Not That Easy

I’ve never been on a dating site before.

I’m looking for:

Whatever happens.

You should message me if:

You want to.

‘What is this?’ I cried out. ‘Message me if you want to? I sound like a fucking PROSTITUTE. And you both know I hate Jack Kerouac. This is … This is all lies,’ I spluttered.

‘Nooo, it’s not lies,’ said Emma. ‘It’s more of an airbrushed version of the truth. We kept in some of it anyway, like … the bit about music?’

‘Drum and bass? Do I look like the kind of person who wants to take E and jump up and down to music without words?’ I shrieked.

‘Babe, you don’t really jump to drum and bass,’ said Emma, before catching sight of my face. ‘OK, OK, if you hate it, we can change it. But, honestly, I think this would work a bit better than your one. I mean, would you rather your future date sees you as self-deprecating and awkward—which we love about you—or sexy and fun?’

‘Exactly,’ said Lara. ‘You’d exaggerate your CV, so you may as well do the same for this. Just think of it as a dating CV. It’s like, um, an online portfolio.’

I frowned at them both and then broke into a grin. ‘Wait, so do you guys really think I have a good smile?’

‘We wrote that?’ asked Lara. ‘Oh yeah. We figured it was better than drawing attention to the mass of hair on your head or your massive tits. Besides, smiles sound sexy.’

‘But this isn’t me being myself. It’s me trying to be the kind of girl guys like.’

‘Exactly,’ said Emma. ‘Guys will like it.’

‘Uh, what happened to you being a feminist?’ I asked. ‘One boyfriend and you’re all “pretend you like Kerouac and drum and bass” to get a guy.’

‘It’s just playing them at their own game,’ replied Emma, waving her hand at me. ‘They do it too—how many of these guys really like half the stuff they say they do? The ones who put “looking for friendship”? Utter bollocks. All they want is a casual fuck, but they can’t say that or no one will click on them. It’s just the game.’

‘Well … that’s shit,’ I said. ‘I thought The Game was an anti-women self-help book for men to pull girls by ebbing away at their self-esteem.’

‘Yeah, it’s that too,’ said Emma. ‘But I was talking about the concept not the book, babe.’

‘Either way, it sounds like crap,’ I said. ‘It’s so old-fashioned. I’m so over the game. In fact, I officially opt out of the game.’

Lara raised an eyebrow at me. ‘So, you’re going to use your original profile, then?’

I threw a cushion at her. ‘Oh, fuck off, you both know my attempt was shit and I’m using your version. But you don’t have to look so smug about it.’

They grinned at each other. ‘Knew it,’ said Emma. ‘As much as we hate the game, it’s just gotta be played.’

‘OK, this is it,’ said Lara. ‘I’m clicking save, and … it’s done! Now we’ve just got to hope that this mass of lies gets Ellie laid.’

Chapter 4 (#uebcd41b9-4260-560c-bbba-7cae47d76e59)

Forty-eight hours had passed since the creation of ELK123 and I was yet to get laid. However, I had just checked my phone and there were FOUR messages waiting for me. I was well on my way to slutdom.

Hey, sexy, can I come on your face? How about Tues night?

I blushed and dropped my phone onto my keyboard. I looked around the office furtively, but Maxine was yelling down her phone and no one else was in yet. It was only the unpaid intern who was expected to be in at 8 a.m.

I clicked on HotDog69 and gagged. His profile picture was a topless selfie and his beer belly—covered in sparse pube-like hairs—was glaring at me. I quickly exited his profile and went back to my inbox. There were three 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?’