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

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      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? СКАЧАТЬ