“No, I do see her,” I reply. “I’m just usually upset or ruffled after she leaves. You know when you spend time with someone and they kind of suck the life out of you. She likes money and fame and having the designer handbags and all her gorgeous boyfriends. I feel like”—I pause as I try to articulate myself—“I feel like she’s replacing our parents’ love with objects.”
“You don’t like designer things?”
“I guess.” I shrug. “Everyone likes nice things, don’t they? It’s just not my priority.”
“Kate is very good with her money,” Rebecca interrupts.
“That’s code for tight.” Daniel laughs as his eyes flick to me. “Are you tight, Kate?”
“I am not tight.”
“Oh, you are too,” Rebecca scoffs. “She won’t spend any money on herself at all and is always saving for a rainy day. She wears the same ten outfits and hides behind those big thick glasses.”
“I need them to see, Rebecca,” I announce, indignant. “And I just don’t see the point in spending a fortune on clothes and dressing up fancy all the time.”
“You work in central London with some of the hottest men in the capital and you’re too busy wearing sensible office clothes to attract any of them.”
I roll my eyes in disgust. “Trust me, there is no one at work worth impressing.”
Daniel’s eyes linger on me and, as amusement flashes across his face, he clinks his wineglass with mine.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I just found my new project.”
Four hours and three bottles of wine later, and with Stevie Nicks playing in the background, Daniel says, “Then what will I write?” He laughs.
We are sitting on the couch still talking way too much nonsense, and filling in a profile on a dating app for Daniel on my computer. Apparently this is a priority when you move to a new city.
Who knew?
The question reads:
What are you looking for?
“Hmm, that’s a hard one.” Daniel inhales sharply as he does his best to think through the cloud of alcohol.
“Oh, I know. Write this,” Rebecca says in her throaty, I’m-as-drunk-as-a-skunk voice. “Vagina or dick, short or tall, waxed or hairy, preferably hot.”
“So basically”—I point to him with my wineglass—“you’ll take anything.”
“In a nutshell,” Daniel replies as he types something in. “Scratch the preferably.”
I laugh as I lie back; the room is beginning to spin. “I have to go to bed.” I sigh. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Not so fast,” Daniel says. “We’re making you a profile next.”
“I am not getting on a dating website. For your information,” I slur, “there isn’t a man on earth who could impress me in writing. And besides, I’m way too inebriated.”
“Yes,” he insists.
“Not right now, the timing isn’t right.”
Daniel types furiously. “You have to fill these things out while you’re drunk, and there is no time like the present.”
“What if someone found out it was me?” I asked, horrified. “I would never live it down.”
“Nobody cares about dating apps, everybody does it,” Rebecca scoffs as if I’m clueless. “Don’t use your real name, then.”