"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.
"I didn't ask for help. And why is it so important to you that I'm in a relationship?"
"It's not normal to be single at our age," Bea scoffs. "And the pool is getting smaller and smaller." I don't need to ask what she means by that.
"Says who?" I ask defiantly, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
"I mean, you probably don't want children this old," Miranda suggests, trying to argue my side even if her comment feels like another dig. I'm forty-one. Fair enough, it would be harder now but it wouldn’t require a medical miracle.
"But you don't want to die alone either," Bea adds. And here we are with death again. I'm forty-freak'n-one. I could live another forty years. Again that would not constitute a medical miracle.
"I have plenty of time to find someone. But you know what, even if I don’t, I won't die alone. I'll have Smutty. Although he may chew up my face if nobody finds me early enough," I give them a smirk and take a big spoonful of pasta.
Bea’s eyes fall on my food and she is about to give me a snide comment about it, I’m sure, but I cut her off.
"So, what are you going to do about the flowers?" I divert the attention from me to Miranda. Just like every other time, this works like a treat. Both like nothing better than to talk about weddings. Shoes, flowers, music, who will bitch about the food, who can't sit next to whom because they hate each other. I don't get it. I'm a bit of a wedding-phobe. I like the idea of being married, of promising one special person that you'll be there for them for the rest of your life. But the idea of a wedding with uncomfortable clothes, overpriced meals and forced dancing makes me shudder. Lucky for me, Miranda’s soon-to-be husband only has one groomsman so she can only have one bridesmaid. I have never volunteered quicker for anything than sitting out bridesmaid duties.
It's after ten by the time I get back to my small cottage on the outskirts of Little Hadlow. I’ve lived in this village all my life. The house I grew up in is only two streets over from my cottage. Little Hadlow is a stone's throw from Sevenoaks and close enough to London for a daily commute to work. So, if I ever fancy a bit of city life, it's there for the taking. Yet, despite its proximity to the capital, Little Hadlow still feels like a whole different world. Rural, quiet, less pretentious and more … homely. Even after my parents moved, I never really wanted to live anywhere else .
As I approach the front door all seems quiet but I'm sure I'm being watched. I can almost feel his eyes bore into me from the darkness behind the ground floor window. Smutty won't let me hear the end of returning home so late and making him wait for his dinner. He’s a little drama queen… drama king, just a bit of a pain in the arse to be honest. I found him when he was tiny, drenched from the rain and shaking from the cold. I searched for his mum and owner but couldn't find anyone and so I took him home, pepped him up and ever since my house has been his kingdom. What he wants, he gets.
