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