Match Me If You Can. Michele Gorman

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      She felt too wooden, rehearsed, but she had to push on.

      ‘I keep going out with these guys I meet, and they keep disappointing me. If they don’t just want sex then they’re too clingy. If they’re not too clingy they’re emotionally unavailable. If not that then they have a girlfriend already. I’m so sick of it all.’

      He nodded. ‘Uh huh, I see. Just so I know, Rach, are you just telling me about your dates or is there a question in here somewhere?’

      ‘There’s a question.’

      ‘Then can we please …’ He made a winding-up motion with his finger. ‘Make this as painless as possible?’

      ‘You don’t want any background at all?’

      ‘Well, you’ve already told me about the bloke who wanted to wee on you.’ He pulled a face.

      Rachel sighed. ‘Exactly my point. I can’t keep meeting random guys in pubs. I need a more structured approach if I’m going to meet anyone worthwhile. I’m joining Catherine’s website.’

      ‘Fine, good for you.’

      ‘You know, James, this is exactly why we broke up!’

      ‘Why, Rachel? What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled you’re joining a website to meet guys? Maybe I don’t really want to listen to you talk about the shitty men in your life.’

      ‘No! Because you’re totally dismissive. Not to mention that you’re an absolute pig,’ she added, looking again around the office. ‘I’m asking for your help.’

      ‘Calling me a pig isn’t really making me warm to your request, you know.’

      She shrugged. ‘I had other words in mind, so I was actually being kind.’

      He smiled. ‘Tell me what you need, Rach.’

      Her tummy churned at the way he said this. It was easier being his friend when he wasn’t being tender.

      ‘I can’t join unless I bring an ex with me. It’s really simple. We sign up and give each other feedback about what we were like in the relationship. You know, an assessment about what we did right and wrong.’

      He rubbed his chin. ‘Do I really want to know what you think is wrong with me?’

      ‘But you’ll get to do it to me too. Just imagine, James. You can outline every single one of my flaws and I’ll have to sit there and take it. Besides, nobody else sees the assessment. Only us. Then I write an endorsement telling women why they should go out with you.’

      ‘Hmm, that’s interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me more.’

      ‘That’s it, really. Once we’re on the website we can go out with whomever we want to.’

      ‘No, I mean tell me more about why women should go out with me. You’ll throw me this tiny bone, won’t you? It might be the only ego stroke I get this year. Come on, Rach, tell me, tell me. Is it my hair? It’s my hair, isn’t it?’ He flicked his head and pursed his lips.

      She laughed. James was many things – cheapskate, workaholic, smart-arse – but he wasn’t conceited. He never minded making a fool of himself to make her laugh. ‘Yeah, I guess you have good hair.’ It was a thick dark mop, long and shaggy. He wore it side-combed over his forehead like they did in the boy bands. ‘And you’re not too short. That would be a plus for women who aren’t very tall.’

      They were nearly the same height when she wore her high heels and, though he wasn’t classically handsome, his regular features were a decent backdrop for the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen. His mouth was perhaps a bit too small, but it suited his narrow chin which, in turn, suited his slender frame. His personality would attract women as much as his looks.

      Of course, he’d rather hear that he was devastatingly god-like handsome.

      ‘Will you do it?’ she asked. ‘Will you join with me? I have to bring someone with me.’

      ‘Are you saying you need me?’

      ‘Yes, James,’ she muttered. ‘I need you.’

      Thank God that was no longer really true. A few years ago it would have been.

      ‘And all I have to do is fill in a few forms and you’ll let me go back to work? I can do that. Wait, this doesn’t mean the sushi offer is off, does it?’

      ‘I’ll still get your sushi, James.’

      ‘Cool. Extra wasabi please.’

      Rachel beamed all the way to the restaurant. That wasn’t as hard as it could have been.

      The house was empty after work when she unlocked both deadbolts and the door lock to let herself in. They weren’t paranoid, fortressing themselves in like this. When they’d first come to look at the house, the door had been patched at the bottom where someone had kicked through it. One of the first things they’d bought was a solid replacement. The little buggers would break bones now if they tried forcing their way in.

      Even with the risk of burglary, Rachel loved their house. Back when it was built, Victorian families needed lots of rooms. Clapton wasn’t overrun by Poundlands and chicken shops then.

      There were little traces of those more affluent days left – ornate cornicing and plaster roses on some of the ceilings, tall sash windows and wide-beam oak floors. But cheap dividing walls scarred the floors where they’d been put up in haste and disintegrated at leisure. Big holes and cracks pockmarked the plaster. Wires and pipes ran in the shortest distance between two points. Basically, they lived in a semi-derelict building site.

      But that’s what they’d signed up for when they bought the house. None of them could afford their own flat in the area. It might be dirty and dangerous but property prices there were rising faster than Jude Law’s hairline. So they bought something together that could eventually be subdivided. One day, when the time came, they’d each have their own flat. Till then they added a working fridge and settled into the original shabby chic decor. Pictures hung on wires straight from the mouldings. Those covered up the damp-stained walls, and threadbare rugs were strewn over the scratched and splintery floors. They’d scavenged through the charity shops to find velvet sofas and reading chairs to fill the cavernous sitting room.

      People paid good money for decorators to give them that kind of distressed look. Their home’s distress was authentic.

      Still, what a huge tick on her Adult To-Do list. She’d got the degree, she had the job and she’d invested in the house with Catherine and Sarah. Soon she’d be working on the relationship.

      Sometimes she had to remind herself that there was nothing wrong with her. Just because she wasn’t married or doing the school run each morning didn’t mean she had a tail or anything. Millions of women were in the same boat, with high standards and a low tolerance for wankishness.

      She made her way down to the kitchen to flick on the kettle, glancing at the 1950s black Bakelite wall clock as she went. It was after seven. She’d kill for a cup of coffee, but the bags СКАЧАТЬ