checked Instagram whilst I came around; nineteen people had liked a photo I’d posted before I went out. Amanda had taken it when she’d popped round for a pep talk. My pre-torn dress was quite simple, but I liked it. My layered shoulder-length blonde hair looked sleek – clever use of a filter, I assumed, as I was in constant battle with the frizz. I had thought I was too old for Instagram until I figured out I was one of the only people I knew who didn’t have it, and before long I was addicted.
Later on, I met Gemma in a cosy little bar in the Northern Quarter that served breakfast up until 4 p.m. – evidently they know their local clientele well. ‘Mel, over here!’ she shouted, waving a hand in the air. She’d arrived before me and, to my relief, secured my favourite distressed brown leather armchairs by the window.
‘Hi,’ I managed wearily as I fell into the comfort of the chair. I picked up the menu and let out a small groan – as it wasn’t the weekend, I couldn’t order the much-needed and rather appropriately titled ‘Morning-After Breakfast’. The waitress approached to take our order, so I quickly decided on the ‘All Day Great Big Brunch’ and prepared to spill all to Gemma about last night.
‘Are you okay?’ Gemma asked. I felt rotten and looked rotten. Gemma, however, looked flawless as always; her skin was pale without a hint of imperfection, her big green eyes framed by trendy black Alexander McQueen cat’s-eye glasses. Her glossy dark brown hair was cut in a blunt chin-length bob, and a fringe framed her stunning face.
A stark contrast to my messy ponytail and blotchy combination skin. Even now, obviously concerned, her brow managed just the tiniest of furrows, as if it was not meant to crease. My brow always tends to furrow on its own before I even know I’m worried.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied, which is, of course, girl-code for ‘I’m really not fine’. Naturally, she picked up on it. She gave me a small smile and patted my hand.
In typical Gemma fashion she didn’t press me and instead just waffled animatedly about work. She knew I’d tell her when I was ready, and that wouldn’t be until the risk of the waitress interrupting had passed. I nodded and smiled at her work stories as I admired her outfit. She was sporting an orange suede-fronted shift dress with thick black tights and black biker boots. She completely rocked the look, unintentionally succeeding in making me feel rather drab in my jeans and pale-blue T-shirt.
‘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.
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.
