Читать книгу The Secret to Falling in Love - Victoria Cooke - Страница 9

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.