Behaving Like Adults by Anna Maxted Page B

couldn’t tolerate. I bet he hated Jews and blacks.
    â€˜Darling, darling, untwist your knickers, he’s probably dyslexic,’ said Nige (any other day the first to cast a stone). ‘You know the state of the educational system these days. Aw. Look at this.
Do you like dogs?
He’s answered “Yes. Jack Russells, Westies, Red Setters. Those baggy Japanese ones.” How darling is that? And, Holly, I can’t believe you missed this.
What’s your greatest asset?
He’s written, “My dad’s watch”! That’s funny, you’ve got to admit.’
    I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘Has he put an apostrophe after “Dad”?’
    â€˜Oh my
dear
,’ sighed Nige. ‘You really got out of bed on the wrong side. I think I’ll handle this one, if only to shield him from your irrational hatred.’
    My last word was, ‘Just don’t put him with anyone clever.’
    I returned to my pile, frowning. I
knew
Nige and Claw were exchanging glances and stretching their mouths into shocked shapes behind my back. Fine. Let them. Who was next?
    I scrolled, unamused, through people’s secrets. That day I wasn’t myself. I respect our applicants and I feel humbled by the trust they put in me, Nige and Claw (especially in Nige and Claw). Mostly their quirks go directly to my heart. Our faults are part of what makes us unique. When Nick and I chose the diamond for my engagement ring, I picked an imperfect stone – I think Lavinia, his mother, was secretly appalled, but why would I want a flawless gem, with nothing to distinguish it from any other stone on any other woman’s finger in the whole of the western world?
    I promise to do my best by the clients of Girl Meets Boy, I’m a regular Brownie Guide. So what was wrong with me?
    â€˜I’m filling in this form because I’m sick of pulling mymates’ friends,’ wrote one 25-year-old. ‘And I don’t want to approach women at bus stops.’ Marginally endearing, I’d give him that. I read on.
What are your bad habits?
‘Thinking it highly amusing to remove my clothes when pissed.’ I made a noise like a horse with dust in its nose.
    â€˜Oi, Hol.’ Claudia was clutching the phone and jabbing her finger at the receiver. ‘Gwen Rogers. Reporter. From London Local News. Wants to do a piece on us, film a date night. What do you think? Sounds alright doesn’t it, good publicity?’
    I was pleased to be distracted. ‘Yes. I suppose so. Why don’t you pass her over?’
    I like to give everyone a chance, but I’m wary of the media. It’s like a lion bred in captivity. Presents as big eyed and furry, then you relax and it bites your arm off.
    Gwen was very purry. Still, I wondered if Rogers was a nickname. That said, she seemed to be genuine. She liked the idea that we were modern, a club that cool young things (her words, I assure you) could belong to without feeling like losers, she loved that we weren’t grimly focused on churning out husbands and wives, that we also catered for those who were interested in making new friends or – self-conscious little snigger – landing a shag, and perhaps it reflected on the difficulty that successful, wealthy would I say? young men and women, what with their starry high-flying careers, found meeting people
naturally
.
    She finished her extremely long sentence and I was still wincing at the word ‘shag’. I was having second thoughts about that particular option. Sure, it cut down on bullshit, but there was no denying it was a bit brothelly. And that wasn’t just me being a prude. Even Claw had reservations. She said she approved of the option ‘in principle’ but hated the way some men rang up wanting to pay for a ‘shag’, adding, ‘Have you got any blonde ones?’ I’d heard her reply, ‘Hang on, I’ll see if there’s any