Thank You, Next: A perfect, uplifting and funny romantic comedy Read online

  Plenty more fish in the sea, I told myself, feeling another giggle rising in my throat. Just as well I was easily pleased – I was going to have to be, if I was to find anything in common with a bloke who, my Stargazer app told me, would be introspective, scatterbrained, forgetful and sulky. Hard work, in other words, I thought despondently.

  ‘So what’s this, then?’ Robbie burst back into the kitchen. ‘There’s a massive crowd out there today. Alice reckons we’ll need more sangers and we’re out of ham.’

  ‘Let’s do beetroot hummus and avocado. I feel bad about the avos coming from Peru and they’re certainly not organic, but what can you do? How many years on and we still haven’t reached peak avocado – people can’t get enough of them.’

  ‘Never mind about avocado air miles,’ Robbie said, pulling a tub of purple hummus out of the fridge. ‘Talk me through the dungeon thing. Whips and chains, or just a bit of light restraint?’

  ‘None. Of. The. Above. Honestly, if you’d been paying attention for five seconds, you’d know that Alice is organising a Dungeons & Dragons group in the pub. Or rather Drew was, but now Drew can’t, so I am. At least, I’ve been delegated to find someone who can, and I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Google?’

  ‘Tried that. And there isn’t a version of Tinder that matches Dungeon Masters to groups of players that don’t even actually exist yet, unsurprisingly.’

  ‘Reddit?’

  ‘I never go on there; it’s too scary.’

  ‘I know, right? Full of weirdos and incels.’

  Since I was quite the involuntary celibate myself, I didn’t feel qualified to comment on that.

  ‘We’ve got six people signed up for the game already,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure others will join nearer the time. But if we don’t have someone in charge who actually knows what they’re doing, it’ll be a massive flop, Alice will be disappointed and we’ll have to find something else to go on the social calendar for Tuesday nights.’

  ‘And we’ve already got the monthly open-mic poetry slam, the board-games evenings, the bingo nights on Thursdays…’

  ‘The stitch and bitch sessions, the pay-what-you-like lunches for pensioners…’

  ‘Live music once a month…’

  ‘The mums and tots groups…’

  ‘Maurice and his mates teaching people dominoes, although that’s not really a formal thing…’

  ‘But we’ve got to keep coming up with new stuff, to keep the place buzzing.’

  ‘Although quite how bringing a bunch of nerds in once a week to fight pretend monsters counts as buzzing, I’m not entirely sure,’ Robbie said.

  ‘Don’t knock D&D – it’s massively zeitgeisty right now,’ I argued. ‘Alice said so, anyway. And Drew Barrymore’s a fan. Anything she does basically comes with a badge of cool, right?’

  Robbie looked unconvinced, but he said, ‘One of my mates from school plays, I think. Well, when I say mate, more someone I know. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen pictures of dice and shit on his Insta feed. I’ll ask and see if he has any ideas.’

  For Robbie to make such a concession was pretty good going, and as much help as I was going to get from him, so I thanked him and we both turned back to the sandwich platters. Then my phone buzzed, then buzzed again – a double notification. I reached for it and flicked the screen to life.

  Is it feeling kind of like groundhog day there, Aquarius? asked the astrology app.

  And Tinder had a message for me, too. Well, an image. An image of a penis that looked almost uncannily like a potato. A dodgy, misshapen one that would have been on a one-way street to the compost, had it turned up in my kitchen.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ I told Stargazer grimly.

  Seven

  Is that romance making your heart beat faster, Aquarius, or did you just run up the stairs?

  Over the next couple of weeks, I spent many, many hours on Project Pisces. Just narrowing down my pool (gettit?) of potential dates to those who had actually been born between February 19th and March 20th was my first challenge. It felt kind of rude and abrupt to ask someone their zodiac sign as soon as I’d matched with them – but then, if I was going to do this thing systematically and scientifically, as I’d promised myself I would, I couldn’t go wasting my time and theirs exchanging chit-chat with blokes who were born under the sign of Sagittarius, when I was only going to get around to dating them in several months’ time – could I?

  So I kept my approach pretty simple. I got a match, maybe a bland ‘How’s it going?’ message (or maybe a dick pic, but I was getting so used to those that they barely registered – the ‘delete, block, ignore’ sequence was so ingrained now, I was sure I could do it in my sleep), and I replied cheerfully with a ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking, but what’s your star sign?’

  Helpfully, some guys already had theirs listed on their profile, and that made it easier, although I didn’t swipe right on every Pisces man – of course not. There were just as many of them, it seemed, who had pictures of themselves with some poor drugged tiger in Thailand, or with their ex-girlfriend’s face half cut off at the edge, or wearing a baseball cap backwards, and I had standards to uphold.

  The responses I got to my question varied. A high number thought it was hilarious to reply informing me that they’d been born under the sign of the ram, bull or goat, and therefore – you guessed it – they were horny. Delete, block, ignore. Some asked, ‘My what?’ in which case I’d ask the question again, and helpfully tell them that if they told me when their birthday was, I could work it out myself. And, of course, a high proportion simply ignored my question and never messaged me again.

  Lying on my bed with Frazzle purring on my feet, I asked myself over and over again whether all this was worth it, and whether I shouldn’t find some other way to spend hours and hours of my leisure time, like training for a marathon or painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or something. But I’d set myself this challenge, embarked on this project, and now I felt strangely compelled to carry on with it.

  By the end of April, I was regularly exchanging messages with Mitchell, who met my criteria but was working away in Glasgow for a couple of weeks; Rich, who was a nurse working in accident and emergency and whose shifts seemed to have been planned to coincide with my time off; and Paul. Pisces Paul – it had a nice ring to it. His pictures showed a nice-looking guy with glasses and a beard, he lived in South London too, and soon he suggested that we should meet up one evening in a local park for a glass of wine, as the weather was so nice.

  At first, when he’d suggested it, I’d fleetingly thought, In a park? What’s wrong with a pub, like normal people go to on dates? But I’d dismissed the thought – the early May weather was glorious, the cherry trees laden with blossom and the sky a clear blue day after day – not that I got to enjoy very much of it, because I spent all my days inside a pub. So I decided that Paul was on to something. An al fresco date would be fun. It would be different. And crucially, it would be cheap – my wages didn’t amount to much and Paul, who’d told me he was studying for a PhD in medieval literature, was probably even skinter.

  When the day of our date came, I finished the prep for the Sunday roast at the Ginger Cat and the main rush of service, and escaped upstairs to my flat at three o’clock to get ready, leaving Robbie in charge. I showered and washed my hair, then stood in front of the mirror trying to gauge its mood. My hair, I often thought, was like a particularly troublesome child. I was like the little girl in the nursery rhyme, except instead of one curl I had about a million of them, and it wasn’t me who was very good when I was good, and horrid when I was bad, it was my stupid hair.

  If I spent a fortune on sulphate-free shampoo, argan oil conditioner, mousses and serums, it often behaved itself, falling obligingly into ringlets that looked more copper than ginger. But if I compromised on products, if the weather was wet, if I’d been simmering stock in the kitchen, or sometimes just because it felt like it, it rebelled and
transformed into something you’d scrub a burned pan with. If I resorted to straighteners, it threw an almighty strop and turned into a mass of broken strands and split ends.

  Compared to my hair, Frazzle was totally undemanding.

  Today, I carefully soaked the excess water off it with an old T-shirt, ran three different smoothing potions through it, and ever so gently allowed my hairdryer’s diffuser to breathe on it for a few minutes. There was a moment when I thought it would take exception to that and poof out into a frizzy mess, but I stopped just in time, added more serum and ran my fingers through it gently, then sighed with relief as it dropped into soft curls.

  I pulled on a yellow cotton skirt I’d found in a charity shop, my trusty canvas trainers and a white T-shirt, hastily applied some make-up and headed out, stopping at the corner shop for a bottle of Californian rosé and a bag of cashew nuts. I was starving, and Paul hadn’t mentioned anything about food. Maybe, if it went well, we could grab a takeaway pizza later or go for a curry, but I wasn’t going to ruin the date before it even started by unleashing my hanger on poor, unsuspecting Paul.

  As I hurried towards the park, I checked my phone. There was no message from Paul cancelling; just a screen grab of a map with a pin dropped in the centre of the park – where he wanted us to meet, I guessed, which was thoughtful. The Stargazer app reminded me again of the romantic nature, thoughtfulness and sensitivity of Piscean men – he certainly seemed to be living up to that so far.

  The park, on this beautiful day, was full. There were kids playing on the swings, groups sitting at the wooden tables outside the café with coffee and (I noticed enviously) cake, a group of teenagers playing volleyball, and couples strolling hand in hand along the pathways. For a second, I allowed my mind to imagine that, soon, Paul and I might be among them, but then I pushed the idea aside. It was only my second date; there was no way I’d meet Mr Right – or even Mr Right for Now – so soon. And besides, if the app was to be believed, Pisces wasn’t even a good match for me. This wasn’t supposed to be love at first sight.

  I made my way towards where the pin on the map had directed me, which I realised was the bandstand, perched high on the hill. The wine bottle was running with condensation by the time I reached the top, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I willed my hair not to frizz in the heat, and congratulated myself on my good sense in wearing trainers.

  But, when I neared the bandstand, my steps slowed. There must be some mistake. There was something weird going on. There were two men waiting there together, both in dinner jackets and bow ties. Sometimes couples posed there for wedding photographs, but this wasn’t that – there was no bride in a white dress. A gay wedding? But one of them was seated at a table right in the middle of the bandstand, which had been set with a sparkling white cloth, and the other was standing next to him, rigid, as if at attention, a napkin draped over one arm.

  I stopped and took out my phone, looking around me as I did. There was no sign of any single man perched on a bench or a picnic blanket, or even just looking around awkwardly like I was. Apart from the groups scattered around – many, I could see, staring at the bandstand and speculating among themselves about what might be going on there – there was no one apart from the two men and me.

  My phone vibrated in my hand.

  Is that you, Zoë? Your date awaits!

  ‘Oh my God, cringe!’ Dani said.

  We were at the café next door to the gym, both drinking enormous iced coffees with squirty non-dairy cream on top and eating carrot cake, still in our workout gear.

  ‘I know! Cringe, cringe, cringe, to the max. I was cringing so hard I almost swallowed my own head.’

  ‘Who was the other guy?’

  ‘Paul’s flatmate. He’d got him there to be our waiter. I think his name was Imran. Lovely guy and everything, but…’

  ‘Cringe.’

  ‘Yep. So, so cringe. Everyone was looking at us. People were taking photos and everything.’

  ‘You mean you actually stayed for the date?’

  ‘How could I not? What could I have done, said, “Sorry mate, your romantic gesture is making me die inside and I’m going to fuck off home to my cat?”’

  ‘Must’ve been tempting.’

  ‘Oh God, it so, so was. But at the same time…’

  ‘Awww?’

  ‘Exactly. He’d done this mad romantic thing, he was willing to make a total tit of himself in front of loads of people, I couldn’t be like, “Not working for me, soz, bye.”’

  ‘Yeah, I can kind of see how that would be.’

  ‘So what could I do? I walked over and he got up and – no word of a lie – he kissed my hand. Like I was the queen or something. I nearly died.’

  Dani had a mouthful of coffee and I saw her cheeks bulge as she struggled not to choke on it. ‘He what?’ she spluttered at last.

  ‘You heard right. And then Imran pulled my chair out for me to sit down and poured us both champagne, and Paul gave me an enormous fuck-off bunch of roses, and I didn’t know where to put them so I sat there clutching them like a wedding bouquet or something, until Imran took them off me and stuck them in the ice bucket the fizz was in.’

  ‘And you still had your bottle of cheap wine and your packet of nuts?’

  ‘I did. Oh my God, it was awful. I didn’t know where to put those either. I ended up kind of hiding the nuts in my handbag and putting the wine on the ground by my feet and not mentioning it because here he was with this bottle of Moët that had cost, like, twenty quid.’

  ‘Oh, Zoë. Is it wrong that I’m really glad it happened to you? It’s, like, once-in-a-lifetime mortifying. What happened next?’

  ‘So then Imran opened this massive cooler box – what with that and the table and the two chairs and the flowers the two of them must’ve looked like they were going on an expedition to summit Everest when they walked up that hill – and got out a plate of oysters.’

  ‘Oysters? Oh no.’

  ‘Oh yes. And I don’t have in my profile that I don’t eat meat because, you know, everyone takes the piss out of vegans for saying all the time that they’re vegan. I thought if we ended up going out for food I could just order what I wanted and not say anything.’

  ‘But you couldn’t.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I feel terrible, Dani, but I ate them. I felt too bad not to. I mean, I try to avoid meat but I have to taste it sometimes for work and I told myself this was kind of like that. He had put so much effort in. But it was gross, like swallowing snot, and I read afterwards that the poor things are actually alive when you eat them and I tried to make myself sick but I couldn’t. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself, because after he’d opened the oysters, Imran… Oh my God, I can’t actually bring myself to tell you.’

  ‘Go on!’ Dani leaned in, grinning delightedly.

  I covered my face with my hands and muttered, ‘He only took out a bloody violin and serenaded us.’

  ‘Waaah!’

  ‘Waaah. He’s obviously really good at playing the violin, and he got really into it. He was doing that thing of closing his eyes and kind of throwing his head around. And by this stage, people weren’t just taking photos, there was this whole little crowd around the bandstand videoing us. I’m sure I was literally everyone’s Insta story yesterday. I haven’t logged in because if I saw it I’d legit die.’

  ‘Oh fuck.’ Dani wiped away tears with her napkin. ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘It was so awkward. I couldn’t even have a proper conversation with Paul, because all there really was to say was how much trouble he’d gone to and how mad it all was, and anyway, even though he was doing the violin thing, obviously Imran would’ve been able to overhear anything we said. I tried to ask Paul about medieval literature, but he kept getting interrupted when Imran stopped playing to top up our glasses or put more food out or whatever.’

  ‘There was more food?’

  ‘There were olives and asparagus and strawberries dipped in chocolate, s
o that was okay in theory. But actually I didn’t feel like eating anything after the oysters. Why does anyone think those things are an aphrodisiac?’

  ‘I’ve never had oysters,’ Dani said. ‘But I’ll take your word for it. And stick to cake for now, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ I forked up a huge bit of my cake, which I’d checked had been made with dairy-free cream cheese frosting to help alleviate my guilt about the oyster. It was delicious – melting and sweet and studded with walnuts and, crucially, not a bivalve mollusc. And I was eating it without an audience.

  ‘Anyway, so go on,’ Dani urged. ‘I need to hear what happened next.’

  ‘It was a bit better once the food was finished,’ I admitted. ‘I was a bit pissed by then, and Imran had moved away to the other side of the bandstand so it didn’t feel like he was hanging over us earwigging. But to be honest, I was so over the whole thing by then and it was just so toe-curlingly awful I just wanted to go home and never think or speak of it again.’

  ‘Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you invent a text from a mate or an emergency at work or something?’

  ‘Dani, I couldn’t! It was like I was paralysed. It was the most awkward thing ever. Paul was so proud of himself and he kept going on about how he wants to treat a woman like a princess, and did I like the food and would I like more champagne, or would I prefer white wine, and I just couldn’t leave. And anyway by that stage it was starting to get dark and I thought that would probably give me an excuse to go.’

  ‘And did it?’

  I nodded. ‘Eventually. But not before he’d got Imran to take a photo of us with the sunset behind us, and said he wanted something special to remember our date by, and he’d send it to me and we could both make it the background on our phones.’

  ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Yup. That was the weird thing. Like, up until then, I’d thought it was really all quite sweet, even though it was the most over-the-top and mortifying thing ever, but after the first hour or so he started talking like we were going to be together, like it was a given.’