The Secret to Falling in Love

‘Now that is a breakfast,’ Gemma said as the waitress placed down our mid-afternoon feast. My stomach growled as I studied the delicious plate of sausages, bacon, black pudding and all the usual trimmings. Absent-mindedly, I snapped a quick picture of my colossal breakfast and uploaded it to Facebook with the caption: ‘Something to help the hangover’, adding a winking emoji face for good measure.

Once I’d started tucking in, and my stomach was lined to prevent nausea, I was ready to tell all about my date. I started with the beautiful restaurant and ended with my walk of shame. I didn’t leave any detail out. Gemma ummed and ahhed in all the right places; I couldn’t yet tell if she thought I was an utter cow who should have given him more of a chance.

‘You know, if it’s hook-ups you want, Mel, you need a Tinder account.’ She chuckled, nudging me.

‘It’s all right for you, Gem, you haven’t even hit thirty yet. Once you do there’s more pressure to settle down. In your twenties, when people ask if you have a partner and you reply “no”, people just say: “Ah well, you’re still young.” But once you’re over thirty, the same people say: “Have you tried online dating?” or worse: “My friend has a colleague/brother/friend . . .” Eek!’ I wrinkled my nose.

‘Look, you had a good night with a nice guy, but there was just no chemistry. Life’s too short to dwell on the past; move on. You’re a hot lady; someone will snap you up soon, so don’t worry.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the ‘snap’, and suddenly I felt like an auction piece.

‘So you don’t think I was cruel sneaking off this morning?’ I had to know.

‘God, no! He’s probably glad you left. No offence, but he’d have just been gagging to tell his mates.’

‘He wasn’t a twenty-year-old student, Gem.’ I sighed at her youthful tunnel vision.

‘Oh come on, Mel, he was a dude!’ She picked up her coffee and sat back in her chair as if that settled the matter. I still didn’t know how to feel about it all, but it was nice to know Gemma didn’t think any less of me. ‘Here, let’s just do a bit of “online shopping”, for fun.’

She slid her chair around so she was squashed up next to me, pulled out her phone and opened the Tinder app. We ordered extra coffee and spent a serious amount of time going through scores of pictures of poor, unwitting local men, judging them mainly on their photographs and semi-consciously on their one-sentence self-evaluations. It seemed kind of wrong, shallow at the very least, but it was a laugh, and one I needed at that. Soon the reasons for dismissing men became silly.

‘I will not let you date a man who wears tracksuit bottoms to a bar,’ Gemma declared, firmly swiping left.

‘And I would never date a guy with scruffy trainers on!’ I declared, as we both fell into fits of laughter.

I let the laughter die down before continuing, ‘Do you think I should’ve given Gavin a second chance? I’m not exactly overrun with offers.’ I twisted the corner of my mouth in anticipation.

‘Nah. If there was no chemistry on your first date it won’t get any better.’ She was probably right.

My phone vibrated, and I instinctively reached into my bag to check it. My breakfast picture already had eight likes and a few comments from envious ‘friends’ who I hadn’t seen in the seventeen years or so since I left school. A small smile formed on my face.

I was preparing to reply when Gemma snatched my phone, turned away and hunched her shoulders so I couldn’t see what she was doing. In less than a minute, she handed back my phone and I was fully active on Tinder. That must have been a world record.

‘Yeah, thanks for that, Gemma,’ I said in my most sarcastic tone.

‘You’re most welcome.’ She grinned triumphantly.

Chapter Two

Back at my apartment, I found myself curious about the whole Tinder thing. I’d tried plenty of dating websites over the past few years, and none of them had resulted in a meaningful match. At the rate technology changes, dating websites may well be old news, and Tinder might just be where all the decent men are.

I opened the app; Gemma had linked it to my Facebook account, so I didn’t have to worry about choosing a new profile pic. The one from Facebook was taken last year on holiday. I was tanned and lean – having done the mandatory pre-holiday crash diet – and my blonde hair had miraculously fallen into beachy waves. The simple red strappy dress I was wearing added some eye-catching colour that might help me to stand out.

I’d read online somewhere that research showed having a cute pet in the picture increased your chances of being selected. I half considered sneaking back in through Gavin’s dog flap for a selfie with his dog, but I didn’t think becoming a dog rustler was what the research had in mind.

I still needed a short bio to complete my profile. I tapped my fingers on the keys whilst I thought about it.

Fun-loving 35-year-old.

Nope, even I was bored by that.

Easy-going single lady.

Definitely no. That made me sound like I was up for a bit more than I ought to be, as did my third attempt:

You had me at mojito ;)

Still tapping, I tried:

35 years old, perfectly preserved and still in original packaging.

Well, at least it was true. And it might have worked if I were putting myself on eBay.

I want marriage and babies.

Would at least set my stall out, but anyone who responded to that would be a definite candidate for bunny-boiler status.

I settled for:

Sociable city girl who loves laughing, walks and cocktails.

It dawned on me that I should probably update my entire online marketing campaign, as I wasn’t exactly attracting many matches and the ones I did were missing something – usually their personalities. I logged into eHarmony and read through the ‘About Me’ page:

I’m Melissa – my friends call me Mel. I’m a sociable, friendly type, seeking someone to share dinner, cocktails and movies with. I’ve been single a while . . .

I stopped reading. Of course that was what was putting people off. ‘I’ve been single a while,’ I said aloud, striking delete as I did. I sounded like the discarded box of broken biscuits at the bottom of the bargain bin in the supermarket. I was probably the last resort in the entire ocean of single women, the one that gets the leftovers. For a writer, I was pretty useless at stringing together anything remotely interesting about myself.

Procrastinating about the ‘big sell’, I looked at the other sections:

Hair: Blonde

Height: 5’4”

Eyes: Blue

There wasn’t much I could change there, unless I put on my Louboutins and passed myself off as five foot eight, but I didn’t think my height was the issue. The ‘Hobbies’ section caught my eye. It was blank. It probably seemed a bit sad, having no hobbies, but I really didn’t do anything other than work, see my friends, drink a little bit (on most days) – oh, and shop. Socialising and travel, I typed.

Travel was a bit of an exaggeration, but I did do a bit of travelling in my younger years – if you counted four months of getting sloshed doing bar work in Corfu back in its heyday – and I had a generic package holiday each year. In hindsight, perhaps I should have scaled Mount Kilimanjaro or hiked to Machu Picchu to appear more interesting. It would be great to have an actual hobby, like rock climbing or skiing, I thought. Maybe I will take something up.

A knock at the door startled me. I guessed it must be a neighbour since the intercom hadn’t buzzed. I put my laptop down and padded into the hallway to answer it.

‘Hi, Dan,’ I said, swinging the door open. Dan lived next door; he was a nice guy but a bit of a stoner. He always wore the same baggy faded jeans and khaki T-shirt. I didn’t know – or want to know – what he did for a living as he rarely left his flat, but the rent in our building wasn’t exactly cheap.

‘Hey, Mel, just wondered if you had any bread?’ Dan did this a lot. He seemed to think of my kitchen as his own personal buffet. I rolled my eyes, but he didn’t seem to pick up on it. He never did. I pushed the door open wider and beckoned him in.

‘Mel, you’re a star.’ He gave me a wide, genuine smile as he bounced past me towards the sofa. I considered asking him for advice about my bio, but it felt pathetic. Instead I wandered into the kitchen and wrapped a few slices of bread in some cling film.

‘Hey, Mel?’ he shouted from the lounge. I walked back in, wondering what he wanted, and was astonished to find him reading my laptop.

‘Dan! What are you doing?’ I screeched, running over and snatching it away. A burning sensation spread across my face.

‘Soz, Mel. I just saw it, that’s all.’ He ran his fingers through his hair nervously. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you need to bother with all that online dating stuff.’ I supposed that was a sweet thing to say, but it didn’t change the fact he’d crossed a line. I didn’t even know him that well. I’d let him in a few weeks ago when he’d locked himself out of his flat, and he’d asked to ‘borrow’ food items a few times since.

‘Well, I’m not getting any younger. But thank you anyway,’ I said, trying to shepherd him to the door.

‘Just be honest.’ He paused, looking wistful. ‘If you’re honest about yourself, the right person will come.’ He looked at me with his red eyes and nodded before leaving. That’s the one thing about stoners: they are quite insightful. But I guess that comes from sitting in a state of mellowness all day, just thinking. Not that I’d know. My mother would have frogmarched me to prison if she’d ever caught me smoking weed.

I went to the kitchen – I needed some energy. Now I’d given away most of what was left of my bread, there wasn’t much else left to eat. I opened the fridge to find rather disappointing options: margarine, a dribble of milk, a yoghurt with a lid resembling the Millennium Dome or whatever they called it now. Yuck. I chucked it in the bin. There was half a tub of olives that looked okay despite having been open for more than the recommended three days. I took them out and poured myself a glass of wine before heading back to the lounge.

If I’m honest about myself, the right person will come. I took a sip of wine and let my fingers type:

I’m a freelance copywriter and a journalist for a local lifestyle magazine, so I know all the best places to eat, drink and be merry in Manchester. When I’m not working, I love walks in the city or countryside, watching films and socialising. I’m a fan of the after-work drink, and my claim to fame is knowing the entire Epernay cocktail menu off by heart. I love to laugh and don’t take myself too seriously.

That’s all I have for now. I hit Save.

Chapter Three

Sadly, by evening time I was still home alone and slightly tipsy. After attempting to spruce up some of my online dating profiles in an effort to sound like someone remotely interesting, I’d given up and settled on what I thought was a lukewarm offering.

I couldn’t seem to determine who my Mr Right should be. If I knew that, I could at least tailor my profile. But it was hard to figure out who the man of my dreams was, when I didn’t even really know who I was. I sometimes felt like I was just pretending to be a grown-up, playing at real life while time kept passing by.

Without any conscious awareness I was soon on Facebook, instantly greeted by pictures and updates, from people I used to work with; went to school, college or university with; or met a few times through friends. My real friends are on there too, but I only have about seven or eight of them – on Facebook they’re lost in the abyss of my five hundred-odd virtual friends.

A notification pops up: Tracy Southern likes your picture. Last time I saw Tracy was at the college leaver’s ball; she was throwing up in the car park as my friends and I were tumbling into a rather hideous pink limousine. Still, for some strange reason it was nice to know she liked my breakfast picture.

Scrolling down the page, I was staggered by how many of these people had kids, husbands, dogs and houses, the full package. People had grown up around me . . . without me. I was an ‘inbetweener’ at a point in my life where people really were becoming adults, leaving me merely on the cusp.

It wasn’t like turning twenty-one and thinking you were an adult but still feeling it was okay to live at home. Having your mum do your cooking, cleaning and laundry whilst still partying three times a week and sleeping in until noon. This was real shit: bills, mortgages, responsibility for other mini-people, marriage and – in some cases – divorce. Those people on Facebook were doing it – they’d cracked it. They were ‘adulting’.

My thoughts were broken when a selfie of Gemma popped up. She was with a pretty blonde girl I didn’t recognise, and she’d used a filter that gave it the high-exposure look you’d expect to see on an old seventies’ photograph taken on Santa Monica beach – in reality it looked like they were in a bar somewhere having a great time, wide smiles, drunk eyes . . .

My stomach sank. Gemma hadn’t mentioned going out with any other friends; she’d never even mentioned being close to another friend, and we’d spent the afternoon together. It seemed so unlike her. I clicked Like on the picture so she’d know I’d seen it but quickly un-liked it. It seemed like a desperate bid for attention, and I scolded myself for being so childish. Gemma would probably have thought nothing of it either way.

To take my mind off Gemma, I flicked through my old pictures, stored in the virtual realms of Facebook, compiled over the nine years or so I’d been a user. Great memories of a fantastic summer returned – looking tanned and lean during the season I’d worked in Kavos with Amanda. Good times, parties, unfiltered fun. It all seemed so long ago.

I stumbled across a picture of me and my grandma. My throat ached as a lump formed. She’d died just two months ago, and I’d missed her ever since. She was my rock who I could talk to about anything; she knew me better than anyone else on the planet. I lifted my glass. ‘To you, Gran – I hope you’re raising hell up there.’ The last time I’d spoken to her, she’d told me to stop worrying about finding a man.

‘You’re not going to find anyone in there,’ she’d scolded, pointing to my laptop. ‘Do you think that’s how I met Grandad?’ I didn’t reply. Gran’s questions were usually rhetorical, which you discovered if you tried to answer. ‘No, I put on my make-up; made sure my best dress was darned, washed and pressed; and I went out and smiled at boys. It was easy to catch an eye or two.’ I’d chuckled at the time. Of course, things were different these days, but I enjoyed her stories so played along. ‘Grandad asked me if I wanted a drink. But I said a firm no.’

‘No?’ I’d queried, wondering if she’d not been attracted to him at first, if she was trying to tell me to just settle for someone.

‘That’s right. I said no. He was the most handsome man in the club. If I’d have let him buy me a drink, he’d have thought I was an easy catch, and he’d have lost interest soon enough.’

‘Ah, you played hard to get?’

‘Damn right I did. He practically begged me to court him.’ She’d chuckled.

I wiped away a small tear that had accompanied the memory.

Back on my newsfeed, I saw that one of my other ‘real’ friends, Becky, who admittedly I rarely saw any more, had posted a picture of her family. They were out in the countryside somewhere; her handsome bearded husband had a young messy-haired child on each shoulder, and the three of them were laughing, probably at Becky, who I assumed was taking the picture. It was a perfect image.

My stomach muscles tightened. For the last four or five years that had been all I ever wanted – a husband and a couple of kids – but it just didn’t happen. I’d no idea where I’d been going wrong but I wasn’t the kind of girl to give up. There’d been dates, but few second or third ones. The closest I’d come was a guy called Paul; we’d been out a few times, he’d stayed over once or twice, and it was going well. Until I discovered he had a girlfriend. I’d been a lot more cautious since then.

I knew that the whole marriage-and-kids thing was a cliché. Women in 2017 did not need to feel as though marriage and children were their only destiny. I was old enough to realise that the Disney prince was just a fantasy, that the bumbling British buffoon who messes up and finally gets it right was not coming for me, or that my arch-nemesis would not actually be my true love.

In 2017, my dream could’ve been anything: a powerful politician, a world traveller or an ice road trucker if I wished (which I didn’t; I hated the cold). The truth was: what my heart and womb ached for was a family of my own. Don’t get me wrong, I’d always been happy on my own. I had a decent career, great friends and family, and a full life,( if you excused that particularly pitiful evening). But that’s the point of a dream – it’s something you don’t have already, something out of reach. Maybe it’s something unobtainable entirely.

I gave my head a shake and switched on the TV, flicking through the menu to find a film that would cheer me up – anything with eye candy would do. My TIVO came up trumps, and soon I was enjoying an image of perfection: Channing Tatum writhing around onstage in a thong.

I snuggled up in the corner of my big cosy cream sofa and tore open a packet of chocolate buttons. Perfect. I captured the moment by snapping a picture of my woolly-sock-clad feet, wine and Channing in the background and uploaded it to Facebook with the caption: ‘Perfect night in!’ Soon, I was grabbing for my phone frequently as it pinged to tell me that several people liked this. It wasn’t long before my group chat fired up:

AMANDA: Friday night in? Brilliant way to celebrate your last day of youth! ;)

I narrowed my eyes at the screen. I knew she was only joking, but the whole reason I was in alone was because she was working late and Gemma had gone out with some other friends. I swallowed my irritation and replied:

ME: I thought I’d test out old age whilst I’m still young. I’ll be out partying tomorrow night when I’ve actually turned ‘old’ – just to mix it up a bit. I’m a rebel like that! :-)

On the inside I was reeling at the thought of turning thirty-five.

I continued my evening by binge-watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. About three episodes in (okay, maybe four), that annoying ‘Are you still watching?’ question popped up on the screen. The one reserved for people like me – sad and alone. ‘Yes I bloody am. Don’t judge me!’ I yelled, chucking a cushion at the screen.

***

The next morning, I woke up the same way as I went to bed: alone. My first instinct was to check my phone, for virtual company, I supposed. My screen was full of notifications from various social networking sites. I felt oddly excited as I snuggled back down into my warm duvet to read through them.

‘Happy birthday, Mel. Have fun!’ read the first post. I groaned. Ah yes, my birthday. I hated birthdays. Ever since I’d turned thirty I’d lost the will to celebrate. Thirty had been the year everything started popping: proposal questions, champagne corks at engagement parties and babies. Yet nothing had popped for me.

When I was young, each year I turned older had brought me one step closer to being a grown-up, or one step closer to being able to drink/vote/drive/gamble. Now, it was just one step closer to old age, not being able to go braless, sprint up steps or get asked for ID when buying alcohol in the supermarket.

Just before she died my gran had said: ‘Life is like reading a good book; at first you can’t put it down, eager to see what the next page will reveal, but by the last quarter you want to pace yourself, slow down, because you want to savour the final chapters.’ She’d said that my sister’s children were her final chapter and she was ready for the story to end.

I was heartbroken at the time but came to realise she’d fulfilled her life’s ambitions and that was a good thing. It’s all I wanted for myself. I hit Like on all the comments and decided it was too early to write any kind of update or reply to personal messages from actual friends and family. People would think I was sitting there alone and present-less. Which of course I was, but they didn’t need to know that.

As I scrolled through the messages, my phone began to vibrate vigorously – I knew straight away it was my mother. I was sure my phone had adopted a specific kind of tremor just for her calls, designed to make me answer immediately or suffer a mother-administered inquisition later. I answered.

‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, Melissa, Happy Birthday to you,’ she sang down the phone in her high-pitched yet tuneful voice, honed by countless school assemblies. Mum had been the headmistress at an all-girls secondary comprehensive in Manchester. ‘Are you having a good day, darling?’ she chirped.

‘Morning, Mum.’ My voice croaked into action as I realised it’d been almost twenty-four hours since I actually spoke to a real-life person. ‘Yes, I’m still in bed, so it’s been lovely so far.’ I treated myself to a catlike stretch.

‘Did you get anything nice?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I’m catching up with my friends later on tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s nice, love. Should we go out for a spot of lunch later? You know Dad and I aren’t too familiar with the city centre, so you can pick somewhere?’ Alarm bells rang. If I suggested a place to eat she’d be on TripAdvisor immediately, looking at all the one-star reviews and compiling a list as to why we should find another establishment, giving little or no regard to my opinion. I was in no mood for the stress.

‘Actually, Mum, it might be nice if you just came here. We could just have some homemade sandwiches or something.’ I wracked my brain for a sandwich recipe that involved a mere dribble of Pinot Grigio and a shrivelled up tomato.

‘Great idea! Well, I’ll let you go and open your presents, and Dad and I will pop round at midday. I’ll bring a special birthday lunch.’ Typical Mum, not paying any attention to the fact I’d already said I didn’t have any bloody presents. Still, I’ve learnt over time to keep my mouth shut, and she’d be bringing lunch, which sounded good. I didn’t want to jeopardise that. ‘Oh, has Amanda been round?’ Mum asked before I had time to say anything.

‘No, like I said, I haven’t seen anyone yet.’ I maintained my cool.

‘I saw on The Facebook that she’d won a fancy lawyer award,’ she cooed. The Facebook? I shook my head. As for the award, she had no bloody idea it was from the piss-take awards ceremony Amanda’s company held each year, and she’d won Lawyer Most Likely to Turn Up in Last Night’s Clothes. I bit my tongue.

‘Yes, that’s Amanda. Career woman of the year!’ Mum didn’t seem to pick up on my sarcasm.

‘Ah, she’s a star.’

‘She is,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘Anyway, lunch sounds wonderful. I’ll see you later, darling. Love you.’ She hung up before I had chance to say goodbye, probably already mentally preparing lunch and planning which shops she needed to drag Dad into.

I finished checking my messages and jumped into the shower – my mother would not appreciate being greeted by greasy hair, plus, it would only give her some ammo to add to her ‘why Mel’s still single’ arsenal. Afterwards, I scanned my wardrobe for something decent to wear. I always wanted to look my best on my birthday, like I was subconsciously (okay, consciously) trying to defy the age gods by scrubbing up well, almost like sticking two fingers up at them. I wondered how many more birthdays I could actually get away with feeling like this.