The Secret to Falling in Love Read online

  He had the triangular torso thing going on, pointing down to chunky thighs in skinny jeans. His fitted shirt and a blazer made him look smart, like he’d made an effort, which on anyone else I would find appealing. His hair was shaved closely to well above the ear, and the inch-long blonde hair on top was swept to one side, every strand angled exactly the same way.

  As I studied him more closely I realised his eyes were slightly too small for his face. The more he spoke, the more intolerable he became. It was exit time. I excused myself and headed to the ladies’. Once hidden in the male-free sanctuary of the loos, I grabbed my phone and frantically keyed a text to Gemma:

  I’m a celebrity!

  She’d know what to do.

  I headed back to the table. The food had arrived, and I wasn’t surprised to see Mark already tucking in. I even spotted him helping himself to a forkful of my moussaka, cheeky sod.

  Before I’d even sat down, he started talking. ‘I was thinking we could have a few drinks in a bar and then we could go back to yours?’ he said confidently through a mouth full of food. I almost gagged. Before I had time to concoct a reply, my phone shrilled impatiently. Thank goodness. Saved by the bell, or in my case, Gemma.

  ‘Hello?’ I put on my best who-is-this-and-why-are-you-calling voice. ‘Oh hello, Mrs Monagan . . . Oh no! That’s terrible – not again? I’m so sorry. I’ll be over right away and we’ll get it sorted out.’ I hung up to see Mark looking at me expectantly. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go. That was the old lady who lives in the flat beneath me. Apparently there’s been a flood in my apartment. The water has leaked into hers, and she’s beside herself with worry.’ I feigned concern by furrowing my brow as I gathered my bag and phone. ‘I’ve had a nice time though. What do I owe for dinner?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Erm, okay, I reckon an even twenty would cover it. I could come and help?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Oh goodness, no, I don’t expect that. I’ll be ages with Mrs Monagan. Last time, I was there the whole night! Listen, we can get back in touch on Tinder and arrange to meet up again soon.’ I didn’t even wait for a response before throwing twenty quid down on the table and leaving. On my way out I texted Gemma:

  Thanks, MRS MONAGAN ;) – disaster!

  Whilst my phone was out, I deleted the Tinder app, and relief washed over me.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Happy Friday!’ Simon perched on the edge of my desk, grinning.

  ‘Why are you so excitable this early in the morning? Are there not laws against that?’ His round beaming face reddened and he looked like he might burst if he didn’t spit out whatever it was he wanted to say.

  ‘Well, you know how your article went down pretty well?’ he said. I nodded, unable to stop a smile spreading across my face. It had attracted quite a bit of attention in the couple of days since it was published. I’d seen a few tweets about it and one of my favourite bloggers had written about technology and the demise of social interaction, inspired by my piece.

  ‘Yeah, so?’ I played it cool.

  ‘Loose Women have it up for discussion on their show this afternoon. It’s like you’re a superstar,’ he said, beaming. ‘In fact, if you could sign this month’s cover for your best work friend, that would be great.’ He smirked and pushed a copy of NorthStyle in my face.

  ‘What? No way!’ I blushed, batting it away. I was in complete shock.

  ‘Well done, kid. I just hope you haven’t put too many people off technology or Dee will have my column cut.’ He winked and walked off, leaving me standing there in a daze. I couldn’t believe it. I hoped Dee would let me watch Loose Women later that morning. I was pretty sure that this would be the first time our magazine had featured on a TV show, which had to earn me a brownie point or two. Instinctively, I picked up my phone and opened WhatsApp: ‘Who can make after-work champers this eve? Need to celebrate.’

  As I hit send, my office phone rang. ‘Hello, Melissa at NorthStyle magazine, how can I help?’ I chirped.

  ‘Melissa, come to my office now, please.’ Dee, disregarding the use of pleasantries, hung up without awaiting a reply.

  It was the first time in a while, or ever in fact, that I’d felt excited about going into Dee’s office. I knocked firmly on the wooden door. ‘Come in,’ she shouted flatly. I walked in more surely than I ever had before. ‘Ah, Melissa, take a seat.’ Her tone became silvery as she gestured to the leather chair opposite, and I sat obediently. I looked up and met her gaze. ‘Well, I’m not sure if you heard, but did you know your article has been a bit of a hit?’ Her facial expression remained blank. I couldn’t tell if it was because of her Botox or because she was really forcing herself to offer me a compliment.

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ I stumbled, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of Dee’s praise.

  ‘I’m talking nationwide discussions, global even, if you take into account social media,’ she continued before I could string together a response. Dee had a knack of asking rhetorical questions that really did come across as genuine enquiries. It didn’t matter; I was sensing excitement and I wanted to revel in that. ‘. . . and even Loose Women.’ My ears pricked as I caught the tail end of what she’d just said.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ I offered, still astonished at the thought of it.

  ‘Yes, well, you should be. So anyway, I was thinking a follow-up, a put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ I said suspiciously.

  ‘Go without technology for a month. Give it up; live in simpler times. Think 1980 without the terrible hair and godawful shell suits.’

  ‘I don’t really remember much of the eighties, I was quite young. Wait, do you?’ Shit. My lips were moving without the permission of my brain. I felt like Dee was forcing a frown in my direction, but it was hard to tell. Her eyes did look thunderous, so I continued, trying to cover my discourtesy. ‘I mean, you look so young!’ Dee’s age was an office mystery. She didn’t have a minor skin crease or a grey hair in sight, but she carried the confidence and impatience of someone who’d been around a while. ‘Anyway, your idea, yes, yes I can do that. Just a month, no social media . . .’ I pursed my lips in consideration. ‘That’ll be okay.’

  ‘I mean no technology, full stop. No internet connection, no mobile phone, tablet, PC. You go dark then write it up. I want to know about your experience. Was it better or worse? Did you connect with people more on a social level, or were you bored shitless and isolated from your friends who were still plugged in?’ She made air quotes when she said ‘plugged in’.

  ‘Okay. Yes, it is a natural follow-up, and I guess it fits with the Matrix theme too – Neo becomes unplugged and experiences real life outside of the Matrix. At least I won’t have humanity-hating robots to contend with when I take the red pill.’ I snorted at my own joke. Dee just glared at me.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll arrange a team to go and unplug your workstation and apartment. I need you totally immersed in this.’ She punched her finger towards me for emphasis. ‘The whole country is watching us. And by the way, 12.30 p.m., we’re having a little get-together in the break room. Be there! Well done, Melissa. Please close the door on your way out.’ With that, she turned back to her computer; I’d been dismissed.

  ***

  When I walked into the break room everybody was already there. Dee spotted me and made a swirling gesture with her finger to the rest of the staff, who subsequently turned to face me and cheered. My cheeks flushed, but I managed a shy smile. As I walked forwards, people patted me on the back whilst ushering me towards the front row of seats before the TV. A small table to my left was crammed with cupcakes and plastic flutes of champagne.

  As I took it all in, Dee walked up to the front. ‘Good afternoon, everyone. Many moons ago, when I started NorthStyle, my goal was to get someone, anyone, to read my magazine. Over time, with the help of each and every one of you in this room, we became the number-one read of professional people in Manchester
. Today, I came into work this morning beaming, after days of people blogging, tweeting and sharing an article written by our very own Melissa. Now we are about to be discussed on national television. People across the country are about to hear about NorthStyle magazine. So grab a drink and a cake . . .’ Dee gestured to the table, and the staff happily obliged. ‘Now you have a glass, please raise it: to Melissa!’ she shouted.

  ‘To Melissa!’ the rest of the room repeated in chorus. I definitely turned fifty shades of pink right about then.

  I could barely breathe as I watched the show. There was a great debate and, in true Loose Women style, a split panel; three of the women thought we would be better off ditching our social media, phones and tablets to get out there and socialise properly, and the other one said she couldn’t live without technology as it was the only way she could keep in touch with family who lived far away. There was a young American singer making a guest appearance on the show who was very pro-technology as it was great for maintaining fan relations, selling music and FaceTiming her dog.

  After the show, I felt pretty pleased with myself, but that proud moment was tinged with a light feeling of disappointment. The ladies had only mentioned the magazine’s name and not mine. It was a small thing, but it had been written right underneath the article. Still, I knew, and it would raise the profile of the magazine, which would count for something.

  People approached me to offer congratulations, and I was treated to more pats on the back. Simon went a little further and attempted the scene from the Matrix where Keanu Reeves dodges the bullets by defying nature and bending his body in weird and wonderful ways. Unfortunately for Simon, he didn’t have the assistance of a Hollywood film crew to pull it off and, hilariously, he wobbled over and fell on his backside, which cheered me up somewhat.

  Back at my desk, I searched for my phone, desperate to know who’d said yes to champagne after work. ‘That’s weird,’ I said aloud to no one in particular.

  ‘What’s weird?’ I jumped to see Simon standing by my desk rubbing his bottom.

  ‘I had my phone here earlier, before I went into Dee’s office, and now I can’t find it anywhere.’ I frowned.

  ‘Sorry, not seen it,’ Simon replied nonchalantly as he continued on his way.

  I poured out the contents of my bag onto the desk. There were old receipts, so faded it was impossible to tell what shop they were from, several lipsticks and salves, the obligatory last few mints in the roll that must have been there for several years and some sand – God only knew where that came from – but no phone.

  Becoming more frantic, I searched my drawer, under my keyboard and eventually got down on the floor to see if I’d knocked it down there without realising. As I was on all fours patting around the under-desk darkness, I was interrupted by a female voice. ‘Looking for this?’ I spun my head round so quickly I almost snapped my neck. There was my phone, in Dee’s hand.

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d lost it. Sorry, did I leave it in your office?’ I said apologetically, realising I might have put Dee out.

  ‘No, I took it,’ she said coolly, crossing her arms.

  ‘Could I have it back?’ I asked uncertainly. There was usually a method to her madness.

  ‘I’ll be keeping it until the month is out. I need this article to work, Melissa. I need to know you aren’t cheating.’ She threw the phone into her bag, whilst I was left wondering how many employment laws she’d just broken.

  ‘Well, may I have it until the end of the day, so I can tie up any loose ends?’ I asked, desperate to check and see who would be coming for a celebratory drink later.

  ‘Sorry, but no. This experiment won’t work if it’s pre-planned. We just need to rip out the plug, so to speak. We need some drama, Melissa. Journalists make sacrifices: lesson number one. Don’t worry, it’s password-protected so I can’t go snooping through your my-boss-is-a-bitch emails. I’ll keep it safe for you.’ With that, she spun on the heels of her Jimmy Choos and marched back towards her office.

  My eyes widened in disbelief. What she’d done was quite possibly a criminal act, but I wasn’t sure of the crime. Theft? Did it constitute theft if the bandit promised to return your item in a month? I hit the keyboard to wake up my PC. I’d have to log on to Facebook and use Messenger instead. After that, I would give up technology.

  I jabbed at the keyboard again and wiggled the mouse, but nothing happened. I bent down to check the machine was switched on. It wasn’t. Damn. It wasn’t coming on, no matter how hard I prodded the power button. Damn, damn and double damn. I became vaguely aware that a presence had appeared next to me. ‘Er hello, I’m Dean? From IT?’

  ‘Ah good, Dean-from-IT, could you help me? I seem to have a small issue with my PC.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’ve unplugged it. I had a request from Dee?’ he said, furrowing his brow, seemingly fearful of having done something wrong. Perhaps I’d intimidated poor Dean-from-IT.

  ‘Yes, I’m guessing she wants you to take it offline?’ I huffed.

  ‘She wants me to take it away completely. She told me to give you this.’ He handed me a notepad and a biro.

  ‘Great, why not just get me a quill and some papyrus,’ I snarled, snatching them from him.

  ***

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d handwritten anything longer than a birthday card. It was probably sometime the late nineties – my A level exams I guessed. I jotted some notes down, things I hoped to discover during my time without technology, expectations and so forth. Starting to write felt a bit weird – like going back to school after the summer – and it took a few lines to warm up.

  Surprisingly, I came up with quite a lot and by the time I’d finished I had a nostalgic ache in my hand. This was not going to be easy, and I wasn’t sure how welcoming my freelance clients would be of scrawled web content. I’d have to write to them all to explain the situation.

  Since I’d no way of arranging a celebratory drink with my friends, I decided to treat myself to a glass of champagne regardless. But by the time I left work the excitement about my article had worn off, and the misery of being phoneless had set in. It felt more like a commiseration drink than one of celebration.

  I decided on the champagne bar in House of Fraser, since I could pass as more of a shopper having a sneaky drink rather than a loner celebrating alone – the lesser of two evils. I secured a table in the corner and sat back in the curved chair, listening to the delightful arrangement of upbeat music the pianist was playing. I wondered if I should have taken piano lessons in the past – it could have been something interesting to put in the ‘hobbies’ section on my online dating profiles.

  Breaking away from the idea, I submersed myself in people-watching. A smartly dressed, grey-haired lady and a younger woman – possibly her daughter – chatted over a bottle of wine, laughing quietly every so often. An older gentleman sat reading the sports section of the paper, and a couple about my age sat at the bar, each with a glass of bubbly, making the tell-tale sparkly eye contact that comes with big happy romantic news – an engagement perhaps? Shoppers busily whisked by, holding up garments before placing them back on the rail or absent-mindedly stroking the fabric as they walked past.

  I spotted an elderly lady having afternoon tea alone. She carefully stirred her tea and placed the teaspoon neatly on the side of her saucer before taking a delicate sip. I wasn’t sure what it was – the slight sagging of her shoulders, the blank look on her face – but there was an air of loneliness about her that saddened me. She reminded me of my late grandma, and the thought of her having nobody to share afternoon tea with sent a shock of pain through my chest. Before contemplating it any longer, I headed over to her table and asked, ‘May I join you?’ whilst smiling hopefully.

  Visibly surprised, she lifted her frail head, and her pale blue eyes met mine. It seemed to take a couple of seconds for my question to register, so I tried to explain and put her at ease. ‘It’s just that I’m celebrating and
have nobody to celebrate with. I saw you were also alone and wondered if you wouldn’t mind cheering me up and celebrating with me?’

  Her stunned expression softened. ‘Yes,’ she eventually replied. ‘I don’t see why not. Pull up a chair, my dear.’ A small smile began to appear on her face as she pointed an unsteady hand to the vacant chair opposite her. Relieved she didn’t turn me away, I placed my glass down on the table and sat. ‘So what are we celebrating?’ she asked with a smile. I ordered her a glass of champagne, and soon we were chatting away.

  The conversation flowed naturally, and I found myself enjoying her company. Her name was Doris, and she’d been widowed eighteen years ago. She was the mother of two grown-up children who lived far away, and many of her friends were sadly either housebound or dead. On the first Friday of every month, she took the bus into town and treated herself to afternoon tea to avoid going stir-crazy. I in turn filled Doris in on my recent success and resulting predicament.

  ‘Goodness, in my day we didn’t have these fancy technological devices. We met up, we talked, we wrote, but we didn’t text message or email.’ She shook her head, causing her white curls to bounce around her face.

  ‘I know, that’s kind of the idea behind the article – to go back to a time without all of this distraction. Unfortunately for me, my life is so tied up in technology that I’m ill-prepared to go without it. None of my friends or family are even aware of my challenge, so they’ll probably think I’m ignoring them.’ I sighed.

  ‘Talking to them on a computer is ignoring them, my dear! It’s lazy. If you’re at home alone you’re lonely, whether you’re typing to somebody or not,’ Doris said firmly. She had a point; surfing Facebook could be pretty disheartening when everyone looked so happy.

  ‘You’re right, Doris. I must sound so fatuous, blabbering on about my computer ban.’ I threw my hands up in defeat.

  ‘When I was your age, I would be out dancing, talking and laughing with my friends. You know, I could shake my hips like a flamenco dancer, before I broke one!’ She giggled, and I completely believed her, though I assumed she was underestimating my age by at least a decade. ‘Anyway, my dear, I’ve had a lovely afternoon, but I must dash if I’m going to catch my bus.’