‘Oh,’ is all I can say.
‘That’s your reaction? Oh?’ she replies.
‘I just… thought you were calling with a plot twist,’ I say. ‘For my book. Not my love life.’
‘If you put as much effort into your love life as you did your career…’ she starts.
‘Did you win an award for feminism in the workplace?’ I interrupt her.
‘I think a little girl-on-girl crime is necessary,’ she says. ‘Because you’re probably already in bed, wearing some dorky T-shirt, staring at a screen. Am I warm?’
‘No?’ I reply, but I don’t even sound like I believe myself.
‘Whitney, listen to me, okay?’ she starts, and I already know I’m not going to like it. ‘It’s Friday fucking night. You’re young, you’re single, your flatmate is away – you’ve got the place to yourself. You’re probably drinking cold tea and rewriting the same paragraph again and again.’
She’s right about the tea. Bold of her to think I have the confidence to rewrite a whole paragraph right now though.
‘You said I could find you a date and I have,’ she continues. ‘A real man, not one of those imaginary ones who live in your head. So you’re going to put on something tight and short and low, ideally something red, and you’re going to go meet him, and you’re absolutely not going to talk about your book. Okay?’
I sigh.
‘What if I say I’m busy?’ I reply.
‘Busy bed-rotting?’ she checks. ‘I could always send him over…’
‘Okay, no, right, fine, I’ll go, I’ll meet him,’ I insist. ‘If this gets me one step closer to losing our bet, and selling my book, then I’ll do it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ she replies. ‘Just give him a shot. Take him for a spin – even if you don’t ever plan on spinning him again.’
‘You should be the one writing romance,’ I tell her, deadpan. ‘That was so romantic, so beautifully put.’
‘Thanks,’ she replies – I’m sure she knew I was being sarcastic. I think she’s being sarcastic too. That’s why we make such good friends.
‘So, who is he?’ I ask cautiously. ‘This date. What’s his deal?’
‘His name is Pete – that’s all you need to know,’ she replies. ‘If I tell you everything then what will you have to talk about on the date?’
‘I imagine seeing which one of my excuses to leave he’ll believe,’ I reply.
‘You won’t want to make excuses to leave, he’s a ten, trust me,’ she insists.
‘By your standards,’ I tease her. ‘Your bar is on the floor.’
‘On the floor, the bed, wherever it lands – oh, you saidbar,’ she jokes with a chuckle.
‘I do wish I were more like you,’ I confess. ‘I wish I had your confidence.’
‘Okay, tell you what. I’m going to do you a favour,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I’ll lend you my confidence – just for one night.’
I snort with laughter.
‘I mean it,’ she insists. ‘I’m sending it down the phone to you now. And I’m attaching it to a message with a time and location, for your date. Use my confidence, take care of it, return it to me at the end of the night. How does that sound?’
‘That sounds unhinged,’ I tell her. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ she replies – she sounds like she really means it.
‘I’d better go and get ready then, because I look like a mess, and I don’t think dry shampoo is going to cut it,’ I tell her, sniffing a clump of my hair.
