S. K. Tremayne - The Assistant

I am one of the last left. The last soldier on the field.

Crossing Albert Terrace, I start the walk up Primrose Hill as my fingers pause on J for Jenny. She’s probably about my only childhood friend left, Simon apart. Jenny used to be around my house all the time, for playdates and sleepovers, then her parents divorced and she moved away, and I pretty much lost touch, though Simon kept a connection with her because they ended up working in the same industry.

Jenny is employed, in King’s Cross, by one of the biggest tech companies. That’s how Jenny and I reconnected: when I was writing my big breakthrough article, three or four years ago, on the impact of Silicon Valley on our lives.

I knew this story could make my name, impress my editors, drag me up the ladder a few rungs, so I shamelessly exploited my contacts (my husband), I seriously pissed off some particular sources by naming them (sorry, Arlo), but I met some fascinating people, a couple of whom became friends. And I rediscovered an old friend.

She picks up immediately. I love you, Jenny. That precious link to the past, to the time before everything went wrong. The times when Daddy would chase us in the house, in Thornton Heath, playing Hide and Seek, making us giddy with happy terror: shouting out, I can HEAAARRR you. And Jenny and I would huddle together, giggling, under the bed or in the dark of the wardrobe.

Ah, my lost childhood.

‘Hey, Jo. What’s up?’

‘I’m bored.’ I say, with some vehemence, ‘Horribly bloody booorrrrreeeeed. I’m trying to build a profile on OKCupid but it’s depressing and tragic, and I thought you might like to share a barrel of prosecco. Two barrels. A yardarm. What is a yardarm, anyway?’

She chuckles.

‘Ah, love to, but sorry.’

I can hear the characteristic chank of her Zippo lighter, then inhalation. Traffic murmurs in the background. Is she outside?

‘Where are you?’

‘King’s Cross, having a ciggie break. But I better go back in – I’m at the Death Star.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yep,’ she says, exhaling smoke. ‘Working till, like, midnight or something.’ She draws on her cigarette, goes on, ‘Jesus, it’s cold out here.’

Jenny works absurd hours at HQ. She probably makes a lot of money coding or whatever, but doesn’t talk about it. She mostly talks about sex. Jenny, apparently, is my Official Slut Friend. The insult is not mine, I would never have said it. But she said it herself when we renewed our friendship over mussels and chips in some bar near her work. Everyone has to have a slutty friend, she said, to make them feel better; have you got a slut friend, someone even more promiscuous than you? She made me laugh, at that table, she makes me laugh now, she always gives good gossip, and there’s a sadness in her hedonism which makes her funnier, and warmer.

I press the phone closer to my freezing ear, as Jenny asks:

‘How’s the profile-building going?’

‘Ah. Not great …’

I pause, to take a breath. I’m nearly at the top of Primrose Hill: the last, steep incline which always makes me gasp cold air. I should definitely start going to the gym. Jenny tries again,

‘Not great? What does that mean?’

‘It means, I’ve been at it several hours, and I’ve established that I’m straight, thirty-three, a woman, and I’m looking for long-term, short-term, casual hook-ups, or maybe a snog in a pub toilet. Do you think I might be coming across as desperate?’

‘Hah. No. Stay strong! There has to be a good man out there? I’ve seen them!’

‘No chance of a drink, then?’

‘Not tonight, Josephine. Call me tomorrow, mabes. OK, I’ve gotta get this TEDIOUS code written before I turn into a bat. Good luck!’

The phone clicks. I am at the top of the Hill. I don’t know whether it is the jewelled skyline of icy London – always impressive from this vantage point, stretching from the silvery towers of Canary Wharf to the holy scarlet arc of the London Eye – it could be the mere fact of hearing Jenny’s friendly voice – but I feel distinctly cheered. Invigorated. The sadness is dispelled.

Jenny is right. I must woman up. I can do this. It’s only a bloody dating profile. And I need a bloody date.

It’s all downhill from here, I can’t be bothered to do the full circuit, so I’m simply going to retrace my steps, back down Regent’s Park Road, as the snow begins to fall, heavier by the second. My pace quickens as I hurry past the big, white, thoroughly empty mansions.

Sometimes it feels like a ghost town, this rich little corner of London. Streetlamps shine on cold pastel walls, leafless trees grasp at the frigid orange sky. Glossy new apartment blocks sit empty: from one month to the next. Windows forever black and cold like Aztec mirrors, obsidian squares reflecting nothing. Where is everyone?

Nowhere. There is no one here. It’s only me. And the snow.

Ten minutes later I am sat at the laptop, gazing at OKCupid again, trying to make my personality sound simultaneously attractive, different, sexy, not too sexy, witty, not self-consciously witty, diverse, truthful, self-confident, but not brash. I mustn’t give up, but the questions? There are so many.

OK, I reckon I need a gin and tonic. Indeed, I need two punchy G&Ts: that should be about right, make me brave and honest and a little bit funny, without being idiotic. I was once told by an expert (someone who went on live TV daily) that the perfect amount of alcohol you need to cope (with daily live TV) is half a bottle of champagne. Similarly, I reckon two G&Ts is the perfect amount of alcohol to cope with any difficulty in life.

Returned from the kitchen, second G&T in hand, I command myself, and type.

Ethnicity?

English

Height?

Five foot two

Education level?

Useless degree

Think I’m getting bored again.

Religion?

None. Except when it’s really really sunny and I think: who knows for sure

Wincing at myself, I cross that out. Sounds too weird. Then I decide: what the hell, it’s true. Generally I don’t believe in God, but sometimes on a lovely summer’s day when the world is floaty with happiness I think that God exists, the trouble is He had a few too many drinks at lunch. Perhaps I should put that in.

Calm down.

Has pets?

Kodiak bear

Diet?

Gin.

Omnivore

Smoker?

Not yet. But I intend to start at 60, when it’s meant to prevent Alzheimer’s. No, rilly.

Drugs?

Gin!

Most people that know me would say I’m …

Crap at writing internet dating profiles

Short

Current goal?

Spring

What is your golden rule?

Never have a golden rule. You always break them

Oh God, I’m sounding over-brash, and borderline alcoholic. Maybe one gin would have sufficed.

I reckon I’ve nearly had enough profile-making. It’s not the world’s greatest profile, but it’s not the worst, and it gives a reasonable impression of me, when I am feeling a little lonely but also mischievous, and the streetlights at the top of Delancey are blurred by the snowy darkness.

There’s squillions of additional questions I could answer but I’ll do another three, then abandon my bid for happiness. Until tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.

I value:

Candour. Vintage couture. Sriracha on a tuna melt

If I were sent to jail, I’d be arrested for

Lying on internet dating sites