Can you ever find true love online?

Sophia Jones is an expert in all things online dating: the best sites, how to write a decent bio, which questions to ask and the right type of photos to use. The only thing she’s not so great at? Picking the guys…

After sitting through yet another dreadful date with a man who isn’t quite what she expected, Sophia is just about ready to give up on the whole dating scene. But her flatmate, Kate, persuades her to give it one more chance, only this time she must create a profile describing her ‘perfect’ man.

Yes, he must look like Robert Pattinson and needs to own a multi-million pound business, but there are a couple of other deal breakers, too! So, when a guy comes along who ticks every box, surely there’s got to be a catch?

A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy, perfect for fans of Catherine Bennetto and Rosie Blake!

Perfect Match

Zoe May

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Zoe May 2018

Zoe May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-828214-1

Version: 2018-10-26

ZOE MAY

lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and of course, reading.

Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes

To my Mum

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Endpages

Chapter One

It might be date number seventy-one, and perhaps I ought to have cut my losses by this point, but for some reason, I had a good feeling about tonight. Chris (or ‘Thundrill84’ as he was called on his Match.com profile) seemed like a genuinely great catch, so how did things end up going so horribly wrong?

It’s not like I didn’t do my homework. I’m not a fool. I stopped going on dates without googling in advance a loooong time ago. I typed random combinations of words gleaned from our text conversations into the search bar (Chris, Senior Sales Manager, Durham University, Cloud Computing) until I hit the jackpot: his LinkedIn profile. He was legit! In fact, he was better than legit. I discovered a few extra details he hadn’t divulged that made me like him even more. Not only did he have a good job, but he’d been promoted every year and he was head of his company’s charity fundraising committee. And not only did he have a degree in Classical Civilisation from Durham University, but he’d got a first! And he looked exactly the same in his LinkedIn photo as he did on his dating profile – tall, slim and with lovely blue eyes! I really did believe my luck might finally be changing. Seventy-first time lucky! But no, hah! As if. Chris, the seemingly great catch, is now sitting across from me in a dingy Chinatown restaurant droning on about the precise differences between ho fun, udon and ramen noodles, while slurping said noodles and splashing soy sauce all over his shirt.

‘You see, ho fun noodles are interesting, because while you may think that noodles, like pasta, are made from wheat, ho fun are actually made from rice flour!’ Chris enthuses.

‘Mm-hmm…’ I murmur, downing the dregs of my white wine. I place the empty glass back down with despair.

‘Udon and ramen, on the other hand, are wheat noodles – a bit more commonplace, but while they may both be wheat-based, the differences in the way they’re prepared affects their taste to a surprising degree. You see, udon are made using a technique of…’

I peer over Chris’s shoulder while he drones on, hoping to catch the waitress’s eye to order another glass of wine, but she’s running around the restaurant tending to other customers. It occurs to me that perhaps I ought to start bringing a hip flask on dates for this kind of emergency: when a man is so boring that only alcohol-induced merriment can make him remotely tolerable. I wonder how much hip flasks cost. It might be quite cool and edgy to carry one around in my handbag. Maybe I’ll start a trend. It’ll become the next ironic fashion, like the wheeled shopping trolleys hipsters pull around in Hackney.

Chris loudly slurps another noodle, tearing me out of my reverie, while leaving yet another streak of soy sauce on his once-white shirt. He looks like he’s been standing behind a truck that’s been attempting to reverse out of a muddy ditch. He carries on talking. He appears to have changed the subject to hobbies. Or, more precisely, to weird nerdy games I thought were meant for children. I smile awkwardly and shovel my sweet and sour stir-fry into my mouth, as if by eating quicker, I can speed up the passage of time.

‘We meet up every Saturday morning. We used to get together at the gaming shop, but the atmosphere there got a bit too competitive so we meet in a pub now. We all bring along our army figurines and we battle for hours! Right into the evening sometimes. It’s great, although there’s this one guy who keeps beating me. It’s so annoying, but I’ve got a new addition to my army now – Grand Lord Thor – one of the toughest figures in the game. So, he’s in for a treat!’ Chris says with a loud cackle.

Other diners are looking over at us, but Chris is oblivious. I smile tightly, shrinking into my seat.

‘You know, some women are a bit put off when I tell them I play battle games, but I don’t really see what’s so bad about it. It’s just a game. It’s just guys hanging out, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry, what?’ I pipe up.

‘Battle games! We each have an army of figurines, hand painted,’ Chris adds with pride. ‘And then we play battle against each other’s army.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Some men meet to play football, I play battle games!’ Chris says before slurping up his last noodle. It splatters triumphantly on his cheek, leaving a murky brown trail.

‘Whoops!’ he chuckles, reaching for a napkin to wipe it off.

I laugh. My first laugh of the evening. Chris smiles as if we’re having a moment. I don’t think he realises that my laughter is really just joyous relief emanating from deep within over the fact that he’s finished his meal and the date is almost over. I beckon the waitress over.

‘Dessert menu? Bill?’ she asks. Chris looks at me questioningly.

‘Bill!’ I yelp, a little too shrilly.

‘Okay…’ The waitress gives me a funny look before scurrying off to get the bill.

She brings it over and Chris plonks his wallet on the table, while I rummage in my bag for my wallet.

‘I’ll get it,’ Chris says.

‘No! Let’s go halves,’ I insist. ‘One sec.’ The last thing I need after the world’s most boring date is to feel like I owe this guy something just because he bought me dinner. Finally, I land upon my wallet amid a debris of stray receipts, blunted eye-liners and errant hair pins.

‘I’ve got this.’ Chris passes the waitress his card with a charming smile, as I flip my wallet open, pull mine out and thrust it towards her.

‘No! We’ll go fifty-fifty, please.’

‘Oh…’ The waitress looks to Chris, as if for permission.

‘That’s okay with you, isn’t it, Chris?’ I ask, giving him the most beaming smile I’ve delivered all night.

‘Err, okay,’ he relents.

‘Okay,’ the waitress echoes, taking another look at the bill and punching half the total into the card machine for Chris and then again for me. I try not to let my eyes bulge when I clock the figure – since when did Chinatown get so expensive? – and punch in my pin. Even though I’m a bit pissed off that I’ve had to pay an arm and a leg for the pleasure of listening to a lecture on noodle variations and battle games, I can feel my spirits begin to lift. The date is practically over! We leave the restaurant and start walking towards Leicester Square.

‘You know, it’s interesting…’ Chris muses, nodding to himself at some thought he’s had.

‘What’s interesting?’ I ask, immediately regretting the question.

‘Tube stations,’ he says. ‘People tend to think that they’re all roughly the same distance apart but they’re actually not. It’ll only take us a couple of minutes to walk to Leicester Square, but that’s because the tube stations around here are unusually close together. You’d be surprised to know that the distance between Leicester Square and Covent Garden is actually only a third of the distance between Victoria and Green Park.’

‘Mm-hmm…’ I quicken my pace. Maybe if we walk faster, we can get to Leicester Square in one minute, rather than two. Chris carries on talking about tube station geography as I pound the street with my heels. It feels like an hour has passed by the time we finally get there.

‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ I mumble half-heartedly. It’s just one of those things you say, isn’t it?

‘I’ll text you,’ I add, edging towards the escalator.

Chris looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Surprise? Cynicism? Dread? Perhaps the date was as bad for him as it was for me.

‘Okay, take care,’ he replies.

He smiles politely and I smile politely and we politely go our separate ways.

Chapter Two

‘He can’t really have been that boring?’ Kate tops up my glass of wine.

‘Trust me, he was.’ I take a glug.

‘But he seemed so sweet, with all those photos of him and his Labrador. So cute,’ she says wistfully.

‘Yeah, well, apparently a love of dogs doesn’t necessarily guarantee a good date,’ I sigh, thinking back to all those misleading pictures of Chris smiling with his family’s pet.

‘Oh well, you’ll find someone soon.’ Kate sounds reassuring as she opens a message on her phone, but even she must be beginning to doubt it. As my flatmate and best friend, Kate’s witnessed all my dating disasters: the Hugh Grant lookalike who turned out to be an ex-con; the creepy chartered surveyor who kept referring to himself in the third person (‘Isaac would like to take Sophia out.’ For the record, Sophia said no); the gorgeous photographer who seemed like a great catch until he requested foot photographs to masturbate over; the geeky journalist who drank too much fizzy water and then burped in my mouth as he kissed me goodnight… The list goes on and that’s just my dates, don’t even get me started on my exes.

First there was my university boyfriend, Sam. Six foot two with curly blond hair and an IQ of 130, what more could I want, right? Well, a healthy disregard for vermin would have been nice. Sam ended up getting so wrapped up in his studies that he stopped cleaning his flat; carpets went unhoovered, bins went unemptied, pizza boxes piled up and eventually a couple of rats moved in. Not even mice – I can just about handle mice – I’m talking rats, big dirty rats! I might have been able to forgive him if he’d got rid of them, but when he simply named them Itchy and Scratchy and carried on studying, enough was enough.

So, I thought I’d go for the polar opposite after that (as you do when you rebound) and what could be more different to a vermin-loving, geeky Aberystwyth student, than a bisexual Italian hairdresser who’d probably need one-to-one tuition to get his head around Spot the Dog? Paulo was so ditzy that my friends dubbed him ‘the himbo’ – the male bimbo. But still, he was great fun. Even though it did get quite annoying how he’d always bang on about how ‘bellissima’ I’d look with shorter hair. He simply refused to accept that I wanted to keep it long so one night, he took it upon himself to gently chop it off in my sleep. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few weeks later he left me for a man. A man with short hair.

‘I reckon it’s a matter of perseverance. You just need to keep looking.’ Kate’s voice snaps me back to the present. I realise I’m twirling a lock of my hair around my finger, as if to console myself that it’s there, all grown back. Nice and long. Kate places her phone on the table.

‘Just Max saying goodnight,’ she says.

She takes a sip of her wine and looks at me with a sweet, hopeful smile. Poor Kate. She really wants me to find love. It must be hard when you’ve been with your boyfriend for four and a half years to see your flatmate so romantically destitute. She probably feels the same sense of guilty awkwardness witnessing my love life (or lack thereof) that rich people get when they scurry past homeless people on the streets.

But it was just so easy for Kate; meeting Max was effortless. We’d only been living in London a few weeks when we went to see the play where Kate first laid eyes on him. It was a production of A Streetcar Named Desire and Max was playing Stanley Kowalski. He wasn’t a far cry from Marlon Brando himself, with his wife-beater vest and muscles, and Kate was practically drooling the entire show. The second it ended, she hurried over to the stage door and hung about waiting to introduce herself, swapping numbers with him on the pretence that she was an actress and might need tips on getting into the London scene (even though, at that point, she already had a role lined up at the Globe). A couple of weeks later, she and Max were an item and they’ve been smitten with each other ever since.

‘Seriously, you just have to keep looking,’ Kate insists.

I wind my hair up into a bun, wincing at the platitude that I must have heard a million and one times before.

‘Do you know what? Maybe it’s just not meant to be,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Some people just are, aren’t they? I should probably stop fighting it.’

‘Nah, it’s only a bit of bad luck.’ Kate bats the thought away. ‘I’m sure he’s just around the corner. One day, you’ll look back on all this stuff and laugh.’

‘You said that six months ago,’ I remind her.

Kate pulls an awkward expression and plucks at a loose thread on her leggings.

‘Well, at least it’s all good material for your novel,’ she chirps.

‘Yeah s’pose,’ I grumble. One of the perks of wanting to be a writer is that you can view all your crazy experiences as material, except now I’ve got enough for a trilogy.

‘Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places.’ Kate takes a sip of her wine.

I roll my eyes.

‘Kate, I’ve tried Match.com, eHarmony, PlentyOfFish, Guardian Soulmates, Tinder.’ I rap my fingernails against the table, trying to recall the full list. ‘OkCupid, Bumble, Happn, MySingleFriend, even Single bloody Booklovers. I’ve tried speed-dating, I’ve tried singles nights, I’ve tried—’

‘Oh, what about Dream Dates?’ Kate interjects, her eyes lighting up.

‘What’s Dream Dates?’

‘Saw it advertised today. Massive poster on the tube. It’s a new dating site. It had this really hot guy on the ad,’ Kate gushes.

‘Well, he was clearly a model,’ I point out. ‘It’s not like they’re going to use photos of the actual people that use it. The big, fat, hairy, hunchbacked…’

Kate sighs. ‘Come on, if you take that attitude, you’re never going to find anyone. You should try Dream—’

‘Leave it, Kate,’ I cut her off. ‘I can’t face any more.’

I get up to open the kitchen cupboard and pull out a bag of nachos. I shove a handful into my mouth and feel the delicious saltiness spread over my tongue. So good. I shove in another handful. At least food never lets you down. You open a bag of crisps and you know exactly what you’re getting. Predictable, satisfying, dependable crisps.

Kate eyes me warily. ‘Just one more site.’

I shake my head and crunch through another mouthful.

‘One more won’t hurt!’ she insists.

Ignoring her, I open up the fridge and retrieve a block of cheddar. I’ll just grate some cheese over these crisps and then pop them in the microwave. It’ll be even tastier. I find the cheese grater and start grating the cheddar onto the chopping board. I can hear Kate shuffling about behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m going to focus on grating my nice little mound of cheese instead. A sing-song tone chimes through the kitchen — the familiar sound of Kate’s laptop firing up. I grab a bowl, fill it with nachos and sprinkle the cheese over them, but as I turn to pop them in the microwave, I spot a dating site – Dream Dates – open on Kate’s computer. She looks at me guiltily as I snap the microwave door shut.

‘One more site and I’ll be off your case, I promise. I know you’ve tried them all and I know how crap they’ve been but I don’t think you should chuck the towel in just yet. Think of everyone we know who’s met their partner online. I reckon it’s just a matter of perseverance. Just give Dream Dates a try and if it doesn’t work out, then fine—’ Kate throws up her hands in mock surrender ‘—I’ll back off and you can stay home and eat all the nachos you want.’

The microwave pings. I reach inside. The cheese bubbles enticingly. I lean against the kitchen counter and give the bowl a few seconds to cool down.

‘It looks really good,’ Kate notes, gazing at the homepage. ‘According to the slogan, “Your dream date is just a few clicks away.”’

I scoff. ‘And the slogan of Match is, “If you don’t like your imperfections, someone else will.” And Guardian Soulmates promised I’d “Meet someone worth meeting” but look at me.’ I reach into the bowl, peel apart two gooey nachos and dangle one into my mouth.

‘It’ll take five minutes,’ Kate says pleadingly. ‘Okay, I’m entering your details. Female, twenty-eight, looking for man, between the ages of twenty and forty?’

‘Twenty to forty?’ I practically spit out a nacho. ‘I’m not dating a twenty-year-old! And I’m not dating a forty-year-old either for that matter. Twenty-five is the youngest I’ll go to and thirty-five tops.’

‘Okay, so twenty-five to thirty-five.’ Kate grins as she enters the age range.

‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this,’ I groan before munching another handful of crisps.

‘So, what do you want your username to be?’ Kate asks.

‘Something simple. Sophia and then my initials.’

‘Okay, so Sophialj.’ Kate types it in. ‘It’s available!’

‘Seriously?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘It’s hardly ever available. How new is this site?’

Kate shrugs. ‘Headline?’

I sit back down and take a sip of wine. I can feel it flushing my cheeks, making me a little light-headed.

‘Would like to meet the perfect man,’ I blurt out.

Kate scoffs. ‘Come on, Sophia. Be serious.’

‘I am being serious! That’s what I want, I want the perfect man,’ I insist. ‘I’m sick of dating noodle-obsessed weirdos and crazy ex-cons. I just want to meet someone decent for once, is that really too much to ask?’

Kate thinks for a moment. ‘But that’s not the same as perfect,’ she says.

‘It would be perfect for me.’

‘But saying you want to meet the perfect man makes you sound really high-maintenance.’ She pointedly raises an eyebrow, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

I shrug. ‘You asked what I want my headline to be.’

‘Fine! Well, let’s hope there’s a guy out there who’s put, “Would like to meet high-maintenance woman.”’ Kate types it in.

‘Do you know what?’ I declare, gesticulating with my wine glass. ‘Maybe it’s about time I start being a bit more high-maintenance. Raise the bar. No more loserish guys. Let’s go back to the age range.’

‘Why?’ Kate questions.

‘Because, do you know what? Twenty-five is too young. If the guy’s twenty-five then he’s probably got the mentality of a twenty-year-old. If he’s too young then he’s probably not done playing the field, he’s not going to want to settle down and it’ll just be a case of wham bam thank you ma’am.’

Kate smiles as she reaches for her wine glass. ‘Well, an older guy then?’ she suggests.

‘Maybe, but thirty-five is too old,’ I tell her. ‘If he’s thirty-five, he’ll probably be some creepy bachelor that no one’s wanted to take off the shelf or divorced, which is way too much baggage.’

‘Okay… So what age do you want?’ Kate presses, a hint of impatience in her voice.

‘Twenty-eight? Actually no,’ I think aloud. ‘Men mature slower than us, don’t they? So at twenty-eight, he might still not have caught up. Maybe thirty or thirty-one? No, a hot guy would have been snapped up by thirty. Okay, twenty-nine. Yeah, twenty-nine. He’s spent his twenties focusing on his career, he’s got his own home and everything’s sorted and now he’s beginning to realise that something’s missing…’

‘You?’ Kate suggests.

‘Exactly. Me!’

Kate laughs and clicks back to the age range. ‘Okay, so twenty-nine to… twenty-nine.’ She clicks enter. ‘Right, so your personal ad.’

I sigh. I could just use my standard one and paste it in. I’ve tried so many dating sites that in the end, I just created a folder on my desktop with the inconspicuous title of ‘Admin’, which actually contains all my best photos, my personal ad spiel, a list of my interests, likes and dislikes and all that jazz. It takes so long writing a good profile that there’s no point redoing it every time.

‘One second, I’ll get it. It’s on my computer.’ I put my wine glass down and get up to fetch my laptop from my bedroom.

‘Sophia,’ Kate calls me back. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My personal ad… It’s on my laptop.’

‘You’ve already written it?’ She looks confused.

‘It’s in my dating file,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a copy and paste job.’

Kate snorts with laughter. ‘Your dating file! Hah! What next? A spreadsheet for all the men you’ve ever dated?’

‘Shut up!’ I give her a little push.

‘Dating file! Hahahaha!’ Her eyes tear up as she falls about laughing.

‘Not all of us meet our ideal man the minute we move to London,’ I tut. ‘Some of us actually have to work at finding someone! And anyway, if you were dating, I think you’d find that having a dating file is actually quite efficient,’ I add, but Kate just roars with laughter and I can’t help cracking up too.

She wheezes, wiping the tears from her eyes.

‘Sorry, Sophia, but that was just…’ She shakes her head, turning her attention back to Dream Dates.

‘Okay, so, personal ad!’ she says.

I stand up to make a second attempt at going to get my laptop but Kate tugs my arm, pulling me back down.

‘Not from the file!’ Her mouth twitches.

I look at her blankly. ‘Why not?’

Kate clears her throat and glances down awkwardly.

‘Well something’s clearly not working if you’re not meeting any decent guys the way you’re going about things at the moment. I’m not saying it’s you. It could be the sites but don’t you think it would be good to just start this profile completely from scratch? You said it yourself – no more loserish guys, seeing as this is the final attempt?’

I shrug. ‘Suppose.’

‘Just freestyle it.’

‘Freestyle it…’ I groan as I take a sip of wine.

‘Yeah!’ Kate replies, the light from the laptop screen illuminating the look of hopeful determination on her face.

I really can’t be bothered to create a whole new profile from scratch on yet another site just to attract yet another bunch of weirdos and fuck-boys, but Kate is so keen to help that I’d feel bad letting her down now. Suddenly an idea hits me. I’ve tried to find love – a genuine, open, honest connection – again and again. All I’ve wanted is to meet someone nice, kind, intelligent and fun, but that’s proven completely and utterly impossible. I’ve put myself out there, with my best photos and a smart, witty (and not to mention properly punctuated) profile, and all I’ve gotten in return is dates with creeps and bores, and unsolicited dick pics. Kate’s right, what I’ve been doing so far clearly hasn’t been working. Maybe being sincere gets you nowhere, maybe now it’s time to play the players at their own game, to fuck with the fuck-boys and dick around with the dick pic dudes. I’m done being nice sweet Sophia; my new profile is going to be a little different. I’m not going to look for love this time, I’m going to look for man candy with the most crass, superficial and crude profile I can imagine. It’s time to meet my ‘perfect’ man.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’ Kate asks.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know… mischievously.’ She narrows her eyes.

‘Oh, no reason.’ I shrug innocently.

‘Hmmm…’ Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘So, what are you looking for?’

‘I’m looking for someone who’s a cut above the rest,’ I tell her. ‘He’s cool, he’s confident. He’s suave and sexy. He’s smart and super successful, he’s got an incredible job.’

Oh! What does Mr Perfect do for work? My gaze wanders over to the well-thumbed copy of The Stage on the kitchen counter. Maybe he could be an actor like Kate? I never get bored of hearing her talk about work. But then again, dating an actor as well as having one for a best friend might be a bit much.

‘Right, okay.’ Kate finishes typing and looks up from the keyboard. ‘Carry on.’

‘I’m thinking…’

Voices from the street outside drift through the open window, distracting me.

‘Pass dat ting, bruv,’ someone says.

I get up to close it and spot a group of teenagers huddled outside the council estate opposite, passing around a joint. A few of them are lounging on an old mattress someone dumped on the pavement a couple of days ago. No doubt too broke to pay Lewisham Council to come and pick it up. I fasten the window shut. I never used to mind living down this shabby old street; if I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve always had the cringe-worthily romantic notion that it doesn’t matter where you live, it doesn’t matter if it’s a little shabby around the edges, as long as you have love. I mean, look at Kate. She’s head over heels for Max and she’s happy with her lot – she doesn’t mind living in crummy old Lewisham. I sort of imagined that when I found someone, I’d stop noticing the rubbish on the streets and the loitering teens, too. But when you find yourself alone at twenty-eight sitting in a cramped flat, with the closest thing you have to love being a softly lit dick pic on your phone, your romanticism starts to wear off. Since love isn’t softening the edges of my existence, why not just look for a stinking rich guy instead? Someone who lives in a beautiful part of London with big wide streets lined with tall spacious houses. The wealthy yang to my impoverished yin. Perhaps a banker. No, a banker would be too dull. Maybe he could be an entrepreneur. Yes! That’s it. A wildly original self-made millionaire.

‘He’s an entrepreneur,’ I announce to Kate as I turn from the window and sit back down.

‘He’s not some boring Etonian who’s just climbed through the ranks in law or finance, he’s done something original instead. He’s started his own business, but not just some crappy business, a multimillion-pound business, obviously.’

‘Multimillion-pound business?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes! Just write it!’

She gives me a weird look.

‘Just do it!’ I insist.

‘Fine,’ she sighs, shaking her head as she types.

I take another sip of wine, even though I’m already feeling pretty merry.

Okay, so I’ve figured out that I’m looking for a self-made millionaire, but what does he look like? Obviously, I have my preferences, I definitely prefer tall guys, for example, though I’ve never considered myself particularly superficial when it comes to looks; after all, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? But, of course, this profile isn’t about what’s on the inside.

‘He’s good-looking, like, really good-looking… He’s got dark hair, blue eyes, maybe a bit of stubble… Actually, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but he’s more muscular. Yeah, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but with the body of Daniel Craig. He—’

Kate sputters on her wine. ‘Stop, Sophia! Be serious, how many guys do you know that have the face of Robert Pattinson and the body of Daniel Craig?’

I shrug. ‘If I knew anyone like that, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’

Kate rolls her eyes. ‘True. But seriously, I’m not writing that.’

‘But you told me to freestyle, that’s what I’m doing,’ I protest.

‘Yeah, but this is ridiculous!’

I top up Kate’s wine glass. ‘Oh, come on, just write it.’

‘Fine.’ She carries on typing. ‘You do realise that no one in their right mind is going to reply to this though, don’t you?’

‘No one in their right mind replies anyway,’ I remind her as I lean back in my chair. Of course, I know no one’s going to reply. Well, no one who meets the criteria anyway. As if a self-made millionaire who looks like Robert Pattinson would be doing online dating, but still, it’s quite fun to indulge in the fantasy and at least this profile is getting Kate off my back.

The sound of Kate typing trails off.

‘What else?’ She looks up from the keyboard.

Hmmm… What else does this guy have going for him? Oh, dress sense! I almost forgot!

‘He dresses well. He wears expensive, well-cut clothes, but he’s also got style, his own personal style. He mixes things up a bit. He’s not afraid to pair a vintage charity shop shirt with an Armani coat and—’

‘Are you actually serious?’

‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Anything else, apart from a penchant for Armani? His character, for example?! His values?’

‘Dress sense is important!’ I say.

‘Sophia!’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘What’s his character like?’

Hmmm… His character. Even if this guy isn’t going to be the love of my life, he at least needs to be independent and self-assured. I can’t stand needy guys. When I was with Sam (this was pre-Itchy and Scratchy), he was so clingy, he’d get jealous if I went gay clubbing with my latex-loving uni course mate. And the himbo would moan whenever I wanted to stay home and write my novel. No, I definitely can’t be dealing with needy.

‘He has his own interests, his own life.’ I pause. ‘Obviously, he’s more than happy to go on fun dates, but he gives me a bit of space to do my own thing. Maybe he travels with work a bit…’ I think for a minute. ‘Yes, that would be perfect. He travels with work, so he comes and goes. Maybe we only see each other a couple of times a week, but when we do, it’s always amazing. We don’t just sit in front of the TV day in, day out like boring couples, we go out to amazing restaurants. We go to the theatre, the opera…’

‘The opera?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Since when do you go to the opera?’

‘I don’t! But that’s because I haven’t met this guy yet, he’s going to take me,’ I explain.

‘Of course he is…’ Kate types it in. ‘What about hobbies?’

‘His hobby is arranging incredible, exciting dates,’ I tell her. ‘It’s his thing.’

‘I mean proper hobbies,’ Kate points out. ‘Wholesome hobbies.’

‘Fine.’ I sigh. ‘He volunteers at an orphanage then,’ I mumble as I reach for another nacho.

‘An orphanage!’ Kate mocks. ‘How many orphanages do you know of in London?’

‘I don’t. But I don’t volunteer.’

‘Well, you help out with Lyn,’ Kate reminds me.

‘Yeah, but that’s not volunteering,’ I tell her, trying not to feel put out.

You see, Lyn might be an older lady who I visit every week and help out by doing the odd bit of shopping, but it’s not volunteering. She lives down the road, and while technically, at seventy-four, she could be described as an old lady, she certainly doesn’t act like one. She’s like a friend to me but none of my mates my own age really get it. Lyn’s a great laugh, a born-and-bred East Londoner with a sharp no-nonsense wit you’d never expect from her benign-looking exterior. She’s a big fan of Fifties floral headscarves and bold red lipstick and even taught me how to wear my hair in victory rolls once. She’s incredibly sweet and caring and when I go over to her place on Saturday afternoons to watch Come Dine With Me, it’s one of the highlights of my week; it’s certainly not a chore or some kind of obligation.

‘Well whatever, scrap the orphanage idea, because I’m pretty sure they died out in the Victorian era. What kind of volunteering does he do?’

‘Does he have to do volunteering?’ I whine.

‘Well he needs to have something going for him, apart from a penchant for Armani!’

‘He is a multi-millionaire,’ I remind her. ‘But okay, if you say so…’ I think for a minute. ‘I know! He volunteers at an animal shelter. He loves animals. He has a cat. A fluffy one.’

‘How does he have a cat if he’s travelling all the time?’ Kate questions.

‘Because he has a maid.’

‘Right.’ Kate fixes me with an unimpressed look. ‘So, he has a cat and a maid?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’m beginning to see why you’re single.’ Kate shakes her head as she types it in. ‘Anything else?’

I think for a second. That must be about it. I’ve covered everything from looks to pets to voluntary work. What else is there?

‘I nearly forgot!’ I plonk my wine glass down on the table, feeling a head rush from the booze.

Kate looks up expectantly.

‘He’s got a massive cock!’ I add, grinning.

After all, I don’t want to end up with some super-rich, gorgeous, well-dressed animal lover who’s crap in the sack. Sex is important too.

Kate nearly spits out her wine. ‘Shut up, Sophia. I’m not writing that!’

‘Fine, I’ll write it then!’ I grab the laptop and start typing away.

‘I can’t believe you!’ Kate laughs.

On second thoughts, I delete ‘massive’ and add ‘7 inches’. No, ‘7.5 inches’. Slightly above average, but not so big that it would be painful.

‘“Cock must be 7.5 inches,”’ Kate reads out, giggling. ‘Oh my God!’

Oh, and girth. I don’t want some guy with a spaghetti dick. He’s got to have girth too. I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger, making it bigger and smaller until it’s just the right size.

‘What are you doing now?’ Kate sighs.

‘Do you have a ruler?’

‘What? Why?!’

‘Can you just get me a ruler?’

Kate groans as she goes to get one from her bedroom.

A minute later, she returns.

‘Cheers.’ I take it from her and rest it against the perfect girth circle I’ve created with my right hand.

‘Okay, “cock diameter must be 2.1 inches”,’ I type the words in as I speak. ‘Shit, how do you work out the circumference from that?’

‘I’m sure Mr Perfect is smart enough to figure it out,’ Kate tuts.

I gaze at my ad dreamily.

‘Do you think seven and a half inches is enough? Or should I make it eight?’

Kate grabs the ruler to compare.

‘I’d go with eight,’ she says.

‘Okay, eight it is.’ I edit the text. ‘Done!’

‘You do realise you’re going to get hundreds of dick pics now?’ Kate points out.

I shrug.

‘You’re crazy!’ Kate comments as she reaches for the laptop. ‘Right, photos…’

She opens up her Facebook account and starts scrolling through my pictures.

‘Let me get my laptop.’ I get up.

‘Not from the file!’ Kate yelps, grabbing my arm and pulling me back down.

‘This one’s nice,’ she says, hesitating on a terrible photo my mum took of me walking through Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon with no make-up on.

‘Nice?! It’s rubbish. I’ve got loads better than that.’

‘It’s nice. You look natural, at ease, approachable.’

‘I look pale and drab. Anaemic. It doesn’t even have a filter.’

‘You look natural. Guys like natural.’

‘No, they don’t!’ I grab the laptop. ‘Guys like hot!’

‘Sophia!’ Kate yanks the laptop back off me. ‘You said it yourself! What you’ve been doing so far hasn’t been working. You need to try something different—’

‘I didn’t mean upload an ugly pic of myself!’

‘It’s not an ugly pic!’ Kate right clicks onto the photo and saves it to her desktop.

‘It is! No one’s going to reply to that! Please don’t use that, Kate!’

Ignoring me, Kate goes back onto Dream Dates and selects ‘Add photo’. I stand up, a little unsteadily, and drain the last of my wine.

‘Picture uploaded,’ she announces smugly. I roll my eyes. ‘Right. Well now I’m definitely not going to meet anyone.’

I place my empty glass in the sink. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Kate clicks a few more buttons on the screen. ‘Your profile is now live,’ she trills.

‘Great.’ I skulk off to my room.

Chapter Three

‘So….’ My colleague Sandra sidles up to my desk.

She’s wearing one of her ratty old cardigans, a dark blue number that’s unravelling slightly at the hem. It’s one she knitted herself and like all her handmade creations, she’s incredibly proud of it, even if it does look a little worse for wear to the rest of us.

‘How was your date last night then?’ she asks in her sing-song voice, which is just a little too squeaky and high-pitched for me to handle today.

Unlike Sandra, who no doubt went to bed at 10 p.m. last night (like she does every night, with a mug of Ovaltine), Kate and I were up until gone 2 a.m., knocking back wine and creating that stupid dating profile. My head is pounding and I’m sure I look awful. I spent half the tube journey cowering in my seat desperately trying to conceal my eye bags with lashings of concealer. The overall effect being that my caked on make-up probably only serves to highlight my tiredness, rather than hide it.

‘It was all right,’ I grumble, reaching for my mug of tea, but that’s not enough to satisfy Sandra. Sandra thrives on details.

‘What was he like?’ she pries, with a suggestive little eyebrow wiggle as she perches on the end of my desk.

She’s clearly not going away any time soon. While it’s evident to everyone who knows me that I have a depressingly terrible love life, to Sandra I’m some sort of whimsical Carrie Bradshaw figure. Sometimes I revel in the attention and quite enjoy having a good old gossip, poring over guys’ pictures and analysing their messages, but other times – like today – I just wish Sandra would get out a bit more and stop living through me. We’re both single, and even though she’s obsessed with my love life, she won’t contemplate going on a date herself.

‘Well?!’ Sandra pleads. ‘Come on, what was he like?’

‘Oh… tall, nice eyes,’ I tell her.

Her face lights up like a puppy being offered a treat.

‘But we didn’t really click.’

She deflates. ‘How come?’

‘He was into weird figurine battle games and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the layout of London’s tube stations,’ I explain, but Sandra looks nonplussed.

‘We just didn’t have a spark.’

‘But he sounds nice,’ Sandra protests.

I should have known Sandra would find him fascinating.

‘What about one more date? Just to give him a chance,’ Sandra suggests.

I shake my head. ‘Don’t think so. Fancy another cup of tea?’

I down the dregs left in my mug. Making tea is the only way I’m going to be able to get out of this conversation. Give her two more minutes and she’ll be asking to see Chris’s profile. Sandra always wants to see my dates’ profiles, even if I have no intention of ever seeing them again. I think it’s almost like porn to her.

‘Oh yes, a cup of tea would be lovely. The usual.’ Sandra smiles, handing me her mug – a customised one she ordered online featuring a picture of her hamster, Betsy.

‘Thanks.’ I take the mug and hurry out the office, down the corridor to the kitchen, where I savour the sweet relief of silence.

I fill the kettle and check my phone while it boils. Twelve new messages from Dream Dates and it’s only 9.45 a.m. Fuzzy fragments from last night filter back into my mind. The face of Robert Pattinson with the body of Daniel Craig. Must have a cat. I feel my cheeks redden suddenly. Oh my God. The penis specifications. Bugger! What if someone at work spots my profile and HR calls me in? What if this goes on my record? I’ll be known as the Girl Who Advertised for Sex Online or Penis Girl. I’ll never get a reference again. Oh no! I search around on the site, looking for the deactivation button, but like on all dating sites, it’s as hidden as humanly possible. Messages start pinging into my account. No doubt all the weirdo men trawling the site can see that I’m online.

Sunjil1964: Hello dear, I like your profile. Me? I look for wife. We meet? X

Timster: Hi Sophia,

I’m a little tired having just flown in from Singapore but I saw your profile and wanted to send you a message seeing as you like men who travel like myself. Not many women can handle my schedule, among other things ;)

Tim xx

PC34C: Hi Sophia, my name is Omar and I am creative I work in the video games industry as a software engineer I also like animals I used to have a cat but he died then I had another cat but he also died that was when I decided to stop adopting animals. I like to get to know you more.

Tattoos_and_bass: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Can I stick a finger up your bum hole?

RichyRich: Hi Sophia, You would look great in my cage. Rich

Bobhot4u: Hallo Sophia ;)

My name’s Bob. I’m kind and I enjoy life to the fullest. I’m just looking for woman to make it more interesting and worth living.

xox. Bob

Markeyboi88: Hey babe, If I flip a coin, what are the chances I’ll get head?

Ali_Jaff: I feel some kind of ticklish in my belly as I saw your pic and I can stop looking at it. :)

I was assuming what if I was lucky someday to meet you up I will be a happy like little Charlie in chocolate factory. ;)

But don’t know if I ever get a reply from you as I believe it’s not mandatory that you reply me and fact is you can only see the moon but never touch moon and appreciate its sweetness but never get a reply let’s see what happen. :)

Jimbo_9: Hi Sophia, I don’t have the body of Daniel Craig, more like James Corden, but I do have an eight-inch cock. Take a look if you don’t believe me!

Without thinking, I scroll down to reveal a close-up shot of an engorged veiny penis protruding from a generous mound of ginger pubes and automatically eject my phone from my hand. It crashes to the kitchen floor.

‘Are you all right?’ Sandra’s head pops around the door. ‘I heard a sort of yelping sound,’ she remarks.

‘Yes! Yes! I’m fine! Totally fine! Just dropped my phone.’ I dive down to the ground and grab it, thankful that it’s landed screen down. The last thing I need this morning is for my workmates to think I’m looking at porn in the staff kitchen. I stash it in my trouser pocket.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little…’

‘It’s nothing! Just making tea. It’s nothing!’ I shriek, opening the cutlery draw and rummaging around for a spoon.

‘Do you need a hand?’ Sandra asks.

‘No! Nope. I’m fine!’ I insist.

‘Okay, then,’ Sandra relents, giving me a weird look as she closes the door.

I’m going to kill Kate. What kind of site is this? Dream Dates. More like Nightmare Nutjobs. I can’t wipe the image of that penis from my mind. It’s there as I stir the tea. As I pour in the milk. As I spoon in the sugar. It’s going to be for ever burned on my retinas.

I take the mugs of tea and head back into the office, handing Sandra her mug as I walk to my desk. She takes a sip and her eyes bulge.

‘Bit sugary, Sophia!’ She winces, as if she’s swallowing poison. ‘Surely this isn’t the usual one and a half teaspoons?’

‘Something like that.’ I shrug. I have a vague memory of brandishing a teaspoon around, sugar grains flying about, the image of an eight-inch penis attached to James Cordenesque thighs throbbing in my brain. ‘Sorry, Sandra.’

‘No problem.’ She takes another tentative sip before faking a smile.

I sit down in front of my computer, wondering whether I can log on to Dream Dates without anyone noticing. I need to delete that profile. I’m about to type in the web address when I see Ted, my boss, walking over to my desk. As usual, he’s wearing a suit that’s three sizes too big. It would make him look like a child dressing up in his dad’s clothes if it wasn’t for the greying hair dusted with dandruff, which is a bit of a giveaway.

‘Need you to proofread this, Sophia,’ he says, plonking a document in front of me. I pick it up tentatively, appraising the title: A Study of Catheter-associated Urinary Tract Infections. I arrange my features into an agreeable expression.

‘Of course, thanks Ted.’ I smile politely. ‘It looks great,’ I add for extra measure, although that might be taking it too far.

Ted clutches the side of my desk and leans against it in a pained attempt at nonchalance.

‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ he observes, gazing out of the window. The September sky is shrouded in clouds, although the sun is peeking out between a few of them. It’s a fairly ordinary-looking day as far as I can tell, but Ted gazes towards the horizon, bewitched.

‘Yes, lovely!’ I enthuse.

‘Heading to an open-air cinema event later, hopefully it doesn’t rain!’ Ted says.

‘Hopefully!’

Poor Ted. He tries so hard to be cool but it never quite works out for him. He subscribes to Time Out’s mailing list and he’s always banging on about this or that up-and-coming burger place or Shoreditch’s cat café, and he absolutely loves outdoor cinema nights in random run-down locations. But even though he may have done every gimmicky thing there is to do in London, he’ll still never be trendy. Ted’s another long-term singleton. I wonder what his username would be if he did online dating… Probably something really creepy like YourSpecialTeddy. Repressing a shudder, I push the thought out of my mind.

‘Anyway.’ Ted peels his clammy hand from my desk. ‘I need the paper to be done by the end of the day and it’s got to be spot on. You know what the infections lot are like.’ He pulls a face.

‘Okay, sure. No problem!’ I add, a little too brightly as he wanders off.

I read the first sentence: ‘Catheter-associated urinary tract infections (CAUTI) are one of the most commonly occurring healthcare associated infections, Urinary Catheters can frequntly become colonised with micro-bacteria; but most do not lead to infection.’ I rearrange the sentence, adding a full stop and a dash, removing unnecessary capitals and semicolons and correcting ‘frequntly’. It ends up vaguely readable, but still, one sentence in and I’ve already had to make five changes and this document is… I flick through it… seventy-three pages long! Great. Just great.

I take a few sips of my tea and try to pull myself together. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse. It’s not like I’m down the mines or anything. I could be down a dark, wet, horrible mine. All I have to do is sit here, in front of my computer, and make some changes to a document. It’s fine. Except, I can’t help feeling like I’m wasted on this. I don’t want comma corrections on this document to be my legacy. An image pops into my mind of my funeral. Ted standing at the podium with a tear in his eye.

‘She worked tirelessly for the betterment of catheters,’ he’ll sob, wiping his eyes with a sodden hanky that, naturally, he’ll have been storing up one of his roomy sleeves. ‘None of us at Shadwell Medical Research Centre will ever forget her.’

No! I shudder, trying to shake the image from my brain. I was put on this earth to be a writer, a real writer. But somehow, writing a novel is taking a lot longer than I thought it would and simply dreaming of the Booker doesn’t pay the rent (if it did, I’d be living in a Chelsea mansion right now). I let out a gusty sigh. I shouldn’t be so downbeat. Maybe my luck will change. Maybe I’ll win the lottery and then I’ll have all the time in the world to write. Yes, that would be perfect. But I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t go planning my life around winning the lottery! No, Deal or No Deal is far more likely. I reckon I’m quite in tune with the universe and most people win at least something on that show, don’t they? I open up a Google browser and type in ‘How to apply…’ I’m about to add ‘to take part in Deal or No Deal’, when Sandra swoops by my desk to check out what I’m working on.

She picks up the paper.

‘Oh, UTIs. Interesting.’ She nods approvingly.

I laugh, assuming she’s being funny, but she hands the document back to me with a sad smile, as if I lucked out and she didn’t.

I take the paper from her, abandon my Deal or No Deal plans for now and reluctantly get to work.

By 6 p.m., I’ve picked up an inhuman amount of knowledge on catheters, drunk a gallon of tea and corrected so many diabolically written sentences that I’m beginning to seriously consider setting up an educational outreach campaign: Medics Need Literacy Too.

‘Here you go, Ted.’ I plonk a new, freshly printed version of the document down on his desk.

He picks it up, scanning the front page with his well-trained, punctuation-hawk eyes.

‘Looks good, Sophia,’ he says, flicking through the pages.

He starts stroking his chin as he appraises my work. He could really do with a beard for moments like this but I’m not in the mood for Ted’s ponderings. It’s the end of the day and I just want to go home, have some dinner and get a nice early night.

‘Great! Well, see you tomorrow!’ I say, edging my way to the door.

‘Wait, Sophia!’ Ted calls me back. ‘Seeing as you’ve done such a good job on this, I’ve actually got another paper you might like to do. It’s not quite as innovative as this one, but I think you’ll still find it interesting.’

He rifles through his desk drawer. ‘Here it is!’ He hands me a paper with a big smile.

Stifling a sense of dread, I read the title: Prevent Catheter-induced Urinary Tract Infections Using Sterilisation.

I can feel Ted watching me, waiting for a reaction.

‘Thank you, Ted,’ I croak.

‘No problem,’ he replies, with a kind smile.

I walk back to my desk, abandon the paper and bolt to the door.

‘Right, see you tomorrow!’ I call across the office, barely waiting for a response before the door swings shut behind me

I head to the tube station and catch the DLR home, feeling glum. I remember when Ted started giving Sandra all the papers on fungal infections, I thought it was absolutely hilarious. But now, thanks to some horrible karmic twist of fate, I seem to have become the office’s resident catheter specialist. I don’t know which is worse - fungal infections or catheter-induced UTIs. Actually, come to think of it, I’ve probably drawn the short straw.

*

‘Hey,’ Kate mumbles, peering over the back of the sofa as I arrive home. She’s sitting with Max watching EastEnders.

‘All right, Sophia?’ Max turns around and gives me a little salute.

I hang my coat up by the door.

‘Hey guys.’ I walk over and sink into an armchair.

‘What’s up? You look a bit down,’ Kate says, looking over at me.

I shrug. ‘It’s nothing.’

I can tell from what she’s wearing that Kate probably hasn’t left the house today. She’s in her black and white striped Beetlejuice leggings, the ones she always dons for lounging around. Max is wearing his off-duty actor-wear – black jogging bottoms and a tight black t-shirt. Kate’s legs are stretched out over his lap. They’re always like this. If they’re not on stage, you can guarantee they’ll be watching DVDs or soaps, carrying out ‘research’ as they call it. But I guess they don’t have much energy for anything else, or at least Kate doesn’t anyway. It’s her first week off for nearly a year. She’s playing Desdemona at the Globe and finally decided to have a break, letting her understudy step in until Friday. Unlike Kate, who can’t get enough of playing Shakespearean heroines, Max doesn’t really go in for the classics. At the moment, he’s pretending to shoot up every weekend while playing Mark Renton in a pub theatre adaptation of Trainspotting. He fixes me with a concerned look.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asks.

Part of me wants to offload about the catheter papers, the creepy messages on Dream Dates and the dick pic, but I know they’ll just laugh and I can’t face being the hilarious singleton today.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit tired. Long day.’ I force a weak smile.

‘Fair enough,’ Max remarks.

‘Oh…Poor Soph.’ Kate pulls a glum face, reaches over and squeezes my knee.

My phone buzzes. One new message from Dream Dates.

Jonno582: Hey Sophia,

Have you heard what scientists are saying? There are only going to be eight planets in the solar system after I destroy Uranus.

‘What the fuck?!’

‘What is it?’ Kate asks.

I look up from my screen. Both she and Max are looking over.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Just an annoying work email from Ted.’ I hit delete. This message makes emails from Ted look like Petrarchan sonnets.

‘Oh, all right then.’ Kate turns her attention back to EastEnders but after a few minutes her stomach makes a loud growling noise, so loud in fact that it makes the booming voices of an Albert Square argument sound like faint whispers.

Max raises an eyebrow. ‘You hungry by any chance, love?’

‘Starving,’ Kate mutters, her eyes fixed to the screen. ‘Let’s get a takeaway.’

‘Cool.’ Max reaches for his phone, no doubt to open his favourite fast food app. It never ceases to amaze me how Max can eat so much takeaway and still look so athletic. I should pitch him as a specimen to the diet and nutrition researchers at work. Now that would make an interesting paper.

‘Wanna order something, Sophia?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I swing my legs over the side of the armchair and settle in to watch the rest of EastEnders.

Chapter Four

‘Morning,’ Sandra chirps as I arrive at work the next day.

‘Morning,’ I echo as I cross the office. Sandra smiles expectantly, her eyes following me.

‘Working on anything interesting?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, yes.’ She holds up a paper on fungal vaccines.

‘Cool,’ I murmur as I sit down at my desk and pick up my paper.

Right, catheter-induced urinary tract infections. I suppose it’s not as bad as the time I had to edit a paper on fibre content variations between different stool types. But still, I might just make a cup of tea before I get started. I’m about to ask Sandra if she’d like one, but when I look round, she’s already staring at me with an odd expression on her face. She taps her pen against her desk, faster and faster. Tiny beads of sweat have formed on her upper lip.

‘Are you all right, Sandra?’ I venture.

‘Of course!’ she replies without skipping a beat.

‘Okay…’

Sandra shuffles in her chair and blushes a little.

‘Do you want a cuppa?’ I ask.

‘I’m all right, thanks. Just had one,’ she says, her cheeks growing redder and redder.

‘Okay then…’ I shoot her a wary look before heading to the kitchen.

As I fill the kettle, I can’t help wondering what’s up with her. Sandra can be so strange. Maybe she’s just found out she’s been shortlisted for the Medical Copywriter of the Year Awards and doesn’t want to break it to me because she thinks I might get jealous. I remember how awkward she got last year when she won and I didn’t make the shortlist. But even if that were the case, it doesn’t quite explain why she’d be blushing and staring at me in such a weird, intense way. Suddenly, I feel a dawning sense of dread. Oh God, what if Sandra’s got in touch with her inner lesbian and developed a crush on me or something?

‘Sophia!’ Sandra bursts through the kitchen door, her cheeks aflame.

‘Yes?’ I reply quietly, edging away a little until my back is flat against the fridge.

Sandra sidles up to me. ‘Sorry, I just have to tell you something. I’m going to have to admit it now or else I won’t be able to concentrate on anything all day, and the fungal vaccine paper is due this afternoon and I really don’t want to mess it up. It’s really important that I tell you. I just have to get it off my chest!’

‘What is it?’ I ask in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Please don’t tell me you’re in love with me, please don’t, I silently pray.

‘I hope you’re not going to be annoyed with me,’ she frets.

‘What is it?!’

‘Well, last night, after you left work, I stayed late to go over my report on bunions one last time and…’ She trails off and looks downs at the floor. I have literally no idea where she’s going with this.

‘And?’

‘Well, I got stuck on a semi-colon. I just wasn’t sure whether it was right or not so I thought I’d consult that punctuation manual. You know, the one Ted emailed us a few months ago? Semi-colons: Instructions on correct usage.’

‘Uhhh, yeah…’ I vaguely remember something about it.

Ted sends round these copywriting manuals from time to time, just in case Sandra and I want to do a bit of extra ‘background reading’. But I don’t think, in this lifetime, I’ll ever be bored enough to go through them; I’d rather watch paint dry. In fact, I’m sure they’d make watching paint dry look like a fireworks display.

‘Well normally…’ Sandra chuckles nervously. ‘Normally, I keep all the manuals in a folder on my desktop labelled “Punctuation SOS”.’

For a second I’m quiet, and then I realise that Sandra thinks she’s been really witty. I let out a polite little laugh. Sandra takes a deep wheezing breath to calm herself down.

‘Well, the manual wasn’t in my folder, I couldn’t believe it. I always put them in there,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘I searched everywhere. I did a comprehensive search of all my files, but I still couldn’t find it, then I went through my emails from Ted. I checked my backpack, because sometimes I take the manuals to read on the tube but it wasn’t there either! Ted had gone home so it wasn’t like I could ask him to resend it, so I thought I’d just have a quick look on your computer to see if you had a copy.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘I went over to your desk and your computer was still on. You seemed to be in a bit of a hurry to get home last night so I guess you forgot to turn it off, but when I moved your mouse, the screen lit up and the first thing I saw was this site… Dream Dates,’ Sandra says.

Now it’s my turn to blush. Bloody hell. I went on Dream Dates during my lunch break to find the deactivation button, but with my deadline looming for the catheter paper, I must have forgotten to log off. Oh no! What if Sandra had seen the penis criteria?

‘Sandra, you didn’t read anything, did you? It was just a joke. My friend set it up as a joke!’

‘I’m sorry, I did read something,’ Sandra admits.

That’s it. I’ve scarred her for life. I’ve traumatised Sandra, who I’m pretty sure is still a virgin, with my crude penis specifications. No wonder she’s been blushing so much.

‘What did you read?’

‘I wasn’t snooping. I don’t want you to think I was snooping or anything… It was just there.’

Not a dick pic. Dear Lord, not another dick pic! Last time I checked my phone, it did say I had twenty unread messages, some of which were no doubt genitalia.

‘What was “just there”?’ I ask tentatively, bracing myself.

‘This message, from this guy. It popped up on the screen, the words were just there. I couldn’t help reading them,’ Sandra tells me.

‘Just words?’ I ask.

‘Yes… Just words.’

‘Oh great!’ I enthuse, relieved.

Sandra looks momentarily confused. ‘Anyway, it was a message from a guy. He said he’d like to meet you and that he was going to be at The Anchor and Hope from 7 p.m. if you fancied stopping by.’

‘Okay…’ I murmur.

‘Well, it was such a coincidence because I was going to The Anchor and Hope anyway and so I—’

‘Hang on, you were going to a pub?’ I interrupt her.

Sandra is a loud and proud teetotaller and in the three years I’ve known her, she’s never once set foot in a pub. I’d actually got the impression she was a bit afraid of them.

‘Yeah. They’ve stopped keeping Starbucks open until eleven p.m. so now my knitting group has to meet at a pub instead. We’ve got no other choice really,’ she tells me, despondently. ‘I’ve written to Starbucks to complain but I’m still waiting to hear back from them. It’s really annoying.’

‘So, what happened?’ I ask.

‘Nothing. I sent a message via their customer complaints form on the website the other day. They say they’ll reply within forty-eight hours but it’s been three days now,’ Sandra huffs.

‘Not about the complaint, about going to the pub!’

‘Oh, that!’ Sandra laughs. ‘Well, I thought, seeing as I was going to the pub, I may as well check this guy out for you, just in case he was really dishy in person. He looked quite attractive on the little thumbnail by the message and so I thought… I really hope you’re not going to be annoyed at me, I didn’t mean to be nosy but…’ She tugs nervously at the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘What, Sandra?’

‘Well I clicked on his profile and he was really, really hot,’ she says, her face lighting up. ‘He looked like that actor. You know the one from that film about vampires.’

‘Twilight? Robert Pattinson?’

‘Yes! That’s the one. He was really quite something.’ Sandra lets out a low dirty laugh that sends shivers down my spine. Maybe she isn’t quite as pure as I thought.

‘Muscly as well. Pecs, biceps, rippling abs, lean, toned thighs…’ Her eyes glaze over and her mouth hangs open a bit. I’m almost worried that a dribble of drool might spill over her bottom lip.

‘Okay, I get the picture. So, what happened?’

‘Well, after I checked out his photos, I had a quick read of his profile. I hope you don’t mind, but I know you wouldn’t want to date someone who can’t punctuate properly and you know what most people are like these days.’ She shakes her head morosely. ‘But I was pleasantly surprised. He writes like one of us. Not a spelling mistake, unnecessary capital letter or misplaced semicolon in sight!’ Sandra tells me triumphantly.

‘So, I went to the pub to meet the Knitting Ninjas and at first I couldn’t see him, but then after a while the pub just fell silent. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, it was a bit unnerving. I looked round to the entrance and saw this guy coming in – the one from Dream Dates! And oh my goodness, Sophia, he was even better in person. He was so good-looking! He almost glowed. He wasn’t a regular guy,’ Sandra gushes, a little breathlessly.

‘He was super human, like a different species or something. He had this aura about him. Everyone in the pub was just kind of stunned and then gradually people came back to their senses and started chatting again. All the ladies in my knitting group agreed that he must be a model or an actor or someone famous. He was just too gorgeous to be an ordinary man!’

I frown sceptically. ‘But did he really look like Robert Pattinson?’

‘Yes, he did! He made Robert Pattinson look a bit worse for wear actually. He was a total dish!’ Sandra insists, and I can’t help grinning.

A Robert Pattinson lookalike! Oh my God! Just like my ad! But hang on a minute, why would someone that hot be into online dating? It doesn’t make sense.

‘Hmmm… This all seems a bit suspicious,’ I comment, turning my attention back to the kettle. I drop tea bags into our mugs and pour boiling water over them. ‘If this guy is that gorgeous, surely he could have his pick of women. Surely he’d be beating them off with a stick?’

‘He was! It was quite funny actually,’ Sandra recalls. ‘He was sitting on his own by the window reading a book and three or four women tried to make conversation with him, but he just didn’t seem interested.’ She gives a little shrug.

‘Right, so he sat there on his own all evening thinking that I might just happen to show up? That’s a bit odd.’

‘No.’ Sandra tuts. ‘He only sat on his own for a bit and then his friend came and joined him for a drink.’

‘Right… So, what did his friend look like?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing special.’ Sandra shrugs. ‘Just a normal-looking guy. But the Robert Pattinson one kept looking over his friend’s shoulder towards the exit. I think he was looking out for you, just in case.’

I cast Sandra a wary look as I open the fridge door to get some milk.

‘This all sounds a bit strange,’ I muse, unscrewing the lid of what looks like the least curdled bottle. I take a sniff to find that it’s just about passable.

‘Very strange actually,’ I add as I pour the milk into the tea, trying to wrap my head around Sandra’s bizarre tale.

You don’t find men who are so gorgeous that they can silence a room on dating websites. You just don’t. I’ve tried enough of them to know. The only conclusion I can come to is that Sandra saw a slightly above average guy and managed to throw this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe he farted as he came into the pub and that’s why everyone went silent and started staring at him. Yes, that’s much more likely. He’s probably a complete dweeb who smells of farts. That’s the kind of guy you find on dating websites. I reach for the sugar and stir a few teaspoons into Sandra’s mug.

‘So, are you going to meet him then?’ she asks. ‘You’re not annoyed with me, are you? I didn’t mean to invade your privacy or anything. The message was just there on the screen and I thought it was such a bizarre coincidence that he was going to The Anchor and Hope.’

‘You should have spoken to him,’ I say.

‘Should I?’ Sandra looks perplexed.

‘Yeah. You two might have hit it off.’

Sandra snorts loudly. ‘Me? He wouldn’t be interested in me!’ she scoffs, and for a moment, I feel a little sorry for her.

‘You have to go on a date with this guy, Sophia, if it’s the last thing you do!’ Sandra insists as the kitchen door swings open.

‘Excuse me, ladies,’ Ted says, clearing his throat. ‘This isn’t the WI. I’m not paying you to have a cup of tea and a natter. You both have pressing deadlines and I don’t want to see a single comma out of place. Come along now, back to work.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ted, ever so sorry,’ Sandra gabbles.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I echo, putting the milk back in the fridge.

‘Just had a bit of a personal emergency but back to work, absolutely! So sorry!’ Sandra hurries after Ted, leaving me plodding down the hallway after them with the hot mugs of tea.

I sit back down at my desk and pick up my paper. Right, How to Prevent Catheter-induced Urinary Tract Infections Using Sterilisation. I flick through it. Nineteen pages long, could be worse. I jolt my mouse, bringing my screen to life. The Dream Dates website is still there, the profile of the Robert Pattinson lookalike staring back at me. Holy shit, he actually does look like Robert Pattinson; Sandra wasn’t just imagining it. Except his hair is thicker and his eyes are even more blue and piercing. And oh my gosh, his body! She wasn’t exaggerating when she said rippling abs and lean, toned thighs. Wow! This guy is something else. I scroll through his photos, getting more and more excited as I click through to some holiday shots of him lounging topless on a yacht, the sunlight melting over his perfectly chiselled pecs.

‘Last time I checked, our website didn’t contain photos of naked hunks.’

I turn around to see Ted standing at the photocopier behind my desk. I quickly close the window, but it’s too late.

‘What’s got into you today, Sophia?’ he tuts. ‘Come on, back to work.’

‘Yes, Ted. Sorry. Spam!’

Reluctantly, I get on with my work, although images of that guy’s piercing blue eyes keep flitting through my mind. I just want to go back on Dream Dates to get a better look but Ted keeps wandering through the office, peering over at mine and Sandra’s monitors to make sure we’re working. Finally, he heads out to get his daily elevenses, a blueberry muffin from the café down the road, and I’m back on Dream Dates quicker than you can say ‘romance’. I click on the last message this guy sent.

Daniel_86:

Hey Sophia,

It might seem a little forward but I’m going to be at this pub, The Anchor and Hope, in Waterloo, from around 7 tonight. Would be great to meet you if you happen to be in the area.

x Daniel

I scroll down and see that there’s another message, sent half an hour earlier.

Daniel_86:

Hi Sophia,

Thanks for putting a smile on my face! Your profile is the funniest and most downright honest thing I’ve read all day. I’m guessing you set it up for a laugh but I actually found your honesty pretty refreshing, and, bizarrely, I happen to meet the majority of your criteria. You probably won’t believe this, but I get told I look like Robert Pattinson all the time! I used to volunteer for an animal charity and I have a fluffy rescue cat called Esther! Crazy, huh?

I know it all sounds a bit unlikely, but when I read your profile, I was as taken aback as you probably are right now. Speak to you soon, I hope.

x Daniel

Oh my God, he actually sounds quite cool, as well as being ridiculously hot!

‘See, didn’t I tell you he was a catch?’ Sandra grins, looking over. ‘And isn’t his writing great?’

‘Yeah, it is…’ I reply, unable to peel my eyes away from his message. It sounds so friendly and so normal for a change. And Sandra’s right, his punctuation and grammar are spot on too, now that I come to think of it.

‘Are you okay? You seem a bit dazed,’ Sandra notes.

‘I just… I didn’t expect that at all.’

‘But didn’t I tell you? He’s a total dreamboat.’

Where does Sandra get these words, ‘dreamboat’ and ‘dish’? If it wasn’t for the fact that she despises make-up, I’d think she was some sort of beauty school dropout.

‘Yeah, he’s a dreamboat all right,’ I can’t help agreeing, although I’m still feeling a bit taken aback. That profile was a joke, I never expected to actually meet the kind of guy I described. And yet, I can’t help feeling a bit giddy at the prospect of having found someone who fits the bill – a sexy Robert Pattinson lookalike with a rescue cat!

‘You have to meet him, Sophia,’ Sandra insists. ‘You can’t let this one go.’

Suddenly Ted strides into the office, clutching a brown paper bag and steaming polystyrene cup. I quickly shut down the site and frown, as if I’m concentrating hard on catheters. Sandra does the same. Ted nods firmly in our direction before retreating to his desk.

I click into my emails and write a message to Sandra.

From: sophia.jones@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

To: sandra.jenkins@shadwellmedicalresearch.org

Subject: UTIs

Definitely not letting this one go!

Sandra looks over from her desk and gives me a big thumbs-up.

Chapter Five

‘You’ll never guess what?’ I bolt through the front door and rush over to the sofa.

‘What?’ Kate looks up from the script she’s reading as I plonk myself down next to her. She’s sitting cross-legged in her black and white striped leggings.

‘You won’t believe it. You know that ad we placed on Dream Dates? Well, this guy replied. He’s totally gorgeous. Looks like Robert Pattinson. Spitting image but better. Body of Daniel Craig. Oh my God and he has a cat called Esther and—’

‘Sophia!’ Kate interrupts a little loudly. ‘What are you on about?’

‘That ad we placed on Dream Dates the other night. Well this guy replied, he basically meets all the criteria, except maybe the penis size, he didn’t mention that, but he seems to be my dream date!’ I clap my hands together.

Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right. So, what, some random guy messages you claiming to be the spitting image of Robert Pattinson?’

‘Yeah, but I saw his pics and he actually is and—’

‘Sophia, any idiot can take photos off Google of Robert Pattinson and create a profile on a dating website. You’re not buying into that are you?’ She gives me a wary look like I might have finally lost it for real.

‘I’m not going crazy, trust me,’ I insist. ‘Sandra’s seen him and apparently he looks just as good in person, if not better.’

‘Sandra’s seen him?’ Kate looks confused.

‘Yeah.’ I tell her the story of how Sandra ended up checking him out in The Anchor and Hope.

‘Sandra?’ Kate enunciates. ‘Sandra?’ She raises her voice a little louder. Reading the script must have thrown her into full-blown melodramatic actor mode.

‘You’re not actually trusting Sandra for dating advice, are you? The woman whose closest brush with intimacy is cuddles with little Hammy?’

‘Her hamster’s called Betsy actually.’ I point out.

Kate tuts. ‘Same difference.’

I feel myself sink a little into the sofa, my shoulders slumping. What if I have got carried away? Kate’s right, he could have used photos from Google. Why didn’t that occur to me? Maybe he’s a pro at Photoshop. He might have enhanced the eyes to make them even more striking and merged Daniel Craig’s body with RPatz’s head. It’s not like I’ve seen this guy with my own eyes, I am basing everything on what Sandra says and it’s true, she’s hardly an authority when it comes to men.

‘Look, I don’t mean to piss on your parade but I’ve just seen you do this so many times.’ Kate fixes me with a serious look. ‘You build men up to be these absolute gods and then you get disappointed when you realise they’re just normal human beings. That’s always your downfall. I just think you need to take a more rational approach to dating, take things slowly, don’t expect the world and keep an eye out for weirdos,’ she tells me sagely.

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ I admit reluctantly.

Kate places her script down on the coffee table. ‘Well, let’s see him then.’

I glance up at her. ‘Eh?’

‘Show me his profile,’ she insists.

‘But you think he’s a fake?’

‘Yeah, but I want to see the profile anyway. I’m curious now.’

‘All right.’ I grab Kate’s laptop from the table and open a browser. I log on to Dream Dates and pull up Daniel’s profile.

Kate pulls the laptop onto her lap and clicks through his photos with a blank expression, not saying a word.

‘Well?’

‘He’s gorgeous,’ she remarks. ‘You weren’t exaggerating when you said he looks like Robert Pattinson.’

‘I know!’ I can’t help grinning. ‘Just think what he’d look like in the wedding photos! And we’d have such cute babies!’

‘His lips are actually better and those eyes…’ Kate slowly shakes her head. ‘He must be really good at Photoshop.’

‘What?’

‘Well, yeah, obviously! Someone’s winding you up! You say you want a Robert Pattinson lookalike and then the first guy who messages you is exactly that.’

‘He wasn’t the first guy who messaged me,’ I tell her. ‘There were loads before him.’

‘Oh.’ Kate looks taken aback. ‘Why didn’t you mention them?’

I shrug. ‘Just the usual drivel. Not even worth mentioning.’

‘Hmmm…’ Kate scrolls down Daniel’s profile. ‘Income over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year, six foot one, twenty-nine years old. Yeah right.’ She rolls her eyes.

‘But Sandra saw him,’ I remind her.

‘Well maybe Sandra created this profile! Maybe she’s catfishing you to get you back for never having gone with her to knitting club!’ Kate suggests, her eyes sparkling wickedly.

I grab the laptop.

‘Are you deleting your account?’ she asks.

‘No, just logging off.’

‘Sophia…’ Kate groans.

I log off and snap the laptop closed, before setting it back down on the coffee table.

‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’ Kate asks, giving my hand a squeeze. I look down at her fingers. She used to love wearing nail varnish at university but ever since she became an actress, she’s had to keep her nails natural and neat. I guess nail varnish would look a bit out of place in a Shakespeare play.

‘I’m not annoyed, I’m just…’ I pause, searching for the right word. ‘Disappointed. You’re probably right. It’s probably a prank or something.’

Kate nods. ‘In my experience, when things seem too good to be true, they usually are…’

‘Yeah. Oh well.’ I stand up and take off my coat before hanging it up by the door.

‘Don’t be down, you’ll meet someone soon.’ Kate smiles, before picking up her script.

‘What’s the script for?’ I ask as I sit back down.

Kate’s face lights up.

‘Oh, it’s for an audition for The Mousetrap!’ she explains. ‘I’m getting a bit tired of playing Des, and I think the public’s getting sick of it too. They’re thinking of pulling the play, so I’m going to have to find something new.’

‘But something modern?’

‘Yeah, my agent’s encouraging me to be a bit more versatile. Says I’ll regret it later if I pigeonhole myself into Shakespeare now.’ Kate smiles, a little ruefully.

‘So, what’s the new role?’ I ask.

‘The main character! Mollie Ralston. It’ll be an easy gig! Basically, I just have to be freaked out and neurotic the whole play. So much easier than playing Des.’

‘Sounds really cool!’

‘Yeah, it should be!’ Kate says, her eyes bright and hopeful.

‘Fingers crossed!’ I hold up my crossed fingers and Kate crosses hers back.

‘Want a hot chocolate?’ I ask.

‘Nah, I’m all right, thanks.’

‘Oh, another postcard arrived,’ she tells me, gesturing at a postcard of an exotic beach, half covered by some junk mail on the coffee table. I pick the postcard up and turn it over to read the message. It’s from my mum and dad who are on a round-the-world cruise.

Hi Darling,

We just left Phra Nang beach in Thailand. It was paradise! Absolutely beautiful. Although your dad thought it would be funny to eat deep-fried crickets in Bangkok and was running to the loo the whole time! About to get back on the cruise ship now. Next port – Penang – Malaysia!

Love and miss you!

Mum XXX

I turn it over and look at the beach again. It really is beautiful. Shimmering blue water, cloudless sky, white sand. I can just imagine my mum lounging by the sea, with one of her favourite detective novels open on her lap, her ridiculously wide-brimmed sunhat casting shadows over her face, and my dad, no doubt wearing one of the cringe-worthy Hawaiian shirts he always packs for holidays, sprinting off to the loo every five minutes. I feel a pang of longing for them. My parents are so sweet. They met at a school disco when they were seventeen. Love at first sight, apparently. I know my mum would love for me to find someone and have something similar to what she’s got with Dad but I don’t think she realises that, these days, you’re more likely to find lust at first swipe than love at first sight.

I head over to the fridge and stick the postcard to the door with a magnet, next to all the others from my parents’ cruise. They’ve been away for around three months now, and still have a couple of months to go. Unlike most of my friends’ parents, mine are in their late sixties and retired a few years ago. They tried for a child when they were younger but, in the end, they just gave up on the idea. Then, when my mum turned forty, she suddenly got pregnant with me. Completely out of the blue. Her little miracle, she used to say.

I take a quick photo of the postcard stuck to the fridge door and WhatsApp it to my mum, adding a little note with a ton of kisses. I leave Kate in peace to read her script and head to my bedroom where I take off my work clothes, donning a pair of pyjama bottoms and a hoody instead. I put on some mellow music and light a candle. Having created the right ambience, I turn on my laptop and open up my novel. I really need to finish it. So far, my literary ambitions’ peak was at the age of twenty-two when I won a poetry competition and had my rhyming couplets emblazoned on London Underground trains. It was the coolest thing. Naturally, I took a ton of selfies next to my poem on various different lines, I even bragged about it in my Twitter bio, but, eventually, my poem got replaced by ads for holiday destinations or recruitment sites or whatever, and too many years have elapsed for me to cling to that glory any more. Now the only real traces of my poem are a framed photo I took of it, which is proudly displayed above my desk, where my laptop sits, containing my half-written novel – a modern-day retelling of Madame Bovary, which is set in Lewisham instead of nineteenth-century France.

I write a paragraph, but the words aren’t coming out right. My sentences are convoluted and my attention keeps wavering. Sandra wouldn’t trick me, would she? She can be a little odd sometimes but she’s not mean. And yeah, she was a bit disappointed when I wouldn’t join her knitting club but it’s hardly the kind of thing that warrants revenge. She wouldn’t be that petty. But if it wasn’t her, then it must have been a stranger and who would go to the effort of photoshopping a load of pictures just to wind a random person up? People just don’t do that. I minimise my novel and log on to Dream Dates again. A new message pops up on my screen.

Cityboy33:

All right missus,

Lookin for a partner in crime sum1 as dirty n naughty as me. Reckon it cud be u ;) wot u think?

X Baz

I shudder and hit delete. At least ‘Baz’ had the courtesy not to attach a dick pic. I reread my messages from Daniel; they seem so surprisingly well adjusted in comparison. I click through his pictures and find my gaze lingering on one of him sitting at a restaurant, smiling with a sort of wry half-smile. He really is gorgeous – in a completely different league to the guys I’ve been dating. His jaw is lined with stubble and his hair is thick, dark brown and soft-looking, with loose curls swept away from his face, apart from one stray lock falling across his forehead. His eyes are so piercingly blue that they would be quite intimidating if it wasn’t for the dark girlish lashes lining them. He’s got a tiny gold stud midway up his left ear. I don’t think I’ve seen a guy with a piercing there before. It’s so cool. Original and stylish, just like I specified. Oh, screw it. I may as well message him. It’s not like I’ve got much to lose from simply sending a message. Either he’s a catfish and I’ll end up writing him off as yet another internet weirdo, or he’s for real, in which case… I want to meet him – though he’s more than likely to be an arrogant fuck-boy with a face that good.

I start drafting a reply.

Sophialj:

Hi Daniel,

Maybe I could be the Bella Swan to your Edward Cullen?

I type, smiling to myself. I reread it. Actually no, what am I doing?! I think that’s funny but he might not get that I’m being ironically naff. Okay, I’ll just write something normal, something casual. I can always reveal my truly witty self at a later date.

Sophialj:

Hi Daniel,

I’m really glad you got in touch and weren’t put off by my crazy profile! I did in fact set it up as a bit of a laugh – I wasn’t really expecting to actually meet anyone through it! Sorry I couldn’t make it to the pub last night, I only picked up your messages this morning. Perhaps you’re free for a drink tomorrow evening? I’d love to hear more about Esther, volunteering, and what it’s like to look just like Robert Pattinson.

X

Sophia

I reread the message. I’m really glad you got in touch. That sounds too keen. I delete ‘really’ but ‘I’m glad you got in touch’ sounds too formal, like I’m sending a work email or something. I’ll just delete it and start with, ‘I’m glad you weren’t put off by my crazy profile!’ Yes, that sounds better – lighter and happier. The rest of the message is fine. Interested but not desperate, friendly but not full-on. With a small thrill of excitement, I hit the send button. I can hear Kate shuffling about next door and quickly log off the site, opening up my novel again.

‘Sophia…?’ Kate knocks on my door whilst simultaneously turning the knob and pushing it open. I’ve told her a million times that opening the door while knocking defeats the point of knocking in the first place but it’s a habit that she just can’t seem to break.

‘What are you up to?’ she asks.

‘Reading,’ I reply.

She lingers in the doorway. ‘Do you want some pasta?’

‘What with?’

Kate shrugs. ‘I don’t know, pesto or something?’

‘Yeah, go on then.’

‘Cool.’

Kate closes my bedroom door. Culinary prowess has never been our strong point. In all the years that Kate and I have lived together, our meals have rarely digressed from a limited menu of pasta with pesto, pasta with red pesto, pasta with tuna, and occasionally, when we’re feeling adventurous, jacket potatoes with beans and cheese. Even back at school when we first became friends, we’d go over to each other’s house and scoff pasta and crisps. There was a brief interlude – when Kate went to RADA and I went to Aberystwyth Uni – when I began eating slightly healthier but since I moved to London and we became flatmates, it’s been carb central. Sometimes I feel guilty that we eat so badly but Kate says it’s because we’re creatives, and creatives have better things to think about than food.

I start writing another paragraph of my novel but my eyes begin to sting. I try reducing the brightness of my screen but it doesn’t help. That’s the problem with typing all day long and then attempting to write a novel in the evenings; there are only so many hours one human being can stare at a screen and I’m already maxed out. I turn my computer off and pick up a notebook. I’ll write by longhand instead. No excuses. I doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been put off if his typewriter broke down. And didn’t J. K. Rowling plot Harry Potter on the back of a napkin? A notebook is a luxury. I start writing.

A minute later, I pick up my phone to check if I have any messages from Dream Dates. I mean, it might have developed a fault and maybe Daniel replied but the message notification failed to sound. But, of course, it hasn’t malfunctioned; I just don’t have any messages. I let out a big sigh and carry on writing.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ Kate calls.

I head into the living room to find her curled up on the sofa tucking into a bowl of pasta in front of EastEnders.

‘Thanks.’ I pick up the steaming bowl she’s left for me on the coffee table.

I try not to make a habit of watching EastEnders, but sometimes I can’t help getting sucked into the storylines. I tuck into my pasta, losing myself in a row in the Queen Vic when my phone suddenly beeps. Without skipping a beat, I grab it from the armrest. I sigh.

‘What’s up?’ Kate glances over.

‘It’s just a text from the noodle nerd, my date from the other day,’ I tell her glumly.

‘Who did you think it was?’ Kate asks.

‘Oh, no one.’ There’s no way I’m telling her that I thought it might have been Daniel from Dream Dates. I read the message.

‘God, he actually seems to think we had a great time the other night. Wants to “do it again soon”,’ I tell her, doing air quotations. ‘As if I’d subject myself to that again!’

I delete the text and place my phone back on the armrest.

‘Crazy,’ Kate mutters, her eyes riveted to the screen.

‘Yeah, crazy,’ I agree, shovelling a forkful of pasta into my mouth.

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.

Chapter Seven

Come Friday night, I’m at a West End bar. Kate has just got out of the Globe and is still wearing her heavily contoured stage make-up, which always looks odd when paired with black leggings and a baggy jumper. A group of us have gathered to celebrate our friend Cassie’s twenty-ninth birthday.

‘So, this is Mike,’ Cassie says, introducing us to her new boyfriend. He looks round the group, blushing a little, before he’s swept up in a frenzy of hand-shaking and hugs. Cassie grins. Kate and I shared a flat with her briefly after university until her habits of burning sage, chanting spells and leaving handmade wands (aka tree branches) everywhere began to get a bit much. Then when our tenancy ran out, Kate made up some elaborate excuse about landlords and council tax or something so that we wouldn’t have to endure any more amateur witchcraft. Still, we both felt a bit guilty, especially when Cassie moved into a miserable basement studio in Elephant and Castle, so we’ve always made an effort to keep in touch.

‘Nice to meet you all,’ Mike says, shrinking back towards Cassie. She clutches his hand.

‘So how did you guys meet?’ Laura, another old friend, asks over the music.

Mike and Cassie smile awkwardly and I notice Cassie squeezing Mike’s hand a little tighter.

‘Online,’ Cassie admits. ‘OkCupid. I saw this little thumbnail of Mike. He looked so adorable! I sent him a message and then that was it, we started messaging 24/7. We were on the phone every day for hours. Even before I met him, I just knew,’ she insists, giddily.

‘Awww…’ Kate and everyone else gushes.

Mike smiles sheepishly.

‘So how long have you been together?’ Kate asks.

‘About three months now,’ Mike tells her, taking a sip of his pint.

‘Yep, we had our three-month anniversary on Tuesday,’ Cassie adds. ‘Mike even got me a ring for it.’ She holds out her right hand, brandishing a silver Celtic ring featuring two little hands cupping a heart.

Kate inspects it. ‘Pretty,’ she squeaks in the slightly high-pitched voice she always uses when she’s lying.

‘It’ll be an engagement ring next!’ John, one of our other university friends, adds.

Cassie and Mike laugh, brushing off the suggestion, but not without exchanging a quick, meaningful look as if they might have already discussed it. They seem so close. They even look similar with their dark choppy hair, thick-framed nerdy glasses and big green eyes. I smile awkwardly. All of my university friends are now either married or on track towards getting married. John got hitched to Rose, his girlfriend of four years, recently. Laura married Simon last year. Rich got engaged to Jack a few months ago. Lucy’s still going strong with her childhood sweetheart, Ahmed, and, of course, Kate’s got Max. Thankfully, he’s still on stage tonight, because then I’d well and truly be the thirteenth wheel.

‘What about you, Sophia?’ Rich pipes up and in one horrible swoop, everyone looks round.

‘Yeah, how’s the love life?’ Jack adds.

‘It’s all right,’ I grumble. I’m half-tempted to tell them all about Daniel, but I haven’t confessed to Kate that I didn’t delete my Dream Dates profile, let alone admit that I arranged a date.

‘There just don’t seem to be any decent guys out there,’ I sigh.

‘That’s not true.’ Rich shakes his head defiantly. ‘There are plenty.’

Jack shoots him a look, but Rich carries on, oblivious.

‘Your problem is you’re too fussy.’

‘I’m not, there just aren’t—’ I start to protest but Rich cuts me off.

‘Remember when I set you up with James from work? Then when you and me met up the next day, you said you wouldn’t go on a second date with him because he didn’t pronounce his Ts properly?’

‘I think you mean, “when you and I met up the next day”,’ I say.

Rich slowly shakes his head.

‘Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with fancying well-spoken people!’

‘Or the time you turned down that guy after he told you his entire outfit cost ten pounds,’ Cassie adds, grinning naughtily.

‘He was a cheapskate! Anyway, disposable clothes, disposable man.’ I take a swig of my G and T.

‘Oh yeah,’ John pipes up. ‘And then there was that Jim Morrison guy you thought was the dog’s bollocks, then when you went on a date, you ran a mile.’

‘I sobered up. Beer goggles. I didn’t expect him to actually look like dog’s bollocks!’

Lucy joins in. ‘What about when you broke up with that really hot guy, Corey, after two weeks because you didn’t like his feet,’ she reminds me.

‘They were Hobbit feet,’ I insist. ‘Anyway, guys, can you stop giving me a hard time!’

‘Oh!’ Kate slaps the bar, recalling something. ‘Remember last week you refused to message that really nice guy on Match.com because he wrote that he was looking for his “partner in crime” and you said you couldn’t stand that.’ She grins wickedly.

‘I can’t! I’d honestly rather die alone than match with yet another guy looking for their “partner in crime”.’

They all tut and shake their heads, but they just don’t get it. They’re coupled up – oblivious to the daily struggles of the dating scene. Thankfully, ‘I Bet You Look Good On the Dance Floor’ by Arctic Monkeys comes on, a classic song from our university days, and everyone forgets about my shambles of a love life and runs off to dance. Arctic Monkeys blends into ‘Hey Ya’ by Outkast and everyone’s dancing and happy. Rich twerks against Jack, who keeps pretending to spank him. Cassie’s twirling around in her dreamy ethereal way as if she’s not at a busy London bar at all but seeing in the morning sun at a summer solstice party, while Mike cuts shapes around her like a malfunctioning robot. Lucy’s smiling to herself as Ahmed plants a kiss on her neck. John’s dancing close to Rose and Laura’s got her arms around Simon’s neck. Thank God for Kate, who’s singing along and grooving with me like the old days.

The DJ puts on a slower song, one that Kate and I don’t know the words to, and as we dance, my mind begins to wander to the hard time my friends always give me about my pickiness with guys. I get that they think I’m picky, but I feel like when I meet the right guy for me, I’ll just know and so far, I’ve never really had that feeling. In fact, I’ve not even come close. With my uni boyfriend, Sam, I gradually got to know him through friends and realised he was cool, and then with Paulo, it was more a matter of having instant chemistry, rather than love. My dad says the moment he first saw my mum, he instantly knew she was the woman he was going to marry and I keep waiting to have that type of revelation too. But none of the guys I’ve dated have inspired anything like that kind of passion in me; most of the time I don’t even want a second date, let alone marriage.

‘I’d better head home,’ Kate says, shouting over the music, after the seventh or eighth song. ‘Need my beauty sleep.’

She gets her phone out of her handbag and orders a taxi. Kate always has to be home reasonably early on Friday nights to make sure she gets a good night’s sleep before her matinee performances.

‘Cool, I’ll come with you,’ I shout back. We say our goodbyes to everyone and then head outside, where we get into the car.

‘What do you think of Mike?’ I ask Kate as I fasten my seatbelt.

‘He looks like a thirty-year-old Harry Potter, but he seems nice. I reckon he’s good for Cassie,’ she remarks.

‘Yeah…’ I murmur as we drive away from the bar. ‘I know it sounds sad, but I never thought I’d be the last singleton standing.’

‘You thought you’d find someone before Cassie, you mean?’ Kate asks.

‘Well, yeah! I’m not into Wicca or chanting, I’m normal and yet…’ I trail off.

‘And yet you’re holding out for a Robert Pattinson-lookalike multimillionaire who doesn’t exist!’ Kate quips.

Our taxi driver shoots a curious glance at the rear-view mirror.

‘You never know,’ I say knowingly, but Kate just scoffs.

‘Seriously, Sophia!’

I gaze out the window. I want to tell her about Daniel, but I know she’ll burst my bubble. Yes, I’m aware that Daniel could turn out to be a catfish, or if he’s the real deal, then he’s more than likely to be an arrogant nightmare, but I can’t help hoping that perhaps he’s not only going to be gorgeous and successful, but charming and kind too. Our date tomorrow feels like a special little secret I’m keeping close to my breast. A nugget of faith that maybe I have managed to find a dream man.

‘You know, the moment you get real and stop expecting to be whisked off your feet by some ridiculous man-god, I bet you’ll find a boyfriend and you’ll be happier than you ever imagined,’ Kate says.

‘Hmmm…’ Maybe she’s right, but I at least want to meet Daniel first, just to see.

‘There are plenty of things I don’t like about Max,’ she insists. ‘The way he makes these snotty snuffling noises in his sleep, the fact that he reads tabloid newspapers, his habit of eating peanut butter by the spoonful, his love of U2!’ She shakes her head morosely. ‘Not to mention his obsession with comic books and the way he calls his friends by their surnames and—’

‘Do you actually like Max at all?’ I interrupt.

‘I adore him,’ Kate insists dreamily. She takes a deep breath.

‘“Let me not to the marriage of true minds, Admit impediments”,’ she intones, switching into her loud crisp stage voice. I shrink into the seat; I should have known talking about love after a few drinks would lead to a full-on Shakespeare rendition.

‘“Love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken”.’ Kate shakes her fist defiantly as the car weaves through the traffic.

Our driver eyes her curiously as she recites the sonnet, clearly not used to having RADA-trained actors belting out Shakespeare in his car. She grows more and more impassioned by the time she reaches the final lines.

‘“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom”,’ Kate says, with an impassioned, sweeping gesture.

‘“If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”’ She clutches her heart.

The driver draws to a halt at the traffic lights and breaks into applause.

‘Hear, hear!’ he cheers.

I clap weakly.

‘Encore!’ he adds.

‘No! Please, no!’ I groan.

Kate grins and does a little bow in the back seat.

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