I throw my overnight bag onto the floor. “Alexa, turn on the telly.”
I’m convinced couples stay together in London because it’s too expensive to live alone.
Max and I had a lovely two-bedroom garden flat just off Clapham, south London. It had enough outdoor space for a potato patch and a small barbecue. I only have a handful of friends anyway.
I thought we would upsize to an actual house. Instead, I’ve downsized to a one-bedroom flat the size of a prison cell above a fried chicken shop.
When you first walk in, it’s confusing whether you’re in the living room or kitchen, then you realise it’s both. Though with the kettle within spitting distance of the sofa, it’s convenient for making tea.
Moving day was stressful. It wasn’t just because I stuffed a moving van full of things I never use—tennis rackets, dumbbells, obscure kitchenware, unopened cookbooks—but also because after years of sleeping beside the same man, I was solo.
Kate called a state of emergency and stayed over for the first few nights. I can’t remember too much about them. I sat round in a daze weeping and staring at my phone like I was hypnotised, whilst she made me food. Waiting for Max to realise the error of his ways, apologise for his rash words and revoke his ridiculous decision.
But the phone never rang, and Kate couldn’t stay forever.
For the first month, the loneliness was difficult. I was on autopilot, as unsettled inside the flat as outside.
Dad actually asked me to move in with him. I couldn’t but it broke my heart to break his heart.
Breaking up with Max left a big hole in my schedule. Breakfasts eaten alone. Evenings alone. Weekends were the worst, Sunday mornings especially. I arranged lunches, dinners, drinks and walks with friends but still couldn’t fill all the hours.
Being with Max was all I knew for so long that I forgot how to just be with me.
Then after a few months, I began to appreciate the positives of solo living. No one to snuggle with but no snoring in my ear either and I didn’t have to listen to that constant clearing of Max’s throat that made me want to choke him in his sleep. The toilet seat remains down permanently. I can do whatever the fuck I like within these walls without judgement.
I pee with the bathroom door open, listening to my reverse harem audiobooks. Volume hitched as high as it will go. I pig out on takeaways in large pants and watch 365 Days on repeat getting unreasonably emotional. It’s strangely liberating.
I need new hobbies.
My phone buzzes.
Nisha: Have you set it up yet?
Me: Give me a minute.
I only dropped her off thirty minutes ago and she’s already nagging me about my dating profile. We agreed in the car that I need to cast my net much wider, i.e. men I’ve never met before.
I should really go straight to sleep. I have to pack two days of work effort into one tomorrow.
Except Nisha said it would only take five minutes to set up a profile. I might as well have a quick look. See what the pool is like.
The belly flutters over Jack Knight might have been misplaced, but they gave me hope that I could put myself out there again. Finding out that Max is dating again came at me from out of left field. When we were both in a weird limbo, not with each other but not moving forward, I was okay. Now Max has stirred everything up.
But I can’t let a few bad cocks skewer my judgement of dating.
The first part of filling out the profile is easy. Almost feels like applying for a passport.
What do I say about myself?
Who am I?
Bonnie. 28. Architect. Runner.
Is that it? Is that the culmination of me? Do I have GSOH?
Oh! I make my own jewellery. Though I’m not sure if that’s going to be a good hook to reel in the blokes.
Bonnie. 28. Architect. Runner. I listen to smutty audio books while relaxing on the toilet. Sometimes I text from there too. Occasionally I eat dinner directly from the saucepan. My phone is full of hundreds of selfies of me sitting on the sofa, just because. I’m in desperate need of a sex life that involves warm living penis. Maybe plural.
Nope, nobody needs to know the truth.
All my photos are with Max or the girls. I find one photo of me on my own where I look half decent.
Easy. Now I’m into the catalogue.
How far should I cast the net? I’ll stick to the London zones. That should be a few million single guys to work with.
What am I looking for?
Sensitive, emotionally mature, intelligent man to build new hobbies with. Good head on his shoulders.
Fuck that.
Arrogant, half-Italian, half-Cockney alpha who looks like dirty sex and thinks he rules the world.
Tattoos.
Nipple ring.
Dark hair in topknot.
Permanent grin that you want to wipe off his face.
Excessively overgrown penis.
Reminds me of alpha wolf Caleb from the Red Moon Canines.
Abort.
I’ll just do some window shopping.
Oh, hello, Barry.
Jim’s not bad on the eyes, either.
Nope.
Nope.
Nope.
Sam says he’s the best catch in London. These claims should be validated with a blue tick as they do for celebrity profiles.
Hello, Officer Nigel!
Maybe.
Dear Lord, Jordan with the hot abs is a pilot. Some guys definitely get more sex because of their job.
So many options.
Jerome doesn’t want to go out with any Labour Party supporters. I haven’t decided how I’m going to vote this year.
God, this is fun. How many have I swiped?
NINETY MINUTES.
This is an addictive game.
Not a game. It’s a sport. My eyeballs are hanging out of my head, and adrenaline is pumping through me like a current.
I’m never building new hobbies at this rate.
I bet there’s a diagnosed addiction now for swiping.
In a year’s time, I’ll be standing in a room with a twitchy finger announcing, Hello, my name’s Bonnie and I’m a serial swiper.
I must ask Nisha how many swipes per day are too many. Maybe I’ll run out of swipes before I can become addicted.
Although, London’s a big place, and if I run out, I can widen my catchment area to Kent and the home counties.
I transition from sofa to bed, still swiping on my walk.
Nope.
Maybe
My finger stops abruptly.
Nice.
Christopher. Six-foot-four. Nice manly face. Gorgeous eyes. Recruitment manager, not a layabout. Pictures seem normal enough. No dick pics. Oh, he looks good in a suit. He looks like he could be Spanish or Italian. Annoyingly slightly like Jack Knight . . . I’ll click for some of this.
I swipe right to connect.
And . . . we match immediately.
Oh my God, Christopher loves me. This is way better than my therapy and it’s free!
The instant gratification . . . oh my.
Our future flashes before my eyes. Our kids are going to be gorgeous. Christopher is originally from Wales, so he’ll have a lovely accent. Not that gruff cockney tone.
I’m not sure if I’d want to settle down in Wales if it comes to it, but I would be willing to negotiate.
Maybe Christopher has a pierced nipple and a big dick.
Bonnie and Christopher. Bonnifer! It really is meant to be.
I’m a freak.
I’ll wait to see if he messages first. I’m sure that’s the rule. Nisha can help me with the responses.
Time to gain willpower and close the app. I need to cut this shit out. I’m going cross-eyed from the radiation emanating from my phone.
My fingers hover over the browser button.
Except . . . I’m a glutton for punishment.
I type in Jack Knight and click news.
What I’m expecting to do with the information I find, who the fuck knows? I appear to have branched out in my stalking.
Jack Knight made me feel like shit. Definitely nothing of interest going on there.
There’s been no new news in the past few hours. Literally hours after the wedding, pictures of Jack and Michelle Allard at the wedding made their way into clickbait. Kate’s gutted she’s not in them.
I click on more images of him.
What the—
It takes me a second to realise the naked man with a massive boner is Jack’s face juxtaposed onto someone else’s body. I know better. That’s not the same dick I saw a few days ago.
I really need to have my delayed rebound. Tomorrow I’ll strike up a conversation with Christopher.
Then there are the women with him. So many women. In bars, nightclubs, theatres, beaches, water, strip clubs. East End. West End. Miami. LA. Berlin. Sydney. Even the Vatican city.
I type one more thing into the search bar. Archie Knight East End murder.
I remember the night he died. We were used to hearing sirens around our way, but when three helicopters appeared above, we knew something big was up. When it came to the Wicks mob, the police brought out the big guns.
Word spread from house to house like wildfire.
Father of local big shot Jack Knight had bled out, his death caused by Donnie Wicks. Although it seemed they never managed to make it stick to Donnie.
The pictures of the funeral are hard to stomach. Jack’s haunted dark eyes bore into me from the screen.
Grief dominates his handsome features. Raw, intense sorrow that I can’t relate to because I’ve never lost anyone close to me.
I can’t look at this anymore.
I click play on my audiobook, snuggling under the covers. It’s time for Stella to play with the four brothers of the mountains.
