Читать книгу Perfect Match: a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy you won’t want to miss! - Zoe May - Страница 13

Chapter Six

‘You all right, sweetheart?’ Lyn says, smiling shyly, as she opens her front door wide and steps back to allow me into the hall. She’s tied the sash of her floral dressing gown over her pyjamas and looks as though she’s only just woken up.

‘Yeah, not too bad,’ I reply as I make my way into her hallway, carrying the shopping I’ve got for her. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘I should have been up anyway,’ Lyn says, yawning loudly as we head into her kitchen, where I begin unloading the stuff I’ve bought.

‘Oh, Soph. You’re an angel.’ Lyn smiles gratefully.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I insist as I take the fruit yoghurts she likes out of the bag and start placing them in the fridge, along with the ham and cheese sandwiches, mango smoothies and milk I’ve picked up. These days, Lyn has pretty much the same order every week, although sometimes, she’ll text me to ask if I’ll get her a cheese and pickle sandwich instead of the usual ham and cheese.

‘I’ll pop the kettle on,’ Lyn says, filling it up at the sink as I arrange her shopping in the fridge.

‘Great. I could do with a cuppa.’

Every week, since I first met Lyn, I’ve been helping her out by doing a bit of weekly shopping

I remember the first time I saw her, it was a couple of years ago now. She was zipping along in her mobility scooter with bags of shopping spilling out of the basket and hanging off the armrests. I was walking behind on my way home from work, when, all of a sudden, I noticed her swerve to avoid a taxi door swinging open across the pavement. The sudden movement caused an overflowing bag of potatoes to tumble out of her scooter basket, sending them rolling across the pavement.

‘Oh no!’ I stopped and crouched down to the ground, unsure whether to pick them up. After all, does the three second rule apply to pavements?

The man who’d opened the taxi door without looking ignored the scene he’d caused and simply sidestepped the potatoes and strode across the pavement towards his front door. I pointedly cleared my throat, but he ignored me.

‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’ I piped up, glancing awkwardly between Lyn, who looked quite upset, and the man, who refused to meet my gaze as he stuck his key in his front door.

‘Dickhead,’ Lyn muttered, taking me by surprise. ‘Leave them, love,’ she added as I brushed some flecks of concrete off a spud.

‘Okay…’ I relented, dropping the potato, which rolled across the pavement. ‘Have you got far to go?’ I asked.

‘Nah, just around the corner,’ she replied as the engine of her scooter began to rumble into action once more and we set off down the road.

‘I can’t believe what a dickhead that guy was,’ I fumed, borrowing her slur.

‘Coward, couldn’t even look an old lady in the eyes,’ Lyn tutted, loud enough that he might have been able to hear her from inside his house.

I couldn’t help laughing. Despite looking like a little old lady, with her headscarf, quilted coat, crumpled skin and slick of dated, bright red lipstick, this woman had the sass of a twenty-year-old.

We ended up walking back to Lyn’s house together, which turned out to be only a few doors down from my flat.

She invited me in for a cup of tea in her chintzy front room, and though she didn’t seem it, with her sharp tongue, I could tell she was a little vulnerable and, I suspected, a bit lonely. Seeing her swerving to avoid being knocked by the taxi door tugged at my heart strings. I’ve never considered myself an overly charitable person but I couldn’t walk away without leaving my number and telling her to call me if she ever needed anything.

About a week later, Lyn texted to see if I wanted to come over for another cuppa; it turned out that all she really needed was company. Her husband, Alfie, died five years ago and I think she misses having someone to chat to. And, to be honest, maybe I needed a bit of extra company too. Lyn’s become like family to me, and since my actual family (when they’re not away on round-the-world cruises) live over a hundred miles away, it’s nice to have someone nearby who’s kind and sweet and always there for me. It’s comforting, when London life gets crazy, to have a little enclave where nothing really changes. Lyn is always her funny old self. Her front room is always exactly the same. Biscuits are always arranged on a plate and the telly is always on. We both have a mutual love of trashy TV shows like Come Dine With Me and The X Factor, neither of us approve of the Conservatives and we both enjoy French Fancies – what more do you need in a friend?

The kettle boils as I finish unloading the shopping. Lyn pours the steaming water into a pair of mugs and we settle down at the kitchen table for a catch up.

‘And how’s the love life?’ Lyn asks, after we’ve finished moaning about the Tories’ latest benefits cut.

‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Same old,’ I tell her, deciding to keep Daniel to myself for now.

He still hasn’t replied to the message I sent last night. Kate’s probably right. The whole thing is likely some long-winded prank some weirdo went to the trouble of, but then again, if he is real, maybe I ought to give him a bit more of a chance to respond. After all, it is only 8.10 a.m.

‘I don’t get it,’ Lyn sighs. ‘You and my Tom. Both single. Both so sweet. What’s the world coming to if you two can’t find love, eh?’

‘It’s tough out there, Lyn,’ I murmur, reaching for a biscuit and hoping she won’t launch into one of her spiels about how Tom and I would make such a great couple.

Much as I’m fond of Lyn’s son Tom, he’s not exactly my type. I’m pretty sure he’s either gay or asexual since, according to Lyn, he’s never had a girlfriend and he doesn’t seem in the least bit interested in finding one. But even if he wasn’t totally uninterested in women, he still wouldn’t be my type. He’s thirty-eight and probably the only man I’ve ever met who I can really describe as ‘frumpy’. He works as an English teacher at a secondary school, wears thick glasses that make his eyes bulge, has several hairy moles dotted over his face and is constantly rambling on about how amazing a writer Philip Pullman is, even though His Dark Materials was published, like, twenty years ago. He lives in a bobbling zip-up fleece which is always just a little tight around his paunch, as well as being covered in dog hair from his beloved sausage dog, Hamish. And even though he’s the apple of Lyn’s eye, and he is incredibly sweet and does have a ridiculously infectious laugh, he’s still Tom. Frumpy, albeit lovely, Tom.

The Tom who texted me a couple of days ago asking if I could meet for coffee. Bugger. I completely forgot to text back. I remember thinking it was weird at the time that he’d wanted to meet, just the two of us. Especially since we’ve only ever hung out in the company of Lyn on the handful of occasions she’s invited us both round for Sunday lunch. I hope she hasn’t twisted his arm into taking me out on a date or something.

‘My Tom’s a lovely lad,’ Lyn says, looking pensive as she chews on a digestive.

I eye her suspiciously, trying to figure out if she’s set us up.

‘Why you looking at me like that?’ Lyn pipes up through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Here, have a biscuit.’

She pushes the plate towards me, seemingly more concerned about filling my stomach than playing Cupid.

‘Nah.’ I ignore the biscuits and glance at my watch. ‘I’d better go, Lyn. Gotta get to work.’

‘Oh, all right, love, you get on,’ Lyn relents.

She gives me a kiss on the cheek, thanks me again for doing the shopping and I head off. As I sit on the DLR, I reply to Tom, suggesting coffee on Saturday afternoon at The Muffin House in Lewisham, before logging on to Dream Dates. Five new messages! I flick through them. There’s one from Bigboy17, another from Mysteriousluva; ManCandy4u and Hoplessromantic, bloody hell. I’m just about to log off when I spot the final message, which must have come through while I was walking to the station from Lyn’s, from Daniel_86. It’s him. I open the message.

Daniel_86:

Hi Sophia,

I’d love to chat about all things cats, volunteering and RPatz-related, but unfortunately, I’m off to Paris today for work. I’ll be back on Saturday if you fancy meeting in the evening?

x Daniel

P.S. I see you removed the penis measurements from your profile…? ;)

I break into a massive grin. He’s so cool! He travels for work, he calls Robert Pattinson, ‘RPatz’ (which clearly means that he doesn’t take life too seriously), he’s cheeky enough to tease me, and he even added a flirty wink! I bet his penis measures up perfectly.

‘Can I see your ticket please?’ the train conductor says, for what I suspect is the second time, judging by his impatient tone. I must have been too wrapped up in my message from Daniel to have noticed him.

‘Oh!’ I rummage around in my bag and retrieve my wallet, holding it out for him to scan.

‘Thank you,’ he says in a clipped voice before moving on to the next passenger.

I reread the message. How is it possible that by creating the world’s most obnoxious dating profile, I’ve somehow managed to find someone who seems like such a catch?! I really want to look at his photos while the train hurtles along but he’ll be able to see that I’ve viewed his profile again and I don’t want to look obsessive. I should have taken screenshots so I could have had something nice to look at on the way to work. Never mind. I flick through Metro instead, half reading an article about a freak shark attack in Hawaii while daydreaming about my potential date with Daniel on Saturday night. My phone buzzes. A text from Tom.

The Muffin House at 4 p.m. is perfect. See you there. x

By the time I arrive at work, Sandra is already sitting at her desk, no doubt getting a head start on her latest fungal assignment.

‘Morning!’ I chirp.

‘Morning,’ she replies, her eyes following me as I cross the office and sit down at my desk.

‘Sooo? Did you message him?’ she asks.

She was nagging me to message Daniel all afternoon yesterday, but I refused. I wanted to get Kate’s advice first, although that turned out to be a downer. I look at Sandra’s eager open face. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s catfishing me.

‘Yes, I did!’ I admit.

Sandra grins and lets out a little squeal. ‘Oh my gosh! Can I be maid of honour? Can I?’

‘Ummm… Maybe!’

‘What did you say?’ Sandra asks, her eyes wide.

‘I just asked him if he fancied meeting up for a drink tonight. Kept it casual, not too keen,’ I tell her as I turn on my computer.

‘And? What did he say?’

‘He’s going to Paris for work so he can’t meet until Saturday.’

Sandra looks momentarily glum.

‘Well, Saturday’s not that far off,’ she reasons.

‘Yeah, exactly.’

‘It’s so exciting!’

‘I know!’ I grin, unable to stop myself and then Kate’s words come back to me, about how I always expect too much and then I’m always let down.

‘There must be a catch though,’ I think aloud. ‘He can’t really be as great as he seems. He’s just too good to be true.’

‘Trust me, he’s gorgeous,’ Sandra insists.

‘Kate reckons he’s just using photos of Robert Pattinson he found online,’ I tell her.

‘He’s not,’ Sandra scoffs.

‘Well, he could be,’ I reply, not so sure. Much as I want to believe Daniel’s for real, I’ve got to admit that it’s not exactly likely.

‘Well let’s see then, shall we? Log on to the site,’ Sandra says, as she scoots her office chair over to my desk.

‘Why?’

‘Just do it,’ Sandra tuts. She can be quite authoritative sometimes. All she needs is a cane and a chalkboard to go with her grey cardigan and pencil skirt and she’d be just like a headmistress.

‘Okay.’ I open a browser and log on to Dream Dates.

‘Now go on to his profile,’ Sandra orders. I do as she says.

‘Right.’ She nudges me aside and right clicks on one of his photos, saves the image to my desktop and goes onto Google.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Google Image search,’ she tells me, as if it should be obvious.

‘Ah, okay.’

Sometimes I forget that Sandra’s actually quite good with computers. Probably because I automatically tune out whenever she starts eulogising about how Linux is the best operating system, far better than Windows and blah blah blah.

Sandra uploads the image to Google and clicks ‘search’. ‘Image not found’, it says. I scan the ‘visually similar images’ that Google has generated: pictures of men in a similar pose with stubble and dark hair, none of whom look particularly similar to Daniel.

‘So he’s legit…?’ I question.

‘He’s legit!’ Sandra claps her hands together. ‘So, what are you going to wear for your date?’ she asks as Ted walks into the office, frowning at us.

‘Morning, ladies,’ he says sternly, placing his briefcase on his desk.

‘Morning, Ted! Morning!’ Sandra quickly returns to her desk.

‘Morning,’ I mutter as I open the catheter document and start reading where I left off.

Specimens of urine can be removed from the catheter by using a syringe and an alcohol-soaked sponge… I keep reading, expecting the paper to ruin my mood, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. An email comes through, from Sandra.

From: sandra.jenkins@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

To: sophia.jones@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

Have you replied to him?

I hit reply.

From: sophia.jones@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

To: sandra.jenkins@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

No. Waiting ’til this afternoon.

Sandra coughs and I glance over. She crouches behind her computer, making sure that Ted can’t see her and angrily mouths, ‘WHAT?!’ I roll my eyes and draft another message.

From: sophia.jones@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

To: sandra.jenkins@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. (please delete this message in case Ted sees)

From: sandra.jenkins@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

To: sophia.jones@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

Ok then *sighs* (deleted – and please delete this).

I hit delete and get on with the document. The morning flies by. I feel like I’ve got something to look forward to – even if it is only writing a message to Daniel this afternoon. I know if Kate were here, she’d give me a slap for getting so carried away, but it’s so hard not to. I keep thinking about that photo: Daniel’s wry smile, his dishevelled hair, his gold stud.

‘Are you coming for lunch, Sandra?’ I ask as the clock strikes 1 p.m.

Sandra glances up from her screen. ‘Not today, brought a packed lunch. Just going to plough on with this paper. Bit of a tricky one,’ she says, making a face.

‘Okay, good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Sandra smiles optimistically.

I slip a notebook from my desk into my handbag, before leaving work and heading to the café down the road. It’s good that Sandra’s not coming in a way as it gives me a chance to work on my novel. I walk in, grab a sandwich from one of the display fridges and join the queue, before scanning the tables for a quiet place to sit. A stunning long-haired girl laughs loudly, tossing her thick wavy hair over her shoulder as she beams at the man opposite her – a blond guy with his back to me. He scratches his neck, turning his head as he does so. Oh my God! It’s ho fun guy! Chris. That boring noodle nerd from the other night. Bugger! I turn around and look down at the floor, praying he doesn’t see me. I’d forgotten that he worked in Shadwell too. He thought that was so interesting. Straight before he launched into his lecture on noodles, he’d been going on and on about what a bizarre coincidence it was that our offices were just down the road from each other. Damn, I thought I’d never have to see him again. I didn’t even bother replying to his text.

I take a step forward in the queue and furtively glance over my shoulder again. The girl is smiling and pouting. She’s dressed in office clothes, but she’s certainly not acting like a colleague. They must be on a lunch date or something. She throws her head back in laughter again and then takes a sip of her drink. How is she finding him so funny and charming? I shuffle over to the fridges and put my sandwich back. I can’t have lunch here now. I need somewhere peaceful and devoid of past dates in order to write. I glance over at them one last time before slipping out of the café. She really is a beautiful girl – perfect glowing skin, the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, long flirty eyelashes. I walk out onto the street and head down the road. A bulky man in a suit barges into me, knocking into my shoulder without bothering to apologise.

‘Excuse me!’ I call after him, huffily.

What a rude man. Honestly. Some people in London. I walk into another café, a dingy place where no one ever goes to because the sandwiches are always flavourless and stale. I buy a coffee and an unappetising cheese baguette and sit down, glaring out of the window as I eat. I watch as office workers stomp down the road. Why do people have to be so self-important? Can’t everyone just chill out? I tear off a few angry bites of my sandwich but eating the sweaty cheese and tough bread just makes me feel worse so I give up and take out my notebook instead to do some novel writing, but I can’t get into the zone; I’m in too much of a bad mood. Okay. Forget about the rude man who barged into me. Forget about the horrible food. I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but something else is niggling at me. That beautiful girl and the noodle nerd. Why has seeing them together pissed me off? It’s not like I’m into him. He’s just a random weird guy with an obsessive interest in noodles and tube station geography. Why do I care? Although she looked like she was having such a good time. Maybe he was just having an off day on our date. After all, he was really good on paper, with his intellectual degree and his charity work.

I pull my phone out of my bag. Why am I giving a second thought to some random noodle nerd when I potentially have a Robert Pattinson lookalike at my fingertips? I quickly draft a reply to Daniel, telling him I’m free to meet on Saturday. I take a sip of my coffee. I wonder what he’ll suggest we do for our date. It would probably best if we just start with a drink so if he does turn out to be a complete freak, I can leave fairly quickly. Not like my date with Chris. What was I thinking, agreeing to an entire dinner! Talk about holding your date hostage!

‘Good lunch?’ Sandra asks, as I get back to the office forty-five minutes later.

‘All right.’ I shrug. I’m not going to mention seeing Chris, it’s not like it matters anyway.

‘So, did you send the message?’ Sandra presses me.

Ted glances over. He looks a little confused but doesn’t push it.

‘I did indeed,’ I reply.

Sandra grins. ‘So exciting!’

I sit back down at my computer and click on to my catheter paper. My phone vibrates, muffled by my bag. Surely, it’s not Daniel already? I undo the zip and reach for my lip balm while subtly glancing at my phone screen. One new message from Dream Dates.

Daniel_86:

Hi Sophia,

Saturday night it is. How about 8 p.m. at The Cavendish Club? Do you know it? I look forward to meeting you.

x Daniel

It’s him, it’s actually him! I quickly google The Cavendish Club. ‘Set on a leafy Victorian square in a townhouse that was once the Spanish embassy, this exclusive private-members club features sumptuous décor throughout. This stylish venue boasts three bars, a restaurant catering for up to eighty diners complete with private dining rooms, a members-only nightclub, a library, several suites, and a spacious roof terrace overlooking London.’

I click through the photos, which show a wood-panelled bar with floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtains; a dining room with gold pillars and chandeliers; hotel rooms with four poster beds; waiting staff wearing crisp waistcoats carrying trays of drinks. The sound of a phlegmy throat being cleared suddenly pierces my daydream.

‘That doesn’t look like a medical research paper to me, Sophia,’ Ted barks, over my shoulder.

I swivel round.

‘Sorry, Ted, I just…’ I rack my brains for a reasonable excuse.

‘I was just… researching venues for the ummm… office Christmas party,’ I tell him even though it’s only September and our last Christmas party took place in dingy greasy spoon down the road called Janine’s. All the food was either brown or beige: Scotch eggs, sausage rolls, crisps and salted peanuts, washed down with flat Prosecco.

‘Just get back to work,’ Ted huffs, before stomping back to his desk.

‘Will do,’ I mutter.

I click on to Dream Dates.

Sophialj:

8 p.m. at The Cavendish Club would be perfect.

See you there. X

I quickly add my phone number and hit send. Ted shoots me a warning look and I awkwardly smile back before getting on with my work.