe-worthily romantic notion that it doesn’t matter where you live, it doesn’t matter if it’s a little shabby around the edges, as long as you have love.