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Becky (#ulink_3274a1f9-98fd-54d6-a040-5ac4e148ca83)

Wednesday, 15 May

Kath and I are having a great laugh round at mine, going through the profiles on CupidsWeb.com. I have enlisted her help after the date with Tedious Shaun, which, incidentally, pretty much sums up the inherent flaw in Internet dating: no matter how flirty your texts are before you meet, or how attractive their photo is, or how much you have in common on paper, there is still every chance that you won’t like each other when you do meet; that the most important ingredient of all – sexual chemistry – will be missing.

Kath keeps telling me to do speed dating instead, but I can’t handle the idea of it. It does make sense, first impressions and all that, but I’m rubbish at making small talk at the best of times, and the thought of some geek asking if I was an item of food what would I be … no thanks.

‘I’ll do it if you do it with me,’ I said, making a face at her.

‘OK, you’re on,’ she replied, a glint in her eye, clicking back to the main menu and scrolling down a list of thumbnail pictures of men that I can tell, even from a photo one-inch square, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than date.

‘What? You can’t do speed dating! What would Clive say?’

‘Between you and me, Clive isn’t going to be for ever.’

‘What do you mean?’ She and Clive have a mortgage on a tiny cottage that backs onto a railway line. I’ve been to their house for dinner. They have a cat and photomontages in clip frames of themselves on skiing holidays. It’s not exactly a casual relationship. ‘I thought you two were fine. Does he know?’

She looks shifty. ‘No. I’m not ready to tell him yet either, so don’t mention anything. I’m just window-shopping for now.’

I feel a bit sad at this. Clive is OK, as far as I can tell. I mean, I wouldn’t date him myself, he’s always apologizing for things, and tells Kath so often that he’s really lucky to have her that I don’t blame her for feeling superior to him. And he is lucky to have her. She’s gorgeous – long curly red hair, the right number of freckles, and so curvy in all the right places that she makes me look like an ironing board standing next to her.

‘The grass isn’t necessarily greener, you know,’ I say, gesturing to the computer screen.

Kath snorts. ‘It couldn’t be any less green,’ she retorts. ‘Right now, it’s already a bleeding drought situation. Hosepipe ban and everything.’

We giggle at the innuendo and I pour us each a large glass of wine.

‘Poor Clive,’ I say. ‘I’ll make a deal with you – I won’t tell Clive, if you promise not to tell my sister.’

Kath pauses, the glass halfway to her mouth. ‘Why not?’

I don’t answer immediately because I’m distracted by a picture of a guy on CupidsWeb who looks so ridiculously sexy and handsome that I can’t believe he doesn’t have women camping outside his front door. ‘Ooh, look at HIM! He’s gorgeous.’ I click on his profile. ‘SolsticeLover – thirty-five, divorced, a two-year-old who’s the love of his life, five foot nine. A film editor … and he only lives in Streatham!’

Kath tuts. ‘A two-year-old who’s the apple of her dad’s eye? Don’t go there, Becks, just think of the baggage he’ll have. Do you really want to be spending every other weekend with a needy, whining small person?’ She pauses for comic effect. ‘And that’s just the dad!’

We laugh, although I sometimes wonder why on earth Katherine became a teacher when she seems so anti-kids. ‘But he is lovely, though, isn’t he?’ I stroke his stubbly cheek on the monitor and make a mock lovey-dovey face at it.

‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crisps,’ Kath said. ‘You haven’t told me why you don’t want Amy to know?’

I was hoping she’d forgotten. I take a minute to choose my words, although I know they will be severely edited when I do – I swore to Amy I’d never tell anybody what happened with her and that arsehole, and it feels disloyal to even hint at it.

‘Oh. She’s just a bit old-fashioned. Wants me to get married and have hordes of kids, so that she doesn’t have to.’

Kath frowns. ‘Why would she object to you finding someone online?’

‘She assumes they’re all weirdos and nutters. A … er … friend of hers had a really bad time with a guy she was living with …’ I trail off, being deliberately vague.

‘Fair enough. Well, it can be our secret then.’ She taps the side of her nose and pulls a cigarette out of the pack in her handbag. ‘Just going for a fag and a wee, back in a mo.’

When she squeezes out onto my tiny balcony, I click back to SolsticeLover and read his personal statement. He sounds amazing – until the part where he says, I think I should probably state upfront that I’m a Druid, and my spirituality means everything to me. I want someone to share my beliefs with.

I wonder where a Druid living in Streatham goes to practise his rituals? However gorgeous he is, I can’t quite see myself donning white robes and joining him and his cronies to perform blood rites on a squirrel on Wandsworth Common …

Kath comes back into the room, the smell of cigarettes following her like an acrid cloud, and she has this familiar look on her face, the kind of look that gives me a little tingle of excitement in the same way I used to feel excited at school when my best friend suggested we do something naughty.

‘I’ve decided,’ she proclaims.

‘On what?’

‘That I’m going to do it. Join you in the wonderful world of Internet dating.’

I look at her, sitting there on the arm of my armchair, her nipples clearly visible through her thin T-shirt, her tongue stained black with wine. Her eyes are shining with mischief and the flesh of her throat is flushed pink.

‘But, really – what about Clive?’ I ask.

‘Oh, he doesn’t have to know. You won’t tell him, will you? I just need a bit of fun, Becks. While I’m young and hot.’ She winks and pads over to the computer.

‘You’re a nightmare,’ I say, but I have to admit, it’s exciting. And God knows, after some of the dreary dates I’ve been on recently, and with my seeming inability to find the kind of man I fantasize about, I could do with some help.

Kath grabs the keyboard and pulls it towards her, biting her lower lip, waves of sexual energy pouring off her.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s find ourselves a couple of real men.’

I have a flicker of hesitation – what am I letting myself in for? I had it all under control; sedate drinks with men whom I then let down gently when they ask for a second date, back to the drawing board, find another one, ad infinitum until I – hopefully – find one I want to see again and who likes me too … Somehow, I feel that Kath’s involvement might change my little routine. She’s a loose cannon, on the prowl. Then I think, sod it, and giggle to myself at the mental image of a cannon on the prowl. A couple of real men. That sounds good.

No. It sounds great.

‘Bring it on, girlfriend!’ I crow, in my best fake-Harlem accent.

5 (#ulink_09a9c4a3-c5ff-5193-9b37-db47d141fa6c)

Amy (#ulink_09a9c4a3-c5ff-5193-9b37-db47d141fa6c)

Sunday, 21 July

Amy let herself into her flat and smiled for the first time that day.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said. ‘What do you fancy for lunch?’

He raised an ear and licked her face.

Boris was her greyhound, adopted from a rescue centre two years ago, a great, lazy, affectionate mass of skin and bone and, as she often joked, the only man in her life. She had even started letting him sleep on the end of her bed, although she would never tell anyone that. If found out, she would say it was for security. Boris was her guard, growling at strange noises, though she suspected that an intruder would get nothing worse than a big lick on the nose.

The dog followed her into the kitchen and watched her pour dried food into a bowl.

‘I’m worried about her, Boris,’ she said. ‘Her nutty friend said she’d been on a hot date on Thursday night. But she didn’t know the guy’s name, where he lives, what he does, or anything useful except that Becks met this bloke on a dating site and had met up with him a couple of times before.’