Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead Read Free Book Online

did.
    I heard a little chuckle from the ‘Westside’ of the desk. Brilliant, she loved it. And then ping, straight back, I had mail.
    To: Jack Lancaster
From: Leila Sidebottom (
yeuch, I really have to marry her
)
Subject: Drink (
the girl calls a spade a spade — excellent
)
Monday 14th February 14.36
    Ayeee, all’s well on da Westside. Finding work kind of boring today (
wow — kindred spirit
). Would have loved to come along (
ouch, that’s an ominous tense
), but I’m already going on a girly night out (
she’s single, she must be single
). Maybe another time (
she didn’t say never
).
    Leila
    X (
she put a kiss, a capital-letter kiss no less
)
    But my sense of triumph over the electronic kiss was short-lived and I soon felt like a thoroughbred loser again. Of course she wouldn’t have a boyfriend. She’s too perfect to have a boyfriend. No one could put up with the jealousy that a girl that beautiful would arouse. You’d lose all your genuine mates instantly. Other blokes would just hang around with the two of you so they could catch her when you screwed up and she moved on.
    And so I suddenly felt lower than I had done for ages. There Leila was in all her perfection, holding out for Mr Perfect and I was moping around on Valentine’s Day feeling like a lonely loser. And perhaps the worst thing about feeling like a lonely loser is that you soon start acting like a lonely loser. It’s a self-fulfilling vicious circle.
    I reached for my mobile and composed a lonely-loser text to Lucy: ‘Missing you so much today. Thinking of you even more than usual’. It wasn’t strictly speaking a lie. I’d thought about Lucy very little recently, and today I was thinking about her a little more than a little. But the sentiment was false and themotives were self-pity and loneliness. I filled the remaining ninety-seven characters of the text with kisses — 2.5 for every day since I’d last kissed her. Options, send, search, scroll — she was the fourth name under L in my phone book after Laura, Lois and London Transport.
    Which is pretty much where she ranks in my affections at the moment. Marginally below the Underground helpline, marginally above Ludlow Thompson, the house-letting agency.
Thursday 17th February
    Lucy is three years older and wiser than Leila and so far too practised in the rules of the game to text me back straight away. She also knows my excitability too well to reply instantly and get my hopes up. In fact, she practically wrote the rules of the game herself.
    So the cunning little character didn’t get in touch until this afternoon. And her text sounded all the right notes with such accuracy that I reckon she took half an hour composing it straight away on Monday, saved it and sent it with only a few edits today.
    â€˜I missed you too big boy’, it said. ‘Didn’t really compare to last year’s v day, did it?! Why don’t you come round tonight and I’ll cook for you? Wld be good to catch up.’
    And in those four simple sentences you have irrefutable evidence that women are a more evolved species than men. ‘Big boy’ — makes me feel special and sexy. Reminder of last year’s Valentine’s Day — I surprised her with a candlelit London Eye trip, after which we stayed up all night making the beast with two backs and a funny-shaped middle. Cooking — she’s a wonderful cook. Motive of visit — catching up only, which arouses my hunter-gatherer instinct. It’s a mini masterpiece.
    I press options, reply, include original text — she had two characters left and didn’t even include a kiss. She’s never done that before.
    But when I go round to her flat after work, I know that this is going to be the least of my worries. She’s wearing a short, floaty skirt that’s more suited to July than February. She leans forward to peck me on the cheek, which