Love Your Life(3)

Anyway, Sarika did dump the conductor, and she did stay in the choir. That was fourteen years ago now (how did that happen?) and we’re still friends. Of the four of us, only Sarika still sings in a choir—but, then, she was always the most musical one. Plus she’s constantly on the lookout for a man whose interests chime with hers, and she reckons London choirs are a good place to start. Along with cycling clubs. She joins a new choir every year and switches cycling clubs every six months, and there’s been a pretty good yield of guys.

I mean, three serious possibilities in two years. Not bad, for London.

We all live near one another in north London, and even though our lives are different in a lot of ways, we’re closer than ever. We’ve been through a few roller coasters these last few years. We’ve shrieked and clutched one another’s hands, both literally and…whatsit.

Not-literally.

Metaphorically? Figuratively?

    Great. I’m going on a weeklong writing course tomorrow and I don’t know what the opposite of “literally” is.

“What’s the opposite of ‘literally’?” I ask Sarika, but she’s tapping intently at her laptop, her dark shiny hair swishing the keys. She’s often to be found tapping intently at her laptop, Sarika, even when she’s round at Nell’s. (We tend to gather at Nell’s place.)

“No smokers,” Sarika mutters, presses a key, and peers closely at her screen.

“What?” I stare at her. “Is that work?”

“New dating site,” she says.

“Ooh, which one?” I ask with interest. Sarika has more cash than any of us, being a lawyer, so she’s the one who can afford to join the expensive dating sites and then report back.

“No psychics,” replies Sarika absently and presses another key, then looks up. “It’s called Meet You. Costs an arm and a leg. But, then, you get what you pay for.”

“?‘No psychics’?” echoes Nell skeptically. “How many psychics have you dated, exactly?”

“One,” says Sarika, swiveling toward her. “And that was more than enough. I told you about him. The one who reckoned he knew what I really liked in bed and we argued about it and I said, ‘Whose body is it anyway?’ and he said, ‘It’s for both of us to enjoy.’?”

“Oh, him,” says Nell, light dawning in her eyes. “I didn’t realize he was a psychic; I thought he was an arsehole. Is there a ‘no arseholes’ filter?”

“Wouldn’t work,” says Sarika regretfully. “No one thinks they’re an arsehole.” She turns back and taps at her keyboard again. “No magicians.” She types briskly. “No dancers. What about choreographers?”

    “What’s wrong with dancers?” objects Nell. “They’re fit.”

“Just don’t fancy it,” says Sarika, shrugging vaguely. “He’d be out every night, dancing. We should keep the same hours. No oil-rig workers,” she adds as an afterthought, typing again.

“How does this site work?” I say, baffled.

“It starts with all your deal-breakers,” replies Nell. “It shouldn’t be called Meet You, it should be called Sod Off You. And You. And You.”

“You’re making it sound really negative,” protests Sarika. “It’s not about telling people to sod off, it’s about being super-specific, so you won’t waste time looking at unsuitable people. You keep honing your target match until you’ve got the perfect shortlist.”

“Let me see.” I head round the sofa to look over her shoulder. The screen of her laptop is filled with male faces, and I blink at them. They all look nice to me. The guy with the stubble in the righthand corner looks particularly cute. His expression says, “Pick me! I’ll be kind to you!”

“He looks sweet.” I point at him.

“Maybe. OK, what next?” Sarika consults a typed list on her phone. “No vegetarians.”

“What?” I stare at her in shock. “No vegetarians? What are you saying? Sarika, how can you be so narrow-minded? Your sister’s vegetarian! I’m vegetarian!”

“I know,” she says equably. “But I don’t want to date my sister. Or you. Sorry, babe. You know I love your halloumi crumble.” She reaches out an arm to squeeze my waist affectionately. “But I want someone I can roast a chicken with.”

    She clicks on Filters and a box appears with four headings: Yes Please!, Don’t Mind, Not Ideal, and Deal-breaker.

“Deal-breaker,” says Sarika firmly, starting to type Vegetarian in the box. After two letters, the word Vegetarian autofills and she clicks on it.

“You can’t rule out all vegetarians,” I say in utter horror. “It’s prejudiced. It’s…is it even legal?”

“Ava, lighten up!” retorts Sarika. “Now, watch. This bit is fun. Apply filter.”

As she clicks, the photos on the screen start to shimmer. Then, one by one, big red crosses appear in front of faces, scattered over the screen. I glance at the cute guy—and feel a nasty lurch. There’s a cross in front of his face. He looks as though he’s been sentenced to execution.

“What’s going on?” I demand anxiously. “What is this?”