The Cows. Dawn O’Porter

credit card. ‘Oh, and if he asks can you tell him we were with a bunch of people? It would make things easier.’

      ‘Sophie, we’ve been best friends since we were at primary school, does he still not like us going out together?’

      ‘Nope. When it’s only us he presumes we get up to bad stuff, that you’re a bad influence. Don’t look at me like that! Please, just say it was a few old faces from school. The more eyes he thinks are on me, the better he’ll think I behaved, OK?’

      I sit back down.

      ‘It’s quite controlling, Sophie. It worries me,’ I say, forcing her to look me in the eye. She offers a little smile, then breaks away.

      ‘Maybe I need a bit of controlling?’ she says, sipping the champagne. ‘I can’t be left to my own devices, who knows what would happen.’ She shoots me a critical look, and I know what she means. We partied hard for most of our lives, but after I had Annie I had to stop. It became immediately clear that despite being wild myself, I was nothing compared to Sophie. Somehow, over the years I had stopped her from spiralling too far out of control. I hadn’t even realised I did it, but I took her home when she’d had too much, I dragged her out of bedrooms she shouldn’t have been in, I stopped her snorting more lines of coke than she should, prised shot glasses out of her hand. When I got pregnant, there was no one around to do that for her and we saw the danger of that instantly. I was six months gone when I found myself in A&E one Friday night. The hospital called me at two a.m., saying she’d been found in an alley with her skirt around her waist, so out of it she could barely say her name. I’d gone in immediately and found her crying in the hospital bed. She’d been roofied by a barman in a club. There were no signs that he’d done anything sexual to her, but judging by the bump on her forehead and the state of her clothes, he had obviously tried.

      ‘I can’t look after myself,’ she’d said, pathetically, looking up at me from the bed. ‘And you can’t look after me any more, so I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

      I took her home and I did look after her, for a whole week. But then she went back to her place, to ‘start afresh’. She was determined to change, to grow up. There were a few more ‘incidents’, but then she met Carl. They were married within a year, and now she is being looked after as she wished, and as uncomfortable as it makes me feel, I know she is probably better off for it. And she does love him, because he’s rich.

      ‘He’s good to me in other ways,’ she says, flashing the card again. ‘I’m happy, I promise. I love you.’

      ‘I love you too,’ I say, loyally. ‘I have to go.’

      She pours herself another drink, and I remind myself it’s not my problem any more.

      I walk into the Sanderson Hotel on Berners Street and look around the bar. This place is way more fancy than anywhere I would choose; I’m more a pub girl than a bar girl but hey, I’m not going to say no to posh drinks in a nice place if that is what the gentleman so wishes. I’m here to meet Al; his picture was nice, he works in the media, and he was free tonight. Those are three great reasons to go on a date, as far as I’m concerned. Mostly the bit about his picture being nice, of course.

      I scan the bar and see him. He’s cute, but the photo was obviously an old one. His hair is much longer now, and his face much older. But that’s OK. I don’t judge people for using the most flattering photo of themselves for online dating, of course they do. Therefore, I always expect to be a little bit disappointed in real life, and hope their personality makes up for it. Al certainly looks older than his photo, but as I get closer to him, I realise he’s really, really gorgeous.

      ‘Hi,’ I say, sitting on the stool next to him. ‘This is so fancy, do you come here often?’

      I’m joking. Obviously. No one ever actually says, ‘Do you come here often?’ He looks a little surprised that I take a seat. Was I supposed to ask his permission?

      ‘No, I haven’t been here before actually. I’m not the kind of guy who comes to places like this, if I’m honest.’

      ‘OK,’ I say, thinking it odd that he suggested it then. I’d never come to a posh hotel bar like this either, they reek of affairs.

      ‘What are you drinking?’ I ask, presuming he’s just a little nervous.

      ‘A Pisco Sour.’

      ‘Great, I’ll have the same.’ I gesture to the barman to bring me one over.

      ‘Just a drink though, OK? I’m not up for anything else,’ he says, sternly.

      I am so stunned, the best response I can give him is my jaw falling open.

      ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t like leading people on.’

      ‘I literally just walked in the door. Maybe I don’t fancy you either, thought of that?’ I say, stepping down off the stool.

      ‘Well, I suppose if you’re doing well and in a position to be picky, then that would make sense.’

      ‘Doing well? What? Just because I swiped right on your weird photo doesn’t mean I was gagging for you, it’s just dinner.’ I should walk away, but after dealing with Shane Bower and my boss, I’m done with not arguing back to misogynistic arrogant men who think it’s their God-given right to belittle women. Screw him.

      ‘I bet you’re married with kids and looking for some young piece of ass to fuck before you go home to them, aren’t you?’ I continue, a little surprised by my own vitriol.

      ‘Woah. Firstly, no, I’m not married and I don’t have kids. Secondly, what the hell does swiping right mean?’

      ‘What do you mean, “what the hell does swiping right mean”? Tinder. You know what I mean.’

      ‘Tinder? I’ve never been on Tinder in my life,’ he says, looking genuinely baffled.

      I look properly at his face.

      ‘You’re not Al, are you?’

      ‘No, I’m not Al. And I take it you’re not a hooker?’

      ‘No! No, I am certainly not a hooker.’

      He follows my eyes to the other end of the bar, where a guy with shorter brown hair in a grey shirt is angrily tapping away on his phone and simultaneously looking towards the door. I get my phone out of my bag. I have five messages from Al, each describing himself in more detail and asking ‘Which one are you?’

      ‘I’m Jason,’ he says, reaching a hand towards me.

      ‘Tara,’ I say, realising I am wildly attracted to him.

      The barman brings over my drink.

      An hour later, Jason and I have drunk three Pisco Sours, eaten two bowls of crisps, a bowl of olives and torn up three swanky bar mats. We’ve talked about politics, how much we miss our childhood dogs, and even had a heated but jovial altercation about the correct way to make a good Bolognese.

      As we appear to be having an unexpected but sensational connection that feels like a date, I notice the real Al leave with a woman in a very tight dress.

      ‘There you go,’ Jason says, ‘Al did alright in the end. In one hundred pounds’ time it’ll be like it never happened.’

      ‘I made a lucky escape,’ I say, sipping the last of my drink, allowing my eyes to flirt for me. ‘So you’re single, you don’t have kids, you don’t sleep with hookers and you don’t use Tinder. You were also just sitting in a bar alone on a Friday and not waiting for someone. Now tell me, what is wrong with you?’ I ask, cheekily.

      ‘Hey, I love hookers. I just didn’t fancy you.’

      I affectionately thump him on the leg.

      ‘I’m old fashioned, I guess. And hopeful. I don’t