Match Me If You Can. Michele Gorman
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the police.’
‘For what? Wanting to wee on me? It’s not a crime. The crime was that I didn’t just get up and leave. But it seemed rude not to finish my drink. That’s when it got really weird.’
‘That’s when it got weird?’ Catherine said.
‘Did he start punching himself?’ Sarah asked.
Rachel shook her head.
‘No, no punching …?’
Sarah’s mind worked in mysterious ways.
‘It’s just that wanting to be dominated probably comes from low self-esteem, maybe self-harm,’ Sarah continued.
Then again, Rachel thought, she was a clever woman. She just didn’t feel the need to fill the rest of them in on the steps in her thought process. Sometimes talking to her was like being paintballed from all sides.
‘So,’ Rachel continued. ‘I said that weeing on people wasn’t really my thing. And then he asked if I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my saviour. Because otherwise I was going to hell.’
‘Because you didn’t wee on him?’ Sarah asked. ‘That seems harsh.’
‘That’s when I left.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘If I join RecycLove.com can you promise I won’t have to wee on anyone?’
‘I can’t make any promises,’ Catherine said. ‘But it’s got to be better than meeting randoms in bars. You’re really thinking of joining?’
Rachel nodded. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. A decade ago when she was just out of uni she’d never have joined a dating site. It had been too easy to meet guys then, and anyway, online dating reminded her of those WLTM adverts that everyone laughed over in the back of the papers.
But now, unless she developed a fetish or was born-again, she might need RecycLove. ‘I’m afraid it’s time.’
‘That’s great, Rachel,’ Catherine said. ‘Who’ll join with you?’
‘James, of course. He owes me.’
That was the rule with RecycLove. It was like a normal dating website but she could only join by bringing an ex to upcycle. New joiners gave their ex a romantic evaluation, which could be painful, Rachel thought, even if it was for their eyes only. On the other hand, knowing where she might be going wrong would let her make changes if she wanted. Then she’d get access to all those dating prospects … all those improved dating prospects.
She just had to convince James to join with her. And let himself be criticised for his failure at boyfriendship. How hard could that be?
‘But I’ll only join if Sarah does too,’ she said.
Sarah stared at her housemate as if she’d just asked her to donate a kidney.
Sarah’s heart pounded as her running shoes kicked up little dust whorls along the path. The huge plane trees spread their bare branches overhead, shielding her from a bit of the drizzle. Not that bad weather ever stopped her park runs. She’d cemented the habit into her routine when she ran long-distance for her school. Now it kept her jeans from getting too tight when she ate most of her baking. And it let her think.
She never claimed to be the brightest match in the box when it came to reading people but she knew a set-up when she saw one. And last night was one mother of a set-up.
Rachel and Catherine thought she didn’t know how they talked about her, that they worried she was turning into some kind of housebound, daytime-telly-watching, tracksuit-wearing weirdo. Like she didn’t worry herself. She was about one box set away from hermithood.
But there wasn’t really a lot she could do about that at the moment. Besides, her life wasn’t too bad, in the scheme of things. So she wasn’t dating. At least she didn’t have to go through all that effort – the buffing and straightening and shaving and shopping and standing around in uncomfortable shoes, trying to be the most fascinating thing on the planet – only to have a guy want to wee on her.
A few joggers passed her in the opposite direction but none overtook her. Even a decade after she last ran competitively, she was still fast.
She turned through the park gates and started for home. When she got inside she ran straight upstairs to the shower. She didn’t want to be told off again by Catherine.
Maybe she’d be happier in her kitchen anyway, she thought as she towelled herself dry. At least there she didn’t have to worry about whether she could hold the attention of some guy she’d just met, who might not even be worth her time. Amongst her pots and pans there was no pressure, and things generally ran to plan, unless she dropped a knife on her foot or set something on fire.
The others weren’t up yet when she got to the kitchen. Plunging her hands into the tin of flour first, she lifted the sticky bread dough from the bowl where she’d been letting it rise. She could make bread in her sleep. Just thinking about her mum, in the bright yellow kitchen kneading the bread for her and Robin and Sissy, made her salivate.
She began knocking back the dough on the floury tabletop. As usual she couldn’t resist the urge to squeeze it through her fingers. Paul Hollywood wouldn’t approve but she indulged herself anyway. Few things felt better to Sarah than soft, smooth, living dough between her hands.
Rachel staggered into the kitchen with last night’s eye make-up pooling on her cheeks. ‘Coffee. Please, I’m begging you.’
‘There’s a cup left in the pot … no, two cups … or a cup and a half … well it depends on how big your cup is. You look like you’ve been punched in the face.’
‘Call me Dolly,’ Rachel said, wiping her thumbs beneath her eyes. ‘Parton,’ she said in answer to Sarah’s confused look. ‘She sleeps in her make-up in case she has to face the photographers.’
‘If you say so.’ The only photographers in Upper Clapton were the ones the police sent out when there’d been a stabbing on the Murder Mile. ‘You’re more Edward Scissorhands than Dolly.’
‘Thanks very much. That for us?’ Rachel asked, pointing to the dough between Sarah’s hands.
‘Mmm,’ she said, leaving Rachel in the dark as to the answer. ‘I’m going to Sissy’s later.’
Sissy loved her sourdough bread. Sarah always felt bad that she couldn’t just leave it with her, instead of asking the staff to dole it out slice by slice to her toast-addicted sister.
‘Which reminds me,’ Rachel said. ‘Here.’ She pulled some papers from the kitchen drawer.
‘My hands are covered. What is it?’
She was just playing dumb. It said right at the top what it was.
‘Your application for The Great British Bake Off,’ Rachel said, popping her coffee cup in the microwave. ‘It’s about time you applied, Sarah Lee.’
‘No way! I’d fall apart at the first signature bake. I’m happy just baking here, for you lot.’
‘Bullshit, Sarah. You’re not happy. Anyone can see that. This would be so good for you. You need to get your confidence back and this could do it—’
Ding! Her coffee was ready.
Time’s up, thought Sarah. That was the end of the morning’s round of Let’s Fix Sarah. Tune in tomorrow. It would probably be a repeat.
‘Will you at least think about it?’ Rachel asked.
‘Yeah.’