1
Dating in your thirties can feel like a relentless game of romantic musical chairs. It starts out quite fun, but then the music gets too loud, and all the good, well-adjusted, stable chairs start disappearing. You're left with a room full of wobbly three-legged stools that are probably going to give you splinters. You begin to panic; it feels like a race you can't all win-what if you're the last one standing with nowhere to sit? Maybe you should just grab the first chair you can, even if it looks uncomfortable, smells, and gives you little to no support. Because you're tired and it might be better than the floor.
Chloe Fairway was only too familiar with the chair dilemma. Which is why she found herself heading into Soho on a Wednesday night to meet "Tom, 36," even though she'd much rather have been at home eating buttered toast and watching The Traitors in her pajamas. Because she knew that if you wanted to find love, you had to keep dancing, keep swiping, keep "putting yourself out there." Because the next guy might just be the perfect chair for you, the one you could cozy up in for the rest of your life, the one that made all those uncomfortable chairs worthwhile.
From his profile picture, and the few texts they'd exchanged, Tom seemed . . . hopeful. Though the first rule of online dating was not to get your hopes up. You had to go in with low expectations. Chloe got to the pub early and chose a table near the window, away from the noise of the TV blaring behind the bar. Tom had picked the venue. She wouldn't have chosen a place like this, with the football playing, sticky carpets, and a happy hour where everyone looked miserable.
She checked her reflection using her phone camera, then frowned. She'd rushed from work, still dressed in her standard uniform: skinny black jeans, gray blouse, hair scraped into a bun. At home, her wardrobe was full of vintage blouses, wide-legged trousers, cute capes, and colorful cloche hats. But those belonged to a version of herself she rarely got to be. At the end of her first week at McKenzie and Sons, her boss had informed her she would need to dress more professionally. Her hair needed to be up-loose, it was "a distraction"-and her colorful clothes were "too theatrical." So she'd dulled her weekday palette to a safe blur, tamed her curls into a respectable bun, and played the role of "sensible PA."
Now she did what she could. She unpinned her hair, shook out her long auburn curls, then applied a swipe of red lipstick. What was it Coco Chanel said-"If you're sad, add more lipstick and attack"? Chloe didn't know what she was supposed to be attacking, and suspected Coco Chanel had never had to contend with internet dating, but the sentiment felt empowering.
Tom arrived, fourteen minutes late, clutching a bicycle helmet as he scanned the bar. His blond hair, damp with sweat, was slicked across a lightly freckled forehead. When he spotted her, he waved, then smiled, revealing two prominent canine teeth. Those fangs had not been visible on his profile picture. No. Do not judge someone on their teeth. It's personality that counts.
"Hi, Chloe?" Tom said, hurrying over to her. "Am I late?"
"No, no, I only just got here myself," she lied. Because that was the second rule of online dating: don't sweat the small stuff.
As she stood up to greet him, she braced for his reaction. Her height was clearly listed on her profile, but men often failed to register it. She'd been greeted on first dates with "Whoa, it's the BFG!" and "You didn't say you were plus-sized." Chloe was a slim five feet ten, but she had broad shoulders and big hair, so the whole effect was that of someone who took up space in the world. Luckily, on this occasion, Tom didn't react, he just gave her a sweaty hug and then sat down. She noticed he smelled faintly of cigarettes, despite listing himself as a nonsmoker.
"So, Tom-" she began, but he was already rising from his chair.
"Sorry, do you mind if we swap seats? Just so I can keep half an eye on the score?" he asked, nodding toward the television. Chloe did mind. If he'd wanted to watch the game, he shouldn't have arranged to meet her. But she said "sure" and relinquished her chair. There was no point starting things off on the wrong note.
"So, have you come far?" she asked him, trying not to mind about the seat swapping and the smoky smell.
"Yeah, Hackney," he said, snapping his fingers at the bartenders.
"I think we need to go up, order at the bar," she said.
"Ah, okay," he said, making no move to get up.
"I'll go, shall I? What would you like?" she offered.
"Pint, lager, thanks. I'll get the next ones," he said, flashing her a toothy grin. Chloe walked to the bar with a heaviness in her step. This was the worst part, when you knew straightaway that it was a no, but you still had to spend a polite amount of time in the person's company. She pictured her cozy seat on the sofa next to her dad, the chocolate Easter egg she hadn't eaten yet, The Traitors theme tune starting . . . No, don't torture yourself, it will only make it worse.
It seemed to Chloe that in the two years she had been off the market, the dating arena had morphed into a hellscape. Either that, or post thirty, the pool had shrunk to a puddle. In the last three months alone, she had been stood up, ghosted, and sent all manner of explicit, unsolicited photos. She'd met men so lacking in basic decency, she genuinely wondered how they convinced anyone to sleep with them. Belchers, groin scratchers, men who swore constantly, men who asked no questions and had little idea of what was going on in the world. These experiences made her fear she would always be alone, but they also made her fear for humanity. Where had all the good men gone?
"Love your hair," the bartender said as she poured Chloe a glass of wine. She had a sharp black pixie cut, a nose ring, and smudged mascara beneath her eyes.
"Thanks," Chloe said, noticing a rose tattoo curled around the woman's wrist. "I love your tattoo." They shared a brief smile, and Chloe watched the barmaid reach a finger to her ear, as if trying to block out the noise from the TV overhead.
"Hey, lady, can you turn this up?" said a man in a baseball cap, perched at the bar.
The bartender gave him a tight smile and clicked the volume up a single notch before turning back to Chloe.
"Just give it here," the man said, motioning for the remote. But Chloe reached across the bar and plucked it up first.
"I got it," she said sweetly, turning the volume down three notches.
"Hey, lady!" the man cried.
Chloe shot him her most charming smile. "I can't hear myself order. Give me two minutes?" He looked ready to argue but then turned back to the TV with a scowl.
"Thanks," the barmaid whispered, as she poured Chloe a pint. "I always get a headache when the football's on."
Without a word, Chloe slipped the remote into her lap, popped out one of the batteries, and wrapped it inside a folded five-pound note. She passed it to the barmaid, who let out a soft laugh and gave her an appreciative smile. Then Chloe cheerily passed the remote back to the man in the cap. "Enjoy the game."
Back at the table, Tom reached for his pint, then finally turned his attention to her.
"What you reading, then?" he asked, nodding toward the paperback poking out of her bag.
"Little Women," she told him. "Well, rereading, it's one of my favorites."
"You should try the sequel, Big Men, it's much better," Tom said, guffawing at his own joke. She smiled politely and tightened her grip on her wineglass. "You a bookworm or something, then?"
"I guess so," she replied, trying to stay open-minded. Maybe he was the kind of guy who seemed awful at first but you could acquire a taste for-like oysters or tequila. "Have you read anything good lately?"
Tom exhaled loudly. "I don't have much time to read. Started this book about Formula One, how it got started and that, but it was average. I prefer podcasts." Tom's face became animated. "Have you listened to Joe Rogan? He's so funny."
"I hear he's popular," Chloe said, feeling her soul crawl into the fetal position.
"So, what do you do for cashisho, Chloe?" Tom asked, and as he clasped his pint glass, she noticed his fingers-short, pudgy sausage fingers. She had a thing about hands.
"Cashisho?" she repeated, trying to keep her eyes on his face.
"Cash. Moola. Money." He rolled his eyes. "What do you do for work?"
"Oh, I'm a PA for a film producer," she said, knowing she'd already told him this over text. "But I'm hoping it's going to be a stepping stone to more creative things. I really want to be a writer-plays, screenplays."
"You don't want to be a writer," he said flatly, picking his teeth.
"I do," she said, blanching.
"Nah, it's a shrinking sector. AI will be writing everything soon anyway. You're better off looking for something tech-proof," he said, his eyes flitting around her face, assessing her. "You could be a model, I reckon, if you straightened your hair."
"But I don't want to be a . . ." She trailed off, swallowing her irritation. What was the point? She forced a smile. "How about you? You said you were in the army? That must be interesting."
"Yup, corporal," Tom said, flexing his arm muscles. "It's good, plenty of travel. But there's too much politics these days." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "The woke brigade have got a lot to answer for. I'm not against women being in the army, but if you want to join, you've got to be one of the lads, haven't you? You can't expect special treatment. If you're on the front line, you can't start crying if someone calls you 'love.'"
Chloe swallowed. He'd seemed normal over text, nice even. She glanced across to the bar. The man in the cap was jabbing at the remote, clearly baffled. Chloe turned back to Tom just as he took a noisy slurp of his pint, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Was this fiction's fault? Had reading ruined men for her? Once you'd been introduced to Gabriel Oak, Mr. Rochester, and her dear George Emerson, how were you meant to settle for this?
"I'm just going to nip to the loo," she said, picking up her bag.
"Knock yourself out," Tom replied, already half turned back to the TV.
Chloe always tried to stay on a date for at least forty-five minutes. Any less just felt too rude. But if she could tell, as she did now, that even forty-five minutes was going to be an endurance test, she allowed herself an extra-long bathroom break to sneak in a chapter of her book. Glancing back at the table, she doubted Tom would even notice she was gone.
In the bathroom, Chloe glanced at her phone. Her photo app had compiled a memory reel titled "On This Day." The first image was of her and Peter lying on a sun lounger in Tenerife the year before. She was curled into his chest, wearing just a bikini, squinting up at the camera. He had one arm around her, and he was kissing her head as he took the selfie. They both looked so happy. Peter would never have tried to watch the football game during a date; he was a stickler for manners. He opened doors, he asked questions, he made eye contact.
She quickly closed her phone. This wasn't helping, and those photos certainly didn't tell the whole story. Instead, she climbed onto the old Victorian radiator next to the sink and pulled out Little Women-a safer kind of fantasy. The radiator let out a reassuring clonk sound.
"Yes, he is a bit of a clonk," Chloe muttered.
"Clonk clonk," said the radiator. And already, she was having a better conversation with the radiator than she'd been having back in the bar.
She was several pages into a chapter when she became aware of someone else entering the room. A striking woman with long, dark hair and pale, freckled skin was smiling at her from across the tiled floor.
"Chloe?" the woman said, eyes wide with delight. "Oh, I thought it was you!"
Chloe blinked. She couldn't place her. "Wendy," the woman offered, not the least bit offended.
"Wendy?" Chloe asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Wendy had freelanced as a producer at McKenzie and Sons a few years back. Chloe had liked her; she was bubbly and always brought home-baked biscuits to work on a Friday. The only reason Chloe hadn't recognized her now was because she looked completely different. The Wendy she remembered was a bit, well, frumpy, with limp, gray-streaked hair and a permanently defeated posture. This Wendy looked . . . radiant. Toned. Confident. She also looked ten years younger.
"I know, I know," Wendy said, doing a twirl. "I made some changes."
She moved to the sink and began washing her hands-slowly, with deliberate movements, lathering soap between her long, graceful fingers. Chloe caught sight of the smartwatch on her wrist: sleek, iridescent, clearly expensive.
"But what are you doing in here?" Wendy asked, watching Chloe in the mirror. "Are you avoiding someone?"
"Bad date," Chloe admitted.
"Sleazy or boring?" Wendy asked, her tone light and knowing.
"Rude," Chloe said.
"Poor love. How long have you been looking?" The question landed harder than Chloe expected, and she was struck by Wendy's choice of words.
"Too long," she said quietly.
"I know that feeling," said Wendy, drying her hands on a paper towel with the same precision she'd used to wash them. The bathroom was nicer than you might expect, given the decor in the pub: there was moisturizer as well as soap, and even a magnifying mirror for doing makeup. Wendy took a moment to moisturize her hands. Then she stepped forward and pressed a soft, clean hand over Chloe's. This tactile display of empathy pushed Chloe over some edge she hadn't even known she'd been teetering on. A sob rose unbidden as Wendy's sympathy untethered the full weight of her loneliness, and she lifted a hand to her mouth, trying to keep it in.
Copyright © 2025 by Sophie Cousens. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
