Casanova

“I need them to see, Rebecca,” I announce, indignant. “And I just don’t see the point in spending a fortune on clothes and dressing up fancy all the time.”

“You work in central London with some of the hottest men in the capital and you’re too busy wearing sensible office clothes to attract any of them.”

I roll my eyes in disgust. “Trust me, there is no one at work worth impressing.”

Daniel’s eyes linger on me and, as amusement flashes across his face, he clinks his wineglass with mine.

“What?” I ask.

“I think I just found my new project.”

Four hours and three bottles of wine later, and with Stevie Nicks playing in the background, Daniel says, “Then what will I write?” He laughs.

We are sitting on the couch still talking way too much nonsense, and filling in a profile on a dating app for Daniel on my computer. Apparently this is a priority when you move to a new city.

Who knew?

The question reads:

What are you looking for?

“Hmm, that’s a hard one.” Daniel inhales sharply as he does his best to think through the cloud of alcohol.

“Oh, I know. Write this,” Rebecca says in her throaty, I’m-as-drunk-as-a-skunk voice. “Vagina or dick, short or tall, waxed or hairy, preferably hot.”

“So basically”—I point to him with my wineglass—“you’ll take anything.”

“In a nutshell,” Daniel replies as he types something in. “Scratch the preferably.”

I laugh as I lie back; the room is beginning to spin. “I have to go to bed.” I sigh. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Not so fast,” Daniel says. “We’re making you a profile next.”

“I am not getting on a dating website. For your information,” I slur, “there isn’t a man on earth who could impress me in writing. And besides, I’m way too inebriated.”

“Yes,” he insists.

“Not right now, the timing isn’t right.”

Daniel types furiously. “You have to fill these things out while you’re drunk, and there is no time like the present.”

“What if someone found out it was me?” I asked, horrified. “I would never live it down.”

“Nobody cares about dating apps, everybody does it,” Rebecca scoffs as if I’m clueless. “Don’t use your real name, then.”

“Wouldn’t that be weird, though?” I say. “Like I told him a fake name and then we’re on a date and I have to say, sorry but this is my real name now, and I’m actually a liar.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell them straight up,” Daniel says as he types. “You keep the fake name until you know if you like them and then you tell them your real name.”

I smirk into my wineglass as I watch him and Rebecca go through the profile.

Daniel is fun.

He hands me my laptop. “You fill in the rest.”

“Huh?”

“I filled it out for you, answer the next question.”

“What?”

“We made you a profile,” Rebecca informs me. “Just humor us, please.”

Name Pinkie Leroo

Height 5ft7

Weight Just right

Appearance Gorgeous

Hobbies Gym and working out, laughing

Favorite pastime Eating out and having sex

Profession Computer analytics

Hair color Sandy blonde

Eyes Brown

Skin Olive

What are you looking for?

“Pinkie Leroo?” I scoff. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s you.”

“What?” I laugh. “You couldn’t come up with a better fake name? I sound like a cheap bottle of wine.”

“Men love that shit,” Daniel replies.

“But, do they?” I read through the details they’ve added. “I thought we were lying on this thing?”

“We are.”

“Well, I do like eating out and having sex, so . . .” I shrug.

“The gym and working out part?” Rebecca raises an impatient eyebrow.

“This is ridiculous.” I slam my computer shut and stand. “I’m going to bed.” I go up on to my tippy toes and kiss Daniel’s cheek. “Goodnight, naughty boy.”

“Night. Fill in that profile, I’m checking it in the morning.”

I roll my eyes as I begin to walk up the stairs. “You just worry about your own profile, or more specifically, how easily pleased you are,” I call. “You really should work on that. Up your standards a bit.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he calls back.

“Ugh.” Rebecca winces. “I am never going down on a woman. Like fucking ever. It’s just too . . . in your face . . . literally.”

I get a really bad visual and I screw up my face with a laugh. “Stop,” I cry.

Half an hour later, I lie on my bed. I’m wrapped in a towel after showering and Daniel’s and Rebecca’s words from earlier are running through my head, and more importantly my words: I wish I was more like you.

Who am I kidding, I am free.

I don’t know where I get this notion that my hands are tied. It’s men who have preconceived ideas on what they want; they’re all just looking for the next Barbie doll.

I read over the profile they created and I smile as an idea rolls around in my head. I’m going to prove just how shallow and fickle men really are.

I open my computer, go back to the profile, and I change my answers.

Name Pinkie Leroo

Height On point

Weight Pretty face

Appearance Below average

Hobbies Playing with my twelve cats

Favorite pastime Washing my hair

Profession Taxidermies

Hair color Pink – notice my name (insert eye roll)

Eyes Star struck

Skin Pasty white

I go onto the internet and search for a picture of a cat, find an image of a huge fat one with bulging eyes. It’s the ugliest cat I ever saw.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” I smile as I upload it as my profile pic.

I read the question again:

What are you looking for?

I inhale deeply as I think, hmm . . . I want to write something that will show me what I already know, that nobody interests me at all. I twist my lips as I contemplate my words.

I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.

Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.

I smile and hit submit: that will weed them out.

Nobody will respond.

It’s Thursday, and it’s been the best week I’ve had in a long time.

Daniel is hilarious, and we’ve been out to dinner every night, because apparently, he doesn’t ever feel like anything home-cooked.

We have champagne taste on a beer budget.

He’s announced that, by default, we are his official best friends now, seeing as he has nobody else in town. He even asked me to go to an event next week that he’s been invited to. I’m going as his date, but there is no date, it’s not like that between us.

I do have to admit though, he’s great company.

Oh, and surprise, surprise . . . nobody has messaged me on my dating app.

Just like I knew they wouldn’t.

I smile as I wriggle into my netball uniform.

I’m in the bathroom stall in my office building, work has finished for the day, and I’m playing netball at six-thirty, and there isn’t enough time to go home and get back into town.

I slide it down over my shoulders and cringe as I look at myself. “Oh . . . yuck,” I whisper. “This is hideous.”

Skintight, bright red, the dress sticks to my body like super glue and it’s super short.

I walk to the mirror to stare at my reflection. I look like a netball player in some sicko porn gang team skit.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Ugh, who picked these uniforms?” I sigh as I rearrange my boobs. “So ugly.”

I shrug my shoulders. Oh well. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back to my office. It’s too early to go yet, so I’ll finish up some odd jobs while I wait.