It Started With A Tweet(4)

I hastily snap, then wince at how drunk we look when I see it. We’ve got hours to go yet; I dread to think what treasures I’ll find on my phone tomorrow morning.





Chapter Two

Time since last Internet usage: 7 minutes and 13 seconds

I hear the ping of my phone and my ears turn towards it like a finely tuned sonar as my brain processes the noise. Instantly I know it’s a Tinder message. I feel my stomach lurch slightly and my heart beat a little quicker in anticipation. Not that I can dive for my phone. I’m far too busy listening to one of my boring work colleagues rattle on about a pitch he’s got next week. I’m feeling sluggish from the weekend and chronically overworked, so the melodic tones of his Scottish accent were almost sending me off to sleep. Luckily, the phone beep has re-energised me.

If I just lean a little more onto my elbow, I might be able to peek behind where he’s perched on my desk, and be able to see my screen.

‘So, you’ll send it over to me, then?’ he asks.

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, tearing my gaze away from his back and looking him firmly in the eye. ‘Absolutely.’

I have no idea what I’m sending over to him, but I’m sure he’ll remind me, he’s not known as Marvellous Marcus in our office for nothing.

‘Great. The Henderson report visuals, the FirstGroupFirst webmail campaign and the Honeybee report, all into the presentation file by tomorrow morning, OK?’

While relieved that at least I know what I’ve agreed to, I’m not particularly impressed by the timescale. My to-do list is already as long as my arm – and at five-foot-ten, I’ve got pretty long arms.

I stifle a yawn. I’m exhausted, but there’s far too much to do before I leave for the night.

I look at the clock on my computer; it’s already 6.30 p.m., and I’m supposed to finish at six. So much for me making it out of work on time tonight. Not that I’m particularly surprised. I rarely leave the office before seven on a good night, but right now, at our marketing agency, we’re at our busiest time and I might as well work down a mine for all the daylight I see.

Any thoughts of me climbing into my snuggly bed and having a nice early night where I gently fall asleep are replaced by an image of me barely managing to take off my clothes before I pass out on top of the covers with exhaustion in the early hours.

I sigh out loud. It’s not only my sleep that’s been suffering because of my punishing work schedule, but also my wardrobe. I’m weeks behind on my washing. I was supposed to do it on Sunday, but I was so hungover after the hen do that the thought of the chugging noise of the washing machine was too much to bear. I wish I’d just taken the noise on the chin, as right now I’m sitting in the office wearing a silky top that’s from a pyjama set, a misshapen cardigan with one arm longer than the other and a pair of leggings so threadbare that I’m pretty sure that if anyone looked at my crotch they’d be able to see the Snoopy that’s emblazoned on the front of my knickers. I usually try my best to look reasonable when I leave the house, working hard to create an outfit that warrants a mirror selfie, but the only social media this outfit’s destined for is a how-not-to-dress meme.

If I don’t do any washing tonight, I’m going to be walking in tomorrow in my leopard-print onesie without underwear. Despite our office subscribing to casual Friday, that would push the acceptable boundaries of casual, and, besides, it’s only Wednesday tomorrow.

I groan and turn back to my to-do list, and am about to start on Marvellous Marcus’s work when I remember the Tinder ping and my fingers lunge for my phone instead.

Please, oh gods of Tinder, let it be the super-hot guy I swiped right to last week. I unlock my screen and my heart feels a little disappointed that it’s not a message from him. It’s from Dominic, another guy who I’m going on a date with. Clicking on his photo, I read the message:

Going to be a bit late. Can we make it 7.30?

I have to read the message again. Ugh, he must have sent it to the wrong person as I’m not meeting him until tomorrow. He’s obviously playing the field and probably has dates every night of the week and has just got confused. I stare at his photo again and wrinkle my nose as I study him. He’s cute, but do I really want to go on a date with a serial Tinder player? Granted, I don’t expect declarations of exclusivity before we’ve even met in real life, but I do at least want to pretend that I’m not one on a conveyor belt of dates.

I scroll back up through our conversation to remind myself why I’d decided to date him in the first place. Our brief messages are mainly flirty banter – mostly about work and where we live – nothing too deep, but, in scrolling through them, I read the message where we planned our date: Tuesday at seven. Today – in half an hour’s time.

‘Oh, shit,’ I say out loud, having obviously written it down wrong in my diary. I’m supposed to be meeting him on the South Bank; it’s going to take me at least half an hour to get there.

‘What’s up?’ asks my desk neighbour, Sara, glancing up from her screen.

‘I’d forgotten I’ve got a date tonight.’ I stare again at my to-do list and check what’s still outstanding. I wasn’t planning to leave my desk for at least another hour, or more likely two. ‘I’m going to have to cancel, I’ve got way too much to do.’