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Typical. This guy was a total cliché and I was ready to bail. Then my new mantra popped into my head—
What would Emma do?

I opened my mouth and a stream of words fell out. “Right, and you like underground music, you hate girls who wear fake eyelashes or nails, and you secretly want to be a millionaire—but in the meantime, it makes you feel better to say you hate capitalism or whatever.”

He stared at me in silence with his mouth slightly open, looking like a confused goldfish. Fuck, why had I just done that? I was an idiot. Emma never would have said all that.

I tried to undo the damage. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry, I got carried away. I’m sure you’re nothing like that. It’s just that a couple of people here are, and I kind of assumed you would be too, but that’s just me being stupid. Ignore me, really.”

Why
did I have so much verbal diarrhea? I cringed at what I had just said and hoped he wouldn’t think I was deranged. I thought about trying to explain what I meant, but at the last minute his face broke into a half grin. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess I am a bit of a pretentious twat. I bet capitalism and commercialism would look pretty fucking great if I was a millionaire,” he admitted. “Especially because I’m definitely not a millionaire, and just had my wallet stolen today—which is why I’m in a shit mood. Sorry. I don’t normally go to parties and stand alone in a corner being unfriendly.”

Okay, so he knew he was being unfriendly before and he didn’t normally respond with less-than-five-word sentences. This was positive news. I figured he wasn’t rejecting me, so I asked him what had happened and let him tell me his ten-minute sob story about getting pickpocketed on the 176 bus to Penge. We sat down on the sofa together and carried on chatting.

It turned out Jack was twenty-six, originally from Nottingham but lived in South London, loved philosophy and art, hated all the music I loved and kind of
was
the Shoreditch stereotype I had guessed he was. But we still ended up talking for hours, and he laughed at all my jokes, even the ones I didn’t realize I was making.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked suddenly.

“Sure, I’d love another . . . erm, vodka and orange?” I said, looking doubtfully at the pale, sickly looking remnants of the drink left in my glass.

“Is that what that is?” he asked, nodding his head wisely. “Wow, I’d forgotten the crap that students drink. Luckily, I bought a bottle of Beaujolais before my wallet got stolen, so shall I pour you some of that instead?”

“Uh, yes, please,” I said, impressed by the fancy bottle of red that he pulled out of a canvas bag.

He had started pouring the wine into two cups when Emma swooped up, a cup in her hand. “And one for me please, thank you very much.”

Jack looked a bit taken aback but went along with it when he saw Emma envelop me in a bear hug. “Sooo, are we having fun, Ellie? Oh my God, I met the nicest guy. He is so much fitter than yesterday’s barman, who still hasn’t texted—what a wanker. Anyway, so Mike, the new guy, is a total cutie.”

“I saw,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her. “There was some major flirting going on there.”

“Not just over there,” she added, grinning, and looked pointedly at Jack.

I flushed red and quickly said, “Yeah, okay. So, Jack, this is Emma. Emma, Jack.”

She turned to face Jack and gave him a full hundred-watt smile. “Glad to see Ellie’s getting to know the only guy at this party who brought decent drinks with him.”

“Well, hey, someone had to.” He grinned back at her.

I felt the familiar Lara-jealousy creeping into my stomach as I realized they were flirting with each other, and even though I didn’t fancy Jack, I really didn’t want to be the rejected third wheel again. Except I had forgotten that Emma wasn’t Lara. When Jack had finished pouring her drink, she winked at me, blew him a kiss and disappeared with the drink in hand.

“So, that was Emma!” I said brightly, recovering from my temporary lapse of self-esteem and inwardly telling myself off for ever having doubted her.

“She seems fun.”

“She is. Hey, what’s the mysterious Eric like?”

“Not so mysterious at all, really,” he said, gesturing towards a tall, dark-haired guy standing at the back of the room with his arm around Hannah. Eric was very good-looking, at least six feet tall, with stubble. He wore a T-shirt with an image of headphones printed around its neckline, and he looked bored. Hannah was welcome to him.

“So, do you know Hannah well?” he asked.

“Um.” I paused. “Well, we’ve had a lot of classes together these past few years, and we have a lot of mutual friends so I guess I know her well enough. We don’t really hang out one-on-one though. Ever.”

He laughed. “Okay, I get it. You’re acquaintances more than you’re friends. To be honest, I don’t really get on too well with her.”

My face shone with delight but I quickly forced it into a concerned expression. “Oh, no way. How come?”

He grinned. “Don’t play innocent; I can see that you don’t like her. It’s written all over your face.”

Ah. “Well, I mean, we just don’t have much in common. Like . . . I’m a nice person and she’s not.”

“Ouch! Where did that come from?”

“I honestly didn’t mean to say that.” I gestured towards the now-empty glass I was holding. “I think maybe it was the wine that said it.”

“Then I think we should fill that up again. This is getting entertaining.”

“Getting? Excuse me?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. Oh my God, I was flirting. Emma’s dress was clearly giving me all of her vibes. I was on a roll.

“You’re right,” he said, smiling at me. “This has all been fun. In fact, hey, do you want to maybe do it again?”

Oh my God, he was asking me out. An actual, real guy was asking me out. A twenty-six-year-old
man
was asking me out, and he had a job. I bit my lip to hide the elation bursting out of me, and as casually as I could, I replied, “Sure.”

He grinned back at me. “Cool, do you want to give me your number then?”

I read my number out to him and saw him pause when he was about to type in my name. Oh God, I knew there had to be a catch. He had managed to forget my two-syllable name.

He looked up. “Erm, how do you spell your name again?”

I sighed. “It’s Ellie. Which is E-L-L-I-E because there really isn’t any other way to spell it. I can’t believe you forgot my name.”

He flushed red. “Sorry. Can I blame this on the Beaujolais too?”

I made a mental note to Google this wine, and a couple of others while I was at it so I could look a bit more sophisticated on our date. Oh my God,
date
. I beamed and took his number happily.

“So, I’d better go find Emma,” I said finally.

“Yeah, it’s like—wow, it’s one a.m.,” he said as he looked at his watch. “We’ve been chatting for about three hours now.”

“Shit, Emma’s probably furious,” I said, whilst my insides danced for joy at the fact that a guy had asked for my number after spending three hours chatting to me exclusively.

“I wouldn’t be too sure. Isn’t that her on top of that guy?”

I glanced over to where he was pointing and burst out laughing. “That girl is amazing. I hope that guy realizes how lucky he is.”

Jack smiled uncertainly so I quickly carried on. “Anyway,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m going to go and intrude on that because I’m exhausted and need to go home.”

He got up and smiled at me. “Good luck. It was good to meet you.”

He put out his right arm and as I was about to walk up to him for a hug, he clenched his hand into a fist. I stared at it. Why was he screwing his hand into a fist? Jesus, was he going to punch me?

Alarmed, I started to step back as he raised his fist. He reached out towards me and bumped his fist against my right hand, which was hanging limp by my side. Had he just fist-bumped me goodbye? All thoughts of a goodbye kiss slowly evaporated.

“Um, okay,” I said slowly. “I’m going to go now, so bye then.” I looked at him expectantly, giving him one last chance to kiss me or, at the very least, hug me.

He lifted his eyebrows and smiled, before turning away and walking towards Eric and Hannah, who were now snogging on another sofa. I looked down at my right hand and sighed. So much for my romantic goodbye.

Four days later, I was at home with my mum, living in a state of limbo. Jack still hadn’t texted me. I was trying not to think too much about it but every time my phone beeped I jumped and had to restrain the wild feelings of hope when I read the message and it wasn’t from Jack.

I was starting to wonder if I was untextable. On Day One, I had fully expected a message but there was nothing. Then I thought,
Okay, maybe he doesn’t want to come across as too keen
, so on Day Two I figured he would get in touch to hang out that Saturday night. On Day Three, I remembered all the dating books said to wait three days, so I expected a message, assuming he was just following the three-day rule.

But . . . nothing. And now it was Day Four and I had never heard of a four-day rule. Getting a message from him was starting to look highly unlikely.

Despondently, I put on
Dirty Dancing
and curled up in my dressing gown. Two hours later, I was nearing the end when my mum walked in with a worried expression on her face.

“Elena, what is wrong with you? You look like you are having a fit.”

I froze with my arms stretched out and one leg pointed as I wobbled in the middle of the living room trying to imitate Baby’s dancing. I turned to look at my mum, who was standing with her arms crossed.

“What? Why are you staring at me, Mum? I’m just watching
Dirty Dancing
.”

“Elena, you are standing in the middle of the room dancing to a film and I can tell you have been crying. You have spent all weekend alone. It is the Easter holidays—why aren’t you out with your friends?”

“Uh, because when I go out you tell me I’m out too much, and now that I’m home, apparently I’m home too much?”

“You need a balance. All you have done these holidays is watch movies and cry. Can’t you go out with Nikki Pitsillides? She’s such a nice girl.”

“She has a boyfriend, she’s busy and FYI, she’s not such a nice girl. Her boyfriend’s a total druggie.”

My mum looked at me with pity in her eyes. “Elena, my darling, you need a boyfriend.” She turned around, sighing and shaking her head as she walked out of the living room, muttering in Greek.

I froze, totally gobsmacked. Then I ran into the hallway and yelled out to her, “Mum, I just told you that Nikki’s boyfriend is a total drug addict, and all you can say is I should get a boyfriend too? Can’t you just be glad I’m not taking Ecstasy in my room with my twenty-five-year-old unemployed boyfriend? What kind of mum are you, telling me I need a boyfriend? I’m at university and I don’t inject heroin. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF ME. I’M A DREAM DAUGHTER AND ANY NORMAL PARENT WOULD BE GLAD TO HAVE ME.”

There was silence from upstairs. I kicked away in frustration at the inflatable Pilates ball I’d ordered off the Internet and never used.

When your mum told you that you needed a boyfriend, and wouldn’t even mind if he was a drug addict, you had to accept things had gotten pretty bad. I trudged down to the kitchen and opened up the freezer. I took out a spoon and a tub of peanut butter ice cream. I sat in the living room with the ice cream, gorging.

Why had Jack bothered to ask for my number if he wasn’t going to text me? Would anyone ever want me like Patrick Swayze wanted Jennifer Grey?

I wanted to call Lara but we still weren’t speaking. The fight had been more than a week ago. This was the longest we had ever gone without speaking, and every time I thought about it, I felt a black hole inside me that ached. I couldn’t deal with the fact that she hadn’t bothered to text, call or even tweet me. Okay, theoretically I could get in contact with her just as easily as she could message me, but I was scared that she was still furious. Besides, she was probably all loved up with Angus and didn’t have time to chat.

I was halfway through the tub of ice cream when my phone beeped. I rushed to grab it and my stomach sank when I saw it was an email. It was from UCL’s student magazine. I scanned it disinterestedly but sat up straight when I read the next line.

We are looking for a new columnist for
Pi
magazine and would love for you to try out. Our last columnist, Will, has had to unexpectedly drop out so we want to find someone new ASAP.

If you enjoy writing, have something to say on a variety of topics and can convey your thoughts in an interesting and humorous way, then this is for you.

Please send us a 400-word column on the topic of “anarchy” by the end of the week, and if you’re successful we’ll get back to you and let you know if you’re
Pi
magazine’s new columnist.

Thanks,

The
Pi
team.

Oh my God. A student columnist . . . that would be amazing. I had always wanted to write professionally but had never had the opportunity—or the courage—to do so. I’d entertained the idea of joining the student magazine back in Freshers’ Week but I’d been too scared to apply. You had to give a one-minute speech in front of the entire editorial team and the thought had been enough to completely put me off. Sending in a single column entry was definitely a preferable option.

I felt my heart rate increase as I thought seriously about doing it. I loved writing. Going into journalism and having a
Sex and the City
–style column (once I’d actually had sex, of course) was my dream. It had always seemed pretty unreachable but this seemed like a good place to start.

Without giving myself time to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my laptop. I could do this. I had opinions. I could definitely think of something to write about anarchy. Um, the Sex Pistols? Punks? Mohawks?

Anarchy Column Entry—Ellie Kolstakis

The Sex Pistols brought anarchy to the UK. I know it already existed in other forms—take stoned hippies clutching daisies, or the late-eighteenth-century French who took anarchy to a whole new level, guillotining poor Marie Antoinette who only wanted cake . . .

I sat back and smiled with pride. I had an introduction. Now I just had to write another . . . oh, 359 words, if I counted the title. That would take only half an hour or so, and then I could watch
Downton
Abbey
repeats all night. Perfect.

Three hours and four green teas later, I scanned over the 402-word entry to check for errors. It was finished, edited and as good as it was ever going to get. My pulse quickened with nerves as I clicked “send” but the adrenaline felt good. I had no idea if it was the sort of thing they were looking for, but at least I had finally tried. Maybe being untextable would prove to be a good thing—this lack of dates just meant I had more time to write.

I woke up the next morning feeling rejuvenated. After sending in my column entry it had suddenly hit me that my only current graduation plan was to lose my virginity. But being deflowered was not a career. The realization inspired me to get the laptop back out again and put on my Motivation playlist. I ended up applying for twenty internships at media publications before I eventually passed out from exhaustion.

I was still feeling the positive aftereffects of my hard work. Okay, so it was Day Five and Jack still hadn’t texted. But there were plenty of reasons why that could be and I didn’t have to sit around waiting to find out if he ever would. I was a modern, independent woman, just like Beyoncé, and I could ask a man out. Easy.

Sitting on the tube into East London, I felt like a deranged idiot. Instead of just asking Jack if he wanted to go for drinks like a normal person would, I had invented a reason to be near his office in Old Street station and was on my way there. I was one move away from being a verified stalker and getting a criminal record.

My mind wandered back to the text I had composed just before getting on the underground.

Hey Jack, it’s Ellie. Do you fancy going for a coffee today? I’m in Old Street, so maybe round there?

Oh God, I felt sick again. The tube pulled into the station. Doom built in my stomach as I ascended via the escalators and the signal bars on my phone crept upwards. It beeped. It was a message from him.

Sure, how about 3pm at the Shoreditch Grind?

For a split second I felt pure euphoria, until it hit me—I was going to go for coffee with him. Alone. The nerves washed over me, and I felt the urge to be sick. It was two thirty p.m. so I had half an hour. I saw the edgy-looking coffee shop opposite the station and decided to sit in there and wait for him.

I ordered a large cappuccino and for once, I didn’t have to fight the urge to order a brownie. Then I sat down and waited the longest thirty minutes of my life.

Eventually he pushed the door open and walked in, scanning the room. “Hey!” I called out in a weirdly high-pitched voice.

“Hey, Ellie, how are you?” he asked as he came over and gave me a hug. Thank God—I’d been terrified he would do another fist bump. Or maybe that was waiting for me at the end of our date?

“Good, thanks. You?”

“Yeah, not bad. I’m going to grab a drink. Do you want something?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks, I just ordered a cappuccino.” I indicated my cup. It was empty, apart from a bit of cold coffee at the bottom. He looked at it and then looked at me with his eyebrows raised.

“Are you sure?”

“Okay, erm, maybe a tea, please. Earl Grey.”

He walked over to the barista and I suddenly panicked—should I offer to pay him for the tea? If it was a date, he should probably pay, right? I forced myself to think calmly and take out my wallet. If Lara had gone up to get my drink, I would give her the money for it, so why should this be any different? I reasoned.

By the time he came back with the drinks, I was waiting for him with my wallet in my hand. “Thanks, Jack, how much was it?” I asked.

“One ninety,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Right, cool, okay, here’s two pounds,” I said, as I handed him a two-pound coin and thanked God I had offered to pay, as he had clearly expected it. He took the coin and reached into his pocket for a ten-pence piece. I took it wordlessly and wondered if this was normal. He sat down and I smiled at him, taking in the fact that he was wearing the exact same outfit from five days ago.

“So, how have you been?” he asked, and I hurriedly moved my eyes away from his clothes and focused on his face.

“Not bad, thanks. I’ve just moved back home for the holidays, so I’ve spent the last five days acting like a moody teenager while my mum yells at me.”

“Oh, really? What is she yelling at you about?”

“Um, everything? Just typical Greek parent stuff,” I said, trying to avoid telling him how my mum thought I was doomed to a life of singledom and weight gain. “Anyway, how have you been?”

“Yeah, pretty good, thanks,” he said. “Work is pretty average, but I’m doing a lot of writing in my spare time and hoping to get some of it published. I actually already write for an online magazine, so that’s going pretty well.”

“Oh really? I just applied to write a column for my student magazine!”

“No way, that’s pretty impressive. What kind of stuff would you write?”

“Well, the theme was anarchy so I wrote something about what anarchy means nowadays and how it’s pretty much gone. I compared it to stealing
pains au chocolat
.”

He laughed. “Okay, that’s not what I was expecting, but I’d love to read it. You should email it to me.”