The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke

look around the tram; luckily nobody seemed to be paying me the blindest bit of notice. I eased back into my chair to finish the message:

       Hi Gavin,

       Thank you for last night, it was lovely. Sorry I had to dash off this morning without saying goodbye – I had to get to work and didn’t want to wake you. I hope you don’t have a hangover!

       Mel

      I felt a mild sense of satisfaction. I’d excused myself in a polite yet non-committal, no-indication-of-a-second-date manner. Hopefully he wouldn’t be left thinking that he’d done anything wrong – a courtesy that many men in the history of dating have failed to extend. I added an ‘x’ underneath my name but deleted it straight away. My knowledge of one-night-stand etiquette was limited to say the least, so I’d no idea how suggestive a kiss on the end of an email was.

      Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure why I put kisses on any of my messages to people. Translated into real life it would be plain weird, a physical kiss after each single line of speech. On the other hand, messages looked weird without them – to me at least – almost cold and unfriendly. Perhaps I was just reading too much into it in an attempt to distract myself from the consuming guilt. I had kissed Gavin in real life, obviously, but I didn’t want to give him the impression I wanted to do it again. I opted for a smiley emoji as a compromise and hit ‘Send’ before I had time to mull it over any more.

      I spent the last five minutes of the journey checking Twitter. It seemed I’d earned my 2500th follower, which was something I felt quite smug about. It was almost like being a celebrity, having such a large number of people interested in what I had to say. I had time to tweet a quick thank you to my new followers before we pulled into the station.

      When I got off the tram at Piccadilly, Manchester city centre was already bustling with people seemingly eager to get to work. I felt like a slutty beacon in my ripped dress, a great advertisement for the red-light district. Luckily for me, I’d arranged to take today off as a holiday. Not that I’d expected to be sleeping out – the whole reason for arranging a Thursday night date was to keep it simple and pressure free – I just needed to use up the holiday . . . and the fancy matching underwear was ‘just in case’.

      I supposed that because one of our declared mutual interests on eHarmony was alcohol (okay, socialising) any form of rational thinking was smothered by wine. I pulled out my phone and kept my head down, scrolling through my calendar for the following week. I didn’t have much on, except my thirty-fifth birthday the following day – a fact I was trying not to think about.

      My phone buzzed to life, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Bugger off, Amanda.’

      ‘Ha! Date went well then? I knew you were off today, and I have a client no-show, so I thought I’d see how last night went. I wondered if your mum could finally buy her mother-of-the-bride hat, but I guess not,’ she teased. Amanda and I had been friends since she got me into trouble for swearing (read: repeating the ‘new word’ she’d taught me) in Reception class.

      ‘Firstly, do you think my mother would go to the expense of buying a new hat for my wedding?’ I joked back.

      ‘Er, probably not. She’d probably save her money to buy a fancy one for my wedding.’ It’s an ongoing joke in my family that my mum loves Amanda and would trade me in for her in a flash, and Amanda has spent most of the last thirty years winding me up about it. Amanda was always the chatty, polite child, and when she left to do her law degree my mum cried with pride, quite unlike when I left to study journalism. Fair enough, I stayed in Manchester and Amanda went away to Durham, but it was still an achievement.

      I filled Amanda in on my date and my subsequent escape. I was quite glad she rang, as in the five minutes or so that we’d spoken, I hadn’t once noticed the judgemental glances of passers-by. ‘Ah well, your mum would be proud,’ was her sarcastic response.

      ‘Ah well, it is she who’s desperate to have me married off. I’m merely trying my best to fulfil her dream.’ This, of course, was the same woman who admired Amanda for being a strong, single woman.

      ‘She may be, but you too are desperate to be married off, my love, all by yourself. You always have been, for some bizarre reason. Personally I can’t think of anything worse. I will, however, come and get pissed at your wedding.’

      ‘Well, that’s good to know.’ I smiled at Amanda’s usual bluntness.

      ‘So are you actually walking through town right now in your torn dress?’ she asked, laughing.

      ‘Yes, I am. I feel like a walking government health warning to teenage girls – don’t drink, kids, or you too will look like this!’ I sighed whilst Amanda continued laughing.

      ‘Look on the bright side – your “boring skater dress” is not so boring any more, and you can’t be the only person in Piccadilly gracing the streets in last night’s clothing. I’m sure you blend right in.’ She had a point.

      The short walk from Piccadilly station to the Northern Quarter passed quickly, and before I knew it I was in the sanctuary of my apartment. I headed straight to my bedroom. The emotional roller coaster of the past twenty-four hours had taken its toll. I collapsed on the bed, falling sound asleep immediately.

      I was awoken a few hours later by the harsh buzz of a message coming through on my phone. I checked the time; it was 11.15 a.m. I had planned on getting a little more sleep than that, but, unable to contain my sheer nosiness, I stretched across the floor to grab my handbag and pull out my phone. It was a group WhatsApp message from Gemma, my other close friend:

       GEMMA: Anyone fancy a late lunch? Working this morning but have a free afternoon xx

       AMANDA: Some of us have a full day of work to do, that’s how we win at life – ask Mel’s mum xx

       ME: I’ll come. I have a day off. Amanda, I’ll be having a huge fry-up . . . Now who’s winning at life? xx

      I was surprised to feel a slight twinge of disappointment at the fact it wasn’t Gavin replying to my email. A part of me wondered if perhaps he didn’t like me, or if the sex was bad. Still, I was new to this, and if I’d only just woken up, there was a good chance he was still sleeping, blissfully unaware I’d even left.

      I checked Instagram whilst I came around; nineteen people had liked a photo I’d posted before I went out. Amanda had taken it when she’d popped round for a pep talk. My pre-torn dress was quite simple, but I liked it. My layered shoulder-length blonde hair looked sleek – clever use of a filter, I assumed, as I was in constant battle with the frizz. I had thought I was too old for Instagram until I figured out I was one of the only people I knew who didn’t have it, and before long I was addicted.

      Later on, I met Gemma in a cosy little bar in the Northern Quarter that served breakfast up until 4 p.m. – evidently they know their local clientele well. ‘Mel, over here!’ she shouted, waving a hand in the air. She’d arrived before me and, to my relief, secured my favourite distressed brown leather armchairs by the window.

      ‘Hi,’ I managed wearily as I fell into the comfort of the chair. I picked up the menu and let out a small groan – as it wasn’t the weekend, I couldn’t order the much-needed and rather appropriately titled ‘Morning-After Breakfast’. The waitress approached to take our order, so I quickly decided on the ‘All Day Great Big Brunch’ and prepared to spill all to Gemma about last night.

      ‘Are you okay?’ Gemma asked. I felt rotten and looked rotten. Gemma, however, looked flawless as always; her skin was pale without a hint of imperfection, her big green eyes framed by trendy black Alexander McQueen cat’s-eye glasses. Her glossy dark brown hair was cut in a blunt chin-length bob, and a fringe framed her stunning face.

      A stark contrast to my messy ponytail and blotchy combination skin. Even now, obviously concerned, her brow managed just the tiniest of furrows, as if it was not meant to crease. My brow always tends to furrow on its own before I even