CAN Oliver O’Connor, aged 25, get over the fact 24-year-old Lucy Parry is simultaneously a professional model and somehow not the best-looking woman he has ever seen?
Oliver on Lucy
First impression?
I thought she was a model? She said she was a model. And I checked and that’s actually how she earns her living, as a model. Have I misunderstood something?
How was conversation?
Very career-focused. Hers. I was interested in finding out if she actually is a model, what she models for, if she actually meant she was a real model or just has a popular Insta, how many Insta followers she has, can she provide me with examples of her modelling. Normal stuff.
Memorable moments?
When she showed me her online portfolio, including loads of shots of magazines and stuff she’s been in, and I accepted that she wasn’t lying about being a model. Bit tough to square with what I’d imagined, but when the facts change I change my mind, as I told her.
Favourite thing about Lucy?
That she’s a model, obviously. That’s what she’s got to offer and I’d be doing her a disservice if I rated her for any other reason.
A capsule description?
I guess there’s lots of types of models. Thinking about it I knew that. But still, I think you should specify what kind of model you are up front. A description? Disappointing.
Was there a spark?
No. Though I’m sure there would have been if she’d been a proper model.
What happened afterwards?
We said our goodbyes. I mean it’s not like she’s bad looking, but you know.
What would you change about the evening?
There would have been more information on the metaphorical drop-down menu. Stuff like ‘fashion model’ or ‘runway model’ or ‘swimsuit model’. You know, so you’re not deliberately given the wrong idea.
Will you see each other again?
Apparently she knows proper models, from the modelling scene, so maybe she could introduce me to some of them.
Oliver on Lucy
First impression?
Seems nice and he’s certainly asking me lots of questions about myself, which makes a refreshing change.
How was conversation?
Declined rapidly. Became very belligerent about what kind of modelling I do. I explained it was largely for stock photography and women’s magazines and his face fell. Proof was demanded, and provided, and it didn’t seem to help.
Memorable moments?
His aggrieved, cheated expression as he sulkily admitted that I was a professional model while implying that he, somehow, had been hoodwinked. He said ‘But what will I tell my friends?’
Favourite thing about Oliver?
He paid for the meal. Resentfully.
A capsule description?
Absolute and total prick, and the reason I stopped telling men I’m a model.
Was there a spark?
God no. I fantasised about pushing him off a bridge. And I ordered a pudding just so he could incredulously watch a model eating sugar and carbs.
What happened afterwards?
He stumped away like the inadequate he is to wank to porn. He didn’t tell me that, but then he didn’t have to.
What would you change about the evening?
It would never have occurred. I can only try to erase it from my memory.
Will you see each other again?
If we did, in 40 years time, when the seas have risen and man has built a civilisation on Mars, I bet he’d still hold a grudge.
