I turn away from the mirror.
“No, no, no, you don’t,” Sarah says, placing a hand on each of my shoulders and turning me slowly back round. “This is it, Gwen, this is definitely the one.”
I take a deep breath and squint at the flamingo-pink vision in front of me. Yep, no shit she thinks this is the one. She is going to drift down the aisle like an elegant swan, while I’ll be waddling in front of her dressed as a giant prawn.
“You look amazing,” Sarah coos over my shoulder. “How much do you love it?”
“Um, about exactly as much as the first time I tried it on four months ago,” I say.
I feel like I’ve spent the last twenty-two weekends in this bridal shop, endlessly trying on slight variations of the same dress. Sarah snakes her arms around my waist and perches her chin on my shoulder.
“I know it’s totally not your thing,” she says. “But thank you for pretending.”
I let the word hang in the air for a moment. Pretending. That’s something I’m going to have to get really good at. I wriggle out of her embrace and face her.
“Look, are you absolutely, positively, definitely sure about Richard?”
“Not this again,” she sighs. “I honestly do not know what you have against the guy.”
“Nothing!” I squeal. “It just sometimes seems like you’re more interested in the idea of getting married than in the man you’re marrying, that’s all.”
I always thought that Sarah had an overly romanticized view of marriage. Her parents had the sort of relationship you only see in Richard Curtis movies—dedicated, loving, and solid as a rock. She’d grown up in a gorgeous (and massive) cottage in Haywards Heath, surrounded by idyllic countryside, and while she didn’t technically own a pony, I was pretty sure she hung out with one on a regular basis. It was classic British rom-com territory, so no wonder she always dreamed of a bumbling English fop to sweep her off her feet. Maybe it was these high standards that had kept her single for years, but it was more likely that every guy she’d dated before Richard had treated her like shit. Nevertheless, she’d held out for her knight in shining armor, and remarkably, he had arrived. Or so she thought, anyway.
“I love Richard,” she says. “I know he’s a little boring, but I like that about him. I had quite enough bad boys, thank you very much. Richard is gentle. Sensible. Harmless. Reminds me of your dad a bit, you know?”
I flinched, but I knew she meant well. Sarah had idolized my dad almost as much as I did.
She’d been with me the day it happened. We’d just won the netball quarters and we were about twelve shots down at Flares when I got the phone call. Sarah put me straight in a cab and went with me to the hospital. I’ll never forget seeing Mum dry-sobbing in the car park when we arrived. I was too late, and nothing would ever be the same again.
“It’s just that…” I try to explain. “I just want you to be happy, you know that, right?”
“Gwen,” she says. “I hear you. But no more of this talk, okay? You can make me happy by getting along with Richard and supporting my decisions. You’re maid of honor after all.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble. “ ‘Here if you need,’ right?”
“That’s better.” She smiles. “Now, are we going to try on one more, just in case?”
“No,” I say. “This is the one, remember? Besides, I’ve got a date in about forty-five minutes.”
“Another date?” She sighs. “I keep telling you, you don’t have to bring someone to the wedding. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. The day is supposed to be all about me, remember? Not you trying to make Noah jealous.”
“There’s no chance of that in this dress,” I say.
“Hey, remember what we said about supporting my decisions!” Sarah squeals.
“I should really get going. We all good here, bestie?” I smile at her winningly.
“Yeah, okay, we’re good,” Sarah says after a moment. “I’ll see you back at home later. Go meet Mr. Completely and Utterly Wrong, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Might take this off first,” I say, grabbing my things and heading to the changing rooms. “Not sure that Princess Peach is the best look for a first date. Love you.”
“Hey, wait a minute, what do you mean, Princess Peach?” Sarah says, her voice rising.
But I’m already gone.
As I walk down the promenade to meet Sebastian, it occurs to me that I don’t have a clue what he actually looks like. It’s not that I thought he’d used old photos, or Facetuned his profile to Kardashian levels of flawlessness; it’s more that the pictures left only the vaguest sense of what his real face looked like. A slightly out-of-focus shot of him at a rugby match, a group shot at a wedding taken from a distance, and one of him with sunglasses and a baseball cap on some sort of boat. I mean, sunglasses and a hat on a dating profile pic? That’s just ridiculous. But from the little I could make out, I thought there was at least a 60 percent chance of him being really handsome, and that was a bet I was willing to take.
His profile listed his profession as “actor/screenwriter,” and he messaged like he was born in about 1840—calling me Gwendolyn and referring to me as a woman, not a girl. So I’m sort of looking forward to being courted by what I like to imagine is a young Hugh Grant type.
That’s why I said yes when he suggested a spin on the Eastbourne Eye. Sure, me and Charlie had spent many hours mocking the tourists who sat on the painfully slow wheel as it creaked round, offering them an aerial view of the town’s rapidly deteriorating architecture. But secretly, I’ve always liked the idea of being in one of the little glass pods, cut off from the world, even if it was just for twenty minutes.
When I arrive, I am pleased to see my gamble seems to have paid off. Seb is wearing a crisp blue shirt, opened maybe one button too far. He has a light, unseasonable tan and blond wavy hair. The smooth skin on his face looks like he’s never had to shave in his life. He steps aside to let me climb into our pod first, and we begin to slowly climb into the air. He smells a bit like my mum’s posh hand wash. I think about saying that to Seb just to watch his face.
“This is great.” I smile, gazing at the sea that I’ve looked at a million times. But to be fair, it does look amazing from up here. I can almost see my van, Alfredo, all the way down the beach. “Have you been on the Eye before?”
“I actually come here quite a bit,” he said. “Not on dates, I hasten to add! I come here to practice my lines. Rehearse. Just be. It’s so peaceful in these capsules, you know? No one can disturb me. I call it my safe space.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”
“I’m glad you like it. I wanted to make our first date special,” he purrs, before joining me at the glass. “So, what would be your idea of a perfect second date?”
He puts a hard emphasis on the word “second,” and aims his pearly white beam directly at me.
“Laser Quest, definitely Laser Quest,” I say.
“Not the theater then?” He smiles.
“I’m more of a pizza and beer type of girl, if I’m honest,” I say. Shit, I am really bad at flirting when I actually fancy someone.
“Dinner it is then….” He grins. “I’ll make a reservation for next week.”
“Uh, well, maybe let’s see how tonight goes first,” I say with a laugh.
“Well, let’s see if this helps to convince you.” He opens his small bag and pulls out a bottle of champagne.
“Oh, wow, nice.” I smile. “I thought actors were supposed to be impoverished!”
“Ah, well,” he says. “It helps when you have a very generous father. He’s been so supportive. Well, with his money anyway.”
Seb looks away for a moment, his smile vanishing as he busies himself with the foil wrapper on the bottle. He then pops the cork expertly, and pours the champagne into the two plastic flutes also secreted in his manbag. I take a sip just as the pod jolts forward a little, and cough when the bubbles hit the back of my throat.
“Keep going,” Seb says. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“Just like me,” I say, biting my lip and trying to continue my terrible attempt at flirting.
“So how has dating been going for you so far?” he asks.
“Um, well, I’m still single.” I shrug. “So I guess not great.”
“You just haven’t met the right person yet.” He smiles.
“Ha, yeah, ain’t that the truth,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Been on a few bad dates, hmm?”
“Well, first there was this guy Rob. Seemed nice enough, but he started pretending we were being filmed for a reality TV show. Every time he knocked his wineglass over or said something stupid, he gestured to the corner of the bar and said, ‘Graham, make sure you edit that bit out!’ ”
“Sounds thoroughly toxic,” Seb says, nodding.
“The next guy, Freddie, when there was a lull in the conversation, he started leaning toward me and counting down out loud, like he was a spaceship getting ready to blast off. He was actually counting down to kiss me.”
“Hopefully that was to make one hundred percent sure that you fully consented,” Seb says.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I had at least three seconds to change my mind before ‘launch.’ ”
“Any more?” Seb asks.
“Well, then there was Josh,” I say. “I ended up assaulting him with a golf club. Don’t ask.”
“I’m sure he deserved it.” Seb’s smile doesn’t falter.
“And last but not least, Dev, who ghosted me.”
“Men!” Seb rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please allow me to apologize on their behalf.”
“Well, at least they turned up for a date.” I shrug. “Most men on Connector just want me to send them nudes, to be honest.”
“And do you comply?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Hardly ever,” I say. “But mostly because I can never get a good angle.”
“For me, seeing a woman naked isn’t seeing her without any clothes on. It’s seeing her hopes and dreams and fears, does that make sense? If someone sent me a nude, I’d probably just crop it so it only had her face in.”
“Wow, that’s so, um, progressive?” I offer.
“I guess what I’m saying is, the quality I look for in a woman is her personality,” he says.
“Well, that’s good, because I’ve got loads of them.” I smile.
He looks confused.
“My mother brought me up to respect women, whatever their… ah, issues might be. She always said I was her little Prince Charming and James Bond all rolled into one.”
“Your mum sounds great,” I say.
“She is,” he says, his gleaming smile turning downward as he looks away toward the sea. “She’s not been well recently. Starting to forget things. I promised her she could walk me down the aisle this year! If that’s okay with you, that is?”
He flashes his bright white teeth at me again, his brief moment of introspection gone.
“Um, well, like I said, let’s see how this date goes first, shall we?” I blush and look out the window.
“Ah, I see. You’ve been hurt before, haven’t you?” he says, pointing at me with his index finger.
“Excuse me?”
“You put a brave face on, but your eyes betray you. I’m very good at reading people,” he says.
“Give over,” I say with a laugh.
“It’s all right, you don’t have to talk about it. But trust me, you’ll feel better if you do.”
I can feel my blood slowly simmering, but I mentally reduce the heat and carry on.
“I’m okay, thanks, Seb,” I tell him, sipping more champagne.
“All I ask is that you shouldn’t judge us all by our worst examples. I promise you, there are some good men left out there,” he continues. “I’ve been hurt too, you know. But I try not to close myself off because of it. Maybe I could show you how?”
“Are you sure you want to? Maybe I’m a psychopath. I used to squash spiders on the reg. Don’t worry, these days I scoop them up and chuck them outside. Is that worse, do you think? Being chucked out at a terrifying height onto concrete? How would you prefer to go? Squished by a giant fist or catapulted to your doom out of a window?”
I’m babbling, but I just really want to change the subject.
“Gwen, is this about spiders or is this about you? I think this hot-mess manic-pixie dream girl thing is just a bit of an act, isn’t it? What are you hiding under there?”
“Sorry, I thought this was a date, not a psychotherapy session,” I say.
“No need to be so defensive.” He smiles. “Relax, I told you, this is a safe space.”
That’s the second time in a week I’ve been accused of being defensive, and suddenly the glass bubble seems very small indeed. I turn to look out the window again, just as our pod reaches the crest of its orbit. I pretend to gaze at the water below, as if it’s changed at all during the last eight minutes, and take the opportunity to pull out my phone and text Sarah.
Gwen: Pros: he brought champagne. Cons: incredibly full of himself.
Sarah: Well, that probably means he’s a really good kisser.
Gwen: How would you know? ;-)
Sarah: I wasn’t a virgin before I met Richard, you know. I have had some experience dealing with players, and trust me, the arseholes are always the best kissers.
Gwen: Well, I’m not ready to officially assign him arsehole status just yet.
Sarah: You’re going to stick it out for a few glasses of free fizz?
Gwen: Well, I’m literally stuck in a glass cage, so yeah, I kinda have to.
Sarah: Isn’t there an emergency brake in those things? Can’t you press the alarm button or something?
Gwen: Gotta go. He’s saying something. I better give him my undivided attention.
I turn around to see Seb talking to someone on his phone. He holds up a finger to indicate—what? He’ll be one minute, or I should shush? I wait while he finishes his conversation. Eventually he puts the phone down and smiles at me.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Now, where were we? You were opening up about your previous relationship?”
“Was I?”
“Trust me, Gwen, I’m a good listener. I know women get talked over a lot. It happens in my improv class all the time. But I always let my ‘supporting actresses’ have their say before I decide how the scene is going to go.”
“Wow, they should give you a certificate or something,” I say.
Seb laughs again. “I know, I know,” he says. “I don’t mean to patronize. I’m just saying, I’m an ally. I’m one of the good ones.”
“Pleased to hear it,” I say.
“I love women,” he says. “And by love, I actually mean respect. I’m honestly really pissed that my latest screenplay doesn’t pass the Bechdel test. Granted, it’s an arbitrary bar to judge by, and my work has some feminist themes in it that are hopefully a little more deep-rooted than that, but I do worry about it.”
I’m tempted to start clapping my hands very, very slowly.
“I mean, the characters are all women, of course, which was really refreshing to write. They’re all fighting over the same man, a rather dashing chap named Jeb. It really helped me understand the female struggle. One of the characters—Trish, wonderfully coarse sense of humor, real salt-of-the-earth type—she waits tables at the local café, menial work, like yours. I’d love a sensitivity read if you have time?” he says.
I go over to the door of the pod, but we’re still only three-quarters of the way round. Stepping out now would be a fifty-foot drop. It’s either die or read this guy’s screenplay. Tough choice.
“Um, yeah, maybe,” I mumble.
“Ah, yes, I see what you’re getting at. You think it’s not my place, as a man, to tell these women’s stories. You’re quite right, we’ve heard enough male voices now. Time to let the ladies have a go. Now, normally I’d totally agree, but I really think this might be my best work, so maybe we could make an exception for little old me?” he says, arching an eyebrow. “Like I said, we’re not all monsters, you know. Now, I’m very sorry if you’ve been treated badly by a man in the past, but that doesn’t mean that—”
“I didn’t say I’d been treated badly,” I interrupt.
“Really?” he says.
“Really,” I say.
He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Tell me, what happened, Gwen? Who hurt you?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There’s no escape.
“It was my fault, not his, if you must know,” I say quietly. “It was me. I fucked up, okay. And I’d do anything to change that. But it’s too late.”
I push my hair behind my ears and take another breath.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing a smile, “let’s not tell our sad stories. Not while there’s still champagne left.”
Seb strokes my arm and pushes out his bottom lip, making an exaggerated sad face.
“You know, my therapist says that physical massage can be a really effective way to heal psychological wounds. If you need someone to work out your issues on, I’d happily consent.”
“No thank you.”
“Or I could give your neck a little rub right now. Ease out that tension. Of course, the real tension is right here.” Seb points at my chest.
“My breasts?”
“Your heart.” He reaches toward me with both hands, wriggling his fingers.
I step back. “I said, let’s talk about something else.”
“Of course, but before we do, can I just say—” he begins.
“You know, for someone who is such a good listener,” I snap, “you sure do have a lot to say.”
“She says, as she interrupts me in the middle of a sentence for the third time tonight.” He smiles.
“You’re the one who took a phone call in the middle of a date,” I sigh.
There’s an awkward silence before he speaks again.
“That was my mum,” he says. “I call her at the care home at the same time every evening, routine is really important for her.”
I feel a pang of guilt ripple through me. “Oh, right—sorry, Seb. Can we go back to talking about spiders now?”
“I don’t have a lot to say about that,” he says quietly.
We spend the rest of the time pretending to see something incredibly fascinating in the endless gray swaths of ocean beneath us.
When I look over at him, he’s got his phone out again. I catch a glimpse of the screen only to see he’s got bloody Connector open. Great, now he’s swiping in the middle of our date. Probably lining up his next “supporting actress.” This is next-level negging. I squint, trying to make out the name on the profile he’s looking at. Starts with a P. Then an A, followed by an R… Suddenly, before I can see the rest, the wheel jolts to a stop, and Seb looks up. Seeing me staring at him, he quickly stuffs the phone back in his pocket and forces a thin smile.
“Terra firma,” he says.
An attendant pulls open the door of the pod and I feel a wash of some much-needed fresh air. When Seb tries to take my hand to help me out, I decline.
“Well, it was really nice meeting you,” he says as we walk across the grass that surrounds the Eye. “But I must bid you farewell. Things to do, people to meet.”
“Like another date?” I mutter under my breath.
His face flushes, but he pretends not to hear me.
“I hope you had a pleasant evening, Gwendolyn.”
And with that, he pecks me on the cheek and disappears toward town. As I trudge home across the beach, my phone beeps.
Seb: I need to be honest because the last thing I want to do is lead you on. You’re too fragile to be messed around. Regrettably, I didn’t feel a connection on our date. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to offer some advice for the future: if you continue to keep your guard up, you’ll likely discover that it’s very difficult to find the happiness you’re looking for. But I’d be happy to email over my screenplay if you’d still like to read it. Stay safe.
Five minutes later, another message arrives.
Seb: Send nudes?
As the last of the light fades, I sink my thumb onto the Block button and kick a pebble as far into the receding waves as I can.