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As I let go of the sink, the room spun by in a whoosh. It was too much for me. My stomach lurched. I ran into the toilet cubicle just in time to throw up before everything went dark.
Chapter Four (#ulink_553452fb-47e3-5de7-929f-2f728ee79f91)
Horizontal lines of red and white lights from the passing traffic streaked slowly past the window, distorted by blobs of rain. Every drop made a light thud when it hit the glass. The evening sky had deepened to an inky black; passers-by were warmly wrapped, dashing to escape the wet winter weather.
Yawning, I’d decided it was time that I too made a move to brave the elements, but I was having motivational issues since that meant leaving the snug and cosy little Piccadilly coffee shop. Staring at my laptop, I realised I’d done very little work, which was what I’d gone there to do in the first place. I was due to get some freelance work over to a client the following morning, which I’d put off in light of my birthday.
Instead, I’d been distracted by a ‘flash sale’ email and treated myself to a couple of new going out tops, which I’d probably send back. I glanced around, looking at the other patrons; a trendy young couple sat opposite one another, engrossed not in each other but by whatever they were independently glaring at on their phones.
I’d only noticed because I’d been avoiding my own phone, which was excruciatingly difficult but Amanda and Gemma had taken great pleasure in uploading some embarrassing pictures of me onto all kinds of social media after the previous night’s foray into the realms of good wine. It did make me think, though, how lucky the couple sitting nearby were to have each other – yet they didn’t seem to notice or care. I wondered if I’d be like that if I fell in love. I hoped not.
On the next table sat a handsome man, probably a similar age to me, wearing a dark suit and sporting a head of admirably thick chestnut-brown hair. He was staring intensely at a laptop. His eyes followed every line, his brow furrowing every now and then, and I wondered if I’d looked the same moments earlier scouring half-price clothes.
The rest of my coffee shop reconnaissance produced similar results: parents talking on their phones with their children pacified by cartoons administered via tablet; lone patrons on laptops or smartphones; friends texting other people whilst ignoring their actual company. It was actually quite astounding, even though I knew I was just as guilty of the same things – the number of times I’d sat with friends failing to acknowledge a word they’d said because I was checking my retweets or likes.
I wondered what people did before we could take the internet everywhere with us. Maybe I’d been stuck in a rut for so long – observing people through technology, watching happy families develop through the window of social media, focusing so hard on developing my own online profile – that I’d forgotten to focus on my real self. I made a mental note to be more present.
After a windswept journey home, I collapsed on the sofa and switched on the TV with the intention of having some downtime. Keanu Reeves greeted me in a long black trench coat, gun in each hand, dodging bullets in slow motion. The Matrix; gosh, I’d not seen that film in a while. It was cutting-edge back in the day.
I remembered queuing up at the cinema to watch it with Amanda and her boyfriend at the time, a very acne-ridden Dave somebody who smelt musty. I was a gooseberry even back then. I snuggled into the corner of my sofa and switched to plus-one so I could cut in earlier to watch Neo battle suit-wearing agents, in the name of nostalgia.
***
I was actually excited as I waltzed into my editor Dee’s office the following morning and placed my article on her desk. As a columnist for NorthStyle magazine, I was tasked with discussing the everyday issues affecting the modern thirty-something city dweller. Recently, however, I’d been devoid of inspiration.
Then, after my coffee shop observations and movie night, it had hit me. We were actually living in a real-life, Morpheus-free Matrix. Every day we were plugged into a virtual world without the need for reality. We could do everything virtually: shop, study, socialise, see the world, get political, be heard, even hire a virtual personal trainer. We could be anybody with Photoshop or avatars. No more awkward silences in a social situation, no more struggling to butt in to a group conversation, or biting your tongue so as not to upset anyone – just tweet.
Even old-fashioned bullying had gone digital. Okay, so we weren’t wired in and stored in pods like in the movie, but most of us had taken the blue pill to avoid reality. Making conversation, controlling the children, learning, accessing knowledge, news, entertainment, diary-keeping, dieting, dating . . . The list went on, yet it was all a Matrix, a way to avoid real-life challenges.
Unlike in the movie, we were able to opt out yet appeared compelled to stay. We think that as humans we control computers, but were computers starting to control us? People have long sought escapism through daydreaming, books, movies, videos games, alcohol, drugs. Was this just the modern way?
I had spent most of the night thinking through these questions, tossing and turning, my brain unable to switch off. Why do we feel the need to escape – is our world that dark? Are we becoming too distracted by technology to really live? In the end I got up and wrote about it, eventually developing an article for the magazine.
I’d witnessed the transformation in myself; no longer was I the outgoing sociable type I’d been in my twenties, the problem-solver or general knowledge know-it-all. I was a node feeding off the internet, seeing only what I wanted to, accessing information when I required it – live-streaming with little need for memory. A digital utopia distracting me from what perhaps was a miserable, lonely life.
I relied on the internet for everything: entertainment, reservations, booking transport, ordering takeaway. Dating. When I wasn’t doing anything productive I was using it to pass the time, time I could’ve spent doing something useful. I thought.
***
‘The Matrix – Fact or Fiction?’ Her sceptical tone already suggested she thought I’d lost my mind. Feeling slightly deflated, I sank into the cold black leather and chrome chair at the opposite side of her desk and said nothing. ‘Slightly more intriguing than Ten Kitchen Appliances You Thought You Could Live Without,’ she continued dryly.
Inside I cringed. I knew I’d been off my game; I didn’t need Dee Myers to tell me. I looked at her while I gathered my thoughts. She was immaculately dressed, as always, in a royal-blue silk utility shirt offset by a chunky gold necklace, her shoulder-length sandy-brown hair with blonde tips blown perfectly into Hollywood waves.
Dee always wore full make-up, but you could never actually see it – you couldn’t tell she was wearing foundation, yet her face was too flawless to be bare. You couldn’t see clumps of mascara or evidence of lipstick, yet you knew they were there. Her cheeks glowed in the right places but you couldn’t see the telltale microscopic shimmering flecks of blusher. She must have a make-up artist held captive in her walk-in wardrobe.
Snapping back to reality, I attempted a feeble response. ‘Dee, I realise I haven’t written great pieces recently. You know how it can be with writer’s block, but I think I’m back on track. I . . .’
‘Thank you, Melissa. Please close the door behind you.’
***
‘I can’t believe she cut me off!’ I huffed, stirring my coffee vigorously.
‘You know what she’s like – fickle. If you produce something amazing then you’re her favourite; if it’s rubbish then you keep your head low so she forgets to fire you,’ Simon reassured me as he prised the stirrer from my hand. He was my number-one ally at work.
‘I know. I thought I’d cracked it this week. I worked so hard on that piece. Anyway, had you not best be getting back to researching gadgets before she scraps the technology section?’
‘Not after that amazing robot-assassin piece I did!’ he retorted sarcastically. Dee had hated it.
With a wink and a grin he was off. It appeared that we were in some sort of race to inadvertently determine who was the most sackable at the minute. Our two-minute chats in the kitchen always cheered me up on days like today. I 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.
Chapter Five (#ulink_93a0996c-8774-52f9-b97e-818d2132b48e)
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 ready!’ I said, still laughing as I hung up.
***
The restaurant was fairly dark; the main source of light appeared to come from pretty tea light candles dotted around the tables and the odd string of fairy lights draped from the traditional taverna-style walls. I probably needn’t have bothered with the contouring, I thought as I sashayed through the narrow aisles of dark wooden tables. The place was really pretty, romantic even, if you liked that sort of thing. I suddenly got the odd sensation that someone was looking at me.
Casting my eyes left, I saw a good-looking man sitting alone. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he smiled, beckoning me over. Smiling back awkwardly, I headed towards him. The walk was slightly longer than a smile should last, so I had to make the decision to drop it or risk looking like a smiling maniac. I went for the former, unconsciously opting to chew my bottom lip instead.
‘You must be Mel?’ he asked politely, standing up to greet me and stretching his arm out to shake my hand. I found a handshake a little odd, but since my experience of online dating had been minimal, I decided to brush it off.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said uncomfortably, returning his handshake, ‘Which would make you Mark?’ I continued, breaking the awkward silence that followed.
‘The one and only.’ He grinned. I winced at his cheesy intonation. Still, it was minor, and he was probably just nervous. I must give him a chance.
‘Shall we get some dri—’ I cut myself off, realising that he was already in possession of a pint. ‘So do you like Greek food?’ I asked instead.
He shook his head before speaking; he’d just taken a big gulp of beer. ‘Not really tried it. I tell a lie – I have tried it, many years ago. Me and my mates went to Malia for a bit of a holiday, so I reckon I tried it then. All I can remember are these giant—’ he indicated the size with his hands ‘—chicken kebab things with chips in. So I thought it seemed a bit different, a bit fancy, great for a date, and if I didn’t like the look of anything I could always get a chicken and chip kebab. It’s win-win.’ He swigged his pint and smiled. ‘You?’
‘Yes, I love Greek food. I actually make quite a mean moussaka. I think it may have been gyros that you tried?’ I encouraged, trying to keep the conversation flowing.
‘Nah it was definitely a kebab. Most days we ate at McDonald’s, so it sticks out in my mind.’
Okay, so my theory of ‘cultured’ had left the building. Sorry, you lost me at McDonald’s, I think. Luckily Gemma was right though; his body was amazing. As my eyes glazed over it dawned on me that Gemma had looked quite dressed up when we’d spoken earlier; she definitely had make-up on, which was really odd for her as she always took it off as soon as she got home. I wondered if she was going out. But if she was, why hadn’t she mentioned it?
The conversation didn’t get any better. In fact, when it came to ordering, Mark refused to pick anything off the menu and complained when he was unable to order a ‘chip kebab’. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I encouraged him to try some grilled meat and potatoes instead.
Still drink-less, I started to order, but Mark butted in: ‘Classy bird this one. Better get her a wine,’ winking at the waiter as he did. I was too busy dying of embarrassment to specify a wine colour, never mind a grape variety or country of origin, so I remained silent and anticipated whatever ‘wine’ would arrive.
‘So, what do you do for a living?’ he asked, finally arriving at a topic I was comfortable with.
‘I write a column and some other articles for NorthStyle magazine,’ I said proudly. ‘The magazine is aimed at people living in the city and covers a wide range of issues from technology to eating out.’ I wasn’t convinced this bloke could read, never mind had read NorthStyle.
‘Wow, I’ve seen that magazine. I didn’t know I’d be out with a famous writer.’ He grinned.
‘I’d hardly say famous,’ I said modestly.
‘Your name must still be out there, love. They always have a copy at my dentist’s.’ He took a swig from his fresh pint and raised his glass slightly towards me. ‘I run a distribution business – small vans, speedy delivery sort of thing. With more people shopping online and that, we have grown expedentially.’
‘Exponentially,’ I chipped in before I could stop myself, apparently channelling my mother.
‘What?’ he asked, frowning.
‘The word you used. I think you meant “exponentially” not “expedentially”.’ I sighed inwardly at the realisation that we were like chalk and cheese.
‘Wow, who called the vocabulary police?’ he said loudly, holding his hands up as if to surrender. Luckily, at that moment the waiter came over with my wine.
‘Thank you,’ I mouthed to him, more meaningfully than he would ever realise. I practically inhaled the delicious Roditis, which gave me the confidence to stick out the date a little while longer. Whilst we waited for our food, I let Mark talk. He actually did seem to have done well for himself, which I admired, but he had a certain arrogance about him I found off-putting.
His appearance was perfect, but as the night went on I realised it was in a way that didn’t attract me, like he’d tried too hard. I imagined having to fight him for the bathroom and wait hours for him to get ready. I knew I was being a hypocrite after spending hours of getting ready myself, but this coupled with his attitude made him seem somewhat obnoxious.
He had the triangular torso thing going on, pointing down to chunky thighs in skinny jeans. His fitted shirt and a blazer made him look smart, like he’d made an effort, which on anyone else I would find appealing. His hair was shaved closely to well above the ear, and the inch-long blonde hair on top was swept to one side, every strand angled exactly the same way.
As I studied him more closely I realised his eyes were slightly too small for his face. The more he spoke, the more intolerable he became. It was exit time. I excused myself and headed to the ladies’. Once hidden in the male-free sanctuary of the loos, I grabbed my phone and frantically keyed a text to Gemma:
I’m a celebrity!
She’d know what to do.
I headed back to the table. The food had arrived, and I wasn’t surprised to see Mark already tucking in. I even spotted him helping himself to a forkful of my moussaka, cheeky sod.
Before I’d even sat down, he started talking. ‘I was thinking we could have a few drinks in a bar and then we could go back to yours?’ he said confidently through a mouth full of food. I almost gagged. Before I had time to concoct a reply, my phone shrilled impatiently. Thank goodness. Saved by the bell, or in my case, Gemma.
‘Hello?’ I put on my best who-is-this-and-why-are-you-calling voice. ‘Oh hello, Mrs Monagan . . . Oh no! That’s terrible – not again? I’m so sorry. I’ll be over right away and we’ll get it sorted out.’ I hung up to see Mark looking at me expectantly. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go. That was the old lady who lives in the flat beneath me. Apparently there’s been a flood in my apartment. The water has leaked into hers, and she’s beside herself with worry.’ I feigned concern by furrowing my brow as I gathered my bag and phone. ‘I’ve had a nice time though. What do I owe for dinner?’ I asked politely.
‘Erm, okay, I reckon an even twenty would cover it. I could come and help?’ he said hopefully.
