A Play For Voices

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CC Image courtesy of quinn.anya on FlickrLast week I threw caution to the wind and attended an event not as myself but as MBE.

The last time I played a part was in my final year of secondary school. I came on stage wearing a wetsuit, snorkel and flippers – I’m pretty sure I only got the part because no one else was stupid enough to agree to wear the costume – and halfway through the first scene my contact lens fell out.

This time I get to choose my outfit. I’m way too hot, but Bellinis are on tap and Beatrice is at my side, so what can possibly go wrong?

‘I don’t know what to call myself,’ I say, as we approach the venue.

Fortunately the whole guest list thing is beyond casual. We get in as ‘Clare’s friends’. I hope I recognise Clare from her Gmail picture.

Clare is lovely and the event itself is wonderful. After four Bellinis everything is wonderful and Beatrice and I are propping up the canapé station, talking intensely about her first boyfriend and where it all went wrong.

We do mingle, and I meet several members of that elusive breed, the dating blogger. It’s a bit disconcerting, like walking down the street and passing someone who’s the spitting image of yourself.

I’d wondered what the vibe of a dating app launch party would be, what sort of crowd it would attract. Socialites, tech heads, bloggers, men in skirts visiting from East London – they’re all there. As are the founders of the app, VoiceCandy. It’s a similar concept to Tinder but with the addition of recorded voice messages. Because, as one of the founders explains, studies have shown that voice, like non-verbal communication, plays a huge part in attraction.

 

I can remember as if it was yesterday the first time I heard VP’s voice over the phone and, aside from the weird instructions about Nando’s, it was entirely unremarkable. Later I would come to love that voice for its slowness – a sign not of stupidity but of a razor-sharp intellect measuring every word for its worth. But at first it was only a reassuring neutral.

Other voices linger in the mind. Tobias’s antipodean drawl carries across the office and I feel my back straighten instinctively. And the first time I call Tristan in his new role and hear him answer, ‘Hi Anna’, I have to take a moment to compose myself.

 

So it’s ironic when Beatrice asks one of the other dating bloggers present what the best singles event she’s ever reviewed is and she replies, ‘Silent speed dating’. Shhh Dating, she explains, takes voice and speech entirely out of the equation.

At which point a couple of guys join our circle. They’re too young, I think, a suspicion confirmed when they say they’re fresh out of uni. But even before they speak, and despite (or perhaps because of) their jock-esque good looks and sharp suits, something about the way they carry themselves, their unsmiling countenances – it makes me want to turn away.

 

Beatrice and I call time around 9. I’ve successfully not revealed my surname or place of employment to any of the assembled company, learnt that my Twitter handle is completely undiscoverable when you put it into the website’s search bar and affirmed my deep love for Bellinis and courgette tempura. The evening ends with Top Gun on the big screen in Hyde Park and a giggly stumble back to the tube.

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ Beatrice says.
‘Tinder date.’
‘Oh of course! Let me know how it goes.’
‘I will.’

We hug and I go carefully down the steps, wondering how I’m going to explain the mid-week hangover to my unsuspecting date.

CC Image courtesy of Ciudadano Poeta on Flickr

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Just Sayin’

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CC Image courtesy of jonathan229 on FlickrThere’s a scene in a film – the ’92 adaptation of Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d – where Amanda Elwes’s character is asked why she moved to England. She replies: ‘I like English men.’ By the same logic I should be booking a one-way ticket for the Eurostar, powerless as I am in the face of Gallic charm. Admittedly Adrien is rarely charming to me. Most of the time we’re foul to each other, so much so that the other French speaker in the office likes to quote idioms in her mother tongue about the thin line between love and hate.

This is when I piss on my own parade and tell you Adrien lives with his half-Spanish, wholly beautiful girlfriend. His ‘imaginary girlfriend’, as I call her – twice she’s been a no-show at work drinks. Sensible woman.

Ce soir,’ I say to him, over the top of my computer, ‘j’ai un… qu’est-ce que c’est ‘date’ en français?’

‘Ah. Rendez-vous.’

‘Rendez-vous. J’ai un rendez-vous avec un homme qui est… demi-francais?’

Adrien frowns a moment. ‘Ah. La moitié français.

‘Qui est la moitié français, donc je peux pratiquer mon français!’

He nods, smiling.

Et, je pense to myself, j’espère qu’il est half as incroyable as you.

CC Image courtesy of Mike Knell on Flickr

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She & Him

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CC Image courtesy of mRio on Flickr

It went like this.

Me: Witty question, though I say so myself.

Him: One-word response.

Me: Witty question.

Him: Two-word response.

Must be love.

Me: Question.

Him: Question…

Finally, a sign of life.

… though not a very encouraging one.

Me (fed-up): Response.

Silence.

Feelings of sadness, self-loathing… depression.  Blaming of Beatrice, first in my head, then out loud, that is, via online chat.

The following evening, Beatrice and I go to a housewarming.  We last a couple of hours.

‘So, anyone?’ I say, en route to the station.

‘No.  You?’

‘No.’

Besides a sweet girl who works in films and who I would later go to considerable lengths to track down the name of – the kind of lengths people in films go to to track down the love of their life, but since I didn’t meet the love of my life

I get in, drop my stuff on the table in the sitting room, and go through to the kitchen to make a drink.

Mug in hand, I flop down on the sofa.  My phone is blinking.  I swipe the screen and there it is, the distinctive orange logo.  And the words,

You have a new Tinder message from Viable Prospect.

That’s not exactly what it says.

I stare lovingly at the screen, open and close the window a few times, revisit his Facebook profile.  Birds are singing by the time I do finally hit the hay.

CC Image courtesy of mallix on Flickr