LITMIR.BIZ

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all. Perhaps this dating and being single malarkey is just a lot of fuss about nothing.

      But that can’t be right. Plum loves being single and meeting men and going on dates and you know, all that shit. It’s like the entire focus of her life. And my sister Sophie loved being a single gal about town (as my dad says), that’s how she met Luke, and now they’re getting married.

      And it’s the whole point of everything, isn’t it? To find someone to love and laugh with. A (whisper it) soulmate. And not settle with someone that you love like a brother and don’t ever really laugh with. Like Peter. I left him because I knew there was something wrong, something missing. But there was something missing tonight, too. I – oh, I need to pee.

      ‘I’m just going to the, uh, euphemism,’ I say.

      ‘Good to know,’ he replies.

      Perhaps Robert is wrong I think, as I sit back down on the couch a few minutes later. Paulie will call and we’ll go out again and it will be better. Perhaps it will be a date we’ll laugh about for the rest of our lives (‘I was so nervous!’, ‘No, I was nervous!’). I mean, he must have liked me enough to ask me out, so wouldn’t he like me enough to ask me out again? I don’t—

      ‘Don’t think about it anymore,’ says Robert to the TV. Wait, is he talking to me?

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘You’re very easy to read,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘It was one night. Just learn from it and move on. Singledom is brutal. You need to be brutal too.’

      ‘Learn what? I don’t know what I did wrong . . .’ I say, quickly adding, ‘If I did anything wrong, if you’re even right about it being a bad date, which you might not be. I like him . . . I might like him,’ I caveat. Do I like Paulie? God, I don’t know. I was too busy keeping the conversation going to figure that out. ‘The last thing I said was “will you call me?” and he said “yes”.’

      ‘Never ask a guy to call you,’ says Robert, opening another beer.

      ‘Then I’ll call him,’ I say crossly.

      ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

      ‘I’m a feminist. I can call a man,’ I’m defensive now. ‘Or I’ll just text.’ Robert shakes his head slowly. Cripes, maybe I should flatshare with girls. I like a bit more compassion in my pep talks, thank you very much. ‘Or email. I have his email address. Or I’ll casually Facebook him.’

      ‘I’m a feminist too,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘But no. Not after the first date. Be elusive. And there is nothing casual about Facebook.’

      ‘I just don’t understand why you think it went so badly,’ I say again.

      ‘What gave it away was the questions thing,’ he says, more gently. ‘Too many personal questions and it becomes an interview.’

      ‘That’s just what it felt like!’ Maybe he does know what he’s talking about. ‘This is good. Tell me more. I need baby steps.’

      He grins at me. ‘Play it cool. You need to be detached from the situation. It’s the only way.’

      ‘Wait!’ I take out my notebook. I’m never without it: it’s the repository of my to-do lists and the only way I can keep track of everything.

      ‘Give me one sec,’ I squint, close one eye, pick up my pen and start writing. What was it he just said again? Oh yeah.

       Be cool

       Be detached

      That seems simple.

      ‘That doesn’t mean you should be a mute. Making him laugh is crucial.’

      ‘I need to be funny, too?’ I say in dismay. Robert looks amused by this. ‘What makes you the expert? Do you have a girlfriend?’

      ‘Not exactly. I’m just very good at being single.’

      Ah, a player. On cue, his phone buzzes with a text that I can immediately tell, by the disinterested way he reads it, raises his eyebrows slightly, and then taps out a reply, is a girl.

      ‘Cool, detached . . .’ I muse, watching him. ‘Do I have to do this forever? Some day I’ll fall in love again, I hope, and then I won’t have to think about this . . . Right? Like, on my wedding day, do I have to think about acting cool and detached?’

      His phone buzzes again. Another text. He reads it and raises an eyebrow, before looking up at me and computing my last statement.

      ‘Don’t think about falling in love. Don’t even say the word. Love has nothing to do with dating. And don’t think about your wedding day. Ever,’ he says, picking up his wallet and keys from the coffee table. He throws me the remote control and I catch it perfectly. Yes! Two out of two. ‘I’m off. Meeting a friend.’

      ‘I figured,’ I say. ‘Does that mean my how-to-date tutorial is over?’

      ‘Going on a date is just something to do for a few hours.’ Robert takes his coat from the hall cupboard. ‘It’s no big deal, so don’t build it up to be something more in your head.’

      ‘But what if I don’t feel detached? Or cool?’

      Robert pauses as he reaches the door, looks over at me, and grins. ‘Fake it.’

       Chapter Three

      As I head in to work the next morning, I realise that Robert was right. I’m sure you’ve already come to the same conclusion: it was a bad date. I’m trying to chalk it up to experience, rather than chalking it up to my so-I-WILL-end-up-alone-and-lonely theory.

      My office is just behind Blackfriars. I’m a financial analyst for an investment bank. Basically, I need to know everything about the retail industry in order to help our traders and clients make money.

      When I first started working, I loved my job. I loved winkling out information that no one else had. I felt like a little truffle pig snuffling for gems. Then the recession hit, and with no gems to snuffle, it became hard to get excited, or even care, about any of it. And then I – rather belatedly, as tends to happen to me quite a lot – realised that my job wasn’t about research, it was all about helping rich people get richer. Which doesn’t exactly fry my burger. Though perhaps work isn’t meant to be enjoyable, you know?

      Full disclosure: I only joined this company because its stand was next to the bar at my university careers day.

      I am not kidding. I was finishing a difficult and essentially useless degree in medieval French. The university careers day was stressful and weirdly humiliating. Plum and I discovered the bar during happy hour, the two investment guys at the company stand spotted us and, after our second bottle of half-price wine, came over for a chat.

      I didn’t know what else I’d do with my life, and the salary sounded pretty good, so I applied for the grad scheme, got in, got a couple of qualifications, and now, here I am, an associate analyst. Stuck halfway up a job ladder I never knew existed till I was already on it.

      I sit in a quiet corner of a very large, very grey open-plan office, on the 6^th floor. My boss, Suzanne, is a managing director and has her own office (glass fronted, so she can keep an eye on us). I work in a small team, specialising in luxury retail, with two other analysts, Alistair and Charlotte. Sitting around us are the other teams: pharmaceutical, automotive, banking, construction blahblahblah.

      Today, at 6.40 am, I’m the first one in from my team. The workday starts very early for research analysts. Just one of the many things that I don’t like about my job.

      I sit down, turn on my laptop and sigh. Oh fluorescent lighting, how I hate you. I swear the one above my head flickers and buzzes an abnormal amount. At least my team doesn’t have to present at the 7.15 am sales meeting today. Instead, all I have to do is check Bloomberg and Reuters

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