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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ