on the very rare occasions it pushed its way into her conscious mind, and she knew in her stronger moments that Becky was right. For a while, she would start idly thinking about how she was going to find one of these good men. Since she had left her office job to work for herself from her kitchen table, working in a world peopled almost exclusively by women, there was little opportunity to meet any men, good, bad or ugly.
Then an advert for a dating site would come on TV and she’d think, ‘Should I?’
But she had heard so many horror stories about Internet dates. All her friends who had tried dating sites came back with funny or depressing stories about lack of chemistry, dull conversations and people who were almost always balder, fatter or shorter than their profile pictures suggested. Or worse, creepier. Her friend, Sally, the graphic designer who helped her with her site, had recounted how she had once pulled out a couple of hairs and left them on the carpet of a date’s flat while he was in the loo, just in case he murdered her and the police needed evidence she’d been there.
Someone had told her that 30 per cent of relationships start online these days, but she didn’t know any couples that had met through a dating site, let alone Facebook or Twitter. Nearly everyone she knew had met at work, or through a mutual friend.
There were numerous identical emails in Becky’s folder from CupidsWeb, with the subject line: ‘You have a new message!’
She clicked on a link in one of these emails and was taken to the Login page of the dating site. She didn’t know Becky’s password but, as she had access to her email, getting in was easy. She clicked on ‘Forgot Password?’, entered Becky’s email address and was sent an email with instructions on how to generate a new one. Seconds later, she was in, with full access to her sister’s sent and received CupidsWeb messages.
She soon became absorbed by the long list on the screen, dating back to May that year. She created a new Word document and copied and pasted any interesting messages into it, her pulse quickening as she concentrated on the task. Gary came back into the room and put the coffee down in front of her, a splash spilling over the lip of the mug, then stood behind her shoulder and watched. She could see his reflection in the screen but tried to ignore it. She didn’t like having a man standing behind her, watching what she was doing, but right now, she found Gary’s company more comforting than disturbing.
After ten minutes of copying and pasting, she sat back.
There were messages from fifteen men. She started to read through them, making sure that Gary wasn’t able to see. It was Becky’s private correspondence, after all, and she felt uncomfortable enough about reading it, without the added betrayal of Gary being privy to it too.
‘
You look gorgeous in your profile pic. Is that really you, LOL?
’
‘
You’re a teacher! I used to fancy the pants off one of mine. I’ve had a thing about teachers ever since.
’
Amy shook her head. She could collect together some of these emails and compile them into a guide: ‘How to Blow Your Chances of a Date.’ Rule 1: Use LOL, ROFL and LMAO at all opportunities. Rule 2: Be as creepy as fuck.
If she saw that the exchange of messages had not resulted in a date – usually when Becky had sent them a message at the end of the flirtation to say she was too busy to meet up with them, sorry – Amy cut and pasted these into another document. These made up the majority, but there were a few exchanges that ended with the promise of a meeting. Amy wrote down their user names, real names (if indeed they were) and the dates of the correspondence.
‘
I’d very much like to meet up. Where’s good for you? I work in Soho so we’d be spoilt for choice but there’s a very nice wine bar on Dean Street. How does that sound?
’
All of the men with whom Becky had arranged a date appeared sane and, well,
Then an advert for a dating site would come on TV and she’d think, ‘Should I?’
But she had heard so many horror stories about Internet dates. All her friends who had tried dating sites came back with funny or depressing stories about lack of chemistry, dull conversations and people who were almost always balder, fatter or shorter than their profile pictures suggested. Or worse, creepier. Her friend, Sally, the graphic designer who helped her with her site, had recounted how she had once pulled out a couple of hairs and left them on the carpet of a date’s flat while he was in the loo, just in case he murdered her and the police needed evidence she’d been there.
Someone had told her that 30 per cent of relationships start online these days, but she didn’t know any couples that had met through a dating site, let alone Facebook or Twitter. Nearly everyone she knew had met at work, or through a mutual friend.
There were numerous identical emails in Becky’s folder from CupidsWeb, with the subject line: ‘You have a new message!’
She clicked on a link in one of these emails and was taken to the Login page of the dating site. She didn’t know Becky’s password but, as she had access to her email, getting in was easy. She clicked on ‘Forgot Password?’, entered Becky’s email address and was sent an email with instructions on how to generate a new one. Seconds later, she was in, with full access to her sister’s sent and received CupidsWeb messages.
She soon became absorbed by the long list on the screen, dating back to May that year. She created a new Word document and copied and pasted any interesting messages into it, her pulse quickening as she concentrated on the task. Gary came back into the room and put the coffee down in front of her, a splash spilling over the lip of the mug, then stood behind her shoulder and watched. She could see his reflection in the screen but tried to ignore it. She didn’t like having a man standing behind her, watching what she was doing, but right now, she found Gary’s company more comforting than disturbing.
After ten minutes of copying and pasting, she sat back.
There were messages from fifteen men. She started to read through them, making sure that Gary wasn’t able to see. It was Becky’s private correspondence, after all, and she felt uncomfortable enough about reading it, without the added betrayal of Gary being privy to it too.
‘
You look gorgeous in your profile pic. Is that really you, LOL?
’
‘
You’re a teacher! I used to fancy the pants off one of mine. I’ve had a thing about teachers ever since.
’
Amy shook her head. She could collect together some of these emails and compile them into a guide: ‘How to Blow Your Chances of a Date.’ Rule 1: Use LOL, ROFL and LMAO at all opportunities. Rule 2: Be as creepy as fuck.
If she saw that the exchange of messages had not resulted in a date – usually when Becky had sent them a message at the end of the flirtation to say she was too busy to meet up with them, sorry – Amy cut and pasted these into another document. These made up the majority, but there were a few exchanges that ended with the promise of a meeting. Amy wrote down their user names, real names (if indeed they were) and the dates of the correspondence.
‘
I’d very much like to meet up. Where’s good for you? I work in Soho so we’d be spoilt for choice but there’s a very nice wine bar on Dean Street. How does that sound?
’
All of the men with whom Becky had arranged a date appeared sane and, well,
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