‘Speaking of which, I need the loo,’ he says, getting up and stretching dramatically before leaving the room. I roll my eyes and turn back to Francesca.
‘He’s got a point, Zara,’ she says. ‘You should see the guys I come across online. As soon as they get my number, boom! They feel the need to show me pics of their bits.’
Now it’s my jaw’s turn to drop. ‘That’s disgusting!’ I gasp. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Oh, they do it all the time.’ She shrugs breezily. ‘All men are the same, babes. They’re all narcissists, gagging for positive affirmation. Haven’t you had any from that Muslim dating app you’re on?’
‘No! But then, I’ve only been on it once since I created the account and I’ve not checked out the profiles or anything.’
‘What? No way! Open it now!’
‘Right now?’ I look around the office to see if Kevin is nearby. It’s only been a week since I swore never to open the app at work. ‘What if Kevin comes in?’
‘So what? He doesn’t care what we do, so long as we get our work done.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ With one last furtive glance around the room, I open up the app and stare in shock at the thousands of ‘likes’ I have.
‘Ooooh, look at you, Miss Popular,’ Fran teases. ‘That’s a LOT of likes!’
‘But they can’t even see my photo,’ I tell her, completely confused. ‘Why would they like my profile if they haven’t even seen what I look like?’
Francesca shrugs. ‘I dunno, but you need to press the tick or cross, I think. If you press the cross, their profile vanishes and if you tick it, they probably get to message you.’
One thing that becomes increasingly clear as I sift through the profiles is that all these men who supposedly ‘like’ me haven’t even bothered to read my profile properly. The privacy is set so that men can’t see women’s pictures unless a woman ‘likes’ him back and then agrees to reveal the image, so I’m beginning to think that whenever a new female profile appears on the site, they all go wild and hit ‘like’ randomly in the hopes of receiving one back.
And you know what that means, right? More than half of them are way too old or young for me, most are shorter than me, and the ones that are the right age and height admit that they drink or don’t eat halal food. So now I’m inundated with profiles of unsuitable men that I have to manually check out one by one before I can hit ‘no’ and remove them from my sight. I do this for about ten minutes, getting more and more pissed off as I do, but there are still hundreds to go.
‘Bloody bastards,’ I mutter under my breath, my agitation increasing with every ‘x’.
‘Talk about slim pickings,’ Francesca muses, peering over my shoulder. ‘There’s not one decent prospect here.’
Adam returns from the toilet and he also joins in, making rude comments about every single man.
‘He looks like a serial killer,’ he says when the first half-decent profile comes up, of a clean-shaven guy from Uzbekistan with bright blue eyes and thin lips.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I protest weakly, glancing up to check Fran’s opinion.
‘He does,’ she confirms. ‘He looks like the type that will smother you in your sleep.’
A good thirty minutes of declining later, just as I’m beginning to go cross-eyed, I stumble across a profile that looks interesting. Both Adam and Francesca have grown bored and gone off to do what we’re paid for. I’m relieved because if Adam says he looks like a drug addict, and if Fran agrees, I’m likely to throw my phone out of the window and become the Muslim equivalent of a nun. Not that there is one. Getting married is considered to be half of our faith.
I read the profile.
MrMoneyMaker. 31. London. 5’10”. Bengali. Sunni. Moderately practising. Always eats halal. Never drinks or smokes. Sometimes prays.
He’s not the best-looking guy on the planet but he’s definitely attractive in that sharp, brooding kind of way. I decide to read on.
I don’t care how beautiful you are, if your personality is ugly, you’re ugly simple!
Like banter. Not on here for time-wasters. Sleep is for tortoises. Into kickboxing and football. Shoots zombies in spare time. The word fun has been ruined. Films and food is life. Slightly smarter than a sophisticated root vegetable.
Erm. OK, then. I’m not really sure of what to make of that. The guy sounds like he’s had a bad experience, and is a bit unhinged. But he’s taller than me. The right age. Doesn’t drink. Eats halal food. All-right looking. And he doesn’t look like a murderer. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide I have nothing to lose, so I hit ‘like’.
I’ve had enough of this cesspit of a dating pool, but as I’m about to close the app, a notification comes through. It’s a message, from MrMoneyMaker. As much as I loathe to admit it, I feel a stirring of excitement, wondering what his opening line is going to be.
Hi, Zara, I’m Mo. You made the right choice in liking me. What are you up to? Can I see your picture?
OK, so he’s decided to get straight to the point then. I feel a bit put out that there’s no banter, no flirting, but I guess he doesn’t want to waste time.