"Dicks!"

"Samira!" I admonish but give her an appreciative smile. "I'm sure as Director of HR you should not say that."

"Maybe. But as your friend and as a woman with a brain I call it as it is." She shrugs and returns her attention to her spreadsheet.

"Want to go for a coffee after work?" she asks whilst formatting a table. Samira and I first bonded over our love for Excel. If you find someone else who gets a metaphorical boner for conditional formatting, you have to become friends, right?

"I can't. I'm meeting the girls for dinner," I shoot her a sad look. Honestly, I'd rather have a cuppa with Samira, but it's been ages since I caught up with my friends. Usually when we do manage to meet, for them it's all about hitting the booze and taking the mickey out of me. I'm not much of a drinker, though―it tends to bring me down, and Smutty, my feline overlord, can't stand the smell of alcohol on me. Yeah, my cat rules me with an iron paw, but those big yellow eyes in his squishy black face? They're impossible to resist. So I'm a good subservient and stick to lemonade. There’s nothing duller than being the lone teetotaller in the room. What drunk people find amusing is about as entertaining to sober me as a trip to the gynaecologist.

"Uh, the witches of Battersea," Samira rolls her eyes. She met Miranda and Bea once and took an instant dislike to them. She doesn't get why I let them insult me. I tried to explain that it’s just a bit of banter but she thinks they’re bullies. They are my oldest friends though. We grew up together in a small village not far from London and have known each other for donkey’s years. Whilst I still live in the village―I love that place―, they convinced their other halves to move to a fancy estate in trendy Battersea where they are stay-at-home mums.

Bea is married with two kids and Miranda’s wedding is happening in a few weeks. Sim-Sim (or Simon Gordon junior for those not in the know) is finally taking her down the aisle after they had a child out of wedlock, and it's all everyone can talk about. Both their families were in uproar when Miranda and Simon announced that they were pregnant before getting hitched, like we were still in the 1950s. The christening of Simon junior junior was tense, to say the least.

But however different our lives may be, they are my oldest friends and really they are some of the few people I have in my life. I was never particularly close with my parents and now that they live in Madeira―Mum needs the warmer climate―, I see them once a year at the most. There are a few people I occasionally meet up with, but I wouldn’t consider them friends. They are more acquaintances. Getting close to people isn’t my strong suit. So, there's Samira at work, and then there’re Bea and Miranda.

“You should join us sometime,” I suggest and Samira raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, they are nice.” I mean, Miranda is definitely the nicer of the two. Bea can be testing sometimes.

Before Samira can reply her mobile rings, interrupting our conversation. I open my emails; the first one is from Richard with the subject line “Consultants we could use.” I hate this job.

The screen of my phone lights up when I tap it. Ten past six. They’re half an hour late again. They’re always late. Always. And I don't get it. They’re mums with nannies. Surely you can plan to leave the house on time to be at the restaurant when we agreed.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Miranda squeaks dramatically as she takes a seat. "Simon needed some help with his homework and then Sim-Sim called and asked me to drop off some documents he’d forgotten at home. Just be glad you’re single," she exhales to show how exhausting her life is.

"That's okay,—" I don't get to finish my sentence as Bea drops into the remaining chair. Both immediately start complaining about their lives and try to outdo each other with who is the busiest and whose kids are the most gifted. As always, I fade into the background. The most I could share is that Smutty managed to vomit his furball in my slipper last night.

"So, how are you?" Bea addresses me.

"I'm… fine." I never know what else to say. My life revolves around work, Smutty and my adventure trips abroad. "Well, aside from my boss throwing me under the bus." I laugh a little apprehensively. I have tried talking to them about work before, but they didn’t show much interest.

"Ah, men are just idiots. Look at my husband to be. Sim-Sim told me to get the purple flowers because they’re his mother’s favourite because what does it really matter, and… I’m sorry, Amelia. We were talking about you. It’s just this wedding's driving me crazy. So, any interesting dates on the horizon?" she asks with a sheepish look on her face.

Oh, here comes the dreaded conversation. I know exactly how this will go. I’ll confirm that I am indeed still just dating my vibrator, aka I mumble "No, nobody." And that causes them both to give me a sorrowful head tilt and a sad, "Maybe you’re too picky." We have been down this road a million times.

"I thought you just said men are idiots?" I counter Miranda's question. I'm really not in the mood for the usual pity party.

"You just need to train your significant other properly," Bea laughs and takes a sip of my lemonade. "Eww, I forgot you don't drink."

"You mean you trained your husband like a poodle?" I can't help myself, I had to say it. Two pairs of eyes bore into me.

"You can't expect to find the perfect guy, Amelia. You have to make him perfect," Bea rebukes, giving me a stern look. It stings a bit because she's suggesting that, naturally, the issue lies with me. But it also makes me squirm a tad because I don’t want to have to “train” a guy. I'm not searching for Mr. Flawless; I'm yearning for someone whose quirks fit mine like a jigsaw puzzle. I'm more into the "let's embrace each other's weirdness" vibe.

But then, I’m the only single person at the table. Maybe Bea and Miranda are right and I'm just a bit green, but I've been with guys who seemed like they needed “fixing,” and you can't fix a person. Everyone has their own personality, and I believe you should love them for it, not despite it.

"Well, maybe you’ll find out soon," Bea announces excitedly before grabbing her menu, like she doesn't already know she'll have the salad. She’s on a strict fitness regime and I can't remember ever having gone for a meal with her when she didn't eat a salad. There is always a twang of guilt when I stuff my face with a creamy lasagne or juicy steak whilst she scrapes dressing off her lettuce to reduce the calorie intake, but then the food touches my tongue and the flavours explode and I tell myself fuck it. This is worth the squishy bits on my hips, and arse… and, well, thighs.

"What do you mean?" Miranda probes, but before Bea can reply the waiter interrupts to take our orders. One salad and one plain chicken breast with broccoli for the girls, mac and cheese for me. Fuck it! I have a feeling that when Bea tells me what she’s done I’ll probably need some comfort food.

Bea leans back and looks at us with a smirk. She pauses dramatically before holding up her phone and announcing, "I’ve signed you up for online dating."

2

Play With Fire

Amelia

I can feel rage rising in me, but I try to keep my breathing steady.

"Excuse me?" My voice sounds a little bit shaky, but the others don't seem to notice.

"You need a date for Miranda’s wedding," she shrugs and opens an app.

"Oh, exciting! Show us!" Miranda giggles and the two focus on Bea's phone. I'm frozen in anger. That's what I do. Inside, there's a war raging, but on the outside, I present myself as calm, collected, and completely unaffected. It can be handy in certain life situations, but right now, I'd rather unleash a full-on banshee scream than sit there, seemingly unfazed by it all.

"No, she can't get that one," Bea says and swipes left. "Out of her league, out of her league, out of her league." Her fingers fly over the screen and keep swiping left. I squint and look closer. Guy after guy in dark suits with broody looks. What app is this? Then I spot something that makes me gasp.

"Excuse me, why does it say ‘Daddy Dom’ on that guy’s profile?" On the screen is a silver fox called Sam. He’s wearing a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up and holding a belt in his hands. The smirk on his face makes it perfectly clear what he’s after.

"It's a BDSM app," Bea replies, shooting me a questioning look. "You are into that, right?"

"What?" I splutter.

"BDSM," she says slowly just as the waiter puts a drink on the table. He snorts and I want to die. Right here, I want to die.

"What makes you think that?" I whisper shout.

"Well, you read the books."

"I read ONE book." Ages ago they saw a dark romance on my Kindle and ever since they’ve been joking that I'm into BDSM. I mean, I do read some very smutty stuff (and the girls don’t need to know that this is a regular occurrence.) But there are a lot of elements to BDSM that are really not my thing.

"See," Bea smirks, like one book is enough to make me a subscriber to Dominatrix Weekly. Miranda giggles, but stops when I don’t join in. I snatch the phone from the table.

"Hey," Bea objects and tries to grab it back but I’m too quick.

“Where did you get the photo from?” I inhale sharply when I see the profile picture. It’s me in bed with Smutty curled up in front of me.

“I took a screenshot when we had our Sunday morning video call a few weeks ago,” she shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

I gasp for air and try to formulate words but nothing comes to mind. Instead, I get up and walk away from them. I find a quiet corner and take a deep breath. My fingers fly over the screen until I find the profile settings. There's a moment where I contemplate deleting the account, but instead I change the password and email address linked to it, replacing them with my own. Essentially, I'm shutting Bea out. The only justification I can offer is curiosity; that's why I’m not deleting the account.

"Here." I hold out her phone as I get back to the table and she gives me a miffed look.

"What did you do?"

"Removed the account." From your phone. “Don’t do that again!” My voice is cold.

Miranda looks uncomfortable from me to Bea and then puts some veggies in her mouth as if she doesn’t want to be dragged into this argument.

"Do you want to die as an old cat lady?" Bea asks through a mouthful of her rabbit food. If her husband could see her now. He's like thirty-fifth in line to the throne or something, and she acts all snobbish around him. Totally different from how she is with us. I guess he “trained” her.