The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Fiona Gibson

       Chapter Eight

      It’s raining heavily by the time I leave the supermarket, causing people to duck into doorways or march quickly, heads bent against the weather. I hurry into the tube station, gripping my carrier bag tightly, the relaxing effect of those couple of glasses of wine having now worn off.

      That’s definitely the end of datemylovelymum and me. Any dating at all, actually. If it’s adult male company I’m after, there’s always Stu: amenable, funny, requiring no effort whatsoever in the personal grooming or acquisition of fancy lingerie departments. He has seen all my pants anyway: the full range from fancy black lace to saggy and greying. Mine and his are often laundered together, and sit companionably on the radiator drying side by side. They are even touching, sometimes. No one thinks anything of it. I have seen him trimming his nasal hair with his clipper, and he has watched with interest while I’ve applied some kind of acid solution to my recurring corn. We might as well be an old married couple – apart from the fact that we probably like each other more than most long-term partners do.

      Who needs sex anyway? No one died from a lack of it, as far as I am aware. Neither Stu nor I have had any for a thousand years – well, ages anyway – and he, at least, seems pretty chilled out most of the time. A celibate life seems preferable now to running the risk of encountering any more men like Ralph. That’s the thing with having big boobs, hips, bottom and all that: it tends to bring out the creeps. There seems to be an assumption that a larger woman is parading herself – ‘flaunting her assets’ in Daily Mail speak – and a certain type of man takes this as permission to make personal comments. ‘I love a woman with curves,’ growled Pete from electricals, kissing my stomach in his nicotine-hued flat, last time we were in bed together. ‘God, you don’t half give me an appetite, Lorrie. If we hurry up and get dressed we’ll be able to use my two-for-one Groupon deal for that Indian buffet down the road.’

      I’m still fizzling mad – not about Pete Parkin, but Ralph – by the time the tube reaches Bethnal Green station. I stumble out of the carriage, glowering at an elderly man who stares pointedly at my chest as he waits to get on. ’D’you really think,’ I want to shout, ‘that women don’t notice when men are doing that?’ I hope to God Amy learns to handle this kind of thing better than I ever have.

      It’s only when I’m halfway down my street, jacket damp from the rain, hair flat against my scalp, that I realise my bag of fancy cheese, fabric conditioner and chilli-spiked snacks is still trundling along on the Central Line towards Epping.

      Damn it. Damn it all. I let myself into the house and call out a dull hello.

      ‘Hi, Mum,’ Cam replies from the living room. I find him lying prone on the sofa, TV blaring unnecessarily, seeing as he is reading a dog-eared novel. ‘All right?’ He delves into a family packet of crisps.

      ‘Yes, just went to Helena’s birthday do after work. You look tired, darling. Why don’t you head up for an early night instead of lying here?’

      ‘Aw, no, I’m all right.’

      ‘D’you really need the TV on?’

      ‘Yeah, I’m watching it.’ His gaze returns to his book.

      ‘Is Stu around?’

      He shakes his head, grudgingly shifting up on the sofa to make room for me to sit beside him. ‘Out on a delivery, I think.’ That’s disappointing. I need someone to offload to, about Nuala’s surprise visit to the store today and, more urgently, Ralph fiddling with himself in his office loo, ugh. I need to turn it into something funny and I know Stu will be able to make me laugh about it.

      ‘Hi, darling,’ I say as Amy appears, fresh from her bath, her long dark hair wrapped up in a towel. ‘What’ve you been up to today?’

      ‘Shopping for my holiday.’ She beams excitedly. ‘Bella said Portugal’s going to be even hotter than last year. Hang on, I’ll show you what I bought.’ She runs off and returns with a Topshop bag, extracting a couple of bikinis in her preferred sporty style: one plain navy, one jaunty red and white stripes.

      ‘They’re lovely. Bet you can’t wait.’

      ‘I can’t,’ she says, stuffing them back into the bag and snuggling on the sofa beside me. ‘You okay, Mum?’ She turns to look at me.

      ‘I’m good,’ I fib. ‘Oh, there’s just something coming up on Friday. It’s on my mind a bit – a work conference thing. Only heard about it today.’

      ‘What’s that all about?’

      ‘No idea but I might have to do a little speech.’ I grimace. ‘D’you mind if I try something out on you? It’ll only take a few minutes …’