Woke Up Rich, Engaged…and in 1955!

Trust me, dating is not as romantic as everyone pretends it is.

It’s exactly like trying on dresses in a fitting room.

Sometimes it’s fun—you spot one that looks perfect, totally fits you, you twirl in the mirror feeling fabulous… but somehow it wears out too quickly.

Sometimes you fall for the most gorgeous one, it looks good on you but they don’t have your size, and it just won’t zip up no matter how hard you suck in.

And sometimes it looks beautiful on the hanger, all glossy and promising, but the second you slip it on, it doesn’t suit you at all and even makes you look worse.

But guess what? I still keep going back to the fitting room. Just in case.

Right now, across this tiny table in a noisy Soho bar, sits the guy I’ve been chatting to on the app for a week. His name is Ryan. Six foot, finance job, nice jawline, good photos. We matched last Tuesday. His bio said ‘open to relationship, looking for connection, someone to have fun with.’ I read that as ‘chill but open to something real.’ The chats were light—music, films, weekend plans. He asked good questions, laughed at my jokes. When he suggested drinks, I thought, Okay, this could be my dress!

Full disclosure: I almost cancelled this morning because a new match had just popped up and he had a dog in all his photos and I’m weak like that. But I came anyway. Because this is what you do at twenty-eight in London. You show up. You try on the dress.

We’re on our second drink. He’s been charming enough—asking about my day, teasing me about my Jellycat obsession. Then he leans in, lowers his voice like he’s sharing a state secret.

‘So… I’m really feeling this,’ he says. ‘I like you, Bethany. You’re hot, you’re funny. I’d love to take you back to mine tonight. See where the night goes. What do you think?’

I freeze, glass halfway to my lips. There it is. First date, and he’s already trying to fast-forward to the bedroom scene.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it, it’s just I don’t feel the thing…yet.

‘I… I’d rather take things slow,’ I say carefully.

He smiles, but it’s a little tighter now. ‘I get that. But you don’t have to be so guarded. Just follow your heart. Follow the flow, you know? Let go a little.’

Follow the flow. I AM following my flow! My flow says: not tonight, mate.

‘I’m not being guarded,’ I say, keeping my voice calm. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I’m not eighteen anymore. I want to build something, not just… have fun once and then ghost.’

He shrugs, leaning back. ‘I’m not gonna ghost you. I just feel like you’re missing out. Just go with it. No pressure, no expectations.’

You are literally pushing pressure and expectations on me now!!

I force a smile. ‘Maybe.’

‘You’re overthinking. That’s why you’re still single.’

What?

I’ve totally lost interest now. Gone. Vanished. This dress might be beautiful, but it’s squeezing me half to death and the seams are terrible.

The rest of the evening is polite but strained. He talks about work. I nod. The bill comes. We split it. He walks me to the Tube. ‘Text me?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ I lie. Then he becomes another ghost story in my collection.

I get on the train, put my headphones in, and swipe again.

The next day at work, Louise catches me in the kitchenette while I’m making tea.

‘So! How was the finance guy?’ she asks, leaning against the counter.

I sigh. ‘He spent most of the night trying to make me sleep with him on the first date.’

She widens her eyes. ‘Another one? What did he say?’

‘“Follow your heart. Don’t be so serious. Follow the flow.”’ I mimic his deep, soft voice and throw my hands out dramatically. We both burst into giggles.

Jennifer overhears us and bounces over with a grin.

‘It’s only the beginning of December!’ She twirls a strand of her perfect chestnut hair around her finger unintentionally so her diamond engagement ring catches the office lights like it’s trying to blind me and remind me she has the perfect Instagram life. ‘You’ve still got a few weeks to bag a boyfriend for Christmas. It should be easy-peasy!’

I roll my eyes. Easy-peasy for her.

Me? I look fine. But I’m not Jennifer-level “stop-the-room” gorgeous. Not the kind of face that makes strangers compliment you in lifts or get free upgrades at bars.

I’m just a designer which sounds glamorous until you realise the salary can barely cover my shoebox-sized room, the occasional matcha, and the small luxury of choosing Zara over Primark when I’m feeling reckless. Most days, I make social media posts slightly less boring for a mid-sized marketing agency no one’s ever heard of. My ideas always get “banned” left, right and centre—only for the clients to sheepishly admit they loved the first version anyway.

So yes. Easy-peasy. For someone.

‘I hate Christmas,’ I mutter. ‘Can we please not talk about it?’

Jennifer laughs and gives me a gentle push on the back. ‘Come on, let’s get back to work before you spiral.’ Louise grabs her coffee mug and whispers, ‘We’ll dissect this later,’ as we all shuffle back to our desks.

After work, the three of us grab a quick dinner, then battle through the crowds along Regent Street — dodging tourists taking selfies with the angel lights — and end up at the Christmas market in Trafalgar Square. The air is thick with mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, and cinnamon. Couples everywhere: holding hands, sharing scarves, stealing kisses under the giant tree. A street busker plays All I Want for Christmas Is You and I wince at the irony.

There it is.

The most critical moment of the year: Christmas.

Somehow, I always end up single by Christmas, because apparently the festive season is the perfect time for men to suddenly realise they’re ‘not ready for commitment’ or ‘need space to think about what they really want.’ (Spoiler alert: what they really want is usually not me — plus my entire extended family, my dad, stepmum, stepbrother and the rest of my stepmum’s family all crammed around the table in Liverpool for Christmas dinner.)

So here I am, staring down another December, secretly hoping Santa might finally drop a decent boyfriend down the chimney instead of yet another pair of novelty socks.

Louise links her arm through mine and whispers, ‘Ignore them. We’re having fun without men.’ Jennifer nods enthusiastically, but I catch her glancing at her phone — probably a text from Mark.

We find a bench near the edge of the square, away from the massive Norwegian spruce that everyone’s oohing and aahing over.

‘So,’ Jennifer says, sipping her hot chocolate, ‘why don’t you just pick another one from your endless list of dating app matches for this Christmas?’

I sigh so dramatically a nearby pigeon flutters away in alarm.

‘I did. I do. But they’re just… dates.’ I run my fingers through my hair, hoping it might untangle my thoughts too. ‘Online dating makes it too easy to meet people. No one invests anymore. Everyone’s disposable. Including me, apparently.’

And if I’m being very honest — I’m not totally innocent on that front either. I almost cancelled on Ryan last night because a man had a golden retriever in his profile photo. But we don’t need to unpack that right now.

‘It’s all about timing, right?’ Jennifer says warmly. ‘You’ll meet the right person at the right time.’

‘Maybe. I just want something real,’ I say. ‘Something that builds slowly. Like in school, when you’d catch someone’s eye across the library and your heart would do that stupid flip, and you’d spend weeks wondering if they liked you back. That tension. That… anticipation. Nobody has patience for that anymore.’

Suddenly the crowd surges – someone’s pushing through with a giant pretzel – and a man stumbles, landing half on my lap.

‘Oh! Sorry!’ he says, springing up. Our eyes meet for a split second. His eyes are dark, intense, like he’s actually seeing me, not just scanning for an exit.

‘No worries,’ I mumble, cheeks flaming.

He smiles – a quick, crooked one – then disappears into the throng with his mates.

‘Beth!’ Jennifer squeals. ‘He was totally checking you out!’

‘He was checking if I was going to sue him for assault by bottom,’ I say, but my heart’s doing that stupid flip again.

Stop it, Bethany. You don’t even know his name.

‘I think I need a drink,’ I announce. ‘Anyone?’

Jennifer shakes her head — she’s meeting Mark. Louise has a deadline. I roll my eyes and wander off alone, which is, let’s face it, on-brand.

I buy a large mulled wine from the first stall I see — extra cinnamon, because why not — and sip it as I weave through the stalls. It’s warm and spicy and goes straight to my head faster than it should. By the second cup (fine, I bought a refill, no judgement), the world feels softer, blurrier, and oddly hopeful.

The rain starts properly now – not spits, but proper fat drops. Everyone scatters. I stumble towards the quieter side of the square, clutching my paper cup like it’s a life raft, and find myself under a big tree tucked near the edge, just off the main bustle. No lights, no decorations, just gnarled branches and dark leaves glistening in the wet. There’s something ancient about it, like it’s been here forever, quietly watching London rush past.

I lean against the trunk, giggling to myself because the mulled wine has made everything hilarious. My boots are soaked, my hair’s plastered to my face, and I don’t care.

Carved into the bark – old, weathered letters – are the words:

If you are happy, stay where you don’t seem to belong.

I trace them with my finger, swaying a little. What does that even mean? Stay single? Stay stuck? Or… stay open, just in case?

There’s a tiny brass plaque half-hidden by moss underneath. I squint through the rain and the wine haze.

“When the world blinks, a tunnel reveals.

When it blinks again,

only what agrees here may return.”

I snort-laugh. Old London folklore, probably made up by some tipsy Victorian. Still… nice thought.

The rain’s soaking me now, but I’m warm inside from the wine. I tip my head back against the rough bark and start talking to the tree like it’s my best therapist.

‘You’ve got it easy, haven’t you?’ I inform it. ‘Standing here for centuries, watching the rest of us make complete idiots of ourselves over love. Must be very relaxing.’ I raise my cup at it respectfully. ‘Well. Since you’re listening — I, Bethany Clark, want real love. I want to get married. I want someone who stays! The kind that sticks. The kind that makes me feel safe, not disposable.’

I’m shouting now, arms waving, mulled wine sloshing dangerously.

‘Someone who remembers my birthday. Someone who doesn’t ghost after three dates. Someone who looks at me like I’m the only person in his life. Not just another match.’ I hiccup, then laugh at myself. ’And fine — maybe someone I wouldn’t want to run away from either. Is that too much to ask, tree? Is it?′

The tree, wisely, says nothing.

I hop from one foot to the other like a child, splashing in puddles. ‘I’m tired of swiping! Tired of rubbish dates! Tired of pretending I’m fine with my tiny shared room and my mediocre life! I want more! I want fireworks! I want—’

I spin around too fast, arms out like I’m flying, and nearly topple over. I catch myself on the tree, laughing hysterically.

Thunder rumbles. A flash of lightning – or maybe it’s just the streetlights reflecting off the wet – blinds me for a second.

And then everything goes black.