How to Get a (Love) Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

date last night.’ He perched on the arm of the sofa.
    ‘Oh really,’ I said with interest. ‘How did it go?’
    ‘Go?’ He looked up in surprise. ‘I suppose it went well … Yes, as dates go it could be rated positively.’
    ‘What was she like?’
    ‘Oh, hopeless,’ he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
    ‘But you just said it went well?’
    ‘The date did. She, however, was all wrong.’
    ‘Oh. Well what was wrong with her?’ I asked. ‘Boring?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Ugly?’ I ventured.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Crazy?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Too loud?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Too quiet?’ I asked, tiring of this game rapidly.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Too … uninterested in bats?’
    ‘No. Too old,’ Mark said matter-of-factly.
    ‘Charming. How old is she?’
    ‘Thirty-three.’
    ‘Thirty-three isn’t old.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve got another date tomorrow night.’
    ‘Fast work, brother dear.’ I nodded. ‘So, how’s life at the planetarium?’
    ‘Fine …’ he said.
    Oh God. I was going to have to ask. ‘And, er, how’s the search for a bat TV show?’ I tried to sound breezy and light-hearted.
    He exhaled dramatically, the wine glass wobbling precariously in his hand. ‘I’m brilliant, but I’m undiscovered and I’m running out of time.’
    ‘Rubbish …’ I said, and then after a pause. ‘You’re not brilliant.’
    He looked aghast.
    ‘That was a joke ,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You’ve just got to keep sending your stuff in and build up some contacts. What happened to Snake Man?’
    Snake Man had been a particular stooge at the BBC who had managed to get my brother a five minute segment on a wildlife programme for the Natural History Channel. They’d paid Mark £250 for two days of filming and he’d spent the rest of that year behaving like David Attenborough, often at unexpected, and usually inappropriate moments (one particularly memorable moment being at the dinner table after Aunt Hilda’s funeral when Mark’s impression had set my uncle off into a fresh round of tears – ‘Hilda loved nature programmes.’). Since this triumph, however, there had been no work forthcoming and no more phone calls from Snake Man.
    ‘You must know of some jobs going in the presenting world,’ he said huffily, before taking a sip from his glass.
    ‘Look, as I’ve told you a million times, we are an actors’ agency. We don’t specialise in the niche of science presenting jobs.’
    ‘Oh come on, sis, you’re all in on it together,’ he grumbled. ‘You guys are always hobnobbing at these awards and things.’
    ‘What awards?’ I laughed.
    He still thought my job involved going to the BAFTAs to watch our clients accept little gold statues and make emotional speeches about their wonderful agents.
    ‘Today I got one of our clients an advert for a digital camera. There aren’t too many award ceremony invites flooding our post,’ I insisted.
    ‘Well, surely you see each other at agent things,’ he huffed, determined not to give it up.
    I sighed. ‘I will try to make more enquiries into production companies looking for ageing science presenters who have an unhealthy and unnatural obsession with bats,’ I droned.
    ‘Thanks, sis,’ he said, his face lighting up, brain seemingly unable to register my sarcastic tone.
    The timer pinged in the kitchen. ‘Dinner,’ he announced with a grin.
    ‘Great, what have you made?’ I asked, instantly planning to eschew his dinner in favour of my own regular Wednesday evening meal of grilled salmon, baby potatoes and mange tout.
    ‘Pizza.’
    He scooted into the kitchen and after an unusual amount of noise for someone simply finding a plate, he re-entered holding the pizza aloft on a wooden chopping board. ‘Grub’s up, sis!’ He lowered the chopping board reverentially onto the table. I cringed as I watched the stray crumbs scatter themselves over the clean surface.
    ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ll make myself something in a bit,’