The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(54)

‘Do I look datable?’ Ryan asks, hand on his skinny-trousered hip, brooding into the middle distance like a moody GQ cover. He’s excited about tonight, always looking for the next big love of his life to walk in. I sometimes wonder if I should counsel him not to wear his heart on his sleeve with such reckless abandon, but I think that’s a lesson you can only learn by bitter experience.

‘They’ll all be blowing kisses across the table at you,’ I say.

‘I hope I don’t know any of them,’ he says, panto-aghast. ‘That’d be awkward, staring at someone I ghosted.’

‘Ghosted?’

He frowns, searching for the words to explain. ‘You know, like when you don’t have the bottle to tell someone it’s over, so you just disappear. Don’t answer their calls, never get back in touch. You just fade out of their lives.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I know he’s being light-hearted, but I can’t help feeling bad for all the people out there who have been ghosted by someone they love. Freddie didn’t ghost me, but I know how it feels when someone fades out of your life without warning. It’s a shitty thing to do to someone by choice.

‘I’ve only had to do it once myself,’ he backtracks, and I realize my thoughts must be showing on my face. ‘And only because she was a full-on stalker. I slept with the lights on for a month afterwards.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, brisk, ‘you’ll be good, I’m sure.’

Ryan’s the only staff member taking part tonight. Everyone else is either married or me.

The main hall is set out with lightning efficiency once the dating company roll in. Fifteen tables for two organized into a circuit that would make Ikea staff weep with envy, fifteen cardinal red tablecloths and fifteen vases of faux peonies arranged, all in the time it takes me to make them a coffee.

‘How long have you been doing this?’ I ask Kate, the boss, as I hand her one of our ‘only for clients’ cups. Plain and white with a gold rim, unlike the chipped collection of ‘Best Auntie Ever’ and corporate mugs we make do with upstairs.

She rests her bum on the old school-style radiator, flicking her jet-black hair as she does. It’s pure Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction and she’s winged her black eyeliner to match. It’s an arresting look; maybe that’s the key to speed dating, making yourself difficult to forget. She’s short with soft curves, and she’s packed herself into leather trousers that can’t have fit the cow any better.

‘A year or so,’ she says. ‘We used to do normal speed-dating events and moved on to this to set us apart from the crowd.’ She sips her coffee. ‘People will give anything a go once, won’t they?’

I think about that. Will they? I’m not in any hurry to try base jumping, or bullfighting, or swimming the English Channel.

‘Hot,’ she says; I don’t know if she means the coffee, the radiator or Ryan as he walks past carrying a pile of extra chairs.

‘Do you take part yourself?’ I ask.

Kate laughs softly. ‘Not a chance.’

It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. ‘No?’

‘I’m not looking for love,’ she says. ‘It’s overrated, if you ask me.’

There speaketh the broken-hearted, I think. ‘You probably shouldn’t tell your clients that,’ I laugh.

‘I don’t usually.’ She pulls a caught-out face. ‘And to give it its dues, there’s definitely something about silent dating that actually works. It’s science-based: studies have shown that people genuinely can fall in love if they stare silently into someone’s eyes for a few minutes.’

‘Not just any old stranger, though, surely?’ I say, because I can’t think of even one person I know who I could fall in love with in two minutes. I’m deeply sceptical. Oh God – have I become a love cynic? The love of my life has left me, and now the belief in love has left me altogether.

‘Well, I suppose people have to be vaguely attracted to each other,’ she says, ‘and available, obvs, but if they’re at a speed dating event, that box is generally ticked already.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I say, accepting her empty cup as she slides off the radiator.

‘Fingers crossed for a full house.’

Half an hour later the main room is packed and there’s an air of jittery anticipation as people mill around, sticking doggedly to their friendship groups, free drinks clutched in slightly sweaty hands. I watch, detached but fascinated. I don’t have a role in proceedings now that things are under way, but I’ve stuck around out of sheer curiosity. I listen to Kate give her well-oiled welcome spiel, a more in-depth version of our earlier chat about the science behind the silent dating concept – minus her personal reticence towards love, of course. She certainly knows how to work a crowd. Everyone pays attention and people start to flick quick, furtive glances around the room. I’m impressed; by the time she’s finished they’re fired up and ready to give things a silent whirl. Everyone has been allocated their starting position and on Kate’s cue they head towards their tables, towards their first two minutes of love-inducing silence. I catch Kate’s eye; she’s frowning, and when I follow her gaze I see a woman ramming her arms through the sleeves of her coat and making a bolt for the door. I can tell by her body language that she doesn’t want to talk to Kate’s assistant, who waylays her close to the exit; her shoulders are too high, clenched up around her bright-red ears.