Virtually Ideal Episode 1: Date or Die

  VIRTUALLY IDEAL

  by Buffy Greentree

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  Episode 1: Date Or Die

  Week 1 Monday

  Melbourne's winter mornings are the Wuthering Heights of weather: cold, bleak and full of disillusionment. The fact that it's Monday only makes it worse. Even the promise of coffee isn't enough to drive me out from under my cosy doona.

  After being side-tracked thinking through the practicalities of staying in bed for the rest of my life, and deciding it isn't worth a bedpan, I check my phone. It's 8am, two hours until I have to meet Amelia, my psycho pseudo-boss (if they don't pay you, are they really your boss?). I clunk my brain into gear for some tricky mathematics: ten minutes to talk myself out of bed, then probably fifteen to toss on as many layers as possible and perform a miracle with my hair. It'll probably take another fifteen minutes to get from my apartment to the overpriced, below quality chain coffee shop on Collins Street, if I decide to walk and not shell out for a tram ticket. Hmm, divide by five and carry the one ? I can stay in bed for over an hour and a half and only be ten minutes late. Sounds like a plan.

  With an evil grin, I slip one arm out of the covers to grab Anna Karenina from the pile of books on my bedside table. The rest topple to the ground with abandonment issues, their temporary bookmarks scattering. It's like watching angels fall. My Bible, released from its captivity at the bottom of the pile, glares at me accusingly. Has it really been that long since I've read it? I should get onto that. Just not right now. I suck my arm back in before the goosebumps start forming their own union.

  Ah, Anna Karenina, how those Russians love to complicate things. See, my love life could never be made into an 800 page novel. In fact, it can be summarised in two sentences; People in love with me: zero. People I'm in love with: zero. Okay, let me rephrase that last one: people I've actually met that I'm in love with: zero. And if some people want to judge me for being 29 and single, just because I'm not producing grandchildren, well that's their problem. At least I don't have so many people in love with me I'm contemplating suicide under a train.

  Now where was I? Russian peasants farming, that's right.

  I'm just settling into the bucolic scene when the doorbell rings. Now, had it been the phone, the phone I could ignore. But the doorbell sounds so infrequently that I'm shocked into jumping out of bed before I can think. By then I've ripped off the icy Band-Aid, so I might as well see who it is.

  I find my gianormous fluffy dressing gown - evidence in itself that I have no romantic expectations - and pull on my doggie slippers. Shuffling across the floorboards of my converted warehouse loft, I reach the intercom. It's Yanie, my little sister. I buzz her up and turn on the Nespresso machine (a joint birthday present from my two best friends, Jess and Tiff. They know me so well).

  My industrial metal door rattles but doesn't open. I lurch over and heave on it. It starts rolling with a jolt, pulling Yanie along in its wake before she can let go. I'm expecting her usual comments about how I should replace the door and am already planning a snappy comeback about her scrawny arms when I realise she hasn't said a word. Instead, she's burst into tears.

  'YanYans, what's with the tears?'

  She's still standing in the doorway, her minuscule frame hidden beneath a duffle coat; only her eyes appear above the wool boa constrictor that has wound itself around her throat.

  'It's Tony,' she finally gets out, finishing with a hiccup.

  I herd her inside like a duckling and throw myself against the handle of the door to slide it back. I crank up the heating, then spin her around and around to unwrap the scarf. The coat comes off next, and finally Yanie is revealed in all her petite, twinset glory.

  It looks like she's been crying for a good half an hour, and has acquired the handkerchief of some kindly person. It's monogrammed with the initials M.J. As I guide her over to the large sofa and head back to make us both a coffee I vaguely wonder about this mysterious individual. Did Yanie let slip she was crying about her boyfriend and the optimistic MJ saw his chance to cut in, maybe using the return of the handkerchief as his lure?

  These are the sorts of things that happen to Yanie. If I burst into tears on the train - okay, I should say 'when', as it has happened a few times now - the most care and consideration I got was from the drunk guy wondering if I had any ciggies. This is just one of the essential differences between my sister and me.

  But I digress, back to the crying Yanie. I shake myself out of my imaginings and bring over the coffees. Yanie takes hers and starts sipping.

  'So what's all this about?' It seems as good a start as any, but sets her off into more tears. I get up again and retrieve a box of tissues.

  As I watch my little sister try to master herself and fail, I run through the various platitudes I could offer: 'If he doesn't realise how wonderful you are, then that's his loss.' Possibly true, but not much help. 'Give him some time; he'll realise what a mistake he's made, and come back begging.' Well, maybe, but do you really want a guy who comes back just because he couldn't find anyone better? And then there's the good old, 'It's not you, it's him.'

  This is all made more awkward by the fact Tony and I have been friends since high school, and as much as I love my little sister, I really doubt Tony would have done anything terrible. Of course, if he has, I know where he lives and seven different ways to break into his house.

  I tune back in to find Yanie talking. Darn, now I have to piece together what she said. Just wait ? waaait ? nah, I got nothing.

  'He's just so ? and I thought ? but he really meant ? and then I felt ? but he thought ?'

  'Okay darling, slow down. Take a breath. I'm going to need some nouns.'

  She drops her hands and turns her wet face towards me. 'He asked me to marry him!'

  Whoa, okay, was not expecting that. What platitudes can you offer in this situation?

  'I'm sorry, that sounds ? awful?' I try.

  Her eyes open large. Not the right answer. 'Yanie, I'm still not clear why you're crying. I thought you really liked Tony?' And I'm not just saying that because I set the two of them up, or because Tony's awesome and the thought of having him as a brother-in-law is great. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

  'It's just that ?' She hiccups but doesn't conclude the sentence.

  'Just what, Yans?'

  'Mum,' is all she manages to supply.

  'What about Mum? You know she loves Tony.' Possibly more than she likes me. 'It would make her so happy to know you were lovingly cared for.' Tony has 'provider' tattooed on his forehead, which is exactly what Yanie needs. At 25 she still lives with Mum and Dad, even though she's got a good job and is great at keeping house. It's just that Yanie isn't made to be by herself.

  She turns her big eyes to me. 'You think so?'

  'I don't know what Mum's said to you, but just the other day she told me how nice it would be if Tony proposed. And I know Dad feels the same.'

  She puts her crying on pause. 'Really?'

  'Yes, ducky, really.' I give her nose a flick. 'You and Tony are meant to be together.'

  She thinks about it for a while, which I judge as a good opportunity to surreptitiously check my phone for any messages. Darn, Amelia has moved the meeting forward an hour. I'm going to have to speed this up.

  'So don't you think you shouldn't be cruel and leave h
im hanging?'

  'You think I'm being cruel?'

  'Well, what did you do when he proposed?'

  'Um, well he'd taken me out for breakfast before work, at that little caf? off Chapel. And the waiter had just brought out our plates when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box.'

  One of the problems with being a writer is constant autocorrect. Obviously that sentence has a loose pronoun, or else Yanie just got proposed to by the waiter, but this is probably not the time to point it out. I let her continue.

  'And he didn't say anything, just pushed the box towards me. I didn't even know what it was. But then he pulled off the white ribbon, and I saw ?' She chokes up again.

  'And ??'

  'Well, then I just ran. I saw a tram opening its doors, and found myself on it coming into the city.' She shakes her head, blond curls tumbling around her face. 'Then there was this really nice guy, and he gave me his handkerchief, and his number, and the next thing I knew, I was at your door.'

  I overcome my desire to yell 'I knew it!' at having sussed out the dubious MJ merely by his initials. Instead, I pat her on the shoulder and search for the next appropriate thing to say.

  'So, you've left him sitting all alone in a cafe without any answer?'

  'Um, when you put it like that ?'

  Please recall my previous statement about Tony's awesomeness: this really is unfair to the poor guy. Having poured my heart out to many a book publisher, and having suffered the agony of waiting weeks and weeks with no news, I completely feel for him right now.

  'Ring him.' I search inside her bag, which is perfectly organised and doesn't have five different lipsticks rolling around the bottom, and pass her the phone. 'Ring him now.'

  'And you really think I should accept him?'

  I want to shake her to get more oxygen to her brain, in case that would help. Instead I put on a kind and considerate face and tell her that, yes, yes I really think she should.

  I must do a convincing act because she instantly looks brighter. 'Oh, Lau, it's going to be so much fun! Imagine, a whole wedding to plan in just seven weeks. I think we can do it in seven. That shouldn't be a problem, right?' She doesn't wait for an answer, but finds Tony in her contacts and hits call.

  I'm left all by myself in this suddenly insane conversation. Seven weeks? What now? How was that part of the deal? All I said was she should accept - there was nothing about the shortest engagement in the history of the universe! (Okay, for the sake of accuracy, I know perfectly well it's not the shortest engagement. However, I think the scale of the probable wedding should be taken into account. Yanie has more real life friends than I have Facebook ones. This is not going to be a small affair.)

  But before I can cogitate any longer on this new development, Yanie kisses her microphone port several times, and springs up.

  'You were so right, Lau. He's the best. He completely understood about me running, and Mum and everything. Now it's all going to be okay.' She does a twirl. 'Oh Lau, I'm getting married!'

  Less athletically I lumber off the couch. 'That's wonderful. Now, back to the part about organising it all in seven weeks?'

  'Well, of course it has to be then. You haven't got anything planned for that Sunday, do you?'

  'Not that I know of. But Yanie, you can't organise a wedding in seven weeks. Think about it; you won't be able to have the dress made in time, or book a venue, or ? or ? any of the other things that go with organising a wedding.'

  'That's why I have you.' She comes forward and kisses me on the cheek. I've always been a softie when it comes to Yanie, but still. 'Darling, not even with ten of me could you get it done.'

  She's already walking to the door. 'Oh don't worry, I'm sure it's all going to work out. But I have to fly; I need to go back and finish my breakfast. Tony said he'd wait.' She turns back from robing herself in the giant coat. 'He'd been waiting there the whole time. Isn't that sweet of him? But don't worry, you and I will work out the whole wedding.'

  'And Mum, she'll probably want some input.'

  Yanie's face looks like it's about to crumble, but then smooths over. 'Of course. But she's very busy right now, and I don't want to bother her too much. I'm sure we can organise most of it.'

  What has Mum been saying? Yanie and Mum have a great relationship. Mum and I, on the other hand, not so great. But I'm prepared to put that aside for the sake of Yanie's wedding. So what's going on?

  'Oh, and we'll finally get to meet that author you're dating! I'm so glad you have someone. Wouldn't it be embarrassing to be dateless at your younger sister's wedding!'

  I stare at her blankly. This is too much for 8am on a Monday. 'That author?'

  'Yes, Timothy Farren. Didn't you say you two were dating?'

  Timothy Farren, who changed the adolescence of a whole generation of Australians with his brilliant writing, and me ? dating? I quickly filter through all recent conversations where I may have let my fan-girl crush on Amelia's one real client appear a reality.

  'Ah, you know ?'

  'Did I get it wrong?' Yanie turns to me with her eyes wide. Really, it's like kicking a puppy. Who kicks a puppy?

  'No, you're right, sorry. Yes. Timothy Farren, my date. Won't be a spinster at your wedding, no need to worry.' And anyway, it's not really lying; I'm sure within seven weeks I'll be able to think up an explanation as to why I'm not dating Australia's greatest writer, as well as finding someone new so I don't drown in Yanie's pity.

  She comes forward and takes my hands. 'He's good to you, isn't he?'

  'Yes, darling, he's the ideal boyfriend.' I can feel the ghost of Oscar Wilde laughing at me as I watch Yanie smile and head back to her new fianc?.

  It's fine. I can find a boyfriend in seven weeks. I haven't had one for almost six months, but that was because I wasn't motivated enough.

  But first I need to survive my meeting with Amelia.

  Despite all efforts, I arrive on time. I'm soon seated with my long black and a hot chocolate for Amelia, the sole agent of The Precious Literary Agency, my pseudo-boss. It's an unusual choice for her, since she's almost as big a caffeine addict as I am. But it's probably the latest fashionable fad; cocoa for weight loss, don't mind the sugar. I stop to consider a world where chocolate make you thin. Global anorexia might become a problem.

  Five minutes later, having given in and started on my long black, I get a message from her saying she'll be two minutes late. How can she be two minutes late when she's already five? However, I take the opportunity to contemplate which cake I would buy if I could afford to eat cake every day. Definitely the layered chocolate mousse. Or maybe the carrot cake as it would also count as my vegetable quotient for the day.

  After torturing myself for long enough, my thoughts turn to possible boyfriends. As previously mentioned: people in love with me - zero, people I've actually met that I'm in love with - zero. Some might say that this would make finding a boyfriend in seven weeks difficult, but I'm not one to back down from a challenge. Except for a physical challenge, those I back down from like a pro-abseiler.

  I feel a project coming on. Options:

  1. My brother Hadley has a few cute friends. Cons: a) they're all younger than me, b) it would be weird, and c) they probably all have hot younger girlfriends already.

  Who else, who else ??

  Ten minutes later, I've become sidetracked into a daydream about what would happen if I somehow met the prince of Liechtenstein and he took me to the wedding. There's a Cinderella coach involved. A sudden thump in front of me makes me spill my coffee.

  Amelia has arrived and dropped a whole shopping bag full of manuscripts onto the table. She sweeps back her platinum blond hair and artfully collapses into her chair. 'You wouldn't believe the weight of all these. And people actually expect me to read them! Do you think you'll be able to get through them by Wednesday?'

  'Oh, yeah, that's totally fine. I'll use my usual method: throw them down the stairs and take the one that gets the furthes
t.' I smile blandly at her horror-stricken face.

  After a few seconds she blinks. 'Laurie, I don't know if you thought that was funny, but please act professionally when dealing with my clients.'

  I take the manuscripts and try to stuff them into my leather satchel. I end up putting them on the ground next to it.

  Amelia tutts but moves on. 'Now, I've called you here for a very important matter.'

  I try not to sit forward on my seat. It's awful, I know, but Amelia has me completely over a barrel. I'm her slave, her whipping girl, purely because she's promised to possibly send my manuscript, Missing Life, to one of the publishers she deals with.

  'It's about Timothy Farren's latest book.'

  My mind freezes for a microsecond before butting in. 'Before we discuss that,' which, by the way, I know nothing about. How does Timothy Farren start writing a new book and me not know about it? 'Did you get a chance to send my manuscript through to Hendricks at Pan MacMillan?'

  Despite thinking she's Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada, she's no actress and her face is easier to read than a McDonald's menu. Written across it is 'awkward'.

  'Well, as to that, it's been a very busy week.' When she says week, she means over a year. 'But I'll be meeting with Jefferies in a fortnight, and I think it might better suit what Penguin is doing right now. That's the benefit of having an agent,' she gains confidence as she steers onto well-rehearsed ground. 'It's all about our expert knowledge of the market and which publishing houses are looking for what.' She gives me a nod, though I've heard her spiel a hundred times.

  Actually, Australia doesn't really have literary agents. There are a handful in total because most people deal directly with the publishers. Somehow Amelia has convinced herself this makes her special, not redundant.

  In truth, she lucked out convincing a young Timothy Farren to sign with her. His first debut novel did something no one expected - it sold. It became part of the school curriculum, as well as part of the Australian psyche. I was in high school when I read it for the first time. It was deep though accessible, passionate yet subtle, humorous but at the same time heart breaking. In short, it was a masterpiece.

  His second book was reasonably well received, though even I can acknowledge it wasn't as good. Having said that, it came out about seven years ago now, and is still on the shelves at Dymocks and other bookstores, so no one's knocking it.

  On top of that, Amelia has kept him at the forefront of Australian writing by organising a lucrative speaking circuit, enhanced by Mr. Farren's natural ability to speak and his general, well, hotness.

  And it turns out he's been writing a third book without me knowing it. 'So, what's Mr Farren's new book about?' I'm not allowed to call him Timothy, that would be unprofessional. But not for Amelia, because they're such close friends.

  'Well, as to that ?' Again, her face - open book.

  Alarm bells start ringing and the voice over the loud speaker of my mind tells me to evacuate the situation.

  'That's where you come in.' She hurriedly continues, 'It's actually a very prestigious position. I don't even know why I'm entrusting it to you.'

  I consider whether to slap her out of her delusions of grandeur, but decide I'm too interested in what she's offering.

  'Timothy just needs a bit of ? encouragement ? to write his next book.'

  'So he has an idea?'

  'To ? think about writing his next book,' she corrects.

  What exactly does she expect me to do? Walk up to him and say, 'Hello Mr Farren, loved your past two books. Have you thought about writing another one? Well, I really think you should. Here, take this pen and paper and see what you come up with.' The man's a genius! You can't force that!

  'I'm not sure I quite understand how I can help.'

  'Well, I'll leave the details for you to work out, but there's the book launch for poor Marcus on Friday night. Timothy will be speaking, so I'll introduce the two of you then.'

  First, I hate how she refers to him as 'poor Marcus'. Marcus Malone is releasing his debut novel, and has already signed contracts for the next two books in the series. I don't know the figures, but there are rumours.

  And then we get to the carefully savoured second - Amelia is actually going to introduce me to Timothy Farren? On Friday I'm going to meet the man himself? Even I'm not delusional enough to think that in reality anything would happen, but just to be in his presence ? ah.

  Surely this has to be another one of her tricks. There must be something else she wants me to do before then, which I'll stupidly agree to because my eyes are blinded by the Friday night lights.

  'So, don't forget to handwrite all those response slips. It was such a great idea, and shows you have real promise.'

  O' Stupid Mistake, how long will you haunt me? When interviewing for the 'intern' position with Amelia, I was so desperate I promised I would handwrite all the rejection slips for the slush pile. I naively added I'd also give pointers on how they could improve. Little did I know. Turns out there's a very good reason why agents don't handwrite rejection slips, and why many don't send them at all.

  I sigh and pat the fat bundle with a plastic smile on my face. Amelia downs the rest of the hot chocolate while waving one manicured hand to indicate what a hurry she's in. She then pats her lips with the serviette and totters off, throwing kisses at me as if we've just had a BFF powwow.

  I check my phone: five hours until I need to be at my real job, which is even sadder than my fake one.

  Throwing pecuniary caution to the wind I order another cup of coffee. With steaming glass in hand, I pull out the first of the manuscripts.

  The heavy raindrops splashed on the exposed alabaster skin of the tall, raven-haired young woman as she stood on the battlements overlooking her kingdom. How could her father sell her off like some piece of cattle!

  I sigh. It's going to take a lot more than caffeine to get through this.

  'So, what have you got for us today?'

  The other four call centre chattel are standing around the sink in the break corner (despite the optimistic signage, a semi-permanent partitions does not a room make). They are waiting expectantly for me as I usually (always) bring in a stack of horrendous manuscripts to read while the phones are quiet. It's become a late shift tradition for me to read out the passages so bad they make me lose faith in humanity. We may've even started a list on the whiteboard of the best, that is worst, opening lines.

  They crowd around me as I try to detangle myself from a lanyard that's doing a good job of strangling me, while keeping the armful of pages from spilling.

  'Come on, anything truly horrific?' From behind a hand snatches at the papers, but I twist away.

  'You know, one day I'm going to slip my own manuscript in here, and you'll be horrible about it, and then you'll realise what bad people you are.'

  Sandy succeeds in swiping the top piece off the pile.

  'Hey!' I make a grab but get further tangled.

  'Oo, today's offering is from Hannah Klein. It's a romance, set in an age when men were men, and women were supported by a lot of unnecessary underwear but not much else.' I think Sandy is ad libbing that last part, though to be honest, she mightn't be.

  Sandy, who despite her name is an Asian goth with a rusty nail sticking out of her bottom lip, happens to be a corrosively good mimic. She can do any accent and is brutal at picking up on mannerisms. However, despite this, she's actually a really nice person.

  Compare this to one of our co-workers, Michael, who looks like a goth, but was in fact born that way. While Sandy can be cruel to be kind, if Michael's ever kind it's somehow to be cruel. I'd like to believe he has a sensitive, caring side somewhere deep down, but if he does, you'd need a dimensional shift machine to find it. He's currently sitting on my desk, for no other reason except he knows it annoys me. He waits until I'm right up in his face before sliding off.

  'Just parking, Barker, no need to get pissy.'

  I'm
waiting for the opportunity to show him what pissed off really looks like.

  'Come on, get to the good part.' Blob has a doughnut in his hand and cinnamon sugar around his mouth. His real name is Bob, but Blob has stuck. I feel bad about that, really I do.

  '"It was a love like no other, a love bound by fire,"' Sandy starts off in a deep, sensual voice. '"It was ruled by passion, and subjugated reason to its needs."' She pauses for a moment while the rest of us digest the true awfulness of this.

  'It was a good use of "subjugate".' Michael would play devil's advocate against the devil if he could.

  'Are there any boobs?' I hadn't noticed Creepy IT Guy come in. He's standing close behind Sandy when he speaks. She turns and swipes him across the ear with the wad of pages.

  'Who invited you?' She says with her usual disdain for him.

  'Coming to do my nightly round of the sick and disabled.' He walks over to one of the computers and turns it on. We're all looking at him, so he runs a finger along the monitor while licking his tongue across his lips. Like I said, Creepy IT Guy. We all turn away with a shudder.

  'Well, I think this deserves to go on the list.' Sandy drops the pages onto my desk and surveys the group.

  'Nah,' says Blob, 'I don't know if it makes the cut.'

  We turn to look at Betty, who's managing to hide behind the break table. 'Me? Oh, well, I thought it was ? well ? you know, quite nice.' She finishes on a rising inflection, making it sound like a question. Betty is sweet, but has a backbone even a jellyfish would laugh at. 'Anyone like a muffin?' She adds to take the attention off herself.

  She brings out a Tupperware container with two layers of white chocolate and raspberry muffins, neatly separated by baking paper. Did I mention I love Betty? More than my own mother at times? We all dive in and take one, then a few more for the desk, before Rabib our manager stalks down the floor, scattering us like chickens to our roosts, or roasts depending how you look at it.

  I turn on my computer and adjust my headset while swallowing an enormous mouthful. A few more bites disappear while everything boots up. I'm still chewing when my phone suddenly drops in. Thankfully my recording saves me while I swallow. Welcome to First Regional Bank. You're speaking with Laurie. How may I help you today?

  'Finally,' comes the exasperated voice down the line, 'I just wanted to check my bank balance.'

  I pick up where the recording leaves off. 'Did you know that with our new services you can do that from any ATM, over the internet or even on your phone with our First Regional app?'

  'I just want my balance.'

  Pushy much? 'That's fine. I'll just need to ask you a few questions.'

  'Why do I need to answer any questions? It's me, how else can I prove that?'

  Well, if you'd shut up and listen for a moment, I'd tell you.

  Yes, this is my life. Dealing with idiots, then coming to work and dealing with idiots. The late shift at a call centre is even less glamorous than it sounds. The only advantage is that except for a few peak times, it's usually quiet and I can get other work done.

  After the initial rush of workers ringing when they arrive home, we get the dinnertime lull. My last caller was an elderly gentleman who wanted to know his bank balance and to tell someone about his day, so I started doing some wedding related Googling while he was talking to himself. Turns out that the average amount spent on weddings in Australia is $36,000. That's almost a deposit on an average house; or a reasonable new car; or a very nice holiday.

  'Googling wedding venues, huh?' I jump as Michael leans in close behind me. I exit the page, but obviously it's too late.

  'It's not for me.'

  Betty's head appears above her cubical wall. 'Is someone getting married? I love weddings!'

  By this time everyone's peering, even Sandy who is simultaneously discussing possible credit options with a customer, but whose eyes are fully engaged in prying into my private life.

  'My sister Yanie has just announced she's getting married, and I said I would help with the wedding, that's all.'

  'When's it going to be?' Betty comes as far around the corner as her headphones will allow.

  'Um, in seven weeks.'

  Sandy splutters. 'Seven weeks! ? Sorry Mr Lincoln. No, not on your credit card. Our cards have up to 55 days interest free.' Having made a good recovery, she hits mute and hisses, 'Seven weeks?'

  'Yeah, tell me about it.'

  Betty thinks about this. 'How are you going to find something to wear in that time?'

  Blob waves her question away. 'Never mind that, how's the bride?'

  Sandy finally gets free and puts her phone on busy. 'More importantly, how are you going to find someone to take in that time?'

  Everyone nods in agreement and turns to stare at me.

  'It's fine. I've got seven weeks, I'm sure I can find someone by then.'

  Sandy shakes her head. 'Well, you'd better get on it, because you don't want to be that bridesmaid who hooks up with the groom's geeky high school friend with adult braces and works in IT.'

  We all look across the room but Creepy IT Guy's already gone. Turning back, Betty nods, her bob accentuating the movement. 'She's right. Happened to my sister Angie at our cousin Barb's wedding. And then she found out she was pregnant and ended up having to marry him.'

  Everyone acknowledges that this is a potential pit I need to avoid.

  Sandy is the first with helpful advice. 'What about that guy you were dating, what's his name ? Simon?'

  Ah Sandy, you don't even mean to be cruel. 'It was Steven, and he dumped me six months ago.'

  'Was it really that long ago?'

  'Before Betty started working here,' I reply.

  'And I've been here just over five months. It's turning into quite a career.' We all look in different directions so as not to catch her eye.

  'Yeah, that'll show that scum sucking ex-husband of yours you can totally make it on your own,' Sandy kindly says for all of us before turning back to me. 'Anyway, so he's totally off the scene?'

  'Engaged to someone else.'

  'What, already? Okay, I know, the Christian thing. You guys really are eager to snatch them up, aren't you?'

  I give her a baleful stare, which, if there were any justice in this world, would burn her to the ground. Sandy, however, remains charcoal free. 'Fine, so is there anyone else you could ask, even as a favour?'

  Does she really think I haven't thought through all the options? 'Well, my days are spent sitting at home performing literary slave labour for Amelia, or here with you guys.' We all pause and look first at Blob, now consuming a Mars Bar, and then at the back of Michael, who's standing in the break room. Even Betty looks dubious.

  Michael doesn't turn around. 'I recommend looking elsewhere then.'

  'Well, where do you suggest?' I snap, feeling snarky even though I'm obviously not going to take either of them.

  'How about internet dating?' He turns around with a smirk on his face.

  'Oh!' Betty bounces up and down. 'I had a friend who tried internet dating and found the love of her life. She now lives in Ipswich in Queensland and has five children.'

  Sandy can't stop her expression of wide-eyed horror, but quickly recovers. 'Five children aside, I had a friend who tried it, and met up with another taphophile.'

  We all look at her blankly. 'Seriously you guys. It's someone who loves cemeteries.'

  Blob shudders. 'That's just wrong.'

  'Anyway, they had their first date in a graveyard not far from here. And they've just taken six months off work to ride around Europe visiting Neolithic burial sites. I think it's kinda sweet.'

  Everyone turns their attention back to me.

  'I don't know, internet dating ? I mean, what's the likelihood of meeting someone in seven weeks whom I could ask to a wedding?'

  Michael looks up from stirring his coffee. 'Well, you could always hire an escort. I can recommend some good agencies, though I don't know what their males a
re like.'

  'Internet dating it is,' I say quickly.

  'And anyway,' Sandy says, 'You're a writer. Internet dating should be easy for you.'

  'Yeah,' Betty continues, 'You'll be able to make yourself sound really nice, and maybe even cool.' She squeals and runs back to her cubicle. Tapping the mute button on her phone, she adds, 'Don't say anything good while I'm away.' She turns back to her screen and starts a cheerful conversation, apparently oblivious to the insult she previously dealt my personality.

  Sandy holds up a sheet of paper. 'If you need a few first lines to start you off??' It's the sheet with slush pile quotes too risqu? to put on the board.

  'Thanks, I think I'll be able to write a short self-summary without help.'

  Sandy looks at me kindly, in a way that also suggests I'm deluded. 'And what exactly are you going to say?'

  'Hey, what's that meant to mean?'

  'Well, you have no social life, work the night shift in a call centre, and spend your weekends watching Midsummer Murders on ABC iview or online lusting after clothes you can't afford. '

  'That's not fair, I'm a writer, and ? and ?'

  Blob coughs. 'What exactly have you written?'

  That's totally unfair as I have a Masters in Creative Writing and even had a few short stories published when I was at Uni. True I haven't had anything published since then, and I can't even convince my boss to look at my manuscript, but I do have a blog about coffee, which I think is pretty good. Though no one actually reads it. So, when you list my life out like that, it sort of sucks.

  Before I can sink further into pessimistic self-reflection, Betty suddenly bounces out of her chair.

  'Oh, oh! It's foot fetish guy!' She sounds half excited, half revolted.

  'Put it on speaker,' Sandy calls out and everyone crowds around.

  'Are you wearing shoes, Betty?' The voice is muffled and low, with an indistinct accent.

  Sandy rolls her hand, encouraging Betty to answer this.

  'Um, yes?'

  'Underneath your shoes, are your feet ? naked?'

  Betty glances around wildly to see if we can aid her. 'Um, no, I have stockings on.'

  'Are they sheer, smooth like a tongue gliding across the soft flesh of your feet?'

  Betty freaks at this and presses the end call button.

  'Eew, that was so weird!' She says the moment the disconnect tone comes on. 'I can't believe he keeps calling.'

  Sandy looks around to see who's listening. 'This one time ?'

  I sit back down at my desk as the urban legends start. There's a reason I'm not excited about opening my dating pool to just anyone. Experience has taught me there are a lot of weird people out there. But sadly Michael's right, I'm going to have to do something because the answer isn't right in front of me.

  Just to motivate myself, and partly because it's an extra slow night, I make a sign: Date Or Die.

  I feel that summarises my current situation.