Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Oh, Mo! Of course,’ I say with a strangled laugh, trying to maintain my composure. ‘Hi, thanks so much for coming!’ I get up and extend my hand for him to shake as if he were a client, and he looks at it like I’m dangling a dead rat in front of him.

‘Er, that’s a bit formal.’ He laughs and pulls me close for a hug instead. I think I’m going to die. For five years I’ve managed to avoid physical contact with the opposite sex, and in the space of thirty minutes I’ve wound up with three different men thinking it’s OK to manhandle me.

And that’s when I realise that Mo, who all this time I thought was 5’10” is shorter than me. Much, much shorter, even though I’m in my flats. But I don’t have the time or headspace to process this information, because the short-arse liar has just gone and hugged me, with Hamza right there, and I don’t know what to say or do to redeem myself.

‘This is my f-friend Hamza,’ I stutter, for want of anything better to say, as I extract myself from his unwanted embrace. ‘Hamza, this is Mo. He’s, er, also a, er, friend.’ My voice trails off now, as I realise how bad this all looks and sounds. The term ‘friend’ has never felt so loaded.

Poor Hamza is now forced to acknowledge what’s going on. He gets up from the wall and towers over us both, looking between my pained expression and Mo’s slightly defensive one.

‘Hey, nice to meet you bro,’ he says easily, shaking Mo’s hand. ‘I’ll catch you later, Zara.’ With that, he turns and walks down the path towards the main road. I stare at his retreating back, feeling sick. A part of me thinks I should run after him, but how can I with Mo still here, and my work event in full swing? So instead, I watch as he disappears from sight, my heart sinking with every step that takes him further away.

‘You OK? Who’s that bloke?’ Mo asks, sitting down at the spot Hamza has vacated, which somehow feels like a bigger act of betrayal than chatting to him for the past few months.

‘A good friend of mine,’ I reply limply. I sit back down and turn to look at him. He looks like his pictures – with big, dark brown eyes and beautiful jet black silky hair – but now he’s in the flesh, I see how petite he is. His shoulders, though defined, are narrow, and his fingers are small and slender. I feel well and truly catfished, and I can’t believe I might have messed up my relationship with Hamza over a man who’s half my size and makes me feel huge and awkward. I decide that instead of dancing around the topic, I’ll face it head on.

‘So .?.?.’ I say, deflated. ‘It’s good to finally meet you, but I’m a bit surprised.’

‘Why?’ he replies, with a look of genuine confusion on his face.

‘Well, firstly, I didn’t know you were coming today. You should have told me. I’m at work right now and this event is really important to me.’ As soon as I say it, I know it’s the wrong thing because of the shadow that flits across his face.

‘Event?’ he replies, his thin lips curled into a sneer. ‘You call this an event? It’s some poxy little fair in a shitty little hall in a shittier part of North London. Calling it an “event” is a bit generous, ain’t it?’

You know how sometimes you’re so blindsided by someone’s behaviour that you focus on the mundane to help you get through it? As he rips into me, I focus on his voice which seems too deep for his stature. It was this stupid voice that got me. From what he’s told me about his past, I know he had a tough childhood and got into a lot of trouble when he was a teenager. At the time, I thought he was trying to impress me with his street cred, but now that I’m seeing him in the flesh, I know that all the stories were true. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me right now, as if I’m nothing and my job is nothing, and he’s entitled to gatecrash whatever he wants whenever he wants.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this; as if I’m nothing. As if the man I’m with thinks he can say – or do – whatever he wants to me. The last time I experienced this feeling of losing control of a situation was when I was with Tariq. Déjà vu ripples through me and my heart begins to pound so hard that I barely hear what he says next. I see the scowl though.

‘What?’ I ask, my mouth dry. He continues his tirade as if I hadn’t spoken, more and more venom appearing in his tone.

‘And anyway, how long did you think I was gonna sit around texting you all night without meeting you? I had to make sure you weren’t wasting my time or sending me your sister’s pictures, pretending it’s you.’

Now I’m pissed off and I’m thankful for it because adrenaline finally kicks in, smothering the fear. ‘Me wasting your time?’ I exclaim. ‘More like the other way round!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, your profile said you’re 5’10” for starters.’ I fold my arms and stare him straight in the eyes. They’re so expressive that I can practically see them effing and blinding at me.

‘So what? Yours said 5’8”! Everyone exaggerates on their profiles.’

‘But I am 5’8”!’

‘Not without them massive heels you’re not. There are no Bengali girls that tall, so don’t chat shit, yeah?’

‘Heels? Are you blind? My shoes are flat!’ I stand up in indignation. The more Mo tries to defend himself, the more intent I become at proving him wrong.

‘Go on, stand up and see for yourself!’ I can’t believe that I’ve been blindly flirting with this catfisher all this time. And the thing is, his height is the least of my issues. It’s his attitude that really stinks.

Mo gets up, glowering at me. He’s at least four inches shorter than me but the stubborn little shit refuses to admit it. I’ve spent five minutes in his presence and I’m already regretting how much energy I wasted on him. How many hours of sleep I lost. How is it that people who appear so charismatic online, can turn out to be total dicks in real life?

‘Take off your heels, then we’ll see the truth,’ he demands. I look down at the ground covered in pigeon poo, chewing gum and probably dried dog wee as well. But I’m too invested in this argument to let it go, or let him win, so gritting my teeth, I take off my ballet pumps.

‘Zara! Where have you been? You’re late for your closing speech!’ Adam bursts out of the church, and then stops dead in his tracks when he comes across Mo and me standing back-to-back and barefoot. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Adam, hi,’ I say in a fake chirpy voice. ‘Who’s taller? Me or Mo?’

Adam looks at us like we’re a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘Answer the bloody question!’ I plead. ‘Quickly.’