Not That Easy (9 page)

NSFW

Dating in London is hard. Really, really hard. It doesn't even matter if you're not looking for a long-term relationship—it's hard enough to get some casual fun. I know because that's exactly what I'm trying to do.

Now, before you start imagining me as a sex-starved, middle-aged woman with warts, let me tell you that I am twenty-two years old and wart-less. I am at the age where everyone assumes I should be having wanton flings and going on a different date every Saturday night.

I am not.

But it isn't for want of trying. Now that I've graduated from uni, I don't meet new people constantly. Instead, I spend most days at work, and see my closest friends on weekends. It is rare for me to meet new, single and interested boys.

Which is why I started online dating. I figured it would be the perfect way for me to meet new guys without even having to take off my dressing gown or shave my legs. So far, I have been on two dates.

Date 1: Tall, attractive and nice. We met in central London and went for a Chinese dinner. Unfortunately I had already eaten dinner so he probably thought I was one of those dieters who never lose weight. But things went better from there. We headed to a bar, got drunk together and ended up kissing.

Until he nose-bled on me. Then I hid in the loo till he was gone, and exited via a fire escape.

Date 2: A cute hipster who wanted to meet in a bookshop. This was stressful. I couldn't find him in the philosophy aisles and he couldn't find me by
The
Hunger Games
. I have vowed that from now on I will meet my dates in more concrete places.

I took him to my bar with a fire escape. I should have used it. Instead, I ended up back at his and came face-to-face with his manicured pubes. He had a landing strip and I didn't. I fled.

These are my dating experiences so far. But I will not give up hope, dear readers. I will battle on through the blood and Boyzilians to find my dream date. And, more importantly, I will tell you every detail of my escapades . . .

“
Good,” said Maxine.

“Just . . . good?” I asked her.

“Don't push it, Ellie,” she snapped. “It's good and doesn't need much editing. But I'll send you my edits later. I'll put it online on Friday.”

“Awesome.” I grinned. “I wonder if people will guess who it is.”

“Well, they won't have much guessing to do because it will have your name right at the bottom with a photograph,” she said, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” I cried out. “I thought it was going to be anonymous.”

Maxine snorted. “Please, Ellie. No one wants to hear the confessions of some nameless twenty-two-year-old. They want a name to Google and a picture to judge.”

“But . . . but I spoke about his
pubes
. And I said I'm not sex-starved. But I kind of insinuated that I am. Oh my God, my MOTHER,” I shrieked.

Maxine looked up from her Mac with a sigh. “Can you take this existential breakdown elsewhere, please? I'm doing you a favor publishing this with your name. It'll be good for your career in the long run.”

“Yeah, if I want to be the next Belle de Jour.”

“I think you have a way to go before you get there, Ellie,” she said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

I stared at her aghast before slowly turning around and exiting her glass-walled office. This was not good. I had essentially given Maxine carte blanche to publish my innermost secrets. For free.

I grabbed my coat and wallet. This justified a non-instant coffee. I speed-dialed Lara as I ran down the stairs of the office and straight into Pret.

“Not at work then?” she asked.

“Minor, minor crisis,” I said mid–deep breaths, trying to practice yoga in the middle of the queue. Omm. Omm.

“Bitten? Bled on?”

“More that I just wrote about all of that for a column for Maxine.”

“Oh yeah. How did it go?”

“Well, I thought I was doing it anonymously. And I'm not,” I finished. If I sounded calm, maybe I'd feel it.

“Holy fuck,” screeched Lara. “It's going to be all over the Internet with your name?!”

“And a photograph,” I replied twitchily. Her reaction was not conducive to my attempted yogic state.

“So, everyone, as in literally every single person we know including your mum and my grandma, is going to hear about your dates. And your unsuccessful love life,” she said.

“Yes.”

“So just to reiterate, it's—”

“Yes!” I shrieked. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I'm just a bit stressed about it and I'm trying to stay calm.”

“But, Ellie, couldn't this possibly be very damaging for your career? Like, not just disastrous for your friends and family, but it might stop you ever working in a really serious job. How can you be a war reporter if you've been writing about Boyzilians?” she asked.

“I know,” I said in a tiny voice. “I always secretly thought it would be quite cool if I reported in Syria or something. And maybe saved a child's life while I was there.”

“You need to tell Maxine this isn't an option,” she said.

“Well, I tried, but you know what she's like. She flat-out refused.”

“Ellie, I'm studying law. This is so illegal. Not only is she making you work as much as a full-time paid employee, but now she's exploiting your rights. You could take her to tribunal. You could sue her.”

“Yeah, like I'm going to sue a magazine that earns millions of pounds each year. Actually, do you think I could earn millions by suing?”

“Well, probably not,” she said. “But you should stand up to Maxine anyway.”

“But then she'll just tell me to resign. And then I won't have anything. Besides, maybe, like possibly, this is a really good thing to happen. If my column is really successful, then I could actually be the new Carrie Bradshaw. Except a less irritating, younger, poorer version.”

“I guess,” said Lara doubtfully. “But is this the kind of journalism you want to do?”

“I don't know. I suppose I'm better at it than I would be at court reporting. But if I'd known she was going to name me I would have just taken out the most explicit stuff.”

“I think that's the stuff that's going to make it popular though, Ellie. Otherwise it's just the vague thoughts of a twentysomething-year old.”

“Ugh, why is our society so obsessed with
sex
?”

“Are you actually kidding me?” she said. “Out of everyone I know, you are by far the most obsessed with anything sex-related.”

“But I barely even have sex.”

“And how often do you think about it?”

“Every ten minutes. But that's normal right?”

“For a teenage boy going through puberty,” she declared.

“Oh sod off,” I said. “I'd better go and get myself a coffee before Maxine wonders where I've got to.”

“Good luck.”

I hung up and bought myself a flat white. This was fine. Absolutely fine. I would just become a famous columnist. It couldn't be that hard. I just had to be funny, honest and amazing.

Oh God, I was fucked. My column would crash and burn and I would forever be the cringe girl that tried to write humorously about Boyzilians and failed. I sipped my drink and burned my tongue. Bad omen number one, tick.

I walked into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. I was exhausted. Maxine had made me edit my column about four times and my eyes were searing from reading the words that would soon be published worldwide. All I wanted to do was curl up in front of a shitty TV show and turn off my brain.

“I'm a survivor and I'm not gonna give up . . .” It was the ringtone Emma had chosen for herself on my phone.

“What's up?” I sighed.

“Okay, please don't hate me and I will love you for life if you do this, and you're amazing and—”

“Get to the point, please,” I interrupted. “I have a soap-operathon and a large Snickers with my name on it.”

“Oh no,” she wailed. “The thing is, Ellie, I wouldn't normally ask but you know tonight is mine and Sergio's anniversary?”

“You've been together a year?” I asked, creasing up my forehead. How did that work? I swear they hadn't known each other for a whole year.

“It's our official eight months,” she said. “Anyway, I've come to his house to surprise him with dinner. I've made it all and I've got it with me, but I left the keys in my room. And he's coming soon and I don't have time to come back and get here again, and . . .”

I sighed loudly. My evening plans were slowly ebbing away. “Fine, I'll do it. He lives in Islington, right?”

“Yes, ohmigod I love you so much, you're incredible,” she cried. “The keys are in my room, in the top dresser, in the drawer with the lube.”

“Course they are. Okay, I'll jump on the bus and be with you soon.”

“Would you, um, possibly mind getting the overground instead? I just think it will be quicker.”

“Fine,” I sighed, mentally trying to work out how much more a train journey cost. “See you soon.”

“Thankyousomuch. I owe you majorly.”

•   •   •

I walked across Highbury Fields to Sergio's flat. It didn't take me long to spot Emma outside. She was wearing her trademark leopard-print fur coat and was surrounded by two huge bags. I couldn't help smiling as I approached her. She threw herself fully into everything she did. It was my favorite thing about her.

“Ellie,” she cried. “Thank you so so so much for this, I love you.”

“No worries,” I said, waving the keys in front of her. “So, what's the big plan then?”

“Well, I have a Spanish feast cooked to perfection inside these two bags.” She gestured to the large Ikea bags at her feet. “Gazpacho, then a tortilla and then flan for dessert.”

“Whoah,” I said, genuinely impressed. “When did you find the time to make them all?”

“Oh, over the weekend,” she said, waving her hand. “I froze it all. I know Serge works late on Wednesdays at the moment, so he won't be home until eight p.m. Which is perfect for me, because I can set out the dinner and then when he gets here it will be a total surprise.”

I grinned in spite of myself. Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Very cute,” I said. “Now can you open the door already so I can pee?”

“Oh right, yeah. Grab a bag, will you?” She opened the door and we climbed up the stairs to Sergio's studio flat. “Here it is,” she said, as she fumbled with the key. “Ta-da!”

The studio flat was quite large. It had a big living room/bedroom with a small kitchenette on the side with a little table. The floor was wooden and there was a big white bed in the middle of the room. It was moving.

I turned to look at Emma. Her face was pale as she stared at the moaning mound on the bed moving rhythmically. I tried to take her hand, but she brushed me off.

“Sergio?” she said.

The mound stopped moving. “Fuck,” it said. The white sheet slowly dropped off to reveal Sergio lying on top of a pair of legs. He turned to face Emma, as the woman underneath pulled the sheet over her.

“Emma . . . I'm so . . . What . . . What are you doing here?” he stuttered.

“It's our eight month anniversary,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I'm here to surprise you with a dinner.”

“Eight months?” cried the voice under Sergio. “You told me you were ending it with her. Not celebrating a fucking anniversary.”

“I'm sorry,” he breathed out. His normally olive face looked pale. “Emma, I feel so awful.” He stood up, fumbling for his clothes. He pulled a pair of jeans on. “I didn't want you to find out like this.”

“Find out what?” asked Emma bravely. I gulped. I should not
be here. This was awful. Awful. The worst thing ever and I was here watching it. I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway and looked at Emma with tears in my eyes. She was so brave. She lifted her chin in the air and stared determinedly at her boyfriend. “What exactly
is
this little sordid situation? I'm guessing it's not just a one-time fuck. So how long has it been happening?”

“Um, I think, maybe, a few weeks,” murmured Sergio. “I'm so sorry, Emma.”

“Why? Just . . . why would you do this?”

“I don't know,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I just felt things were getting a bit . . . stale. And then I met Hannah at work. And . . . I fell for her.”

“You love her?” Emma's voice was getting more strangled now.

“I think so,” he said, looking down at the floor.

“Right,” she said. There was a moment's pause when Sergio tried to speak again, but Emma held her hand up to him. “Sergio, just shut the fuck up,” she said. He closed his mouth. Emma turned to face the woman. She was a brunette with huge boobs and lots of makeup. She looked older than us. “So you knew about me?” she asked.

The woman scowled. “He told me he was ending it.”

“But why didn't you wait till he ended it? Why did you help him cheat? Love?” she asked.

“I thought if we started fucking he would see how good it is and end things with you,” the woman said. I winced on behalf of Emma, but she didn't move.

“Sergio. You are a complete cunt, and I will never forgive you for not being honest with me. If you stop loving someone, you tell them. You don't cheat on them. Because . . .” Her voice started breaking. “Now you've hurt me so much more than you could have ever imagined.”

Sergio had the decency to look devastated. “Emma, I did love you,” he said. I saw her go pale at the past tense.

“I will get over you, and I will be okay,” she said. “And one day, I'll be a million times stronger because of this. While all you've done is show me how pathetic you really are. I have . . . I have zero respect for you.”

She turned around and walked past me to go down the stairs. I grabbed the bags and stared at the half-naked pair standing frozen in the room. “I'd just like to reiterate that you're a complete cunt, and I think you're an evil bitch,” I said, before slamming the door shut.

•   •   •

We sat on the grass surrounded by the bags of food. “Lucky you can eat Spanish food cold,” said Emma as she shoved a tortilla into her mouth. She'd stopped crying and now she was determined to eat all of the food she'd made for Sergio. “Pass me the Rioja.” I passed her the bottle of wine and she poured half of it into her mouth. “Much better, thanks,” she said.

“Em, you were incredible in there,” I said softly. “I'm so proud of you for being so calm and not losing your shit. I feel like it was the best you could have done in that . . . that fucking horrible situation.”

“What else could I have done, El?” she replied wearily. “If I broke his shit and attacked him, he'd just think I was a typical crazy woman. If I yelled at the woman, I would have just given him an opportunity to protect her.”

I nodded and squeezed her shoulder. “You're amazing. Just to make that totally clear. He is a pathetic useless wanker and you're the best person I know.”

She started crying again and I hugged her. “Ellie, it just hurts so much,” she sobbed.

“I know, Em, but you're going to be okay. Just like you said, you're going to be stronger for it and your life will be fantastic and his will shrivel up just like his penis did when we walked in.”

She giggled through her tears. “I guess it's one way to lose a hard-on, huh? Having your girlfriend walk in on you fucking someone else.”

“Totally, and, oh my God, that woman he is with. She's so fucking tacky,” I cried. “I swear she was actually wearing blue eyeshadow. Who does that?”

Emma nodded. “I know she was hideous, and old, but that just makes me feel shittier. He must really love her. It's not just a fun sex thing.”

“If he does then he wasn't and isn't and never will be the right guy for you,” I said. “You deserve someone so fantastic they're going to put you first at every opportunity and never even look at someone else. Because they'd be fucking moronic to do that when they have you to go home to at night.”

“Thanks, babe.” She sniffled. “I know it will get easier. It's just . . . it's just so fucking
shit
. I want to get fucked. Totally completely off my face and go out and fuck my problems away.”

“We'll do whatever you need to do,” I promised her.

“Even if we have to do it every night for a month?”

“Um, that might not go down so well at work but who cares, they're not even paying me. Of course I'll come and watch you, um, fuck your problems away.”

“Thanks, babe. I really need to spend time with you and my girl friends. You're the ones who never let me down. I should never have trusted the slimy European bastard.”

“Let's not get racist now,” I said, but one look from her glowering eyes forced me to switch tracks. “You're right. The dirty, sombrero-wearing, tortilla-loving Spaniard.”

“Sombreros are Mexican, Ellie.” She sniffed. “But thanks for the sentiment.”

“Any time.” I grinned as she passed me a slice of tortilla. “Here's to hos over bros.”

We clinked tortilla slices and shoved them straight into our mouths. “Sisters over misters,” she said with her mouth full.

“Gals over . . . balls?”

“Chicks over dicks.”

“Tits over . . . the shits?” I suggested. Emma started crying. “Babe, what's wrong? Did I say something? You're not a tit, you're amazing.”

“No, it's just . . . the
patatas bravas
remind me of him,” she howled. “I miss him so much, Ellie. It hurts so bad.”

I put my arms around her, hugging her tight. I wished I could break Sergio's slimy little body for what he had done to my normally bubbly, huge-hearted friend. The cheating bastard deserved a life of utter misery. I hoped he'd choke on a sodding
patata brava
.