Love, and Other Things to Live For. Louise Leverett

hate the game, right?’ he said, carefully choosing a filter for the picture before pressing send.

      It was a philosophy I was still trying to understand. He turned to me as I played with the toggle on my joggers. I smiled, a deliberate film of chocolate covering my teeth.

      ‘Oh, that’s really pretty,’ he remarked, climbing over to lie down on the bed next to me. I made room as he flopped on his side so that our faces were almost touching.

      ‘If I can’t be with him then why can’t I just be with you?’ I whispered, carefully moving an errant hair from his forehead.

      ‘Because we’re both pricks and you deserve better.’

      I placed a hand on Sean’s chest, fighting the urge to close my eyes again.

      ‘So you think tonight’s going to be fun?’ he said, lying back to face the ceiling.

      ‘Yes, I think it’s going to be good,’ I said, supportively.

      He shot me a sarcastic glare.

      ‘Great, then!’ I continued. ‘I think it’s going to be amazing. But I wouldn’t take my word for it – I haven’t even showered today.’

      We lay there next to each other as I felt his big arm wrap round me.

      ‘Okay, Jess, I love you but you have to leave now, he’ll be here in ten minutes…’

      I dutifully packed away my biscuits and half-eaten bag of crisps, carefully dusting the crumbs off his bed as I moved. I put on my coat, tightly gripping the twisted top of the open packet of biscuits, and made my way home.

      I threw my carrier bag of half-eaten food on the table in the hallway, turned on the lamp and shut the door behind me. Amber was out so I had the flat to myself. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps, the water thundering out in large gulps as it filled our small bathroom with steam. I sat down on the toilet seat and waited for the bath to fill.

      Sean’s honesty lingered in my mind but I knew I had to do things my own way. I felt the coldness of the floor tiles beneath my bare feet. I pulled out my phone and for some indescribable reason opened a string of text messages from Charlie. I’m not sure what I was hoping to achieve but the sight of our relationship history, laid out in vertical block texts, took my breath away: the war rooms. I scrolled through the old messages that marked the end of a ceasefire: anger, spelling mistakes, accusations. I began to type a white flag but stopped myself.

      After all, how do you say in a text message: I’m just not over you yet.

      After my bath, I created a profile using an almost bearable picture of myself taken two years ago at Amber’s birthday party and kept all other personal information to a minimum. As I tapped my fingers on the edge of my desk, debating whether or not to use a fake name, I came to the conclusion that this would inevitably get me off on the wrong foot.

      I scrolled down the selection of men’s faces and skimmed over a couple of profiles. How could I go from a man like Charlie to someone who lists ‘adventure’ as a hobby? In an act akin to pulling off a plaster, I set my profile to active and took a big gulp of the gin and tonic I’d prepared as liquid courage. I leaned back in my chair to assess the damage to my soul. At that moment a ‘ping’ sounded, nearly knocking me off my chair as a private message popped up in the bottom right-hand side of my computer screen.

      It was from a man called Harry. It just read, ‘Hi.’ I hesitated. I could feel the dryness in the back of my mouth as I took another well-earned sip of gin. I typed back ‘Hi’ and clicked on his profile. He was good-looking but not intimidatingly attractive. He owned a surfboard. He played rugby at the weekend. As I delved deeper into his collection of photographs, another ping ensued. I opened up the private message that read:

       Just looking at your picture in Sydney Harbour. Great view. Always wanted to go there.

      The picture was taken on a holiday with my dad. A summer break designed as a father–daughter bonding exercise but resulted in him being called back to work, leaving me alone in an unknown city with nothing but my passport, my rucksack and his credit card. I ran my fingers along the computer keys and swiftly began to type a reply.

       Yes, it was beautiful. A really unique experience!

      I didn’t know whether the exclamation mark was a little too much to end with. That maybe I appeared a little too fresh – too excited about all of this. But then I saw him typing a reply. My blood ran cold as I wanted for the ping.

       I know this seems forward but I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner or drinks tomorrow night? Nothing major. Just casual.

      How long did I have until I had to reply? I thought. I wasn’t ready for this. Not an actual date where I would have to physically see another human being. I clicked back on his picture and could feel the weight of the past restraining me from replying. An image of Charlie flashed into my mind as it suddenly dawned on me that I probably wouldn’t see him again… or kiss him. I won’t have him as a wingman when I wanted a drink after work or to see a bad movie with when no one else would. And then I remembered that last night in his apartment: the very last night, the arguing, the shouting and then, tears. I pressed send. And how was I supposed to feel?

      ‘Morning,’ I said chirpily the next day. Marlowe had invited us round for one of her famous home-cooked brunches, a chance to pull open the glass doors and let in a bit of sunshine. I’d been let into the house by Amber, who didn’t look at me but immediately returned to the kitchen wearing an oversized grey hoodie – a familiar indication that she had a hangover.

      ‘Please don’t talk so loud, I feel like shit,’ Amber said, motioning me into the kitchen.

      ‘Well, this is great,’ Marlowe said, as she pulled the filter coffee from the stand. ‘Everyone’s hungover and I’m in the bad books with George because I didn’t tape the sports channel last night.’

      ‘I stayed in last night. I’m not hungover,’ I said, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.

      ‘Tell him to tape his own shit,’ Sean said, downing his coffee.

      Amber pulled off her hood. It was clear it had been a late night.

      ‘So how was the date?’ I asked, unleashing the tiger that is Marlowe and her questions regarding other people’s love lives.

      ‘Who was it last night!?’ she shouted.

      ‘It wasn’t a date,’ Sean said, rolling his eyes. ‘And seriously, Jess, if I have to watch you eat one more packet of Oreos on a Friday night I am going to fuck you myself.’

      ‘How rude,’ I whispered. ‘But grateful for the offer all the same.’

      ‘A whole packet?’ Marlowe mouthed.

      I nodded.

      ‘So who is he, anyway?’ Amber asked.

      ‘I met him online.’

      ‘Kinky?’

      ‘Nah – straight up,’ he said, pouring himself another coffee.

      Amber looked at him and laughed.

      Their sex jokes were always shared only with each other and both myself and Marlowe were more than happy to remain in the dark.

      ‘Amber, I forgot to tell you,’ Marlowe said, searching the kitchen worktop for some papers, ‘George was working in Berlin last week and met a fashion buyer. I asked him for his business card for you. They’re an e-commerce start-up, supposed to be pretty cool. Thought you might be interested?’ She handed over the card. ‘Take it, it’s yours.’

      ‘Cheers, Mars,’ Amber said, studying the design. ‘It looks great I just… begrudge taking it into the office.’

      ‘Why?’ I asked.

      ‘Because it will get passed on and handed over for someone