LITMIR.BIZ

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more messages. My heart beat in trepidation as I read the next one.

      Hey, hun. u ok. I hope we could become mates and get to know each other.

      My names percy. I gotta say you are the definition of beautiful and got beautiful eyes. I hope we have the chance to become good mates and maybe more. I think we would get along well and ill always be here for you whenever you need someone to talk to. I will never ever judge you no matter what and i always try to be a good mate xx

      I stared at the message in confusion. He wanted to be there for me? He didn’t even know me. And were the spelling mistakes intentional or could he really just not use punctuation? I hesitantly clicked on Perce69’s profile—I was noticing a username theme here—and was met with a picture of a sweet-looking guy with a receding hairline and blue eyes.

      He didn’t look as horrid as HotDog so I scrolled down. OK, he worked in sales, was twenty-nine, lived in North London, and … the most private thing he was willing to admit was that he had a sex addiction. Ew. At least he thought I was beautiful and would never judge me. Feeling more confident, I looked at my third message.

      I would hug a cactus, then swim through shark infested salt water to the arctic to do battle with an angry mother polar bear on a 2×2 foot iceberg for the chance to share a Nandos half chicken with corn on the cob with you on a webcam over a dial-up connection. X

      Right. At least that was original. Everyone liked a Nando’s half chicken—but if we were sharing, shouldn’t we get a full chicken? Not only was Marcus1986 clearly a nutter, he was also stingy. I didn’t bother clicking on his profile and moved on to my last message. Please be normal, I prayed. It was from someone called JT_ldn and there was no 69 on the end of his username. This looked promising.

      Hey, Elk, your profile seems cool. So what kind of media work do you do? I live in East London too. Have you been living amongst the hipsters for a while or are you a new kid on the block?

      JT x

      Oh my God. It was an actual message from a normal person who had read my profile and wasn’t just spamming me with perv-mail. OK, so he had mistaken my initials for my name, but that was easily done. There had to be a few people out there called Elk.

      I clicked on his profile and was instantly impressed. JT was HOT. He was also twenty-nine—exciting; from Ireland—sexy accent; and worked at Marc Jacobs—shit. Gay??? I quickly scrolled down and breathed out in relief as I saw he worked in the IT section of Marc Jacobs. That was promising, as was the fact that he was six foot three and loved nights in with red wine and film noirs. If you swapped it for carbs and romcoms, that was my ideal night in too.

      Hey JT, nice to (virtually!) meet you. I’m ‘working’ for an online magazine, which is pretty cool except for the fact it’s unpaid. I’m new to East—what about you? Amazing you work for MJ. Do you get free stuff?

      Ellie x

      I tapped out the message quickly so that I could edit it afterwards. The awkward ‘virtually’ joke would probably have to go. I ended it with a kiss, which felt weird considering I’d never met him but decided it would be rude not to after he’d given me one. It was probably just internet dating etiquette. Come to think of it, HotDog69 was quite rude for not putting a kiss on his.

      ‘Ellie, what are you doing?’ screeched Maxine. I dropped my phone onto my desk and realised with horror that I’d pressed ‘send’. Why had I put in those cringe attempts to be flirty?! There was no way he’d reply now.

      ‘Just booking the restaurant for your lunch meeting with Clara,’ I said brightly, as I turned to face my boss. Her dark hair was piled onto her head in a messy bun, but her red lipstick immaculately framed her snarling mouth.

      ‘Good—make it for 2 p.m.,’ she said. ‘Now, we need someone to write a feature about London stereotypes.’ Oh my God. Was she finally about to ask me to actually write something for her? ‘So, do the research, then send it over to Camilla and she’ll write it.’

      My heart sank. Typical. ‘OK, sounds great,’ I said. ‘What kind of thing are you thinking?’

      She sighed theatrically and replied in the same exasperated tone she used whenever I asked her a question. ‘You know … a North London girl who buys Cath Kidston wellies and the Brixton girl in flowery skirts and Doc Martens, blow-dries in Notting Hill.’

      I nodded rapidly as I scribbled down what she was saying. It sounded like exactly the sort of thing I had read multiple times on various websites and could write in my sleep. But instead I’d have to do all the work, then send it on to the star writer who would just move a few words around and stick her name on it.

      ‘Send it to her by lunch,’ barked Maxine. ‘I’m off out. When you get a minute can you also sort out the stationery cupboard and do me a cuts search on that latest socialite? I’m doing an interview with her.’

      ‘Um, who?’ I asked nervously.

      ‘Oh God.’ She sighed. ‘You know, the eyebrow one? The model?’

      ‘Cara Delevingne?’

      ‘Exactly. Next thing you’ll be asking me what a cuts search is,’ she said, as she grabbed her camel jacket.

      I fake-laughed. ‘Right, as if I didn’t know it was … general research?’

      She looked straight at me. ‘Ellie. Newspaper clippings. The username and login is on the whiteboard.’

      ‘Thankyousomuch,’ I garbled in relief, and she shook her head at me in despair.

      I threw on my leather jacket and grabbed my blue canvas tote bag. It was 6 p.m. and I had only ten minutes before Maxine came back. If she saw that I was still there, she would inevitably give me more tasks to do, so I was taking my chance to leave.

      It had been a long Monday. As always my colleagues just ignored me as they discussed their dates on the Kings Road, and what happened at Annabelle’s on Saturday. I’d been left with the hard work, and they’d buggered off at 5 p.m.

      Today Camilla had even made me source the photos for her article, so I was now officially late to meet my mum. The only thing that had kept me going all day was the fact that JT had replied. He’d told me that he did get a discount, he loved East London and he knew loads about media. He’d confused ‘your’ with ‘you’re’ only once, and he hadn’t called me Elk again.

      My phone beeped. I tapped it open and saw the bright pink OKC app icon. I opened it, grinning in anticipation of a reply from JT.

      Hello Elk

      How are you this morning? I like your profile. I wondered how you felt about discreetly humiliating a man that secretly wears tights and using him for your benefit?

      I hope you don’t mind me asking!

      The picture was of a pair of shiny silver leggings and I could see the outline of Superman69’s squashed penis.

      ‘Aghh,’ I shrieked, as I crashed into my mum.

      ‘Elena, about time,’ she said, rubbing dirt off my coat. ‘Do you have to run like that? I could hear you thudding all the way down the road. And you shouldn’t walk looking at your phone. Someone could steal it.’

      The subtle criticisms had begun already. I told myself to take deep breaths and stay calm. I was a grown-up now. I had my own flat, £30,000 worth of debt and a job. Well, an internship, but still. I was an adult and I could handle one weekday dinner with my mother.

      ‘Nice to see you too, Mum. Shall we go inside the restaurant, then?’

      She made a non-committal sound, so I walked into Pizza Express and let the waiter guide us to a table.

      ‘So, this is nice, isn’t it?’ I said brightly.

      ‘Is that jacket new?’ she asked, eyeing up my new Top-shop purchase.

      ‘It’s just Primark, Mum,’ I groaned in exasperation.

      ‘Does

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