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That night we got back to his and had sex, but that’s about all I could tell you about it: that we did it. It wasn’t special or memorable in any way, and when he was done he rolled over, checked his phone and then went to sleep. I climbed over him to go to the bathroom, sat down on the loo and thought about things. About how cold he was, about his new fixation with dating apps – did he tilt his phone away from me when he checked it? I was sure he did. And when I started really thinking about it, he’d changed the passcode on his phone a matter of days ago, because ‘someone at work’ had learned it, and was on a one-man quest to ‘frape’ him – get into his Facebook account and post something embarrassing on his behalf. He never did tell me the new code…alarm bells were ringing so loud they were deafening, and it was making me dizzy.
I walked back to the bedroom where David was fast asleep, his phone on the bed next to him. That’s when I realised he’d fallen asleep with it unlocked and then I did something I’ve never done before and I’ve never done since – I looked on his phone. I felt sick with myself for looking but that’s nothing compared with how I felt when I looked through his apps and saw Matcher. Still willing to give David the benefit of the doubt, I considered whether or not this might just be curiosity and, with my heart banging hard against my chest, I ventured inside the app. Once in there, I got lost, drowning in a sea of matches and messages from more girls than I probably have in my phone contacts. I still felt like I was reaching, looking for something to grab onto to save me, but all I was seeing was conversations my boyfriend was having with single girls, telling them how he’d been single for a while, how he’d never met any girl that was worth the effort, how he’d love to go on a date with some red-headed girl, a veterinary nurse, some chick over from Australia on holiday for two weeks, a bird looking for ‘no strings’ fun, a single mum all the way in Doncaster – my boyfriend was putting out all kinds of bait and reeling in any fish he could get his hook into.
I locked his phone, placed it down next to him and climbed back into bed. I woke up and gave him a handful of opportunities to come clean, but he didn’t. It was lie after lie. Even though it was 3am, I packed up my things and I left, because without trust, what’s the point?
David was my first, proper grown-up relationship, and I thought we were going to be together forever. We were together just over a year, but we got so serious so quickly, we’d be talking about moving in together. Getting a place with David in Leeds was all I wanted. When the shit hit the fan, I thought to myself: who says I need a man to move out of my parents’ place and into the city? That’s probably why I was so quick to move in with Nick, despite not knowing him all that well. He was a means to getting what I wanted, even though it turned out that I did need a man to move out: Nick. I probably would’ve been happier living with my lying, cheating bastard of an ex.
One of the things I’ve learned about Matcher is that it makes people greedy. Because you can’t just chat to one person, you wind up chatting to a whole bunch of different people. Say you pick just one to go on a date with and wind up having a blast – you don’t think maybe something could go somewhere with this person, you realise just how easy it is to get more dates. Why date one person when you can feasibly date at least four people a week? It’s horrible really. But that’s the world we’re living in now..
When I first started using Matcher I was very cautious about who I spoke to and I certainly didn’t plan on meeting up with anyone. I knew that Millsy was never off it, and that it allowed him a different girl to sleep with every night, but I didn’t fancy it for myself. ‘Single AF’ as Millsy described me, because the bulk of his vocabulary is internet slang these days, he told me to sign up ‘for the banter’ last year, so I did, and I was surprised when I got talking to one dude who seemed pretty cool called Jack. I chatted with him for two months before I met him – which is ages in online dating world. He had his own place in the centre, he was gorgeous and he seemed really kind and funny – until I met him. Well, when Jack turned up, he looked nothing like his photos at all. He was significantly bigger than he appeared in his pictures, and shorter that I imagined too which didn’t help. He wore these little rimless glasses which – and I feel bad for thinking this at the time – made him look a bit like someone you’d expect to find on the sex offenders register, but I can honestly say that I didn’t care, because he was nice, and sweet and kind and funny – except he wasn’t. He didn’t just look different in person, he acted it too. Our chats were friendly and flirtatious, but we’d never really got onto the subject of getting it on, which is why I was surprised when – fifteen minutes into our date – Jack pinned me up against a wall and kissed me like a porno director had just shouted ‘action’. And right in the city centre, on a Tuesday lunchtime too. I wiggled free of his grasp awkwardly, steering him into the nearest shop in an attempt to halt his horses a little. I thought I was being a bit of a prude – which is unlike me – but Jack only got worse. He was like a horny teenager that had been granted unlimited access to boobs for the first time – except he hadn’t. When he wasn’t grabbing me, he was going behind me to try and unzip my dress. I let this go on for fifty minutes – forty-nine minutes longer than this excuse of a date should’ve lasted. Needless to say, this knocked my Matcher confidence and it took me nine months before I even dared to meet anyone again, but I did, and I have continued to meet fellas since, but no one has ever dazzled me. Everyone has been weird or, worse, boring. It’s full of vapid, topknot wankers who bang on about ‘cheeky Nando’s’ and how much they lift at the gym, and are on a one-man quest to shag as many birds as possible by any means necessary – people like Millsy, but he’s OK, because he might be a topknot wanker, but he’s my topknot wanker.
These days, I don’t really give meeting up with dudes a second thought, and I’d rather do it sooner than later, get it out of the way, see if they’re weird or boring and then move on to the next one if they are. I breeze through it like it’s dull, mindless admin work. This one is no good, on to the next. Unlike Millsy, I’m not sleeping with my dates – I rarely find Matcher dudes tolerable enough to sleep with. Millsy teases me and says I’m weird, but I just can’t fancy someone if I think they’re a bit of a dickhead, no matter how hot they are. This is why Millsy tells me I’m ‘doing Matcher wrong’ because I’m not ‘making the most of the D’.
So, back to Deano. It sounds strange, but I’m instantly more trusting of ‘known’ people because I feel like they have too much to lose to rape and murder birds they meet on Matcher. Another reason Deano seemed safe was because Millsy could vouch for him – well, the opposite of vouch for him, it turns out. When Millsy was a teenager he had a choice, he could pursue rugby or acting and he chose acting, much to his dad’s disappointment – and his own, to be honest, because he’s really struggled to find work, that’s why he’s so psyched about this Macbeth gig. In an attempt to sort of feel like he was acting and still be a part of the team his dad so wanted him to play for, Millsy took on the job of team mascot, which basically means he dresses in a big, stupid lion costume and roars on the side-lines during games. I often remind him that this particular job neither counts as acting nor being a sportsman, and I think he did feel a little daft to start with until he realised he’d get all the chicks that the real players didn’t want, so he’s quite happy with it now. Millsy has lots of silly little jobs, it’s surprising he’s found time to sleep with the entire female population of Leeds.
When I found out Deano played for the Lions the first thing I did was ask my lion what he was like.
‘He’s a monumental bellend,’ Millsy told me.
‘So are you,’ I reminded him playfully.
‘He just fucks his way through Matcher.’
‘Again – are you talking about you or him?’ I laughed.
‘I’m serious, Rubes, most of the team have Matcher and we just use it to plough through girls.’
‘You say “we” like you’re one of the team and not the glorified stuffed animal who twerks to “Sexy and I Know It” at halftime,’ I persisted with my teasing, unwilling to take his advice.
‘Fine, go out with him, but he isn’t your type. You heard it here first: Ruby wouldn’t.’
So here I am, with Deano the hooker, and I have to say he scrubs up well. He’s wearing black trousers with a black shirt that his muscles look fit to burst out of. He’s clean-shaven, something that seems to be a rarity amongst the menfolk of Leeds these days, and his short blond hair is perfectly messy.
A waiter shows us to a quiet corner of Vici, an Italian restaurant. Deano’s choice and one that scores him major brownie points (or tries, if we’re sticking with the rugby theme) because I love Italian food.
It’s such a romantic setting, with its rustic feel, twinkling fairy lights and soft music – the perfect environment for a date.
‘So have you had a good day?’ I ask, making small talk as we wait for our food. I don’t know what it is, but the conversation feels forced and difficult. Deano is quiet, but in a strange way. He’s clearly not shy, he just seems to have nothing to say.
‘Good, cheers,’ he replies in his thick Yorkshire accent. ‘I had physio this morning, chilled this afternoon.’
‘Cool,’ I reply, giving him a few seconds to ask how my day was, but he doesn’t. ‘Well, mine has sucked. I had a hangover this morning, I was late for work and then a customer was absolutely horrible to me.’
‘You should’ve told them to “piss off”,’ he laughs.
‘Well, I would’ve liked to, but you know what they say: the customer is always right. Expect when they’re wrong, like today,’ I laugh.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks.
‘What do I mean?’ I echo.
‘The customer is always right expect when they’re wrong,’ he repeats back to me.
I can’t help but cock my head and furrow my brow in confusion.
‘It’s a joke,’ I tell him. I mean, I know it’s not my best material, but even so.
‘I don’t get it,’ he tells me.
‘Never mind,’ I smile as the waiter sets a steak down in front of Deano and a pizza in front of me.
As the smell of the food fills my nostrils I feel my mood lift, it looks incredible too. I can’t wait to tuck in, except…
‘Come on, what do you mean?’ he persists, clearly annoyed he’s not getting it.
‘It’s just a saying, it doesn’t matter. You know what they say: explaining a joke is a like dissecting a frog; you learn a lot but the frog dies in the process.’
Deano thinks for a second.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks again.
Are you fucking kidding me?
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I laugh, taking the pizza slicer and resisting the urge to use it on myself instead of my food. I’ve just realised something: Deano is dumb. Maybe it’s come from years of getting his head stomped on out on the rugby field, I don’t know, but that’s why he’s so quiet, he has nothing to say, and I instantly don’t like anyone who doesn’t get my jokes because personally I think I’m hilarious.
We eat our food in near perfect silence, with the exception of “That’s Amore” playing in the background, the quiet buzz of everyone else’s conversations, and the sound of Deano chomping on his steak loudly. His steak is so rare I’m surprised I can’t here it mooing – not that it would have a chance to open its mouth at the rate he’s shovelling it down.
As the waiter heads over to clear our plates, he asks us if we’d like to see the dessert menu. To be honest, I’m bored out of my mind and I want this date to be over, but my pizza was so delicious and I know they have amazing desserts here, and something yummy and sweet would mean the night wasn’t a complete washout.
‘Yes please,’ I reply. He promptly brings me a menu, so I start scanning the list.
‘They do bomboloni,’ I say excitedly out loud.
‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks – his catchphrase it seems.
‘They’re Italian doughnuts,’ I reply.
‘If it fits your macros,’ he replies, and it’s my turn to be confused.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, followed by a little chuckle because I just inadvertently did a Deano.
‘Heavy on the carbs, high in fat – is it really worth it?’
‘Dude, they’re doughnuts,’ I remind him. Everyone knows doughnuts are bad for you but we still eat them because they’re doughnuts. And these are Italian, cream-filled doughnuts with chocolate sauce, so they’re super impossible to resist.
‘So, what can I get you?’ our very enthusiastic waiter asks.
‘Nothing for me, cheers,’ Deano replies.
‘Yeah, I think I’ll give it a miss too, thanks,’ I tell him, handing my menu back.
The enthusiastic waiter’s face falls, like a kid who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. I feel similar inside.
‘I’ll get you the bill,’ he tells us.
It’s not that I’m taking this muscly moron’s advice, but I don’t really want to spend any more time with him. He’s not a bad person, but he’s boring and his priorities are all wrong. Doughnuts above everything.
‘I’ll be back,’ he tells me, wandering off in the direction of the toilets.
The only thing stopping me leaving right now is my manners, so I sit and wait until he returns.
Moments later Deano is back as promised and I am happy because it means I can go home.
‘The men’s room was out of order, I had to use the disabled toilet,’ he tells me.
‘Good for you,’ I reply, confused as to why he thought I’d be interested, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have some kind of brain damage courtesy of his job.
‘Anyway, while I was in there, I was just thinking about how much I want to take you in there and fuck you right now.’
I stare at him blankly, blinking my eyes in disbelief once or twice. Not only is that a pretty gross request anyway, but it’s not like we’ve been getting on, we have zero chemistry and he said no to doughnuts – so why would I want to have sex with him?
‘Well, I mean, that’s why they have the handles on the walls, right?’ I joke, no better words coming to mind.
‘So, shall we?’
Oh shit, he’s serious.
‘Erm, no!’ I squeak.
Should I be flattered right now? Also, why does it need to be the disabled loo, why can’t it be the regular loo? What does he need all that extra space for?
‘Well, I had to ask,’ Deano says. ‘Want to go somewhere and grab a drink?’
Yes, but not with you. Soon as I get out of here I’m going to swing by one of my favourite bars (because it’s a pretty safe bet one of my friends will be there) and drink until I forget this date happened.
‘No, I’m pretty tired. But thank you, it’s been, erm…’
Nope, can’t even lie.
‘Yeah, maybe see you again soon?’
Not a chance, mister.
‘Maybe.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_24e79f61-e31e-59d3-9263-832ce81f2789)
I gaze down at my half-eaten birthday cake. It’s a big, pink thing. Like a cupcake for a giant or a drunk 27-year-old woman hoping for diabetes ASAP, covered in a heap of pink frosting, littered with dolly mixtures and jellybeans, reminiscent of something fresh out of a Willy Wonka novel. The box it came in said that it was intended to serve twenty, but by the time Millsy and I cut ourselves a piece the other night, there was much less than eighteen slices of a similar size left. It seemed like a reasonable portion size at the time, but as we munched our way through it whilst watching old episodes of South Park, we started feeling increasingly sick. Millsy, whose motto is “workout more to eat more” was the first to bow out, but I wouldn’t be beaten. It was the middle of the night, but we were still a little tipsy and when Millsy is drunk, he regresses to being a stroppy toddler. He threw the remainder of his cake in the bin, but he was so sickened with it that he couldn’t stand to watch me eat mine either, so he took my cake from me and threw it away too. I’d have been angry, were it not so funny. He denied all knowledge of it the following morning.
It’s 1am, and I’ve just got in from a Matcher date from hell with Deano – but, aren’t they all? It was so bad, I had to go to a bar and chain drink cocktails to try and forget that it happened, but now I’m home, starving and in need of something to soak up all the booze, and I finally feel strong enough to tackle the cake again.
I pop the kettle on and grab myself a big, sharp knife from the drawer. I cut myself a generous wedge and pick at it with my hands, eating it straight from the box. Well, Nick likes me to keep the kitchen tidy, so it’s one less plate to wash. I am raining cake down on the kitchen table as I shovel handfuls into my mouth, but it’s so sweet and glorious my only qualm is that I’m technically not getting as much cake in me as I potentially could. My God, cake is wonderful.
I observe that one side of the cake is not quite even, and shave some off with the knife, like a sculptor perfecting a piece of art – a piece of art I’m eating by the slice whilst simultaneously picking jellybeans from the top with my other hand.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear Nick’s voice behind me. ‘Look at you.’
‘Fuck off,’ I tell him through a mouthful of cake. ‘It's my birthday cake.’
‘It’s not even been your birthday,’ he reminds me, as though I might not be aware of when my birthday is (or isn’t).
‘I’d had a bad day, so Millsy bought me it,’ I tell him. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, granddad?’
Nick rolls his eyes as he heads for the cupboard and removes a glass, before filling it with water from his lame little filter jug that he keeps in the fridge.
‘Just getting a glass of water,’ he tells me.
Watching him drink makes me suddenly thirsty, so I turn on the tap and lean over the sink to drink from the stream of water.
‘You’re like an animal,’ he observes. ‘And I thought better of Joey, eating cake. He’ll struggle to keep his body like it is, if he puts junk in it.’
‘He’s always eaten shit, and he’s always been a babe, so he’s fine,’ I reply snippily, straight to the defence of my friend. ‘Anyway, he’s a sweetheart. I’d had a rough day at work, so he bought me a birthday cake, because birthday cake is my favourite,’ I inform him, shovelling another handful into my mouth, as if my point needed proving.
‘First of all, birthday cake can’t be your favourite, because a birthday cake is any cake that is eaten on a birthday. Second of all, how bad can your workday be in a coffee shop, seriously? You want to try spending a day in my shoes, people’s lives are literally in my hands.’
‘Mate, you’re a gynaecologist, the only things literally in your hands are vaginas.’
‘Only a few more weeks of obstetrics and gynaecology for me,’ he reminds me. He’s doing that rotation thing new doctors do where they sample a bit of each area of medicine. Judging by the few stories he’s told me, this won’t be the area of medicine he chooses to practise, I’ll bet.
‘So why was your day so bad, did you give someone decaf by mistake?’ he teases.
Annoyingly, he’s not far off the mark. We had the grumpiest cow of a woman call in, asking for a skinny mocha with an extra shot. I was working on the till and Millsy was making the drinks. He prepared her coffee while I placed the granola bar she has requested in a takeaway bag – something people hardly ever buy because they look like all the loose bits that have broken off from all the other cakes, swept up and glued together. It didn’t take us long at all, still, she tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the counter impatiently. I handed her order to her and watched as she headed for the door, but as she reached for the handle with one hand, she raised her takeaway cup to her mouth to take a sip before turning on her heels and marching back up to me.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ I asked in the friendly manner they insist we adopt when speaking to customers. Even the ones we want to hit over the head with a milk jug.
‘I asked for a double shot and this is not a double shot,’ she says angrily, slamming the cup down in front of me.
I glanced over at Millsy.
‘It is, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I definitely put two shots in there.’
‘Are you two saying I can’t tell?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you need any training at all to do a job like this? My God, they could train monkeys to do better. At least they’d acknowledge that the customer is always right.’
I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth, because although every fibre of my being was telling me to grab the panini press and throw it at this bitch, I knew that my actions might by frowned upon in the eyes of my employers/the law.
‘Not to worry, we’ll make you another one,’ I told her, but it wasn’t enough.
‘I want to watch him pour each shot in, because clearly he needs someone to count for him. Honestly, if he spent less time at the gym and you spent less time drawing your eyebrows on, you could maybe find jobs you were competent in.’
