‘Honestly, Clee, I came across that old Emma Watson interview again over the weekend and all I could think about was you.’ She gets up from her chair to pace, too excited by her own ideas to sit. ‘A string of failed dating disasters, about to turn thirty –’ she ticks the list off on her fingers as she speaks – ‘trying to define her place in the world as a single woman, pressured by the media and the expectations of others.’
‘I feel sick with sorrow for her, I really do,’ I say. ‘It must be a shocker having to snog R-Patz for a living.’ He made a lasting impression on teenage me, all that immortal glittering. Is it any wonder I’ve struggled to find love after being set such unrealistic expectations? There’s a whole other column for another day.
‘She’s never had to snog R-Patz. Don’t minimize Emma’s contribution to make yourself feel better, you know I’m on to something here.’
I pick at a loose thread on the arm of the office chair. ‘It’s not strictly fair to say I’ve had a string of dating disasters. It is my job.’
‘I know, I know. We pay you to swipe right and wear your big, beautiful heart on your sleeve. We love you for your optimism and your faith in finding your flamingo.’
‘Finding My Flamingo’ is the name of my online column, so called because flamingos mate for life. We experimented with lines about other animals that mate for life too, but ‘Finding My Gibbon’ suggested red bums and picking each other’s ears, and ‘Finding My Beaver’ lowered the tone in a most unstylish way. ‘Finding My Flamingo’ felt appropriate, but as time has gone on I’ve become somewhat less invested, in no small part because I’ve been gifted so much flamingo-related shite that I could open a flamingo-related shite shop.
‘Look, Clee, you need to do something to mark turning thirty. It’s a seismic moment in a woman’s life.’ Ali pauses in that specific way she does when something bad is coming next. ‘It’s this or the tattoo.’
I sigh; I really should have seen that coming. The tattoo has become a bit of an in-joke at team meetings. Any time I’m struggling for column content, someone gives me the side-eye and then suggests I get a flamingo inked indelibly on my skin, preferably in a place it can’t easily be concealed.
‘Okay. Look, I always kind of liked what Emma said about self-coupling,’ I say cautiously. ‘I get it. She was saying she’s enough already, alone but not lonely.’
Ali nods. She doesn’t interrupt me; I know she’s hoping I’m going to talk myself into it. She’s excellent at deploying silence to get what she wants.
‘She’s a vibrant, independent woman who understands that there’s more than one way to achieve a fulfilled life,’ I say. ‘She isn’t a failure because she doesn’t have a partner and a hoard of kids, and she wouldn’t let the fact that both of her sisters and her brother are married with their own broods pressure her, or feel forced to defend her singledom at every family gathering, even if she is drowning in an ocean of wedding and baby shower invitations – I mean, I’m genuinely happy for them all but do they really need to wave it in my face in gold italics, for God’s sake?’
I stop, realizing my voice had grown loud and somewhere in there I’d switched from talking about Emma Watson to talking about myself. Besides, it was unfair of me to include my brother, Tom, in my list of grievances – he’s the only member of my family who never mentions my waning egg supply or lack of a significant other. Of my three siblings, he’s furthest in age from me, seven years to be precise, yet we’re closest in every other way. It’d be easy to cast him as a father figure in my life, given that I was a baby when our father died, but Tom was the one slipping teen-me an illicit cigarette under the table and covering for me when I stayed out late at night. We both take after my dad, apparently – dark hair and eyes full of trouble, if Mum is to be believed.
Ali sits back down, absolutely unfazed by my speech, her fingers steepled in a way that suggests she’s either thinking or praying. ‘Exactly my point,’ she says finally. ‘This is the perfect opportunity to get away from the pressure of the huge surprise party your family are planning for your birthday, a valid reason to politely duck out of any impending weddings and baby showers, and the chance to catch your breath for the first time in three years.’
‘My family are planning a surprise party?’
Ali nods. ‘Your mum emailed me last week to check if you’d be able to take some time off and to ask for a list of all of your “London friends”。 I use air quotes because she used actual quotes. She also mentioned looking up your old schoolmates on Facebook. Old boyfriends. Your funeral without you dying, basically.’