Page 17 of Wish You Were Here
‘Agreed,’ says Abigail. ‘All the men I’ve met on dating apps are only after one thing. Dating apps are just the modern version of someone coming up behind you on the dancefloor and attempting to grind their penis into your lower back to ‘Mr Boombastic’ by Shaggy.’
‘Definitely not ‘fantastic’,’ says Poppy.
‘But that’s the thing,’ says Will. ‘Ben is actually after love and commitment. Maybe he will stand out from the one-night stand crowd. He’s happy to keep his penis firmly in his pants!’
‘I didn’t agree to that!’ I say.
‘Ewww,’ says Poppy.
‘Anyway, no offence to your Ben Macdui friends, but I don’t want my meet cute to be dating app. It just doesn’t scream romantic comedy, does it? Coming soon from the writer ofLove Actually, starring Keira Knightley and Ryan Gosling,We Met Online!’
‘I’d watch that!’ says Hugh. ‘I love Ryan G!’
‘So,’ says Poppy, ignoring Hugh and his slightly too eager enthusiasm for Ryan Gosling. ‘Unless you meet because of some sort of classic miscommunication, or you hate each other and then love each other, she’s a time traveller or a film star searching for love away from the limelight, you can’t be together? Because that might severely hamper your search for true love.’
‘Which is already down to just nine women,’ says Abigail.
‘What does that mean?’ asks Will, and Abigail explains my theory about the potential number of eligible women in Greater London.
‘That’s bonkers!’ says Poppy. ‘Nine? In all of London?’
‘There must be literally thousands,’ says Hugh.
‘You’d think so, but there just isn’t,’ I reply, and after that bombshell, everyone is quiet for a while, probably trying to do the sums in their heads. I can almost hear them trying to work out how in the hell I arrived at the figure of just nine women in a city of ten million people. ‘And it isn’t that I need some incredible love story for the ages, but I draw the line at online dating. For now, at least. Perhaps if I get desperate.’
‘So what, a few weeks then?’ says Flatmate Simon, and everyone laughs at my expense.
As with most of our brunches, it lasts about two hours before we all have to head off. Poppy and Hugh have something wildly boring and married to do, like go to B&Q and get some drill bits. Will has an afternoon ramble with a girl he met at his gym, butit definitely isn’t a date, he clarifies, and then something strange happens. I am going back to the flat and I imagine that Flatmate Simon is going to come with me, but Abigail says, ‘I’m heading into town, there’s an exhibition at the Tate,’ which is fine and definitely like the sort of thing she might say, but then Flatmate Simon says, ‘Oh, really, I heard about that exhibition at the Tate, and it’s something I’d really like to see too,’ which is definitely not like something he would say, and then Abigail replies, ‘Why don’t you come along?’ Flatmate Simon says he will, and then they leave together and presumably head off to the Tate Gallery. This is strange for a number of reasons, but mainly because one: Flatmate Simon has zero interest in art galleries. Two: Abigail and Flatmate Simon don’t, as far as I know, hang out together, and three: The entire conversation felt like they were reading from a carefully worded script. I wonder what is going on.
‘See you next weekend?’ says Poppy before she leaves.
‘For?’ I ask, trying to remember what it is I’ve forgotten.
‘Mum’s birthday? We’re having lunch at their house. It’s been arranged for weeks. It’s in the family calendar. I sent you two messages on WhatsApp.’
‘Oh, right, yes, of course. Mum’s birthday.’
‘You had no idea, did you? I’m buying a card and flowers. Want to go halves?’
‘As always, yes,’ I reply because this means I don’t have to do anything or think about it. This happens every year on both of our parents’ birthdays. Poppy will get them a gift, a card and I will chip in some money. Earlier in the year, ‘we’ got Dad a bottle of his favourite Scottish whisky. We are good children.
I am back at the flat food prepping. It’s something new I am trying. I eat the worst lunches at work, and often I get home late, so I grab something quick on the way – usually fast-food – microwave something, or just graze on processed rubbish allnight until I am full. This method of living seemed to be fine in my early to mid-twenties, but over the last year or so, I have seen a gradual weight increase, feelings of sluggishness and a general malaise creep into my consciousness. I realised I had to do something different, and so now I am the sort of man who spends Sunday afternoons food prepping for the week ahead. It is boring, time-consuming, and not very exciting, but it makes my week easier and healthier.
I am slicing carrots when my phone rumbles with a notification, and when I look down, I see an email from Saskia. I excitedly open the email.
Dear Beno,
Do you mind me calling you Beno? In Australia, we like to put an o on the end of everything so it sounds more endearing. Here are some of my personal favourites: Ambulance = ambo. Bottle shop = Bottle-o. Devastated = Devo. Documentary = Doco. Musician = Muso. Relative = Relo. Salvation Army = Salvo. Vegetarian = Veggo. So, Beno? What do you think?
I am excited about our FaceTime. I was thinking that because of the time difference, it’s either a night for you and a morning for me or vice versa. What works better for you? I am definitely not a morning person and work better at night, but happy to work around your schedule. Maybe next weekend? Does that work?
I have a gig this week at a pub in Sydney. It should be to a pretty decent audience, so we’ll see how it goes. Let me know about FaceTime. Okay, off to practise some songs for the gig. I’m trying out a new one.
Sas (muso) x
I immediately reply.
Dear Saso,
