Chapter 1 - Time to Get Back Out There
Today the god of HR has decided to slap me about. With a studded glove.
“Serena, I don’t understand why we have to follow all these protocols. It’s only a welcome email for new clients.”
I take a deep breath and count to ten before answering Marcus, the intern who, despite having been at the agency for barely two weeks, seems convinced he knows better than everyone else.
“Marcus, I’ve explained this already. We can’t send official communications without following the proper process and having the comms team review them.”
“But it’s a waste of time! I studied marketing. I know how to write an effective email.” The superiority in his voice makes me want to lob my monitor at his head.
I smile, maintaining the professional façade I wear like a second skin. “It isn’t about ability. It’s about brand consistency. All our communications need to use the same tone and style.”
Marcus sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever you say.”
Whatever you say. Three words that actually mean: You’re incompetent, but I’ll pretend to agree with you.
I watch him walk away with the air of an unrecognised genius, then sink into my chair. The clock says 5.40. Twenty minutes until I can finally escape this office, which today feels less like a creative agency and more like a cage full of hungry lions.
My phone buzzes with a Facebook notification: “Francesco Zanardini updated his profile picture.” My thumb opens it before my brain can intervene.
And there he is: my ex, smiling in a way I haven’t seen in ages. Beside him is a woman I’ve never met. They look happy. In love. Exactly as we looked before everything went wrong.
Eight months. Eight months since he told me he “didn’t feel the same way any more” and “needed space”. I had to learn to sleep alone again in the bed we’d picked together. I told myself I was fine, that being single was brilliant, that I didn’t miss him at all.
Lies.
I lock my phone and put it face down on the desk, as if that could silence the thoughts it’s set off. Too late. My fingers tighten around it. They’re shaking.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of Marcus the Arrogant and the rest of the team.
I head for the women’s loos, the only private sanctuary in an open-plan office designed by someone who clearly hated the concept of personal space.
Safely inside a cubicle, I do the most logical thing a thirty-one-year-old woman on the verge of a breakdown can do: call for backup.
Sofia answers on the second ring. “Hey, Sere. What’s happened?”
“Code red.”
“Shit. Where and when?”
“Somewhere near the office, as soon as I’m out of here. Can you call Julia too?”
“Consider it done. Hold the line, soldier. Reinforcements are on their way.”
I hang up and look in the mirror. This morning’s neat hair is already a mess, and my mascara has given up under my right eye. Sofia calls it my “imminent apocalypse face”. Today, she’s got it exactly right.
I fix what I can, take a deep breath and return to my desk for the final minutes of this hellish day.
“...and then he had the nerve to say his university project was more innovative than the system our team spent three years developing!” I wave my hands about, nearly knocking my second spritz over on the table at The Clapham North, the bar round the corner from my flat.
Sofia and Julia look at me with the particular mix of sympathy and amusement only old friends can perfect.
“Marcus sounds like a real catch,” Julia says, adjusting her glasses. “Remember Stephen from my department? Same attitude. Men have an incredible ability to confuse confidence with competence.”
Sofia nods over her gin and tonic. “They don’t have imposter syndrome. They have misunderstood-genius syndrome.”
I laugh, and already feel better. That’s what friends can do: turn a day from hell into therapy with alcohol included.
“Anyway,” Sofia says, giving me a look I know far too well, “we all know you didn’t call a code red just because of that insufferable intern. What actually happened?”
I sigh and admit it. “Francesco’s seeing someone.”
Silence settles over our table, broken only by the music and the chatter around us.
“How do you know?” Julia asks, practical as ever.
“Facebook. He changed his profile picture. They’re together. Blonde, blue-eyed. Looks like she came out of an IKEA catalogue. Not a hair out of place. Probably rescues baby seals in her spare time.”
“Social-media stalking, then. I thought we’d agreed that was off-limits,” Sofia says gently.
“I wasn’t stalking him! He came up in my feed. That’s different.”
Julia raises an eyebrow. “You still have notifications on for his updates?”
I bite my lip, caught. “Maybe.”
Sofia shakes her head. “Serena, it’s been a while now.”
“I know, I know!” I run a hand through my hair. “It’s just... I don’t know. Part of me still hoped it was a phase, that he’d realise he’d made a mistake and come back. It’s stupid, I know.”
Julia takes my hand. “It isn’t stupid. It’s human. But maybe it’s time to accept that door is closed and start looking for others.”
“What other doors? The last time I went on a date, flip phones were cutting-edge and Berlusconi was still in his first term.”
Sofia laughs. “You’re being dramatic. You’re thirty-one, not fifty. And what about Simon from Marketing?”
“The one I went out with twice? The one who talked for three hours about his trip to Thailand and didn’t ask me a single question about myself? Yes. A true prince. A model of chivalry.”
“Fine, maybe not him,” Sofia concedes. “But the point is, you need to get back out there. Francesco was your first love, but he doesn’t have to be your last.”
Julia nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. Time to get back in the game.”
“Me? I don’t know how to flirt. I don’t know how to talk to men. You know that. I’m hardly a natural seductress.”
Sofia takes a sip of her drink, smiling. “That’s where technology comes in, darling.”
“Don’t tell me...”
“Yes! It’s time you discovered the magical world of dating apps!”
I choke on my spritz. “Absolutely not. I’ve heard horror stories. Men sending unsolicited pictures of their bits, people turning up to dates looking nothing like their photos...”
“It happens,” Julia admits, “but there are good stories too. A colleague of mine met her boyfriend on Tinder.”
“And my cousin met his wife on Bumble,” Sofia adds. “The secret is to be selective and keep your expectations realistic.”
I look at them sceptically. “I don’t know...”
“What have you got to lose?” Sofia presses. “Worst case, you’ll have a few funny stories to tell us. Best case, you meet someone interesting.”
Julia nudges me with her elbow. “And let’s be honest, a bit of sex wouldn’t hurt after eight months of celibacy.”
“Who says I’ve been celibate?” I protest, though we all know the truth.
Sofia and Julia give me a look.
“Fine. Maybe you’re right,” I concede. “But I wouldn’t even know where to start. Francesco’s the only man I’ve ever been with. I met him at school; it all just... happened. These apps seem so artificial, so...”
“...efficient?” Sofia suggests. “Listen, things change. Everyone uses apps to meet people now. There’s nothing weird or desperate about it.”
“Besides,” Julia adds with a wicked smile, “think of all the options. Like having a menu of available men at your fingertips.”
“That doesn’t sound appealing. More like a catalogue of mistakes waiting to happen.”
“It sounds brilliant,” Sofia corrects me. Then, without warning, she snatches my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you a push in the right direction.” She starts tapping away with determination.
“Sofia, give it back!”
“Too late!” she declares triumphantly. “Tinder is officially on your phone.”
Julia claps while I stare in horror at the flame icon now contaminating my screen.
“I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me.”
“We’ve rescued you,” Sofia corrects. “Now we just need to set up your profile. Have you got any decent photos?”
“Wait, wait.” I try to regain control of the situation. “I never said I’d do this.”
“But you will,” Julia says with confidence. “Because deep down, you know we’re right.”
I look at them both. Sofia smiles like someone who’d push you off the diving board even if you couldn’t swim. Julia looks ready to calculate the perfect angle from which to kick me into action.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe it really is time to turn the page.
“Fine,” I give in. “But not tonight. I’m exhausted and slightly drunk. This is not the ideal time to make decisions.”
Sofia hands my phone back with a victorious smile. “Fair. Tonight we’ll just install the app. Tomorrow we’ll think about your profile.”
“And then,” Julia adds, raising her glass, “your adventure in the wild world of online dating begins.”
“God help me,” I mutter, joining the toast anyway.
At 11.15, I finally let myself into my flat in Clapham. I furnished it from scratch after Francesco moved out, and tonight its silence seems to have been waiting for me.
I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa, exhausted. The day has been an emotional whirlwind: stress at work, finding out Francesco has someone new, and the terrifying (and exciting?) prospect of throwing myself into online dating.
The phone on the table seems to be watching me. The Tinder icon pulses like a red warning light. One little tap and I’ll officially enter an unfamiliar universe of swipes, matches and other pointless bits of dating jargon.
“It’s just an app,” I tell myself aloud. “It’s not a lifelong commitment.”
And yet it means something bigger: finally admitting that things with Francesco really are over, and that I’m ready—or at least trying to be ready—to look ahead.
For a moment, I consider deleting the app and forgetting this whole ridiculous idea. I could carry on as I have been: work, Netflix, evenings with the girls, the occasional work drinks where I timidly flirt with colleagues I’m not actually interested in.
But is that the life I want?
I look at the framed photo propped on the sideboard: me, Sofia and Julia on holiday in Sicily last year. We were happy, carefree. I was still with Francesco, unaware of what would happen a few months later.
The photo looks back at me, bright and carefree. I feel less so.
I put my phone down and get up to get ready for bed. Tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll have the courage to take the first step into this new, terrifying adventure.
“Tomorrow I’ll start,” I whisper to my reflection as I take off my make-up. And for the first time in eight months, I don’t think about Francesco as I fall asleep.
