She noticed one couple on a table to her left who looked like they’d just arrived, piling their jackets behind them on a hook. He was in his mid-thirties, all floppy blond hair and checked shirt. He wore drainpipe jeans and Dr Marten boots. She was wearing a plain black T-shirt and grey skinny jeans that showed off her impossibly thin legs. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, caramel tresses that looked as if they hadn’t been trimmed for six months or so. She wasn’t wearing any make-up.
The way he touched her when she hung up her coat indicated an intimacy and familiarity, the kind you have with someone you’ve already slept with. They wouldn’t have met on an app, Rose reasoned. They’d be the kind of people that looked down on dating apps, telling their friends they preferred to meet people ‘the organic way’ because it was ‘more authentic’. She watched as they settled into their evening, arms resting on the table, folding over one another.
7.42 p.m. Jake was a bit late now. Rose reopened their WhatsApp conversation. The first thing she noticed was that the ‘Last Seen’ bit had disappeared underneath his name: ‘Jake Hinge’. His profile picture – a shot of him wearing a snorkel in Mauritius – had also gone. He had read her last message, though, because it had two blue ticks next to it. Rose’s mouth went dry.
Hey, are you okay? she wrote, aware of the futility as she tapped ‘Send’, prompting a single grey tick to pop up next to her message. She waited, staring at her phone screen until it went dark and locked itself. When she felt tears rolling down her cheeks, she wiped them off, looking around the pub to check no one had noticed. It must have been obvious what had happened. Even if no one was looking, the humiliation was overwhelming. She gulped down what was left in the gin and tonic, threw her jacket over her shoulders and left.
Rose knew what she was supposed to do now; the script had been written endless times. She was supposed to go into another bar with better lighting, flirt with the barman and tell him what had happened while he plied her with free shots of vodka. Then she’d hear all about the ex-girlfriend who cheated on him with his best mate and they’d tumble into his warehouse flat in Stoke Newington together at 2 a.m., messily trying to undress one another. Against all odds, they’d have incredible sex and Rose would come three times just from foreplay.
But she did not have the energy to chase that fantasy. Not tonight. Instead, she crossed the road to buy a packet of Marlboro Golds at the off-licence. As she stood outside digging through her bag for her wallet, a homeless woman wrapped in a red blanket asked her for money. Rose fished out her wallet and handed her the £10 note she had withdrawn that afternoon to buy lunch in the food market near the office on Monday.
‘Thank you, love,’ she whispered.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Why are you crying?’
‘Oh,’ Rose laughed, rubbing the tears away from her face. ‘Sorry. I just got stood up.’
‘Oh, my girl. Men are awful.’
‘Yes, ha. Yes, they are.’
‘Do you have any pills?’
‘Oh, erm, no. So sorry.’
Rose walked inside the off-licence, where ‘The Way You Are’ by Milo Jax was playing on the radio.
FOUR
‘Hey, I really miss you too. I’m so sorry it’s taken me a while to reply. Are you still not sleeping? Have you tried those Nytol things? Don’t bother with the herbal ones. How’s home? When are you coming back? Oh, sorry, yes, yes just one flat white for me please. Oh, er, don’t worry. Soy milk is fine, yes. Thanks so much. God, sorry, Lu, I’m getting Minnie a coffee. Give me a ring when you can – I’ve deleted the dating app. Will explain why when we talk. Had a bit of a … Oh, brilliant, thank you. Yes please, more foam on that one would be great. Okay. Erm, anyway, yes, give me a ring. Love you so much.’
Rose’s phone made a satisfying whoosh as the voice note delivered. The ticks turned blue immediately: a pang of guilt; Luce only ever opened messages instantly when she was in the deep depression stage of her break-ups. Something to deal with later.
‘Actually, do you mind just holding on to these while I go to the loo?’ Rose asked the barista in Starbucks.
‘Of course, miss.’
‘Thank you!’
There was a man in front of her in the queue. He was tall, gangly and fidgety, as if he’d been up all night snorting something. The second the bathroom was free, a couple exited together with their child, whose nappy they’d just presumably changed.
‘So sorry,’ the mother said to the slowly forming queue of people.
‘No worries,’ Rose smiled back.
The man ignored her and walked straight into the bathroom, bringing the door to a close with a loud thud.
A few seconds later he emerged, still irate about something. Rose went inside. Sitting on the toilet, she realised there was no toilet roll and that this was probably what the man had gone to collect.
As she was wriggling back into her knickers, someone started knocking furiously on the door.
‘Sorry! I’m just in here,’ Rose whimpered.
The knocking turned to banging and the door was shaking. ‘Get the fuck out!’ a voice boomed.
Rose quickly pulled herself up and opened the door.
The man who’d gone to get toilet roll was standing in front of her, fists clenched, brow furrowed.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ the man screamed at her, his face inches away from Rose’s.
Even if she wanted to speak, she couldn’t. Her body was trembling too much. She managed to take a step to the right to get out of this man’s way.
‘How dare you. Stupid bitch!’ he shouted, slamming the bathroom door so loudly even the baristas were looking over.
Rose stood there silently for a while, unsure what to do. She started shaking.
There were three people in the queue now, silently observing her to see what she would do next. One woman and two men. Rose was staring at the floor when the woman came over to check she was okay.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘What a bellend,’ was about all she could make out from what this woman said.
Back at work, things were busy. She was grateful for the distraction. It was something to do: getting on the Tube, picking up the coffees and then coming home and breathing a sigh of relief because the day was almost over. Rose couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night, often waking up at 1 or 2 a.m., looking at her phone and then lying there for hours, waiting for it to get light outside, or hearing the sound of her neighbours’ water running upstairs. It was only after she had some sign of life, or reassurance that she wasn’t the only person awake, that she was able to fall back asleep.
Rose had blocked Milo on Instagram during one of her 4 a.m. scrolling sessions last night. She had gone past the point of caring if he noticed. And even if he did, it was her only way of communicating something to him. Still, Rose found herself continuing to check her DM requests in the blind hope she might still have a message from him, who, noticing she had now blocked him, would be so desperate to contact her that he’d reach out on one of his secret accounts. But there was never anything there aside from bots saying they loved her style and wanted brand ambassadors to represent their fake athleisure companies.
