The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke
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stopped reading. Of course that was what was putting people off. ‘I’ve been single a while,’ I said aloud, striking delete as I did. I sounded like the discarded box of broken biscuits at the bottom of the bargain bin in the supermarket. I was probably the last resort in the entire ocean of single women, the one that gets the leftovers. For a writer, I was pretty useless at stringing together anything remotely interesting about myself.
Procrastinating about the ‘big sell’, I looked at the other sections:
Hair: Blonde
Height: 5’4”
Eyes: Blue
There wasn’t much I could change there, unless I put on my Louboutins and passed myself off as five foot eight, but I didn’t think my height was the issue. The ‘Hobbies’ section caught my eye. It was blank. It probably seemed a bit sad, having no hobbies, but I really didn’t do anything other than work, see my friends, drink a little bit (on most days) – oh, and shop. Socialising and travel, I typed.
Travel was a bit of an exaggeration, but I did do a bit of travelling in my younger years – if you counted four months of getting sloshed doing bar work in Corfu back in its heyday – and I had a generic package holiday each year. In hindsight, perhaps I should have scaled Mount Kilimanjaro or hiked to Machu Picchu to appear more interesting. It would be great to have an actual hobby, like rock climbing or skiing, I thought. Maybe I will take something up.
A knock at the door startled me. I guessed it must be a neighbour since the intercom hadn’t buzzed. I put my laptop down and padded into the hallway to answer it.
‘Hi, Dan,’ I said, swinging the door open. Dan lived next door; he was a nice guy but a bit of a stoner. He always wore the same baggy faded jeans and khaki T-shirt. I didn’t know – or want to know – what he did for a living as he rarely left his flat, but the rent in our building wasn’t exactly cheap.
‘Hey, Mel, just wondered if you had any bread?’ Dan did this a lot. He seemed to think of my kitchen as his own personal buffet. I rolled my eyes, but he didn’t seem to pick up on it. He never did. I pushed the door open wider and beckoned him in.
‘Mel, you’re a star.’ He gave me a wide, genuine smile as he bounced past me towards the sofa. I considered asking him for advice about my bio, but it felt pathetic. Instead I wandered into the kitchen and wrapped a few slices of bread in some cling film.
‘Hey, Mel?’ he shouted from the lounge. I walked back in, wondering what he wanted, and was astonished to find him reading my laptop.
‘Dan! What are you doing?’ I screeched, running over and snatching it away. A burning sensation spread across my face.
‘Soz, Mel. I just saw it, that’s all.’ He ran his fingers through his hair nervously. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you need to bother with all that online dating stuff.’ I supposed that was a sweet thing to say, but it didn’t change the fact he’d crossed a line. I didn’t even know him that well. I’d let him in a few weeks ago when he’d locked himself out of his flat, and he’d asked to ‘borrow’ food items a few times since.
‘Well, I’m not getting any younger. But thank you anyway,’ I said, trying to shepherd him to the door.
‘Just be honest.’ He paused, looking wistful. ‘If you’re honest about yourself, the right person will come.’ He looked at me with his red eyes and nodded before leaving. That’s the one thing about stoners: they are quite insightful. But I guess that comes from sitting in a state of mellowness all day, just thinking. Not that I’d know. My mother would have frogmarched me to prison if she’d ever caught me smoking weed.
I went to the kitchen – I needed some energy. Now I’d given away most of what was left of my bread, there wasn’t much else left to eat. I opened the fridge to find rather disappointing options: margarine, a dribble of milk, a yoghurt with a lid resembling the Millennium Dome or whatever they called it now. Yuck. I chucked it in the bin. There was half a tub of olives that looked okay despite having been open for more than the recommended three days. I took them out and poured myself a glass of wine before heading back to the lounge.
If I’m honest about myself, the right person will come. I took a sip of wine and let my fingers type:
I’m a freelance copywriter and a journalist for a local lifestyle magazine, so I know all the best places to eat, drink and be merry in Manchester. When I’m not working, I love walks in the city or countryside, watching films and socialising. I’m a fan of the after-work drink, and my claim to fame is knowing the entire Epernay cocktail menu off by heart. I love to laugh and don’t take myself too seriously.
That’s all I have for now. I hit Save.
Sadly, by evening time I was still home alone and slightly tipsy. After attempting to spruce up some of my online dating profiles in an effort to sound like someone remotely interesting, I’d given up and settled on what I thought was a lukewarm offering.
I couldn’t seem to determine who my Mr Right should be. If I knew that, I could at least tailor my profile. But it was hard to figure out who the man of my dreams was, when I didn’t even really know who I was. I sometimes felt like I was just pretending to be a grown-up, playing at real life while time kept passing by.
Without any conscious awareness I was soon on Facebook, instantly greeted by pictures and updates, from people I used to work with; went to school, college or university with; or met a few times through friends. My real friends are on there too, but I only have about seven or eight of them – on Facebook they’re lost in the abyss of my five hundred-odd virtual friends.
A notification pops up: Tracy Southern likes your picture. Last time I saw Tracy was at the college leaver’s ball; she was throwing up in the car park as my friends and I were tumbling into a rather hideous pink limousine. Still, for some strange reason it was nice to know she liked my breakfast picture.
Scrolling down the page, I was staggered by how many of these people had kids, husbands, dogs and houses, the full package. People had grown up around me . . . without me. I was an ‘inbetweener’ at a point in my life where people really were becoming adults, leaving me merely on the cusp.
It wasn’t like turning twenty-one and thinking you were an adult but still feeling it was okay to live at home. Having your mum do your cooking, cleaning and laundry whilst still partying three times a week and sleeping in until noon. This was real shit: bills, mortgages, responsibility for other mini-people, marriage and – in some cases – divorce. Those people on Facebook were doing it – they’d cracked it. They were ‘adulting’.
My thoughts were broken when a selfie of Gemma popped up. She was with a pretty blonde girl I didn’t recognise, and she’d used a filter that gave it the high-exposure look you’d expect to see on an old seventies’ photograph taken on Santa Monica beach – in reality it looked like they were in a bar somewhere having a great time, wide smiles, drunk eyes . . .
My stomach sank. Gemma hadn’t mentioned going out with any other friends; she’d never even mentioned being close to another friend, and we’d spent the afternoon together. It seemed so unlike her. I clicked Like on the picture so she’d know I’d seen it but quickly un-liked it. It seemed like a desperate bid for attention, and I scolded myself for being so childish. Gemma would probably have thought nothing of it either way.
To take my mind off Gemma, I flicked through my old pictures, stored in the virtual realms of Facebook, compiled over the nine years or so I’d been a user. Great memories of a fantastic summer returned – looking tanned and lean during the season I’d worked in Kavos with Amanda. Good times, parties, unfiltered fun. It all seemed so long ago.
I stumbled across a picture of me and my grandma. My throat ached as a lump formed. She’d died just two