‘No,’ I say, ‘we errr we don’t have that kind of relationship.’
Oh! is the reaction, more bemused than judgmental. I feel mean but can’t offer much by way of explanation.
Flatmate would say it’s because he’s very critical. He might then describe how, in the early days of our tenancy, he pronounced the chocolate sauce on my profiteroles to be too bitter – which it was, but I’m never going to admit it to his face – and with those words forfeited all future offers of my cooking.
But his critical streak has its uses. The other day we’re talking men, or lack thereof. I’m arguing that a man who adds me on Facebook must have some kind of romantic interest in me: indeed I have empirical evidence that this is the case.
Flatmate looks amused. ‘Are you telling me you fancy all the guys you’ve added on Facebook?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
I’m exaggerating slightly, but only slightly.
He frowns. ‘I don’t understand why you never get any of them!’
I shrug. ‘Maybe they’re out of my league?’
He shakes his head. ‘That’s not possible – statistically I mean. There are just too many of them!’
I laugh. ‘Sometimes it’s the same ones, recurring!’
Nice Guy, Nick…
He sighs. ‘So you don’t learn your lesson the first time round.’
‘No, it’s not that…’
He thinks a moment. ‘I can only think that you’re always going for the same type, and for whatever reason it’s not working. Does everyone you fancy have a posh accent?’
‘I don’t understand it. You’re a nice girl….’
I make a mental note to start sharing carrot cake.
‘… you’re intelligent, funny, you’re good-looking…’
‘Aww you’re sweet. Keep talking.’
‘Perhaps I’ve just been unlucky,’ I say, with a shrug.