As I walk out of the restaurant, past the paparazzi who look briefly excited to see me, then realise I’m a nobody, I feel almost annoyed at myself for getting my hopes up, even if it was only briefly, because I’m sick of going into these things giving men the benefit of the doubt, only to find myself disappointed and making excuses to leave.
I grab my phone. I’d tell Andy, if I could call him, but he’s probably sleeping or working or whatever, so I guess I’ll drop him a quick message and then call JJ, to tell her that her matchmaking skills have once again failed me. Epically.
At least this is the end now. She’ll give up trying to find the man for me.
To be honest, I think I’ll give that up too.
9
By the time I’m going up in the lift to JJ’s apartment, I’ve already rehearsed about fifty different ways to say ‘it was awful’ – hopefully I’ve landed on a way to tell the tale that will make her abandon the fairy godmother duties she has assigned herself.
Her apartment is on the top floor of one of those sleek new-build blocks by the river – all glass and Scandi design. I’m never sure if I’m imagining it, because I could only dream of living somewhere so fancy, but I could swear the lift is perfumed.
The doors slide open on to a private landing, because of course she has a private landing. Her front door is black and shiny. She usually unlocks it, if she’s expecting someone, so I knock once out of politeness and then let myself in.
‘The door’s open!’ she yells from somewhere inside. ‘Unless you’re a murderer… unless you’ve brought wine…’
Solid priorities.
I step into her apartment, the kind estate agents would call ‘aspirational’ – to people who looked like they stood a chance of affording it anyway. I do aspire to live somewhere like this, though. I love all the glass, the high ceilings, the views over the Thames.
It’s a silly measure of wealth, but you would be hard pushed to find something from IKEA in here, whereas in my place the gang is all present – the Billy bookcase, the Poäng chair, the Kallax unit that Andy and I almost gave up trying to assemble. Don’t get me wrong, he’s laddish as far as he’s into sports and video games, but he’s not ‘handy’, as my gran would put it. Probably for the best, given his first name.
The kitchen is all copper accents, black marble and matte-black cabinets with a wine fridge of my dreams built into the island – I think that might be my favourite part.
A huge fan palm stands artfully over one corner and I’m not sure whether the flex is that it’s big or alive. Next to it there’s JJ, looking out of the window.
‘Hello,’ I call out.
She sighs heavily.
‘Whitney, Whitney, Whitney,’ she says, her eyes still fixed firmly outside. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘Well, I did bring wine,’ I offer up.
‘Finally!’
‘Erm, I always bring wine,’ I insist.
‘No, I mean you’re late,’ she replies as she floats over to her rarely used kitchen.
‘I’m…’ I look at my watch. ‘Ten minutes early, in fact.’
‘I meant to life,’ she says vaguely. ‘Have some Brie.’
I can’t help but laugh as she pulls a grazing board from the fridge and places it on the kitchen island.
I hop up onto one of the stools as gracefully as I can. I’m wearing jeans, trainers and one of Andy’s oversized hoodies – well, it’s oversized on me at least. I don’t know why, but his clothes always feel so much better than my own, comforting, like he’s giving me a big hug. My hair is up in a messy bun. It was supposed to be, y’know, just a bun, but messy is how it’s turned out. JJ, on the other hand, is dressed to impress. She’s probably not trying to impress me. It’s probably for herself, to be honest.
‘Did you come here from your stint in prison?’ she checks, sarcastic as ever.
‘No, did you come here from working in one?’ I reply. ‘One from a porno.’
‘The black leather is a vibe,’ she insists with a grin.
‘Where are your handcuffs?’ I joke.
‘In the bedroom, where a normal person would keep them,’ she claps back. ‘Speaking of being sexually active, or not as the case may be, go on, dazzle me, what was wrong with your date yesterday?’