1
Nora looked around the odd little back-street restaurant where they’d arranged to meet. It was like all the people she had ever swiped to the right were in one room.
‘Deliveroo collections, that side,’ said one of the waiting staff, scanning Nora briefly. Harsh. Nora whipped off her turquoise waterproof jacket. It was mid-May and there had been a 70 per cent chance of rain when she’d left the house and statistics were rarely wrong. Thankfully another member of staff appeared and showed her to her table.
Despite the data to the contrary, here she was giving dating another go. The odds of Nora finding someone she wanted to spend her forever with were already slim at best; she knew because she’d crunched the numbers. Perhaps Nora’s standards were set too high. However, there was still a chance and Nora had always loved a challenge, which was good, given that her date had just arrived wearing a trilby, cravat, shiny waistcoat and red trousers. She’d seen salads better dressed than him.
‘Gareth?’ she asked. Nora needed to be certain; there was always a possibility that this was the wrong person and she remained hopeful.
‘That is I. You must be the delightful Nora.’
‘I don’t know about delightful,’ she said as every fibre of her being cringed.
He held up a palm. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
This was not a good start. But she’d tasked herself with waiting until after the date to analyse their suitability.
Men had come and gone and then a couple had popped up again like whack-a-moles and Nora had accepted that love was fleeting, messy and frequently deceased long before she’d realized it. As a statistician she had a logical approach to love and relationships. The odds of finding someone she wanted to spend eternity with were, according to her reckoning, about one per cent. The odds of her making it to a year in a relationship weren’t much better but she had accepted that that was how things were. Or at least she had, until her birthday came along.
On her twenty-ninth birthday her mother had tried to pay her a compliment by saying, ‘My Nora, you are our greatest blessing. We are so proud of you and the kind, hard-working person you have become. You have a well-paid job, lovely home, it’s just a shame you’re still single.’ The last few words felt like a piano had crushed her, the odds of which were about one in 250 million, which thankfully was something even less likely than finding a perfect love match.
It wasn’t that she needed a man in her life, far from it. She was completely self-sufficient and happy in her own skin. But thanks to her parents who, unlike most couples, had enjoyed a long and happy marriage, Nora knew it was possible to be even happier and if she wanted a family one day she wasn’t keen on doing it on her own.
The question was this: was she the happiest version of herself when she was single? It was certainly better than being in a bad relationship, but the truth was that she wanted the sort of loving, supportive marriage her parents enjoyed. The more she thought about it, the more long-term relationships appeared to be flukes. She wasn’t going to accept just anybody. Mainly because she’d tried that and it had been disastrous. Her little experiment of just stick with the next man she fancied had landed her in a Spanish police cell for the night and a tattoo of SpongeBob on her left buttock. At least José still wrote to her every Christmas, even if the Spanish prison service were censoring the letters.
Nora’s latest approach was to give dating apps one last try. They promised a 70 per cent success rate although, on her calculations, from the data available, she felt it was nearer 15. But it did mean she could narrow the target audience by going for those with a similar career path to her own. She’d reasoned that someone else with a mathematical brain would hopefully see things as she did, giving them common ground.
She had vowed to make it to the end of the date before she began any sort of assessment. First impressionsweren’t always right. She repeated that in her head as she watched Gareth remove his trilby and try for a trick throw on to the back of his chair. The hat plopped into a man’s sticky toffee pudding on the next table.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Gareth. ‘I don’t know what happened there.’
After an extensive search she’d found Gareth online and initial exchanges had been hopeful. He was a bookkeeper from Leicester with his own home and car. He didn’t have his own hair though, she now realized, the restaurant lights bouncing off his bald head, giving it an ethereal halo effect. The photograph he’d shared had clearly been old. There was no way he was thirty-three. He was forty if he was a day. Gareth was now explaining in a nasal voice about the trials he’d experienced on his journey, and it was taking Nora all her time not to run.
‘To avoid any embarrassment at the end of the meal, shall we agree now that we’ll have separate bills?’ he suggested.
‘That’s good with me,’ said Nora.
‘I did have a little looksie online at the menu and their small plates seem the best value for money,’ said Gareth.
Looksie?Who said that? She gave herself a mental shake. The analysing needed to stop. She stared at the cravat. Gareth needed a fair chance, even though the voice inside her head said ‘Run, run, run!’
Gareth unfolded his serviette very precisely and tucked it in his shirt, which was quite a tricky task given the bulky cravat already in residence. ‘I must say, Nora, I am pleasantly surprised.’
‘About the prices?’
‘Not just those. I’ve had some very poor experiences with internet dating but—’ He was interrupted by his phone ringing on full volume. Nora felt the scorn of the other diners. ‘I’d better take this, it’s my mother,’ he said with a dramatic roll of his eyes. ‘Howdy, Ma. Yes… No… Actually that’s spooky because not ten seconds ago I saidIwas pleasantly surprised.’ He didn’t disguise the fact he was openly appraising Nora. ‘Definitely has potential.’ What was she: a doer-upper? ‘Yes, I’ll ask her. OK, byesie. Love you too.’ He ended the call. ‘Mums– what are they like, eh?’
The waiter appeared at their table to take their order and Nora was grateful for the interruption. ‘I think I’ll go for a Diet Coke and the scallops.’
Gareth snatched up the menu. ‘Don’t do that, there’s a supplement,’ he announced.
‘But if I’m paying I can have what I like,’ said Nora.
‘Ooo-ooh, an independent woman. I’ll have to get used to that.’
‘And for you, sir?’ asked the waiter.
‘Standard burger, no extras. And iced water for the table, thanks.’
