Friend Request(37)

I get off the bus on Piccadilly and walk up through Soho. For a girl like me who grew up in the sticks, there’s still something about living in London that gives me a thrill; not just the bright lights but the murkier depths too. When I first moved here, I was brimful of excitement at having an actual job in a real design agency, even if I was mostly making the tea. If I didn’t have plans to go out or see anyone in the evening I’d go into Soho and walk around, absorbing the heady scent of garlic and wine, chips and cigarette smoke, rubbish and drains. I felt alive, anonymous but part of something that counted, a heady mix of out-of-towners going to see Les Mis, hen parties and work nights out plus a hint of the old Soho – bon viveurs, sex workers and criminals.

Soho has changed, even in the last twenty years. There are more chain restaurants, more tourists, less obvious grime. It makes me wonder if I’ve changed too. Probably less than Soho. I’m not so open to change; I have to be on my guard all the time. I’ve created this persona of stability, contentment, a real average Josephine. Sam was the only one who knew the real me.

I arrive a few minutes early and there’s no sign of Greg in the bar. I’ve been studying his photo to make sure I’ll recognise him. I get a glass of wine and sit on a stool in the window, where I’ve got a good view of everyone coming in. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for dating in general, I begin to feel butterflies at the prospect of this, my first date in seventeen years. Every time a dark-haired man approaches, my stomach gives a little flip, settling back down when it turns out not to be him. By 7.15pm, the flips have been replaced by a churning ache. I didn’t give Greg my phone number as I didn’t feel comfortable before I’d even met him, but he could email me if he was running late. I check on my phone but there’s nothing. At 7.25pm I decide I’ve had enough. There’s a group of younger women at a nearby table and I am sure they’ve clocked that I’ve been stood up and are laughing at me. I suppose this is what I should have expected, what I deserve. I’ve been foolish to allow myself to indulge in this fantasy where I could have a normal relationship. I should have known the past wouldn’t let me go that easily.

I drain the last of my wine, flushed with humiliation, and stand up to leave. As I come out of the bar my phone beeps, and I take it out, expecting a notification from the email address that Polly set up for me, which I’ve added to my phone. But it’s a Facebook notification. Another message from Maria: Leaving so soon, Louise?

I stop, stock-still on the pavement, my legs almost giving way beneath me. It’s noisy but all I can hear is my panicked breathing and the beating of my own heart. Someone is watching me. I look around, but the street is busy, filled with ordinary people meeting friends, lovers. There’s a restaurant opposite with outside tables, the diners warmed by patio heaters. I try to scan their faces, but there are too many of them, tables behind tables, and anyway I don’t know who I’m looking for. My phone beeps again:

You don’t deserve to be happy. Not after what you’ve done.

I pull the hood of my coat up and hurry away down the street, head down, almost running. She’s right. I don’t deserve to be happy. Of course there was no Greg. A nice, normal man would never be interested in me. And even if he was, I wouldn’t know the right way to respond, how to be with him.

But how did she do it? It feels as though Maria has crawled inside my head, her fingers reaching out and scraping around inside my thoughts, taking the worst things I think about myself and serving them back to me. Then I remember Polly’s lighthearted Facebook update: matchmaking with Louise Williams on matchmymate.com. Of course. Anyone can download a picture of a good-looking man. Anyone can write an email. Maria was just lucky that all the other responses were so unsuitable.

I keep walking, staying on busy roads only, constantly looking around for possible danger. I am convinced for several minutes that someone on the opposite pavement is keeping pace with me, until they turn down a side street without a second glance. I double back on myself, switching from side to side of the street. Once I step into the road without looking and a taxi screams to a halt inches from me, the driver gesturing furiously at me. Stupid cow. I avoid the quieter side streets with their dark corners and shadowy, urine-soaked doorways, but even the well-lit, people-thronged areas seem menacing because I don’t know where the danger lies. I don’t know who I am frightened of, who I am running from.

At 8pm I get a text from Polly: How’s it going? Do you need a pretend emergency phone call?

I text her back: Didn’t show, on way home. I can’t explain about meeting Esther without going into the rest of it, and I’m not ready to do that. Oh shit, she texts back. Call me when you get home? I can’t, because I’m not going home. Going to pull duvet over head and hide. Will call in morning.

There’s a pause, so she’s either typing some mammoth reply, or wondering whether she should offer to come over and provide a shoulder to cry on. She obviously decides against, as her next text just says OK. Call me if you need to. Love you x.

I’ve got half an hour before I’m meeting Esther, and a large part of me wants to text her and say I can’t make it, scurry back to the safety of my flat. But something about her voice when she said there was something she hadn’t told me won’t let me cancel, so I walk on, down street after street, heart pumping, until I find myself in the appointed pub.

Esther’s not here, so I order a large glass of wine and find a seat in the corner, where I can feel the wall solid behind my back and have a clear view of the whole pub. There’s a buzz of conversation, under which you can hear the sound of ‘Fall at Your Feet’ by Crowded House through the speakers. I used to love this song when I was at university, dreaming of a meaningful connection with some nameless, faceless, soul mate. As I look warily around the room, I think of all the other men in the world I could have ended up with, and how different my life could have been. But perhaps I never really had a choice.