Ego 1 — Love 0

The restaurant lighting cast a shadow over Solly’s worried brow. Biting her lip anxiously, she glanced around at the other diners to stop herself from checking her watch for the hundredth time! Soft melodic tones blended into the low hum of chatter, soothing her nerves a little, but not as much as her wine. The wine helped enormously!

The waiter approached her table, breaking her thoughts and bringing her back to her edgy reality. Noting she was getting low on wine, he asked, “Would madam like more wine?” His fake smile highlighted his weak attempt to hide his impatience.

Solly smiled, “Oh… yes...please. Another Pinot. And make it a large one this time, will you! Thank you.”

'Purely medicinal', she thought.

It was only a few short weeks ago, on a slight whim — and a prayer — that Solly, frustrated after too many casual flings and years of singledom, had added the free dating app: Plenty of Hotties.

She had landed on Pascal’s profile less than an hour after swiping through endless dull accounts. The huge number of uninspiring, freaky, or naked-chested men had depressed her.

'Am I being too fussy?' She had sighed.

Pascal was a French artist living in London, only half an hour away! Perfect! And so, she excitedly swiped to the right — a big fat YES.

They hit it off instantly and began texting for hours, which turned into days, escalating into dreamy discussions through the long dark nights. They would text their love of bourgeois artists, spiritual enlightenment, Jung, and of course — a lot of pillow talk!

It was magnetic.

Pascal merged into Solly’s life. She would feel insatiable, buzzing as she woke to his: 'Good morning, my sexy ;) xxx' texts.

Solly couldn’t stop herself from looking through Pascal’s vast collection of profile pics. He was noticeably confident.

'Weird that he posts so many selfies?'

'But, hey, he was oozing with good looks; his divine, thick, jet-black hair and olive skin. And what a physique! Oh, and just the most stunning bluest eyes.' She had oozed.

'How was it that he was still single?'

Pascal had purred to her in his sensual accent, “You are not like the other women on here, Solly. You are deep and a rare gem. I like you!”

Solly had felt flustered but honoured; she couldn’t believe her luck!

A strong connection formed.

'This must mean that we are just so right. Right?' Solly had hoped.

It moved fast, and only last week Pascal thrilled her with a WhatsApp voice note: “I really want to take our relationship further, my darling gorgeous Solly.”

“Oh… Pascal!” She had texted, all hot and flustered, but happy to hear his attentive and loving words, and cute French accent!

“I know this fantastic little French restaurant: Café du Paris, you’ll love it, Solly. Please say you will meet me there next Friday,” he had pleaded in the sexiest voice he could muster. Solly fumbled about her words but replied coyly that she would. “Absolutely love to!”

Uncomfortable was an understatement as Solly sat there for — what felt like almost an hour now, but time had also stretched with her nerves. The waiter arrived with her wine, exaggerating his courtesy as he placed the glass in front of her.

“Madam,” he whined, not hiding his annoyance. Solly gulped back a humongous mouthful and thanked him under her breath. He hovered for a moment, and, surprising her, snapped, “Madam, I will need to take an order soon or have to ask you to leave,” his eyes blinked too fast. And with that, he gave out a suffocated snort.

Solly couldn’t help but giggle; it must have been the nerves, she told herself, and not his idiotic face:

“Gosh, I’m so embarrassed about this. Here, take this £20 note and keep the change. I’ll finish this up and be gone.”

“Madam,” he retorted, taking the money and scurrying off like a demented ferret.

Solly felt awkward; she knew the other diners would have noticed she’d been stood up. Still, she was too wired now to let this bother her, as she watched the entrance, just for one last time, as she geared herself to leave.

And just at that point, she spotted an older man walking through the entrance.

'Is that Pascal? Maybe? It kind of looks like him, but… shit, it looks like it could be his dad! The resemblance is so uncanny.'

'Blimey, it IS him! He looks pissed. And twenty years older than his photos, and — oh my gosh… he’s a short ass. Where is the 6.4?'

And where the eff is his thick black hair? He’s grey! It’s all around his ears! Shit, what a disgusting ponytail!’

Solly hated men with ponytails; it was just way too Dire Straits for her!

Pascal hadn’t noticed her and so would not have seen her slack-jawed and horrified gaze.

As he waited to be greeted, Solly noticed his demeanour gave off an egotistical arrogance. It was just so pathetic. The swaying because he was pissed didn’t help.

The neurotic waiter, fake smile switched back on, hurries over to welcome him.

It was a tight squeeze underneath the table, but somehow Solly had managed to curl up as tight as a ball — cleverly sweeping the starched tablecloth drapes to hide her whereabouts. She held her breath, said a silent prayer, and filed a note to herself about the perils of internet dating. She was a quick learner — no more swiping for her. Ever!

The sound of imminent footsteps arrived — oh, so close. The rigid waiter spoke, “Sorry, sir. The lady was just here waiting for you, but it seems she’s gone!”

Much later that evening, back at his apartment, Pascal, ego moderately dented, writes out an apologetic text to Solly for being so late: The traffic was crazy, he had had an important meeting at the Tate and so forth.

Blah de blah.

He hadn’t mentioned his earlier romantic date that he had been to that evening.

The sleaze.

His text doesn’t seem to be going through to Solly’s profile.

“Damn it, the bloody text won’t deliver, the stupid thing keeps saying the account is deleted? Crazy woman. Well… her loss!” he mutters to himself in a 'not-so-French accent' and giving himself a once-over and quick wink, as he looks at his reflection in his (magic) hall mirror.

La fin

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