Perfect Match: a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy you won’t want to miss!. Zoe May
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.
‘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