Page 2 of I Know How This Ends
don’t normally make them pay for the entire meal. I’ve decided to save that as a special treat for the men who merrily tick
the “single” box on a dating app and then ask their wife why they’re “being so neurotic” when they get home.
Irritated, I unlock my front door and attempt to get into my house.
Huge cardboard boxes have migrated slowly down the hallway over the last couple of months, and now one of them has fallen off the top of a teetering stack, barring my entry.
With a few huffs, I ram the door open and stare at the broken plates ly ing in an accusatory heap on the floor.
The box says “MARGOT WAYWARD’S KITCHEN SHIT” on it, which now seems slightly pouty.
“Fuck’s sake,” I sigh, pushing it to the side with my foot.
Then I step over the crockery pieces and carry my food to the small kitchen I’m still not used to. I put most of my free Italian
fodder in the fridge, take my bra off with a sigh and grab a fork so I can peacefully make my way through the remaining tagliatelle
without my date silently calculating how much each bite costs.
Still chewing, I pick up a pen and my little purple notepad.
Then I quickly scan the contents.
Date One: fifty minutes late.
Date Two: said the woman on neighboring table was “too old to dress like that.”
Date Three: sent me eleven unanswered texts in a row, followed by an unsolicited photo of his genitals.
Date Four: ate with mouth open, then helped himself to my mushrooms.
Date Five: asked for a “Body Count” ten minutes in.
Date Six: rude to waiter.
Date Seven: told me, while wearing a shirt with three buttons missing, I could have “made more effort.”
Date Eight: casually claimed “all my exes are crazy.”
Date Nine: used phone to work out his share of olives.
Date Ten: immediately told me “not to get too attached,” then winked.
Date Eleven: homophobic, racist, anti-women, anti-deodorant.
Date Twelve: doesn’t normally date his own age but will “make an exception” for me.
Date Thirteen: monologued for two hours about his exercise routine.
Date Fourteen: gave me marks out of ten as if scoring an ice-skating competition.
“Get back out there,” they all said. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”
Except nobody pointed out exactly what is swimming around in the depths of the online dating ocean in your thirties and forties:
it’s all jelly and teeth and transparent organs and protruding eyes jubilantly announcing that “they want to find that special
connection” as long as she’s a “nine or above.”
At least now when they ask for my “Body Count,” I tell them it’s currently zero, but I’m looking to change that and have dug
a large hole in my garden.
With flared nostrils, I write:
Date Fifteen: married with kids.
Then I flip to the back of the notepad and scribble under my rapidly escalating List of Dating Criteria:
25. Doesn’t already have a secret family.
Flopping onto my sofa, I switch my burner phone back on. Suffice to say, after a few months of waking up to unasked-for images
of body parts, I bought a second phone I could throw at a wall as hard as I wanted.
With a sensation of faintly impending doom, I start scrolling through images of men as if I’m looking for a vacuum cleaner in an Argos catalog: occasionally handy but not exactly enjoyable.
The more faces you look at, the more identical they start to seem, until they’re reduced to a simple slide show of human features in a variety of positions: eyes, noses, teeth, beards that cover rapidly disintegrating jawlines, though they still “prefer women without make-up” and “will buy the first drink if you actually look like your photos.”
Nope, nope, nope, nope. Rather switch my toaster on and stick a fork in it.
Then I abruptly sit forward: Henry, 39 .
This fish has a kind, open face, blond hair, a wide, dimpled smile. Henry is a fireman, six foot two, and has made no passive-aggressive
statements about saying “something more interesting than ‘hi’ if you want to impress me,” as if he’s the eighth of his name
and holding court. Henry is on top of a mountain, laughing in a pub garden, wearing a suit at a wedding that hopefully (but
not definitively) isn’t his own. Henry is—quite possibly—a dolphin in an ocean of sludge-sliders and bottom-crawlers who try
to stick their tongues down my throat without asking for permission first.
Surprised, I swipe right and hold my breath to see if we match.
Jackpot.
Then I send my normal message:
Hi Henry! Shall we save getting to know each other for a meeting in person?
Do you fancy dinner next week? Monday any good?
Margot
Straight to the point, as everyone should be.
The reply is almost immediate.
Hello Margot! Good idea. Sounds great! Henry
Frankly, I don’t have time to pen-pal for the next week while we sporadically discuss our favorite holiday destinations. Romance
can wait until we know if the other person clicks their fingers at waiters or not.
Date Sixteen set, I put my phone down and stare around my tiny new flat.
Two months here and it still doesn’t feel like home yet.
Leaving aside the scattered boxes—which I very much have—it’s still a home for a person I no longer am: half of a pair. The
bathroom even has His and Hers basins, which feels slightly aggressive. This is a flat for more than one person , those basins say . A couple’s flat. Don’t you dare come in, with your one face to wash, and store make-up and skincare in the second one.
After a few seconds, I reach forward and stare at my burner phone again.
I shouldn’t. I won’t.
Except I already know I will, so let’s save the internal struggle for when there’s actually someone to pretend in front of.
Holding my breath, I open the social media account of an imaginary person I made up called @Lucy_Jones7 . Lucy has a jaunty squirrel as her profile photo, works vaguely in “The Arts” and has uploaded a few pictures of flowers and
pancakes to her profile so she looks like a real human, not a completely unhinged stalker faking an entire identity and then
getting angry at men for doing exactly the same thing.
The latest post is a firm punch to the gut, as always.
Lily is beautiful: lit with the healthy iridescence of someone who doesn’t eat takeout six days a week. Her naturally red
hair waves to her waist, her cheeks are rosy and she’s holding a pint of beer up to the camera with a beatific smile of contentment
and triumph. On the table in front of her are two chicken curries, two bowls of rice, two saag aloos, another beer. All even
numbers. It’s the dining equivalent of my His and Hers basins, and she wants us all to know that someone is using the second
one.
Underneath, she’s written: Simple pleasures are the best. 3 3 3
Quite the original statement, Lily: you should trademark that immediately.
Teeth gritted, I “like” the post (“Lucy” probably would, after all). Then I throw my phone across the room and listen to it hit the solid oak floor with a satisfying crack . It’ll be fine; it’s used to being lobbed regularly. Strapping on my boxing gloves, I carefully step around the green screen
still stapled to my living-room wall and go toward the corner, where a heavy bag hangs from the ceiling like a stuck pig.
I’m just about to take my first gratifying punch when a cold wave runs through me. I feel dizzy, misplaced, and suddenly see
two hands: one mine, the emerald ring my grandfather gave me glinting, and the other belonging to someone else.
This hand is large and tanned, and something is scribbled in large letters across the back of it. Two letters, dark blue and
slightly blurred. IR ? A flash of orange. I watch in surprise as my hand reaches forward, fingers touch briefly, the orange falls—and a wave of
liquid heat shoots up my arm.
Blinking, I pull back and the hands abruptly disappear.
Blimey. Where did that come from?
Grimacing—I need to get more sleep—I recalibrate for a moment.
Then I take a deep breath and start punching. I punch and punch until the burn feels sugary and my arms hurt and the rage
inside me begins to dissolve. Sweating, I kick the bag for good measure and stick out my tongue at it like a child. I take
the gloves off, wipe my forehead and pick up my other phone: the phone I never throw, can’t throw, need to stay close to at
all times.
And I turn my real life back on.