It Started With A Tweet(7)

Chapter Three

Time since last Internet usage: 22 minutes

For once, the tube ride passes quickly, and I don’t notice that for twenty minutes I’m cut off from the outside world. I’ve been far too busy trying to replicate a YouTube tutorial on contouring that I watched ages ago. I’m truly amazed at the results given the limited tools and compact mirror at my disposal.

I arrive at Waterloo and make my way out of the main entrance. It’s a beautiful spring evening, and it seems that every man and his dog has decided to make the most of it and come out along the river. I jostle my way through the crowds, hurrying along to the South Bank, while trying to make sure that I don’t perspire and ruin my hastily applied face.

I pull out my phone to check the time and I fist-pump as it’s only 7.35. I don’t even think that counts as being late when you’re at the mercy of public transport.

I’m scanning an email from Marcus, thanking me for the work, when I spot Dominic already at the BFI Riverfront bar, nursing a drink.

I stop in my tracks in a slight fluster, causing a man to walk into the back of me.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, as he gives me a look of death and walks on, shaking his head.

But I can’t help but be stunned as I can’t quite believe it – for once someone actually looks like their profile photo. He’s like a Norse god: airy and fluffy blond hair that’s truly magnificent and green eyes the exact colour of Bird’s Eye frozen peas.

I scour the concrete landscape of the South Bank in search of sanctuary, somewhere where I can at least use a full-size mirror rather than my powder-splattered compact to fix my hair and make-up. I spot the National Theatre opposite and wonder if I can sneak past Dominic.

I figured that he’d be like the rest of them, guilty of choosing that one photo that makes him look a perfect ten, when on average he’s only a 7.5. You know, like I did. There’s no way that my roughly plaited hair and Sara’s make-do-and-mend outfit are going to cut the mustard.

I’m stuck, not knowing what to do, so I pull out my phone and tap out a quick tweet. Mainly for Erica and Amelie’s benefit as I know it’ll make them laugh.



Sexy knickers ￡25, Brazilian ￡35, New outfit ￡170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless



No one on Twitter needs to know the reality of the Snoopy pants, forest-like conditions or the threadbare leggings. The chances of me getting some might be pretty slim indeed, but a dull tweet about the real state of affairs isn’t going to push me over the two thousand followers mark, is it?

I’m still debating about fixing myself up a bit, when I see him glance in my direction. He stares for a second, as if he’s trying to work out if I’m the same girl in his photograph, but luckily – or unluckily – he decides I am and gives me a small wave.

I’ve got no choice but to go over. As I get up close, he stands up to meet me and I have to hold back a gasp.

I find myself looking down at him as he’s at least six inches shorter than me – and I’m in flats. I falter for a second as my perfect specimen of a man literally doesn’t quite measure up, but only for a second – what’s in a few inches?

‘Daisy?’ he says as he leans up, presumably to kiss my cheek. I feel myself bend over as he grazes each cheek with his. ‘We finally meet.’

I can rise above the whole height thing, literally and metaphorically. He doesn’t appear to be that phased by my dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look, so why should I care about his height? We know that size doesn’t really matter in other arenas, so why does it matter standing up? So what, if he’s shorter than me? Loads of women tower over their partners: Tina Fey, Sophie Dahl, Nicole Kidman. Plus, I’ve never dated a man shorter than me; maybe this is where I’ve been going so spectacularly wrong all these years.

Besides, I could totally hide his height in photos on Facebook if we’re always sitting down in them.

‘It’s nice to finally meet you,’ I say as I sit down.

‘Great, well, what are you drinking?’ he says, as he clicks his fingers and summons the waitress.

We sit there awkwardly for a moment while we wait for the summoned waitress, as if the click has killed any hope of a conversation. I quickly pick up a drinks menu, looking straight at the cocktail section. ‘I’ll have a Pornstar Martini,’ I say, hoping it might be a bit of an icebreaker.

Dominic does not look impressed.

The waitress slinks away and Dominic opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by the loud ping of my phone that I’ve still got in my hand.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter as I try and ignore the notification of yet another work email, and I slip it onto silent instead.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says, despite him giving me the impression that it did. ‘Why don’t you tell me about yourself?’

‘Um .?.?.’ I falter, as he’s looking at me so intently that I suddenly feel as if I’m at an interview and I slip into that mode. ‘I’m thirty-one, I’m a marketing account manager, I live with my best friend Erica in Dulwich .?.?.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, nodding, as if I haven’t told him anything noteworthy, ‘and what else?’

‘What do you mean?’ I scrunch up my eyes as I look at him for direction for what he wants to hear. I thought I’d told him the main facts – my age (without lying) – that I’m gainfully employed and that I live in a trendy part of town. Surely that tells him most of what he needs to know.