The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke
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could be a feeble wet blanket of a person at times. I’d never mastered the art of confrontation or standing up for myself, preferring to always be the one who shied away.
I walked back to my desk and sat down – hot, dark coffee in hand – and stared out of the window. The blue, cloudless sky was a welcome sight after all the stereotypical Mancunian rain. The morning sunshine bounced off the tall glass buildings opposite. Still too deflated to work, I took out my phone, on a mission to escape.
Checking Instagram was always a firm favourite pick in my procrastination toolkit; looking at gorgeous celebrities and arty travel pictures always helped me drift off to a happier place. Eventually I found myself on Facebook. As I scrolled through my news feed I wondered if I was the only person who actually preferred to read this news as opposed to the real, depressing news.
I stopped at a video that promised to make me smile. Checking the sound was low, I let it play. Four identical baby quads all giggling in sync. Yes, it did indeed make me smile. Much more uplifting than the crisis in the Middle East. See, escapism!
My phone buzzed in my hand just as I was checking to see who had liked a photograph of the chocolate brownie I’d made last night. Forcing myself back into the real world, I checked my email. The buzzing was Dee, and the message politely read: MY OFFICE NOW!
***
‘Sit down, Melissa, please.’
She gestured to the same chair that I had sat in only an hour earlier. Slowly, I slipped back into the cool leather that seemed to have retained the pear shape of my bottom. Dee shifted slightly to the left and rested an elbow on the desk. The other hand lifted her designer glasses to her face and glided them on seamlessly. Dee always wore glasses when she wanted to look serious; it was a bit of an office debate as to whether or not she actually needed them or if they were just for effect.
‘I read your article, and I have to say, it was different. I loved it. I hate the title – change that – but, all in all, it was deep, poignant even. I get it. I could relate to it, and it even made me think that I need to change – live for the now and all of that business.’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘This is perfect. We’ve just had Christmas when people have probably been thinking about their friends and family more – it may just strike a chord with our audience.’ She was still waving her hand, using it to punctuate her sentences; it made me dizzy.
I felt relief wash over me. I’d waited a long time to be genuinely praised for my work, and I knew I deserved it – I’d worked hard.
‘Dee, I’m so glad you liked it. I’ll get working on a new title right away.’
‘Good. Stick with the Matrix theme as I think that will sit well with our audience even though it was a rubbish film.’ She shuffled some papers busily, which I took as an indication of my dismissal.
‘Of course, I’ll get on it right away.’ I actually thought The Matrix was a good film, in its day. I floated happily out of Dee’s office.
The title hit me as I sat back down at my desk. I emailed Dee before I could forget:
Hi Dee,
How about The Matrix Effect for the title?
Mel
Her reply came within seconds:
Better.
I sat back in my chair, and allowed myself a little smugness. Feeling like my day’s work there was done, I went back to checking social media. I unlocked my phone, noticing a message had come in from Tinder. I’d completely forgotten about the silly account that Gemma had set up for me – the sneaky mare must have swiped right on a few guys on my behalf. I decided there was no harm in reading the message so opened it up.
Hi, I’m new to this and feel a bit cheesy, but I saw your picture and wondered if you fancied meeting up?
I looked at his picture. He wasn’t at all bad: conventionally good-looking, muscly and tanned with a broad white smile. He looked taller than me, which was a must. Not that I was supermodel height, but it was surprising how I towered over a fair number of blokes when I had my killer heels on. His email made him sound as if he felt just as awkward about online dating as I did, which was a good thing, so I decided to go for it. What harm could come of one date? I texted Gemma:
I’ve called your bluff . . . got a Tinder date tomorrow night xx
I added the excited-face emoji before hitting Send.
I was having a great week so far. Praise at work and a Tuesday night date. It was nice to feel excited and worry-free for a change. Humming merrily, I took the time to pamper myself in preparation for my date later that night – body scrub, fake tan, scented lotion, the works. The guy looked pretty fit, so I wanted to make an effort.
I did, however, contemplate the granny-pants trick – wearing the biggest, ugliest knickers I own to ensure I didn’t get carried away and end up back at the gentleman’s flat several bases ahead of what’s appropriate. After serious consideration, I reasoned that I could be hit by a bus on my way there and the whole of A&E could catch a glimpse of my giant floral bloomers (okay, navy full-sized briefs) as I was wheeled in by desperate paramedics keen on saving my life. I decided I’d better wear my best French ones, the blue ones, just in case.
Standing my iPad up on the dressing table, I opened YouTube and searched through hair tutorials until I found one that promised to turn my lacklustre locks into big Hollywood-worthy waves.
After a good forty minutes of teasing, spraying, backcombing and curling, I was pretty happy with the result – though it was not an everyday style, so if Mr Muscle liked me, he’d have to accept my regular tedious tresses as par for the course. Enjoying making an effort, I tried yet another contouring tutorial. The woman in the demonstration looked amazing, and I was hoping for a similar level of flawlessness with the limited supplies I had. I didn’t achieve it; in fact, I still saw puffy hamster cheeks, but I did try.
Sticking with my theme of try-hard glamour, I googled ‘smokey eyes’ and found some apparently simple steps. Usually I ended up looking like I’d been punched in both eyes, but thankfully it worked out pretty well, even if I did say so myself.
Finally, I slithered into my dress. Inspired by Gemma, I was braving a black cut-out body-con dress, though who exactly it thought it was conning was anybody’s guess. It was, however, age-appropriate, and the asymmetric cut-outs fell above my bust, leaving my love handles and newly acquired back fat hidden away. Initially I’d planned to cover up a bit more what with it being the middle of the week and all, but I went with dressing to impress in case he was ‘The One’.
As I was making my final adjustments, my tablet piped up – it was Gemma on Skype. I hit the answer button. ‘Hey, you!’ I shouted cheerfully.
‘Hi, Mel. Looking good, lady!’ She smiled and gave me a thumbs up. ‘Are you all ready for your date with Mr Tinder?’
‘I think so. I’m leaving in a minute to meet him. He’s chosen a Greek place, so I’m thinking he may even be a little cultured. What do you think?’
‘I think he’s definitely cultured his body,’ she said, giggling.
‘I didn’t agree to the date for the muscles, Gem! Okay, he is pretty fit, but his eyes looked . . . er . . . meaningful. I don’t think he’ll take himself too seriously. Let’s just hope the conversation flows and he isn’t an idiot, then all will be well,’ I said hopefully.
‘Definitely. Okay, honey, I have to go, but I just wanted to wish you luck. Have a great time, and remember: if there’s no spark, just snog in the dark!’ We both burst out laughing at her poor attempt at a Take Me Out reference.
‘You have no class, woman. Now get lost and let me get