I would be having words with him about that later.
She nodded. ‘Fair point.’
Mum was trying to make herself look busy. ‘But you did know he was thinking about it?’
I pretended not to hear her, suddenly extremely engrossed in the gingham apron I still had tied around my waist.
‘Penny?’
I threw up my hands. ‘Fine. I did know he wanted to date again. He spoke to Joe and me about it last time we went round.’
It was rare that I managed to surprise my Mum. But I could tell that on this particular occasion, I had. Her features immediately creased, before her expression settled into one of mild disinterest.
‘Oh, really?’
I stared at my tea, willing someone to ring me with a work emergency.
‘Did he like the lemon cake?’
I tried to make eye contact with her, but she’d turned away from me to restock her fridge with cans of Diet Coke and San Pellegrino. The blood orange kind.
‘He practically started salivating at the sight of it.’ I paused. ‘I don’t think it’s anything serious.’
Mum’s lips were white. ‘It’s okay, you shouldn’t have to play it down.’
Angela was standing, getting her umbrella out. ‘I’d better go and pick up little Lola from school.’ Angela’s first grandchild was her pride and joy. ‘Besides, this feels like a family affair.’
Mum protested. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I know, I know. But it’s still strange, even after all this time. If I don’t go now, Lola will think her Nanny has forgotten her. Don’t work yourselves too hard, do you hear me?’ She turned her attention to me. ‘Both of you.’
I gave her a quick wave as she headed out the door.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
She seemed to shake herself out of a moment, already moving onto the next task and disappearing into the kitchen. A few seconds later she reappeared with a tray of pastries, and the haunted look was gone.
‘I’m fine. Like Angela said, it’s a weird feeling. Don’t tell me anything else about it, I’d rather not know. The world is small, I bet I know half the women my age that are on the app.’ She handed me a croissant. ‘Want to take one of these back for Maeve?’
I let her spread raspberry jam onto the pastry, sensing that she needed to keep busy for a minute. The café was quiet, and aside from a brief interlude to box up four butterscotch cupcakes for an elderly woman (for the grandkids, she’d assured us, like the owner of a bakery was going to judge anyone for too much sugar) it was just the two of us, stirring cups of tea.
‘Really though, Pen,’ she broke the silence, ‘I want you to know that you’re bigger than any boy trouble. Any of it.’
I knew she was referring to both Isaac’s radio silence and the article.
‘Maybe you have the right idea.’ I slumped on the counter. ‘Maybe I should just ignore all of it. Focus on work.’
After all, I’d learnt it from the best.
16
I grabbed another glass of prosecco without a second thought.
‘You’re my new favourite person.’ The waitress was already moving on, but gave me a weary smile on her way to offer her tray to a group of older men (because of course, this room was teeming with them).
It was Tuesday, weirdly early in the week for a corporate mixer. It was the kind of event where Rory and I usually divided and conquered; he handled the small talk, I handled the business chat. Today, I just wanted to get drunk. My phone buzzed.
Maeve: Oh, Pen. I’m sorry. At least now you know, though?
I downed the dregs of glass number three and smoothed out my maroon leather trousers from where they’d creased lightly in the taxi. Maeve had informed me last night that red leather trousers were a power move, that screamed ‘don’t you dare ask my male business partner questions instead of me’. Since she was the expert in all things psychological, I’d decided to trust her. I typed out a quick response.
Screw men. Seriously. Screw Adrian and Isaac and all the other shitheads.
It was four days since my date with Isaac. The word ‘date’ being used in the loosest way possible, given that the date had never happened. I’d spent Friday night knee-deep in egg fried rice and reality TV with Maeve, and then I’d chased up on Saturday afternoon – a whole week since our last text – only to be met with silence until about twenty minutes ago. I’d hidden my phone screen from Rory and Harriet, who’d been on either side of me, too embarrassed to admit to my dumping on a weathered leather taxi seat.
Isaac: Hey, sorry for the radio silence. Been a really mad week. I’ve been thinking about everything and I do really like you, but I’ve been talking to another of my Level matches and I think our connection might be deeper. I’m sorry.
I reread it again, getting more and more fuelled up. A deeper connection? I thought you were only speaking to one of us! I grabbed another glass from another tray. Why did men chat such shit? There had been no need to lie; dishing out six matches was the whole point of Level. It was to be expected that someone could be talking to multiple people at once. So why lie about it? I’d assumed that by taking on the challenge of using Level, I was signing myself up for wasting my time. I hadn’t foreseen total humiliation. Maybe the app just gave people another excuse to screw each other over. Were six perfect matches too many? Ridiculous, given that my app couldn’t manage to spit me out one reasonable human being.
‘On the good stuff, I see.’ Harriet appeared beside me, the click of her heels audible from a mile off. She clocked my expression. ‘Everything okay?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. ‘Mhmm.’
Harriet was a mother. She could read you like a book. I felt her eyes giving me a once over. ‘Right. I definitely believe you. Rory looks like he’s killing it over there.’
I spotted him on the other side of the room, chatting to two women. The four of us – me, Ror, Harriet and Ella – had spruced ourselves up in the office bathrooms after lunch before hightailing it over to London Bridge where the mixer was being held. Rory had bought a new suit for the occasion; sleek, fitted and navy. He pushed his shirt sleeves further up his forearms now, revealing the product of his lunchtime gym breaks.
I cleared my throat, not wanting to dwell on him shamelessly flirting. Could we not take him anywhere? ‘Forget him. Look at our other social butterfly.’
