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‘It’s Peckham Rye actually and it’s really up and coming—but Logan—Logan!’
‘Going into a tunnel. Bloody sort this for me, Helen. I’m counting on ya.’ His voice faded.
Helen caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot, blonde curls sticking up, boobs falling out of her Frozen-motif pyjamas. Then she heard the cheerful trill of the doorbell. It really was going to be one of those days.
She shuffled to the door of her basement flat, tying up her silk dressing gown—a present from Marnie when she’d worked in a vintage shop, and which for years Helen had felt too big to wear, preferring to hide inside massive towelling robes. A big man stood on her doorstep. Not fat, but very tall, very wide. Strapping. If you could call someone strapping when they wore a T-shirt that said ‘No I cannot fix your computer’ and combats with more pockets than a snooker table. He had flaming red hair and a red beard, like a Viking, and he glanced pointedly at a Casio watch.
‘Yes?’ she said, irritably, through the security chain.
‘You’ve got a bug,’ he said. Northern accent.
‘Um, no, I just—I worked late…’
‘In your website, I mean. I’m here to have a look.’
‘How do I know that’s who you are?’
‘Did your boss not say I’d be around?’ He scrabbled in one pocket, then another. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. ‘OK, here.’
She glanced at what he’d handed her. ‘That’s a Blockbuster video card. Which expired in 2004.’
‘It’s not my fault the high street could no longer keep up with the increasing ease of pay-to-view websites. Speaking of websites, yours is borked.’
‘Borked?’
‘Yeah, it’s like—a technical computer term for up the swanny. Now let me in or it’ll only get worse.’
‘OK,’ she relented. ‘I’m not—this has taken me by surprise.’ He looked puzzled. ‘I’m not dressed,’ she explained.
He looked her over. ‘You are dressed, i.e., you’re not naked.’ Helen stared at him. He stared back. ‘Computer… fixey? I’m sorry, you are employed by that dodgy South London geezer, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Helen snapped into action and held the door open. ‘I’m sorry. What do you need me to do?’
‘Show me the admin details. Who does the coding?’
‘The original design was before my time, but I do the basic maintenance and admin.’
‘You know code?’
‘Yes,’ she said defensively. ‘What, because I’m a woman?’
‘No, because you wear pyjamas with cartoons on. Actually that’s quite a coder-y thing to do, I should have realised.’ He sat down in one of her lovely vintage armchairs, making the old springs groan, and whipped out a laptop. It was square, functional and very un-sleek. Like him. ‘I’ll need your computer too.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because, if you have malware or something, it’ll be on there. Malware is, how can I put this—totes bad software that will totes corrupt everything.’
‘I know what malware is!’ People really didn’t take you seriously when you wore Disney clothes as an adult, Helen reflected. She set him up with the details, then hovered anxiously in the kitchen as he worked.
‘Jesus Christ on a bike,’ he said at one point.
‘Not good?’
‘Let’s just say your defences are more lax than Dad’s Army. A child could get into this.’
‘Why would a child want to get into a dating website?’ she said, crossly.
‘Dating. Is that what you call it?’
‘Of course. It’s a place to meet new people.’
‘New married people.’
‘You think it’s any different from other sites? Half the people on Tinder are married—and so dumb they use their wedding photos as profile pictures. At least this way it’s more open, and you know what you’re getting.’ Helen swelled in righteous anger. ‘Anyway, it’s none of your business. If you don’t like it, don’t also work for it by fixing the site.’ He stared at her. Helen realised her dressing gown had fallen open in her ire, and hastily closed it. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. What was she thinking, shouting at a total stranger?
‘Hey, I don’t mind either way,’ he said. ‘I was just curious. The personal details are secure, anyway. But someone’s been hacking you. Look, all the profile pictures—well, they’re not of faces any more, put it that way. Brings a whole new meaning to the term “dickhead”.’
Helen looked, then felt a slow blush move over her face. ‘Is that…easy to do?’
‘No. Do you know of any enemies the site might have?’
Helen thought of Logan and his cut-price empire. The media attention the site had attracted through a series of dubious PR activities. The time he went on This Morning and got into a fist-fight with Phil. ‘Um…any number, to be honest with you.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve fixed the bug that’s replacing the photos, so people can show off their ski holidays and trips to Machu Picchu again. But you need to beef up your security.’ He spun her laptop back to her. ‘By the way, you’ve got an email from someone called Marnie. Subject—amazeballs dating plan.’
‘Give me that.’ Blushing, Helen pushed the screen down. ‘Thanks for fixing it. But I should get dressed now. I mean, in clothes.’ Oh great, now she sounded like she was flirting. ‘It doesn’t inspire confidence, you know,’ she said, in a burst. ‘Your T-shirt. I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it? Fixing computers?’
He squinted down. ‘Oh. I didn’t realise that’s what I was wearing.’
‘Do you have another one that says “Have you tried turning it off and on again”?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Never mind.’
He stood up. ‘You didn’t tell me your name. Normally people tell me their names and offer me cups of tea and stuff.’
‘Sorry. You just took me by surprise.’
‘It’s OK. I don’t understand why people set so much store by drinking hot liquids. Anyway, I’m going to tell you my name, in case you get hacked again.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Yep. I’ve fixed it now but whoever did it was good. The bug also found every instance of the word “snowboarding” and replaced it with “looking like a douche”.’ He let out a loud laugh. ‘“I really enjoy jetting off for a spot of looking like a douche.” Sorry, but your hacker is hilarious. I’d like to shake them by the hand.’
‘But—you’re sure this was done on purpose? It wasn’t a virus, or a server problem?’
He gave her a withering look. ‘A server problem wouldn’t replace all the pictures with ones of people’s penises. You were hacked.’
‘Oh my God, just like in Jurassic Park. Logan was right.’
‘You like Jurassic Park?’
‘Duh. I was born in 1982, of course I do.’
‘Right. I just thought, you know, the kittens.’ He waved a hand at her cushions, which were upholstered in a distinctly feline theme.
‘Kittens and dinosaurs are not mutually exclusive.’
‘Actually they are, because mammals weren’t really around until the Pleistocene.’
‘Probably one of the many reasons why opening Jurassic Park was such a bad idea.’
He gave her a long look. Helen held his gaze. He said, ‘You’re right, as it happens. You can’t get Jurassic Park back online without Dennis Nedry. Lucky for you, I am Dennis Nedry.’ He paused for a second. ‘Except, you know, not really gross and into industrial sabotage and stuff.’
‘Good to know.’
He fumbled in one of his many cargo pockets. ‘My card. Not a Blockbuster one this time.’
Karl Olsen, Computer Wizard. ‘Wizard, huh?’
‘Yes, I am the Gandalf of online security. They shall not pass. Well, there’s no need for you to tell me your name, but contact me if your hacker starts again.’ He chuckled. ‘“Looking like a douche”. That’s a funny guy.’
‘You assume it’s a guy.’
‘Yes, yes, hashtag–not all hackers, I know. But statistically it most likely is. Bye.’
Abruptly, Karl the computer wizard shouldered his rucksack and headed for the door.
‘Wait,’ she said suddenly. ‘Helen.’
‘Helen?’
‘Er… That’s my name. And I—Look, when I started this job, it was a normal dating site. It just didn’t take off, so he changed it without telling me. Always bank on the lowest end of the market, that’s Logan’s philosophy. I’ve looked for a new job, but there’s not much around.’ And she couldn’t bear going back to work in an office (because: yet more reasons), and every time she imagined going to interviews it made her throat constrict in anxiety, so she stayed where she was and tried not to think about the harm she was doing every day.
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Helen. I’m just some random computer genius and, as you pointed out, I’m participating in the evil by fixing the site. So don’t worry so much. OK?’
‘OK,’ she muttered, tying her dressing gown tighter.
‘Are you all right?’ He looked at her keenly. ‘You seem somewhat suboptimal.’
‘Yes, I’m just—I was up late, and this is a bit of a shock.’
‘It’s all fine now. Computer wizard. Expelliarmus.’ He made a bizarre air-wand gesture. ‘You’re still upset though?’ She shrugged. Of course she was. ‘Do you mind if I…’ He reached out one large finger and touched her on the forehead, between her eyebrows, pressing hard.
Helen felt an instant relief of tension. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Pressure points. Helps with the anxiety. Well, bye then. I’d say it was nice to meet you but in all honesty I think it just made you intensely uncomfortable.’
As he left she realised it was the first time a man had been in her flat in two years. Well, a human man, anyway.
‘YRRROOOWWL!’
Helen felt an affectionate blood-drawing scratch on her bare leg and bent down to pick up Mr Fluffypants, her sociopathic Persian cat. Green eyes, fluffy white fur, weighing the same as a small Rottweiler. She was very well aware that she was a living stereotype, but when everything kicked off two years ago it had seemed inevitable she’d become a tragic spinster, so she gave in and got a damn cat. And some cushions. And learned to crochet. She had her eye on a foot spa next.
She kissed the cat’s fluffy head. ‘Who’s a good kitty? You’re the only man I need, aren’t you? You’ll never leave me?’
‘YROOOOWWWL!’ Mr Fluffypants, spotting a bird in the garden, shot from Helen’s arms and right out the cat flap. She sighed. Story of her life.
* * *
Ani.
Ani read Marnie’s email on her work computer, squinting at the weird fonts and emojis, and immediately dashed off a message to Rosa asking if she’d seen it too. There was no way she was doing it. No. Way. Anyway, she had other fish to fry. Didn’t she?
She took a deep breath, flexed her fingers over the keyboard, and called up a different email address. Hi! Hope you had a good Christmas?
Was it too late for that, in January? She changed it to: Hi! Happy New Year!
Too many exclamation marks? She deleted the first one. Still on for tonight then? Where shall we go?
Maybe she should wait for the response before asking where to go—it might seem too forward. But then, maybe it was dangerous to leave the suggestion open that it wouldn’t go ahead. She needed this to go ahead.
‘Are you OK, Ani?’
She looked across at her colleague, Catherine, who was spooning up quinoa salad from Tupperware and Googling yoga retreats. ‘Fine, why?’
‘You were sort of…muttering to yourself.’
‘Oh. Just…thinking of strategies for the Leyton divorce.’
‘The one where she stole all his limited-edition tiepins and had them melted down?’
‘Yes. He’s suing her for five grand. Who even spends five grand on tiepins?’ Ani shook her head. There it was, every single day—the end of love, the terrible things people did to each other when it had all burned away. Sod it. Tonight couldn’t go as badly wrong as that—there just wasn’t time. She pressed send with a firm click, and then she pushed back her work chair and lifted her Radley bag. Everyone in the office looked up in surprise—Ani was an inveterate desk-luncher. ‘Going out,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll be an hour or so. Or, you know. An hour exactly.’
What Ani had not told any of her friends, largely because she was doing her best not to think about it herself, was that she already had a date that night. Date number forty-eight in the space of a year. Though it was a new year now, so perhaps she could start again from zero. Perhaps this would be the one, and it would all work out, and she wouldn’t have to go on any more internet dates, wouldn’t have to swipe right and left until her thumb went numb, and definitely wouldn’t have to take part in Marnie’s ridiculous dating pact idea.
She’d met Will at a birthday party before Christmas—the kind of thing she’d usually avoid, a lot of lawyers, drinks in a chain bar with watered-down cocktails, desultory chats about house prices. One of the couples in the group, Phil and Jemmy—him red cords and coffee breath, her ski tan and tight rictus smile—had got engaged recently and planned to hire a ‘lovely little barn’ in the Cotswolds for a mere twenty grand. Ani had watched her friend Louise, whose birthday it was, exclaim over the ring, while Jake, her boyfriend, stared uncomfortably into his Peroni.
‘Yay! Another wedding.’
She’d looked up at the unexpected sardonic tone—wondering if for a second her thoughts had developed a voice of their own—and saw a man scowling beside her. He was pleasant-looking, with a square-ish face, corduroy jacket, and pink cocktail in his hand, which he was sucking at determinedly through a straw.
She gave him a sideways look. ‘It’ll be lovely I’m sure. Very original. Dove release, probably.’
‘Wishing tree. Pictures of the couple holding up thank-you signs. Japes when the first-dance music starts out romantic then goes into “Smack My Bitch Up”.’
Ani looked at him properly. ‘Not a wedding fan?’ She was already thinking, But what if he’s single and we hit it off and he doesn’t want to get married what will I tell my parents maybe it wouldn’t work maybe I shouldn’t date him. The part of her brain that could pinpoint potential areas for defence in a heartbeat could also have her married to and divorced from a man in 0.3 seconds.
