by Holly Bourne
‘Thank you Are You There. Your service has helped me realise that I was, in fact, raped – which still feels weird to be typing. I rang Rape Crisis, as you suggested, and they’ve been brilliant and I have a counselling session set up for next month. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found your charity. I already feel a bit like me again.’
My throat tripwires. The edges of my heart melt a little. ‘OK, OK, OK,’ I say. ‘I get the point, Oprah.’
‘Are you sure? I’ve got loads more. I’m in the middle of compiling the user satisfaction survey to help fundraising with our bid for Comic Relief.’
‘I get the gist, thank you. I really am fine.’
‘She says, with the vein still bulging in her forehead.’
I laugh and scatter some of the ducks that had started edging towards our feet in the hope of cone crumbs. ‘I honestly am fine.’
‘I know you are. But it helps to be reminded of why we put up with the harder bits of this job.’
I reach over for his sheet and reread it under the glaring light of the sun. Getting feedback is quite rare in our job and we’re trained to cope with this. Because we’re an online service, you don’t get to see or hear the impact you’ve had very often. Ninety per cent of the time you send off your advice and never hear anything ever again. It’s a shame because the feedback is what gives me the high. I used to read and reread these comments when they came through, letting them pour balm over my wounds, but now they’re losing their impact a bit. I get that Matt is just trying to help, but when I look down and see what this girl has written, I don’t feel soothed that I’m helping so much, more angry that she had to go through this in the first place.
I hand it back to him. ‘I do hate men,’ I tell him.
‘God, tell me about it.’
‘Obviously you don’t count.’ I have to admit Matt does not fall into that bracket. Some men have levelled up. They’re rarer than vaginal orgasms, and most of them are gay, but some of them are good.
He grins again. ‘Remember what they said in training. If you worked for a charity that deals with victims of dog bites, you’d start to believe that all dogs bite. Whereas, the truth is, at least four dogs have walked past us since we sat at this bench, and not one of them has bitten us.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’
‘Don’t forget, I can always take over your shift.’ He lifts up his arms, stretching to reveal sweat marks under his shirt. ‘Ready to go back?’
It really is filthy hot out here, but I want to stay out a little longer. I shake my head. ‘I’m going to have five more minutes, if that’s OK?’
He shrugs. ‘Hey, I’m not your boss.’ We high-five before he lollops off, and I watch him till the sun eats his silhouette and I can’t see him any more.
‘I already feel a bit more like me again.’
My face cracks a smile. I’m helping. It’s worth it because I’m helping. I sit with my eyes closed, letting myself get to the threshold of a bit too hot for a few minutes. All I can hear are the gentle quacks coming from the pond and the low but steady roar of traffic circling the park. Peace settles into my skin until I’m jolted by the vibration of my phone.
I look down to find a fish wiggling in my net. A match from the new profile I set up last night. The app’s reminding me I only have a day to reply. I swiped yes for twenty men at random, just to set the ball rolling on whatever it is I’m planning. I’m still not entirely sure.
CoffeeIsTheAnswer: Hey – how’s it going? It’s soooooo sunny today!
I don’t even open his profile before I fire a message back from my fake account.
PartnerInCrime: Why are you on a dating app on a Monday? Don’t you have gainful employment?
I’m expecting a bit of a wait for the next message. I stretch my legs out and ready myself to return to the office. I do not expect my phone to go again. ‘No actual way,’ I mutter, retrieving it more out of disbelief than interest.
CoffeeIsTheAnswer: Lol. Don’t worry. I’m a taxpaying normal citizen. Just on lieu time as I had to work yesterday. Enjoying the sunshine! Why are YOU on the app on a Monday?
PartnerInCrime: I’m just on a break from work, been eating a Cornetto in the park.
Straight back. We may as well be playing ping pong.
CoffeeIsTheAnswer: Lol. Seriously? Wish I could get away with that at work. What amazing job do you have? Nice to dating app meet you, btw. My name’s Joshua.
I can’t help but laugh at his formal tone. No one’s ever introduced themselves to me on an app before. Well, unless sending a photo of their flaccid penis counts as a formal introduction, which, let me tell you, I can’t imagine Mr Darcy doing back in the day. I look down at my phone and a strange feeling of calm settles upon me. I watch, almost detached, as my thumb thuds out a reply.
PartnerInCrime: *curtsies* Nice to meet you, Joshua. My name’s Gretel.
• The First Hurdle – Gretel’s Guide to Dating App Etiquette
* * *
It’s probably worth pointing out that women like me, Gretel, don’t need dating apps. I just tend to meet men naturally, you know? I have such a busy and interesting life that things just happen, sparks just ignite; it’s crazy where this path called life can take you. So, I’m only really on here ironically, or because one of my many friends told me to, or because I’m one of those women who sometimes really craves hot sex with a random stranger, but not because I have any underlying self-esteem issues and use casual sex as validation.
But, if you’re not a woman like me, and you do have to use them, you pathetic, desperate mess, then remember this is the fun bit. Dating apps are just a great way to meet as many men as possible, so you feel like there’s an abundance of them, because, remember, the only way to not act like a needy freak is to feel like there’s always an abundance of men. Even though most men you meet on dating apps make you want to puke, scream, run away and hide, and generally lose the will to live … well, at least there’s an abundance of them, babe! Can’t go getting all emotionally attached to the miracle few who aren’t psychopaths.
When it comes to setting up your profile, think in terms of advertising. You want to sell the ‘idea’ of you rather than the reality. The less detail you have on there, the less reason you’re giving that abundance of psychopaths to say no to you. I mean, they need a ‘sense’ of who you are, of course, but leave it at around five per cent and let them fill in the blanks themselves. I mean, if you’re really lucky, you’ll end up with someone who totally loves only about five per cent of you anyway. So showcase a little bit of you and make it interesting – we all like going to the cinema and having meals with friends! – but not so interesting to be off-putting. He can’t adequately project if you give him too much information.
Maybe have a perky question on there or a quirky fact about yourself as a means of prompting conversation. Have you ever got a Blue Peter badge? Have you ever broken a world record? What’s your favourite album right now? Do you worry constantly that you’re going to die alone because online dating is so soul destroying and essentially treats human beings like fucking items you can go shopping for and you worry the only people left on here are the ones who are too fucked up but does that mean you’re also too fucked up and maybe you’re in denial about it? Hang on, not that last one. Don’t ever put that last one in, whatever you do.
* * *
Josh: All right Grets? I’ve decided to call you Grets. Is that OK?
Gretel: Absolutely not.
Josh: Shit sorry.
Josh: I really am sorry.
Gretel: Chill. I’ve just been in back-to-back meetings all day.
Josh: Oh, thought I’d pissed you off ;)
Gretel: Takes more than that.
‘Who you messaging?’ Katy asks, the next Monday, pushing her keyboard away, signalling she wants a chat. ‘Is it Simon?’
I smile kindly and realise the smile is authentic. To be fair to her, she has left it a whole week before asking what happened with hi
m. The suspense must’ve been killing her.
‘Simon is no more.’ I shrug and actually mean the shrug.
‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m fine. This is someone new, Joshua.’ I point to my phone.
Katy’s eyebrows raise. The eyebrow raise says, ‘Another one? Already?’ But her voice just squeaks: ‘Oh, exciting! How did you meet?’
‘We’ve not met yet. We’re just messaging.’ I stand up. ‘Coffee?’
She nods. ‘Yep, great.’
I wave to Matt to get his attention. He’s on shift and has his headphones on to drown out the office chatter. ‘Coffee?’ I mouth. He gives me a double thumbs-up.
Katy and I clatter over to the kettle and lean against the countertop as we wait for it to boil.
‘Well, it’s great that you’re putting yourself out there again,’ she says, in what I’m sure is a means-well way. ‘My sister went on, like, two million dates before she met Darren. She said modern dating is all about throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks.’
‘I thought the saying was throwing shit?’
She laughs. ‘Same thing?’
‘Same thing.’
We go about spooning sugar granules into mugs.
‘So, tell me about Joshua,’ she prompts, pouring water into the cafetière.
‘There’s not much to tell. We’ve just been messaging.’
‘You have a photo?’
I pull his profile onto the screen and show her.
‘Oh, he looks nice! He has a kind face.’ She commandeers my phone, taking it fully off me and flicking through the rest of his snaps. ‘Oh, he’s climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, that’s cool.’ I nod. I guess it is. ‘Oh, he looks quite hot in this one.’ I lean over and nod again, non-committal. I’ve hardly looked at photos of Josh. Past Me would’ve closely studied each one for any insights into his soulmate potential. Psychoanalysing every atom of every photo. Wondering what climbing Mount Kilimanjaro means about his childhood, and wondering if getting that out of his system means he’ll now be ready to be a good father or something. Now, since my epiphany, I can see the photos with detachment. I look at the Mount Kilimanjaro pic and bet he cannot believe his fucking luck that he gets to put that on a dating profile. I imagine how great he feels every time a new match says, ‘Mount Kilimanjaro? Wow, cool’, and he can then talk about how amazing it was, and how important it is to push yourself. If I’m ever to love someone who has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, I will love the person who does it and yet never, ever, tells anyone. Maybe they’ll quietly tell me on their deathbed. ‘Oh, yes, darling, something I forgot to mention. I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro once. Yeah, in the dead of night. Didn’t want anyone to see me. No, never took any photos. It was cool, I guess, but it didn’t change me as a person. I was just bored one day and happened to be in Kilimanjaro so I thought I may as well.’
That man, I would marry that man in an instant.
Though he wouldn’t marry me because I’m not Gretel enough.
Katy pores over the rest of the collection Josh has put together to convince women he’s worth a swipe. There’s the ‘him laughing in a group’ one, and the ‘him at a coffee making course to show he has interests’ one and the ‘him taken from an angle where his cheekbones look better than they are’ one. She hands my phone back and says what she’s said many times before: ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’
‘Hmm.’
‘No, I really have.’
I add milk to Matt’s drink and hide a smile. There’s this kind of determined optimism coupled-up people force upon single people about their chances of love. I used to cling to their words like they were wise oracles, believing them when they said, ‘of course there’s someone out there for you’ and ‘you are so lovable’. But now I’m thinking it’s all bullshit. I mean, there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary that suggests no, I am not lovable. Out of all the men I’ve been with, only one has actually said the words ‘I love you’ out loud, but then he also raped me and emotionally tormented me so I don’t think that really counts. I mean, it’s surely crossed Katy’s mind that maybe there is something significantly wrong with me? That, maybe, actually, there isn’t someone out there who can put up with all my countless personality failures? Whatever it is, Katy seems happy that I’m back sharing with her again and it’s nice not to have the awkwardness of me freezing her out. It’s nice to know I can still relate to her when I’m not just performing the ‘poor vulnerable April’ act.
I hand Matt his coffee and he mouths ‘thank you’, still engrossed in his shift. I clatter down in my chair, and think I should probably look through the inbox, to check he’s going to be OK. Make sure there are no addicts in there. Two weeks ago we had someone write in about their alcoholic father and Matt went to the bathroom for a very long time. I enter all the security codes and pull up the list of questions that came through overnight. There’s someone who wants to know if you can get pregnant from pre-cum. There’s someone who thinks their penis isn’t big enough. There is a boy who is really struggling with a break-up from his university girlfriend. So far, so non-triggering for either of us. Then I click on the next one and know right away, just from reading the first line:
Message received: 11:02
I’m probably making a big deal of nothing, I’m just a bit confused …
My mouthful of bitter coffee intensifies. It takes a moment to swallow. I click off the question and glance over at Matt, who is fixated on his screen, tip-tapping out a reply, nonplussed. I feel a huge swell of gratitude towards him, that he’s the one taking this shift and not me. That he’s the one who has to unpick the inevitable clusterfuck of a young girl’s pain and confusion over his cup of not-very-good coffee. I try to distract myself from what Matt’s dealing with by powering through my emails. I am emailed to be told my budget has formally now been cut by two thousand pounds and yet I’m still expected to do all the things I’m supposed to do with less money. I am emailed about another email to say to ignore what’s been said in the previous email I haven’t got to yet, and told that the real email will be coming in an upcoming email. I’m emailed about a meeting we’re having to discuss how the charity can reduce the amount of email it sends.
When I get a moment, I log in to my personal inbox and sigh when I see the subject title.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hen Do
April!!! How are you?? OMG, it’s so weird that you’re not on Facebook and such any more. Makes me realise how much I rely on it to communicate. HOW ARE THINGS? I realise I have NO IDEA because I also use social media to know everything that’s going on with my friends’ lives. TERRIBLE, isn’t it? We should meet up properly soon and have a really long catch-up. I miss doing that. Sorry I’ve been rubbish. It’s just been such a whirlwind planning the wedding. Especially as Control-Freak-Chrissy has, of course, insisted on doing it all herself. Oh God, I’m talking about myself in the third person … Not good.
ANYWAY, I had the hen do all set up as a group chat online, and then realised you can’t see it. I know you said you’re free that weekend, but I’ve not given you the deets. Here they are: Right, so we’re going to Brighton. Nothing cheesy! I promise! We are too old for penis straws and butlers in the buff now, I reckon. 33 is not 27! We’ve got the top floor of a nice restaurant booked for the whole evening, so we can just stay there and get wankered. MAYBE, if we’re really drunk, we’ll end up in a club. But, to be honest, there’s at least five of us either preggers or breastfeeding, so I reckon we’ll just end up going back to the Airbnb and chatting with cups of tea. Then we’ll go for brunch the next day, maybe pootle around the Lanes. Very chilled! It all comes to £150 which I hope is OK with you? Again, sorry. All of this is in the group and I totally forgot to loop you in. My bank deets are 44-52-87 and 90827536. I’ll email again about trains down. SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU! I can’t believe it’s co
ming up so soon. WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHERE DID THE TIME GO?
So much love and hugs,
Chrissy xxxx
I swear when I see the amount at the bottom, frantically doing some maths in my head to add in the cost of train tickets and meals and ‘of course we can’t let Chrissy pay for anything on her hen do so let’s all pitch in to cover it for her’.
Katy jolts me out of my thought-processing. ‘So?’ she asks, leaning around her computer, big smile on her face. ‘When are you going to meet Mr Mount Kilimanjaro?’
I take another sip of coffee. ‘I’m not sure if I am going to meet him. He’s not asked me out yet.’
‘Feminism remember!’ she shrills. ‘You can totally ask him out, you know?’
‘I know I can,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure I want to.’ Plus, the books say you shouldn’t. Everyone says you shouldn’t. Men need to hunt and gather you. Plus, Gretel isn’t sure yet. She’s too busy getting her nose fucking pierced or something.
‘Oh hon,’ Katy sighs, her face sinking into sympathy I don’t need or want right now. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Simon, but I think it’s important to keep putting yourself out there, you know? You’ve got to keep the faith.’
‘Who needs Jesus when you’ve got a man who climbed Mount Kilimanjaro?’
She laughs. ‘You know what I mean. I really do have a good feeling about this one. Honestly, from the moment I saw his picture, I felt something. I get things like that sometimes.’
I glance back at my emails and a reminder jumps out to remind me I’ve got my clinical supervision this afternoon. ‘Did you have a good feeling when you met Jimmy?’ I ask, only half-interested in the answer.
‘I did actually. I remember it so clearly. After our first date, I came home and wrote in my diary, “I know this sounds dramatic, but I think I’ve just met the man I’m going to marry”.’
I smile and say ‘aww’. And think: literally every woman thinks that after a good first date. If I’d actually married all the men I thought I was going to marry then I’d be like Henry VIII combined with a sex cult-leader and multiplied to the power of Katie Price. ‘That’s cute,’ I say.
