Page 23 of One Hot Summer

“Fine,” she huffed, and took her phone, typing in the answers to the basic questions and uploading a profile photo. She chose one from Rome, where she was standing with her back to the Trevi Fountain, her sunglasses on top of her head, one hand held up to shield her eyes from the sun. “There,” she said, handing her phone back to me after a few minutes. “Are you happy?”

I studied her profile, making sure I approved of the answers, when…

Ping.

“Woah, already? Check you out,” I said as the app suddenly pinged with a notification of someone liking her profile.

Ping: another like.

Ping: request to meet.

Ping: another like.

Ping: message request.

“These guys must be glued to the app waiting for fresh meat!”

“Let me see.” She wanted her phone back, but I got the first look. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Ha, typical. When I uploaded my profile, I got all the weirdos sending me crude messages. You’re getting all the hot ones. Look at this one,” I turned the phone for her to see, “Matthew, aged thirty-two from Leeds, veterinary surgeon. Unbelievable.”

“Oh, he looks nice.” She took the phone from me. “And look at this one too! Anthony, twenty-nine from Huddersfield, an audio engineer. Looks like he works at the local radio station. This might not be such a bad idea after all.”

“Is everything okay with your food?” the waitress asked.

“Yes.” Sarah smiled as I remembered I hadn’t started mine, and began munching on a chicken wing. “It’s great, thank you.”

“Well, it looks like you’ll be inundated with dates in no time. Do you want to reinstate the code word in case of an emergency situation?” I couldn’t remember how many times I’d had to send Sarah the infamous ‘tea’ message for an early escape.

“If I feel I absolutely have to, then I’ll send you an SOS. Ooh…” She was distracted already. “Look at this one. He’s already sent me a message to meet up.”

She passed me her phone. Arthur was a thirty-four-year-old investment banker from Harrogate. He also looked the absolute spit of Boris Johnson.

“He looks like a long-lost love-child of Boris Johnson, right down to the hairstyle.”

“Studied at Oxford though. Impressive, and very eligible, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Looks like his pockets are probably lined with personally embroidered handkerchiefs from Harrods instead of dead rodents from under a bush.” I wondered how Rob was getting on. My mum still doesn’t believe me when I tell her the story from that date. “Go for it.”

“I think I will.” She typed out her reply to him and pressed ‘Send’.

What’s the worst that could happen?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Zack had offered to drive, but giving directions to my brother’s house was far too complicated. Even Google Maps got confused by the postcode. Who buys a house in the middle of nowhere, miles away from the nearest tarmacked road? Andrew and Elizabeth bought their house just after they got married, thanks to a hefty donation from Elizabeth’s parents and grandparents. The wedding, which was also funded by the in-laws, was held on an island off the coast of mainland Greece. Everything was magical and perfect. Although my favourite bit of the day was when the doves they released pooped on Elizabeth’s mum’s fascinator. Still, I don’t recall having any cause to complain. The waiter Christos was barely old enough to serve alcohol, but was trained in quickly replacing an empty glass of ouzo with a new one.

As my car rolled over their newly gravelled private driveway, which was as long as my own street, we finally arrived at the house. I parked as far away as possible, delaying entering their perfect home, seeing their perfect children and having every family member commenting on how perfect everything was. Yes, Andrew’s house was immaculate, but they all seemed to forget that I had grown up with him. I knew all of his quirks and disgusting habits which would certainly be grounds for divorce if he still did them now. I remembered his bedroom back home being so grotty that there was a family of mice living under the heap of clothes under his desk.

Thinking about my family, I had a sudden, unexplained pang of panic. “It’s not too late, you know,” I said to Zack, as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “We can leave now and say we couldn’t make it. Too much traffic on the M62. There’s always roadworks, or a crash to hold things up. No one would question it.”

“I think it’s a little too late for that, my dear.” He patted my knee.

“Why?”

“Your mother has spotted us and is over there waving for us to hurry.”

“Just don’t make eye contact! Come on, let’s go.” I jangled the keys.

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