The Ex Factor

‘That sucks,’ said Rosa. ‘How rude!’

‘Par for the course sadly,’ said Ani. ‘More ghosts in London right now than in the whole of Ghostbusters.’

Marnie was nodding. ‘Guys. As you know, my love life has been…varied.’ There was a tactful silence. Helen ran through some of Marnie’s dates—the guy who literally went off to join the circus, the guy who bred guinea pigs in his bedroom, the guy who turned up to meet her high on ketamine… Not to mention Ed, of course. Which she was steadfastly not doing.

‘You’ve certainly given it a good go,’ said Ani kindly. ‘If dating was a job you’d be in a corner office right now.’

She meant it nicely, but there was another small silence—Marnie’s employment history was as long and chequered as her love life. She liked to describe herself as an artist when asked what she did, or sometimes a ‘world traveller’, which was a bit annoying seeing as it wasn’t an actual job, unless you were a Victorian lady of independent means and adventurous spirit, travelling with a feisty lesbian companion or dallying with the porters. Over the years, Marnie had attempted a variety of mad jobs—dog walker, life model, working in an occult bookshop—and even the odd proper one in a call centre or office. But they were thirty-two now. Helen wasn’t sure, but she suspected they were approaching the cut-off time between ‘charmingly whimsical’ and ‘forty-year-old still living in their parents’ garage’.

‘I’ve had enough,’ Marnie was saying. ‘I’m sick of moving about, different cities, different countries, meeting guys on Tinder, youth hostels, beaches… I want to find someone nice.’

Helen was afraid to say the next thing. ‘So what were you…?’

‘Guys, I’ve got the best idea.’

And there it was. The phrase that had prefaced most of the disasters of Helen’s life, from the Sun-In green hair incident of 1994, to the vodka and peach-schnapps vomit-off of 2003. But which had also heralded many of the best days, the laughing-till-you-fell-off-your-chair days, the most precious moments, Instagram-bright.

‘What?’ said Rosa, who was the kindest of them, but who’d also missed out on the most insane Marnie times by virtue of being at home with David cooking Nigella dinners and watching box sets of The West Wing.

Marnie said, ‘Well, we’re all single. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Sorry, Rosa. But it’s true. And we’d all like to meet someone nice.’ Helen opened her mouth to say she didn’t want to meet anyone, nice or otherwise, then shut it again. ‘But Ani’s stories are scary—and me too, I’ve had some awful times online dating. You can’t be sure what you’re going to get.’ Marnie leaned in eagerly. There was a flush to her pale face, her green eyes glowing. ‘What I’m suggesting is this—we each set one of the others up with an ex of ours.’

‘That’s crazy.’ Helen had blurted it out before she could think. She tried to never use the c-word. ‘I mean, what? I don’t understand.’

‘Simple.’ Marnie dusted off her hands and pointed round the table. ‘Rosa would, say, set Ani up with someone she’s dated. Ani’d set you up…’

‘What?’ said Helen and Ani in unison, but Marnie went on, undeterred: ‘… and you’d set me up. I’d do Rosa. That’s just an example. We could always draw names. And we’d have to have rules. Like, only nice people. The whole point is to get a better option than those online dates. A sort of Freecycle, but for guys. He-cycle, if you will.’

‘I really, really will not,’ muttered Helen. Dating each other’s exes! This was dangerous. Deflect, deflect!

‘That’s mental,’ said Ani, and Helen winced at the word. ‘Someone would definitely get upset. And how would it even work?’

‘Like I just said.’ Helen had forgotten that Marnie could be surprisingly organised and persuasive when she put her mind to something. ‘Why’s it mental? I want to meet someone, don’t you?’ She looked hard at Ani.

‘I mean, I guess, but only if…’

‘How many internet dates did you go on in the last year?’

‘Um…a few.’

‘How many’s a few?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I bet you kept count.’ Marnie was staring her out. ‘Twenty?’

Ani was turning red. ‘Um…a bit more than that, maaaaaybe…’

‘More than thirty? More than forty?’ Marnie was like Jeremy Paxman with eyeliner flicks. ‘Come on, tell us.’

‘Forty-seven,’ Ani whispered.

‘Christ on a bike,’ shouted Rosa. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Christians. I mean—just, wow.’

‘I want to find the right person!’ said Ani, still red. ‘And you know, it’s so easy online. You just click, and then if you’re free, why not meet up? It’s either that or let my parents set me up with Dad’s golfing buddy’s nephew from Leeds, who has his own mobile disco business.’

‘Exactly.’ Marnie slapped the table. ‘It’s too easy. It’s like going to Tesco. And it’s about as romantic. Whereas this way—well, we can have a man curated for us by our lovely friends, who know us so well.’ She beamed at them. ‘Think about it. It takes out all the risk—we get pre-screened, predated men.’

‘Curated,’ muttered Rosa, who seemed to be having trouble with the whole conversation. ‘I don’t know. This is all new to me. I’m still getting my head around being single.’ She bit her lip, and Helen could see her eyes were filling up. Most of their nights out recently had ended with a weeping Rosa. She looked round at her friends—Marnie flushed and determined, Ani scowling, maybe thinking of her forty-seven bad dates, Rosa on the verge of tears. And what if Marnie suddenly suggested someone take on her most dateable ex of all? No way. The subject had to be changed, and fast. And Helen, with conflict-defusing skills that Ban Ki-moon would be proud of, was the Official Difficult Subject Changer of the group.

‘Guys, it’s a lovely idea, but remember—I don’t date. Like, ever. So I’m afraid I’m out. Now, did anyone want dessert? They have an ice-cream sundae made with popping candy!’

Chapter 3 The Internet Wizard (#ulink_cd48fb54-fafb-5227-9e44-b8c112cdf7d4)

Helen

Helen woke up the next morning not at 8 a.m, or even 9, but at the unconscionable time of 10.36 a.m. Her tongue felt like the bottom of the bin right before she washed it out with bleach and hot water (second Wednesday of the month). Bloody Marnie.

The night had dissolved somewhere around one, with Helen being poured into an Uber. She never got taxis—she could afford the odd one, but she saw it as a sign you hadn’t planned your night properly. And she was always hearing horror stories from Rosa about their shady safety standards. Admittedly, Rosa herself had been fast asleep in the back of one heading north. Helen must have been drunk, because she’d asked if Marnie needed to stay at hers.

‘No, no,’ she’d said, putting Helen in the cab—she was always mysteriously sober, despite being so tiny. ‘I have somewhere sorted. It’s fine.’ She’d patted the side of the car and stepped back, holding her arms away from her cape to wave.

Sitting up now and groping for her phone, Helen realised she didn’t know if Marnie even had the money to get home. Or where home currently was for her. In fact she hadn’t managed to find out anything about Marnie’s life for the past two years. Some friend she was. But at least, in all this talk of exes, there’d been no mention of Ed. She squinted at her phone. It glowed with message symbols, missed calls and voicemails, emails, texts, even WhatsApps. And her heart stilled.

No. Not now. It couldn’t be her mum, after all this time—Oh, thank God! They were all from Logan.

Logan Cassidy: internet mogul, entrepreneur, and owner of a vast network of shady businesses, from the dating/cheating website Helen reluctantly ran, to a cut-every-corner budget airline and a chain of underwear shops for larger ladies, More Than a Handful.

MASSIVE EMERGENCY, the first email read. Helen scrolled down. BIG SECURITY BREACH CALL ME NOW. And the last one—WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

Helen closed her eyes for a second. It was going to be one of those days. She called Logan, clearing her throat again and again to try to sound like she hadn’t just woken up. ‘Hi! Sorry, I had an early doctor’s appointment. Er, women’s troubles.’

‘Whatever, whatever,’ he said hastily, in his South London growl. ‘Now I need you on this ASAP. I think we’ve been hacked. Like them that got into the Pentagon.’

‘What’s happened?’ Logan had an overdeveloped sense of the importance of bitontheside.com in global events. It was probably just a server glitch.

‘Someone’s replaced the profile pics. Instead of all that skiing and raising bloody glasses of wine, they’re bloody—well, have a look.’

Helen felt panic bubble into her bloodstream. This wasn’t supposed to happen today. She was already behind on dusting the bookcases and brushing Mr Fluffypants, a job that was only slight less dangerous than being a UN weapons inspector. ‘They didn’t get into the personal data?’

His voice softened. ‘No, that’s locked up tighter than a nun’s chuff. But the rest—the fences are down, the T. rex is out, ya know? So I’m gonna send in the T. rex wrangler.’

‘Er, what?’

Logan was a big Jurassic Park fan. He reputedly had a life-size model of a dinosaur in the atrium of his mansion in Essex. He saw a lot of John Hammond in himself. ‘I’m sending a web guy to you,’ he yelled. ‘He’s meant to be good. Total geek. He’ll fix it, OK?’

‘OK. But what do you mean, to me?’ He didn’t mean to her flat, surely?

‘You’re still in that dump in Peckham, yeah?’