It Started With A Tweet

by Anna Bell

  If I just lean a little more onto my elbow, I might be able to peek behind where he’s perched on my desk, and be able to see my screen.

  ‘So, you’ll send it over to me, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, tearing my gaze away from his back and looking him firmly in the eye. ‘Absolutely.’

  I have no idea what I’m sending over to him, but I’m sure he’ll remind me, he’s not known as Marvellous Marcus in our office for nothing.

  ‘Great. The Henderson report visuals, the FirstGroupFirst webmail campaign and the Honeybee report, all into the presentation file by tomorrow morning, OK?’

  While relieved that at least I know what I’ve agreed to, I’m not particularly impressed by the timescale. My to-do list is already as long as my arm – and at five-foot-ten, I’ve got pretty long arms.

  I stifle a yawn. I’m exhausted, but there’s far too much to do before I leave for the night.

  I look at the clock on my computer; it’s already 6.30 p.m., and I’m supposed to finish at six. So much for me making it out of work on time tonight. Not that I’m particularly surprised. I rarely leave the office before seven on a good night, but right now, at our marketing agency, we’re at our busiest time and I might as well work down a mine for all the daylight I see.

  Any thoughts of me climbing into my snuggly bed and having a nice early night where I gently fall asleep are replaced by an image of me barely managing to take off my clothes before I pass out on top of the covers with exhaustion in the early hours.

  I sigh out loud. It’s not only my sleep that’s been suffering because of my punishing work schedule, but also my wardrobe. I’m weeks behind on my washing. I was supposed to do it on Sunday, but I was so hungover after the hen do that the thought of the chugging noise of the washing machine was too much to bear. I wish I’d just taken the noise on the chin, as right now I’m sitting in the office wearing a silky top that’s from a pyjama set, a misshapen cardigan with one arm longer than the other and a pair of leggings so threadbare that I’m pretty sure that if anyone looked at my crotch they’d be able to see the Snoopy that’s emblazoned on the front of my knickers. I usually try my best to look reasonable when I leave the house, working hard to create an outfit that warrants a mirror selfie, but the only social media this outfit’s destined for is a how-not-to-dress meme.

  If I don’t do any washing tonight, I’m going to be walking in tomorrow in my leopard-print onesie without underwear. Despite our office subscribing to casual Friday, that would push the acceptable boundaries of casual, and, besides, it’s only Wednesday tomorrow.

  I groan and turn back to my to-do list, and am about to start on Marvellous Marcus’s work when I remember the Tinder ping and my fingers lunge for my phone instead.

  Please, oh gods of Tinder, let it be the super-hot guy I swiped right to last week. I unlock my screen and my heart feels a little disappointed that it’s not a message from him. It’s from Dominic, another guy who I’m going on a date with. Clicking on his photo, I read the message:

  Going to be a bit late. Can we make it 7.30?

  I have to read the message again. Ugh, he must have sent it to the wrong person as I’m not meeting him until tomorrow. He’s obviously playing the field and probably has dates every night of the week and has just got confused. I stare at his photo again and wrinkle my nose as I study him. He’s cute, but do I really want to go on a date with a serial Tinder player? Granted, I don’t expect declarations of exclusivity before we’ve even met in real life, but I do at least want to pretend that I’m not one on a conveyor belt of dates.

  I scroll back up through our conversation to remind myself why I’d decided to date him in the first place. Our brief messages are mainly flirty banter – mostly about work and where we live – nothing too deep, but, in scrolling through them, I read the message where we planned our date: Tuesday at seven. Today – in half an hour’s time.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I say out loud, having obviously written it down wrong in my diary. I’m supposed to be meeting him on the South Bank; it’s going to take me at least half an hour to get there.

  ‘What’s up?’ asks my desk neighbour, Sara, glancing up from her screen.

  ‘I’d forgotten I’ve got a date tonight.’ I stare again at my to-do list and check what’s still outstanding. I wasn’t planning to leave my desk for at least another hour, or more likely two. ‘I’m going to have to cancel, I’ve got way too much to do.’

  I hate letting people down, but there’s no way I can go. And it’s not only because of the work. I mean, look at me. As if it wasn’t enough that my outfit’s a complete shambles, I’m also rocking the panda look on my face with my pale skin and black eyes, and the closest my hair got to shampoo this morning was a can of Batiste. I’m so ridiculously tired that I’m pretty much struggling to remember what my own name is when I sign off emails, so how am I going to dazzle a stranger with witty and sophisticated conversation?

  I glance down at the photo of Dominic, his floppy blond hair, and those sparkling green eyes. He does look cute. Imagine the babies we’d have, or, better yet, imagine the Instagram photos we could post: his blond hair polarised in a Valencia filter with his green eyes the colour of emeralds . . .

  Plus, I even got Erica to track him down on LinkedIn to snoop at his CV, and he’s a trader in the City, which means his credentials look good on paper. Not that that’s a deal breaker, but it might mean that he’ll at least pay for dinner.

  ‘Is this the same guy you cancelled on last week?’

  I hang my head in shame and she frowns at me. I don’t dare tell her I cancelled with him two weeks before that too. I was surprised he rebooked after the second cancellation – I doubt I’d be so lucky third time around.

  ‘If anyone can afford to sneak off a little early, it’s you,’ says Sara, rooting around in her in tray for something. ‘You’re the most organised person I know, with all your lists. Come on, one night’s not going to hurt, Daisy.’

  ‘But Marcus has just asked me to do some work for him and I’ve still got prep to do for tomorrow’s meetings. But on the other hand, if I don’t meet Dominic tonight, then I’m probably never going to meet him.’

  ‘And what if he’s the one?’ says Sara, raising her eyebrows.

  Sara’s on an eternal hunt for the one, whereas I’d be content with a one right now. Being stuck in our office almost 24/7 for the last few weeks has meant that it’s been slim pickings for both of us when it comes to finding a deep and meaningful relationship.

  ‘You’re right. I’ve really got to meet someone soon or else Marvellous Marcus and his quick reminders are going to start looking pretty attractive. Do you reckon he would give a recap before we had sex?’ I say in a whisper as I lean over to her desk. I try and do my best Scottish accent: ‘Now, I’m going to fondle you, you go down on me, and I’ll do some finger work before we both orgasm, OK?’

  Sara’s eyes almost pop out of her head, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some sort of at-work boundary of what’s appropriate to talk about, when I realise that she’s looking over my shoulder.

  I turn and see Marvellous Marcus standing there.

  Sara pretends to be typing. I know she’s pretending as she’s doing about 600 wpm and not even The Flash could type that quickly.

  ‘Marcus,’ I say, wondering how I’m going to dig myself out of this hole.

  ‘Um,’ he looks between Sara and me and his cheeks flush red, ‘I’ll just get the pen I left and I’ll leave you two to whatever you were planning.’

  He practically runs off and I try and process what he said.

  ‘Oh God, he didn’t hear the whole thing, did he? Which, I guess, is good in a way,’ I say, ‘as at least he didn’t know it was about him. But that means he thought I was propositioning you.’

  ‘No, do you think?’ says Sara, trying to hide her laughter. ‘Surely, your fake accent must have given him a clue.’

  ‘I don’t know, I think it was pretty terrible.
Do you think I sounded Scottish?’ I say trying to recreate it.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, wincing, ‘it was probably a bit more Irish.’

  ‘Hmm, great, now Marcus thinks we’re having an affair. Just the reputation I need in the office.’

  ‘You could do a lot worse than me.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say to Sara, who looks as if she’d be more at home on a catwalk rather than a desk. ‘If I was into women, you’d be top of my list.’

  She smooths down her hair and smiles at the compliment.

  ‘So this date of yours, you’re going, then?’

  ‘I guess so, as now I need to get a boyfriend to prove to Marcus I’m not a lesbian,’ I say laughing.

  I tap out a quick reply to Dominic to confirm the change of time, as I curse myself for stupidly agreeing to a date this week in the first place. I’m an account manager at a marketing agency, and the majority of my clients are City-based firms who all, very helpfully, seem to send their financial reports to their investors at the same time – which means that for the next month I’m busy chasing up designers, liaising with the Indian office, where we outsource most of the work to, and pinging drafts of glossy brochures or samples of digital campaigns across to our clients for feedback. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. It gives me a huge buzz to co-ordinate everything and deliver a successful project to a happy client. I just wish that they didn’t all want to have their reports ready to go at the same time. And if that isn’t enough at the moment, I’m also managing our company’s Twitter feed while our social media exec is on holiday. Not that tweeting and getting paid for it is much of a chore.

  I groan as I wonder if I’ve got time to squeeze any more work in before I leave. Maybe if I do my make-up on the train, I could do half an hour more. I scan the list and work out what’s an absolute priority. I can always work late tomorrow night instead.

  I’m just about to start finding the pieces Marvellous Marcus wanted when my phone beeps with a WhatsApp message from Erica.

  What time are you going to be home tonight? Thinking of making a chilli if you are up to eating again! x

  Scratch crawling into bed for an early night after doing the laundry, staying at work or going on a date with a super-hot guy. I’d much rather be sitting on the sofa with my bestie dissecting the hen do. Despite living together, we haven’t seen each other since she grunted in her hungover state on Sunday morning that she was off to her boyfriend Chris’s house.

  I’m going on a date with Dominic, the Tinder guy. Maybe I won’t be home at all . . .

  I know that’s a lie, I have the ultimate chastity belt on as the leggings are hiding a hairy forest. I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs.

  Ooh, hope it goes well! In that case I’ll stay at Chris’s tonight. Don’t forget to keep doing updates so we all know you’re safe. I’m out tomorrow night, but catch up on Thursday if you make it back from work early enough? xx

  I quickly reply:

  Of course xx

  It’s funny, as I thought that living with Erica, I’d see her more, but in actual fact in the three months that I’ve been living in her flat I’ve seen her less. We’re like ships that pass in the night. At least when we lived separately we used to make formal arrangements to see each other, now we’re lucky if we bump into each other for long enough to gossip over a bowl of cornflakes.

  Perhaps it’s yet another reason to find my own place again. It’s been on my to-do list for the last six months, ever since my previous landlord gave me notice that he was selling the flat I rented. I was so busy at work that I kept missing appointments to view other places and found myself homeless. Luckily for me, Erica has a spare room, or at least an estate agent conned her into thinking it was one. I’m more convinced it’s a broom cupboard, but for all the time I’ve spent in it, I can cope with being Harry Potter. And, despite having to pay for storage of the majority of my belongings, the rent Erica’s charging me is so low that I’ve actually been able to save. Which means that when I finally do get a chance to look for somewhere else, I might be able to afford something a bit better than my last mildew-infested basement flat.

  But there’s no time to dwell on that now. I put my phone down, turn my attention back to my work, and I soon start to feel the adrenaline pumping round my veins. I desperately try and achieve as much as possible and I’m actually on fire. I’m almost matching Sara’s fake typing speed. If only I could keep this sort of a pace up all day, I would probably be able to leave work on time every day.

  I email Marvellous Marcus his attachments and hastily shut down my computer. All that stands between me and my departure is a quick tweet from our work account to prove to my big bad boss Andrea that I’m still working, which I do on Tweetdeck on my phone. I quickly tap it out before shoving my phone into my bag and voila, Dominic, here I come.

  ‘Are you going home to get changed?’ asks Sara, looking me up and down.

  ‘I haven’t got time, and besides, nothing’s clean. I was going to do my laundry tonight.’

  Her eyes almost pop out in horror. Of course they would. She’s dressed in a charcoal-grey shift dress and blazer, with neatly polished brogues on her feet. She’s one of the few people I know who doesn’t have to dress up specially for an Instagram outfit photo.

  ‘You can’t go like that,’ she says horrified. She roots around in her office drawer and pulls out a scarf.

  ‘Here,’ she says, standing up and wrapping it elegantly round my neck. Without asking, she pulls off my cardigan, does up a couple of buttons, then hangs it round my shoulders like a middle-aged man stepping off a yacht.

  She stands back to admire her handiwork. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s just caught sight of the Snoopy knickers situation, and so she pulls the scarf off and ties it round my waist like a belt, before knotting the arms of my cardigan to make it look scarf-like.

  ‘There,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s not perfect, but I think it’s making the best of a bad outfit.’

  ‘Great, thanks, Sara.’

  ‘Now all you’ll need to do is hair and make-up.’

  ‘Yep, going to do that on the tube.’ I see her wincing but I don’t have time for anything else; it’s already ten past seven and I’m going to have to run to catch the train. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s if you don’t get swept off your feet and never return.’

  I laugh sarcastically and give her a wave as I go.

  I hurry down the metal staircase and pause briefly at the end that faces a mirror. I might not be able to take a full-length selfie with these clothes, but I can take an arty one of my new suede espadrille boots. I position half a foot down the final step, then take a photo of the reflection. I quickly apply a Mayfair filter and add the caption ‘Hot date tonight’ before posting it to my Instagram. Thank heavens for clean shoes, as there’s no filter out there with the ability to turn the rest of my outfit into one worthy of getting those ego-boosting likes.

  I jog out across the reception and make it out onto the street. I can’t help feeling guilty that I’m leaving while it’s still light outside, but I keep my fingers crossed that tonight will go so well with Dominic that we’ll fall madly in love and it’ll totally make my early departure seem worth it.

  Chapter Three

  Time since last Internet usage: 22 minutes

  For once, the tube ride passes quickly, and I don’t notice that for twenty minutes I’m cut off from the outside world. I’ve been far too busy trying to replicate a YouTube tutorial on contouring that I watched ages ago. I’m truly amazed at the results given the limited tools and compact mirror at my disposal.

  I arrive at Waterloo and make my way out of the main entrance. It’s a beautiful spring evening, and it seems that every man and his dog has decided to make the most of it and come out along the river. I jostle my way through the crowds, hurrying along to the South Bank, while trying to make sure that I don’t perspire and ruin my hastily applied face.


  I pull out my phone to check the time and I fist-pump as it’s only 7.35. I don’t even think that counts as being late when you’re at the mercy of public transport.

  I’m scanning an email from Marcus, thanking me for the work, when I spot Dominic already at the BFI Riverfront bar, nursing a drink.

  I stop in my tracks in a slight fluster, causing a man to walk into the back of me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, as he gives me a look of death and walks on, shaking his head.

  But I can’t help but be stunned as I can’t quite believe it – for once someone actually looks like their profile photo. He’s like a Norse god: airy and fluffy blond hair that’s truly magnificent and green eyes the exact colour of Bird’s Eye frozen peas.

  I scour the concrete landscape of the South Bank in search of sanctuary, somewhere where I can at least use a full-size mirror rather than my powder-splattered compact to fix my hair and make-up. I spot the National Theatre opposite and wonder if I can sneak past Dominic.

  I figured that he’d be like the rest of them, guilty of choosing that one photo that makes him look a perfect ten, when on average he’s only a 7.5. You know, like I did. There’s no way that my roughly plaited hair and Sara’s make-do-and-mend outfit are going to cut the mustard.

  I’m stuck, not knowing what to do, so I pull out my phone and tap out a quick tweet. Mainly for Erica and Amelie’s benefit as I know it’ll make them laugh.

  Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless

  No one on Twitter needs to know the reality of the Snoopy pants, forest-like conditions or the threadbare leggings. The chances of me getting some might be pretty slim indeed, but a dull tweet about the real state of affairs isn’t going to push me over the two thousand followers mark, is it?