41

Imagine the team from Babestation going out for their work Christmas party. Basically naked, overly made-up girls walking through the city in sky-high heels, with only bravado to keep them warm.

That’s what Ali and I look like right now. Well, Ali certainly does. I look like the work-experience girl who is trying too hard.

I think it’s funny, that my try-hard look has come from a complete lack of effort on my part. I let Ali do whatever she wanted, and what she wanted to do was give me big curls, bold make-up, and I wore the black, revealing dress she insisted I wear.

As we walk into San Carlo restaurant the shift from the freezing-cold weather outside to the toasty temperature inside is very welcome. It smells amazing too. I can’t say that, at least by reviving my social life, I can go back to enjoying food in my favourite restaurants, because I have absolutely been ordering food from here, brought to me in the comfort of (not) my own home by the wonderful people of Deliveroo.

Ali checks her phone.

‘We’re here first,’ she says. ‘So shall we sit in the bar?’

‘Okay,’ I reply cautiously.

‘What?’ she asks.

‘We’re early,’ I point out. ‘And you’re never early. You have rules, on how late you need to be, depending on what you want to achieve. And the extra effort getting ready…’

Ali smiles at me but, in her attempt to appear blank, she just looks shifty.

‘You sit down,’ she insists. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Porn star martini?’

I nod cautiously. It’s a good attempt at a distraction, offering to buy me my favourite drink, but I’m on to her.

I anxiously mess with my phone, keeping myself distracted. I fire up Instagram and do what I always do: meaningfully scroll through my newsfeed, as though that’s why I’m there, before punching Freddie’s name into the search box. I don’t even have to go to much effort; he’s always a suggestion now.

I creep on his profile and see a photo of him posted an hour ago, standing in what I’d guess is his massive, pristine kitchen, brandishing a plastic flask full of some protein drink. He’s smiling, looking straight into the camera. I always feel as if he’s looking at me, as if he knows I’m looking at his photos, and it amazes me that he’s able to get in my head without even trying.

I know I shouldn’t even be looking but I just can’t help myself. We’ve all stalked people we’ve had crushes on or ex-boyfriends online – the problem with Freddie is that there is simultaneously a ton of information about him on the Internet, but at the same time never quite enough. I want to know how he is; I want to know what he’s up to. I spend far too long trying to work out if he looks happy, looking for signs that maybe he misses me. A picture of him with his shirt off and a caption promoting protein shakes is nice, but it doesn’t satisfy me.