Normally I would never swipe right on a profile like Dev’s: a link to his Insta in the bio. A photo where he’s clearly blurred out his ex. Topless in 66 percent of his photos and surrounded by women in the other 34 percent. But, I have to admit, he is very good-looking, with a cocky smile that says: I am at once confident, charming, quite probably amazing in bed, and a complete bastard. But surely he can’t be as bad as the last three guys. And who knows, perhaps he’s hiding a winning personality under those rock-hard abs?
So when he sends me a faintly amusing opening gambit (Come here often?), I reply, and after a couple of days of back-and-forth, it seems, despite all evidence to the contrary, Dev might actually possess the heralded trifecta so rarely found in the men of Eastbourne: funny, handsome, and not a total dickhead.
Eventually Dev asks if I want to meet up.
Dev: How about bowling tonight?
Gwen: Yes! Sounds great. Love bowling.
Now, never tell anyone, but secretly, I hate bowling. But, luckily for Dev, I am willing to take one for the team and embarrass myself for an hour. By the time I get home from work that night, all I have to do is shower, find a suitable outfit, and practice my best “please tell me more about your podcast idea” face.
Shouting “hi” to Sarah and Richard as I rush upstairs, I set about pulling some options from my wardrobe, aiming for that sweet spot between “couldn’t care less” and “trying far too hard.” After choosing a denim playsuit, which I decide is both practical and cute, I sit cross-legged in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway to do my makeup while sipping a tequila and tonic and chewing on a piece of toast (sure, pre drinks are important, but so is lining my stomach).
Next, armed with a wide-toothed comb and my hair tongs, I drag my stubborn blond mane in different directions for five minutes. I stare at the angry lion in the mirror (an angry lion who admittedly has totally nailed a smoky eye with flicks), defeated. It’s getting late, so I scrape it up with both hands in desperation, then pull it back into a messy ponytail and make do.
On my way out, I present myself to Sarah, who deems me acceptable. It’s hard comparing myself with her sometimes, because she always looks like she’s invented some sort of magic real-life TikTok filter (and most of the time I look like a little blond rat that’s just crawled out of bed). It seems such a waste when she and Richard are permanently attached to the sofa these days.
“So this is your Date Night?” I ask, waving my hand over the detritus of half-eaten Thai takeaway boxes and freshly filled wineglasses basking in the glow of the TV screen.
“What?” Sarah says, not taking her eyes from the screen. “We’re living in the golden age of television!”
“Uh-huh, well, I guess you can regale your grandchildren with tales of Narcos season five,” I say.
“Actually, season two is the best one,” Richard pipes up.
“Good to know,” I say as I head for the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“We won’t,” says Richard. “I think I’ll be just about ready to turn in after this episode.”
Sarah rolls her eyes and kisses Richard on the cheek as I mime putting a gun to my head and blowing my brains out. The most thrilling part of an average evening in Richard’s life is the da dum that announces another night of Netflix. I’ve always felt you could measure a person by whether they like surprises or not. And Richard fucking hates them.
“Talking of getting horribly murdered,” Sarah says. “Don’t forget to pin me your location when you get there, just so I know where to send the police if he turns out to be a psychopath.”
“Hey, maybe a psychopath would make the perfect plus-one to the wedding,” I say. “Imagine your mum’s face when he starts stabbing everyone with the cake knife.”
“Gwen, that’s not funny—” Richard begins.
“I am officially rescinding that plus-one! I told you, I don’t want some random arsehole at the wedding just cos you ran out of time and had to bring an estate agent,” Sarah says.
“What have you got against random arseholes? Some of my best friends are random arseholes,” I said, glancing toward Richard.
“Hey, wait a second—” Richard starts.
“Sorry, gotta go!” I say, opening the front door. “Love you!”
With that, I step out into the cold air, my stomach full of butterflies. When I arrive at the trendy bowling place in the Hampden Park mall (all neon-lit alleys, American diner–style booths, and old-school rock and roll tunes), I’m pleased to see Dev in a crisp white T-shirt, tight black jeans, and brogues.
In person, he’s just as good-looking as his pictures, with thick black eyelashes circling big, deep eyes almost the color of dark gold.
“You look great,” he says, pecking me on the cheek when I make my big entrance.
“You too,” I say. “You look like a fifties throwback.”
“Well, the choices for us guys are pretty limited,” he says. “It’s basically jeans, and then the choice between a shirt or a T-shirt.”
“Oh, how come I didn’t get the shirt option then? Not classy enough for you?”
I once overheard a customer saying that if a guy showed up on a date wearing a T-shirt, she’d know they were splitting the bill. But me, I like guys in T-shirts.
“I wanted to show off my biceps.” He smiles.
I glance at his arms. I have to admit that, sure, there is some definition there.
“What do you think of my shoes?” He points to his feet.
“I genuinely could not give a shit about your shoes, Dev.”
“I thought the first thing a woman looks at is a guy’s shoes?”
“There is nothing more boring than a man’s shoes,” I tell him.
It’s true. If I’ve seen one tan leather brogue, I’ve seen a million. No, make that two million, because there’s always two of the fuckers. When it comes to shoes, as long as they’re not made of plastic and I can’t see your feet through them, I’m happy.
“Drink?” he offers.
“Sure,” I say. “Tequila and tonic, please, with some lime if they have it.”
We stand at the bar and exchange the usual small talk about our days. I tell him I’ve spent all morning cleaning the flat and my hands are already weakened.
“Therefore, my bowling prowess will not be up to its usual excellent standards,” I tell him.
“That’s good, because I am a terrible loser,” he says.
“Aw, don’t worry, even with a weak hand, I’m still going to thrash you,” I say, stroking his arm.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He smiles at me. “I take all my first dates here, so my aim is getting pretty good.”
“Oh really, and where do you go on second dates?”
“I’ve never got that far,” he says. “Yet.”
I can already tell this guy is going to drive me crazy, but I’m not sure if it’s going to be in a good or a bad way.
“Okay, let’s put a bet on it,” he says. “Loser buys the winner any drink he wants from the bar.”
“He or she,” I point out.
“Nah,” he says. “I think I had it right the first time.”
We swap our footwear for ill-fitting bowling shoes and take our drinks over to the lanes. Impressively, Dev has prebooked and even ordered milkshakes and french fries to be brought over to us. As I chuck balls down the gutter and fries into my mouth with equal abandon, he tells me about his job in an advertising agency.
“It’s a really small firm, Thoughterfall Media.”
“Thoughterfall. What, like a waterfall?”
“Mmm, yeah, but instead of water, it’s a waterfall of amazing thoughts.” He laughs. “Okay, look, basically I have to think up slogans to sell toothpaste and pet food.”
“Oh, so you’re like Eastbourne’s answer to Don Draper then?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Only without the alcoholism and misogyny.”
I laugh, just as I’m throwing a ball, and for once it wobbles into the center of the lane, knocking down most of the pins.
“See, told you I was going to beat you,” I say, trying to hide my surprise.
His dark fringe flops adorably over his eyes as he studies the scoreboard on the screen above our alley.
“Hmm, not sure math is your strong point either,” he says, pulling his hair back and squinting. “I make that forty-six to ninety-nine.”
I throw a fry at him. I always find throwing food at boys to be a good flirting tactic.
“Don’t worry, another two strikes and you might catch up,” he says.
I throw another ball down the lane. It drifts off to the left and drops into the gutter with a disheartening clunk.
“Guess I’m a one strike kinda girl,” I say with a shrug.
“Is that right? And how many strikes do I get?” he says, smiling.
“We still talking about bowling here?”
He pops a fry in his mouth and picks up his ball. With one graceful swing, he sends it flying artfully into the center pin, sending them all crashing over. He winks at me, annoyingly.
I dip a fry into my strawberry milkshake and eat it.
“That’s gross!” he says
“I call this ‘sending a potato on holiday,’ ” I tell him.
“I call it incredibly disgusting.”
“But also incredibly sexy?” I ask.
After he destroys me at bowling, we’re ejected from our lane by an apologetic usher and head to the bar. Luckily the alley has a limited selection of premium drinks, so he settles for a double of a cheap bourbon as his prize.
“So how have you found dating on Connector?” I ask.
“Mostly terrible.” He laughs. “In fact, you’re the first person I’ve met who actually seems normal.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I say.
“Okay, well, your bowling is not normal, if that helps?” He smiles. “But the rest of you seems pretty good.”
“So, you’ve been on a lot of bad dates then?” I ask, innocently sipping on my beer bottle.
“Connector is wild, if you know how to use it right,” he says. “But I guess the law of averages means if you go on a lot of dates, you’re going to get a few bad apples. One woman ordered a bottle of champagne to the table and then didn’t even split the bill at the end of the meal. Another one tried to stick her hand down my pants in full view of the whole pub.”
“What do you mean, ‘know how to use Connector right’?” I ask.
I wasn’t aware there was a way to “use Connector right.” But up until tonight, I’d managed to pick a run of absolute creeps, so maybe I had been using it wrong all this time.
“Let’s just say that my profile required a little fine-tuning before I got it just right,” Dev says, his eyes narrowing as if he’s working out if he can trust me. “Anyway, what about you, have you been on many dates?”
“One or two,” I say. “I was seeing someone up until not that long ago.”
“What happened?”
“I guess I freaked out,” I say.
“Freaked out?” he asks.
“Um, yeah. I mean, we were going to travel the country together, give up our jobs, the whole thing. It was his idea, his dream, but it was never mine. I wanted to do it for him, you know? In the end, it was just too much. I couldn’t go through with it.”
The truth is a little more complicated than that. When Noah’s mum got ill, he changed. Not in a bad way, but before that, he’d always been the sensible one, which gave me license to be the stupid one, making rash decisions and running off headfirst into everything without thinking. He got this newfound sense of “life is too short” just when I was starting to, I dunno, settle down a bit?
“Note to self, don’t propose to Gwen on the first date,” Dev quips. “So, newly single and dipping your toe back in the world of dating?”
“The last time I was single, people only used dating apps for hookups,” I say. “Now everyone seems to be meeting their future husbands on them.”
“Ah, so this isn’t a hookup then?” He smirks.
I blush and suddenly find the label on my bottle incredibly interesting.
“Depends if you play your cards right,” I say, getting up. “Excuse me a minute.”
In the bathroom, after checking my makeup and cursing my stupid hair, I text Sarah.
Gwen: Just thrashing him at bowling, and now having a victory drink. He’s actually pretty nice!
Sarah: He definitely let you win, didn’t he? Be careful. Don’t let him take advantage of you.
Gwen: Chill your beans, he’s far too hot to be a psychopath.
Sarah: Wait, you’re not planning on bringing him home tonight are you, you reprobate?
Gwen: Not if you and Richard are still on the sofa surrounded by takeaway boxes, no.
She replies with an eye-rolling emoji (her favorite).
I quickly dismiss the four Connector alerts on my screen demanding attention, and stuff the phone back in my pocket. When I sit back down at our table, Dev has ordered another round. I’m already more than a little tipsy, but for the first time in ages, I’m attracted to someone, and I feel like I can let my guard down. It’s weird, but it feels a bit like a betrayal. Like I’m taking the first step toward leaving Noah behind. Part of that scares me a little, and part of it excites me.
“Cheers,” I say, picking up my bottle and chinking it against his whiskey glass. “So how long have you been single?”
“Who said I was single?” He laughs. “Maybe I have a harem of lovers back home?”
“So you’re telling me you’re a polyamorous Don Draper bowling champion? I really have hit the jackpot.”
“Let’s play a game,” he says.
“Another one?” I ask. “I’m not sure I’m up for another thrashing tonight.”
“Oh, really…” he begins, raising an eyebrow.
“Stop that right there.” I smile, holding up my finger. “That’s quite enough of that. Tell me, what’s the game?”
“Let me see if I can guess your star sign.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in that shit?” I scoff.
“No, but I reckon I’m about six percent psychic, so let’s just try, shall we?” he says. “You, Gwen, are a classic Gemini.”
“Wrong. Hah!”
“Cancer then.”
“Lucky guess,” I say. “I wish it wasn’t though. I hate my star sign. For a start, it’s called ‘cancer,’ which absolutely nobody wants, and two, it’s a freaking crab! Who wants to be a crab?”
Dev gets his phone out and begins typing something into Google.
“Okay, let’s see if you’re a typical Cancer,” he says, scanning the screen. “Hmm, says here, you should be generous, empathetic, and innovative.”
“Those are true actually!” I say. “Hang on, what bad things does it say?”
“So, according to ZodiacRevealed.com, you’re extremely secretive, scared to be alone, and terrified of taking anything seriously.”
“Charming,” I say. But to be fair, the guys at Zodiac Revealed are kinda spot on. “Hmm, maybe there is something to this stuff after all.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Dev says. “Because I was actually reading out the traits for Gemini. So, looks like maybe I was right to begin with….”
I wish we still had fries so I could throw another one at him. But knowing him, he’d probably catch it in his mouth.
“Fine, what star sign are you then?” I say.
“Hang on, let me just check,” he says, tapping on his phone. “What sign is most sexually compatible with a Cancer….”
“I don’t think we need ZodiacRevealed.com to tell us that,” I say. “It’s the little-known constellation in the Southern Hemisphere, the Douchebag.”
Dev laughs and tips the rest of his whiskey down his throat before setting his big brown eyes on me.
“Shall we go?” he says.
As we walk out, side by side, he suddenly takes my hand and pulls me into a dark corner next to the fire exit. Shielded from the crowds, he puts his hand on my waist. I push him toward the wall and he kisses me. I kiss him back, harder.
“Sorry for the diversion,” he says. “Couldn’t help myself.”
“I love a diversion. Let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Here,” he says, pushing open the fire door behind us, and we slip into the mall, the noise of balls crashing into pins fading behind us.
We rush, giggling like truants, to the escalator. He stands on the step in front of me, so his head is level with mine, his eyes look directly into mine, and our lips line up perfectly. Turns out this one really is six foot one. I can feel the heat of his body as he leans closer, until our mouths are so close, all it would take is a knock from someone coming past us, and we’d be kissing again. As it happens, I don’t wait for that. I slip my fingers through his belt loops and pull him toward me, closing the gap between us.
We’re still kissing when the escalator tips us off into the car park. Outside, where the air is cold and fresh, he presses me against the wall. I can feel his hands moving toward the buttons on my playsuit. He moves his lips down to my neck, and gently undoes the top button. When I feel him slip his hand inside and over my bra, I’m more impressed than surprised.
“Let’s go somewhere warmer,” I say, pulling up the Uber app on my phone.
“Your place?” he asks.
“We could do, but my flatmate and her fiancé are there,” I say. “What about yours?”
There’s a beat.
“Give me one second,” he says, checking his phone. “Okay, yeah, my roommate is away tonight. We can go to mine.”
I hand him my phone and he taps in the address. When the Uber arrives, the driver has to beep his horn to interrupt us kissing, and we break off long enough to climb in the back seat.
I’ve only just managed to pull my seat belt on when Dev starts running a hand up my thigh.
“You’re going to ruin my four-point-five-star rating,” I say, glancing at the driver in the rearview mirror.
“On the contrary.” He smiles, reaching over to kiss me again. “I think this is going to get you that extra half star.”
Just then, a ringtone sings out and breaks the moment. Dev pulls away and fishes in his pocket for the offending phone. As he goes to decline the call, he pauses. I can see his eyes glint in the darkness as they register the name on the screen. He taps the red button and drops the phone on the back seat. Moments later, the screen lights up again with a message. Dev’s face contorts in what looks like fear.
“I’m really sorry, something’s come up. I can’t… you know. Can we do this some other time?”
“Wait, what?” I say. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, um, it’s my, it’s just my, uh, roommate,” he mumbles. “I gotta get back, sorry.”
“I thought he wasn’t there?”
Dev doesn’t say anything; instead he looks out the window. The atmosphere in the car changes in an instant. It’s gone from a sauna to a plunge pool in here. I catch the eyes of the driver in the mirror again, and I swear he can feel it too.
“Can you make an extra stop?” I ask him, doing up my buttons as my heart rate tumbles.
“Sorry, I can only drop off at the address you put in the app,” he replies.
“Okay, fine, um, don’t worry, I’ll get out at the next traffic light.”
The Uber pulls up to the curb, and I flick off my seat belt.
“Gwen, wait,” Dev says, leaning over to kiss me on the lips. “I had a great time.”
“Me too,” I say, climbing out into the cold. And it’s so very close to being true.
As I begin trudging back to my flat, I send Dev a message—hey, let me know if everything’s okay—but by the time I’ve completed the twenty-five-minute walk home, there’s no reply.
It’s only after I get home and fall dramatically onto my bed that I notice I still have my bowling shoes on.