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

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      To: [email protected]

      No. Waiting ’til this afternoon.

      Sandra coughs and I glance over. She crouches behind her computer, making sure that Ted can’t see her and angrily mouths, ‘WHAT?!’ I roll my eyes and draft another message.

      From: [email protected]

      To: [email protected]

      Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. (please delete this message in case Ted sees)

      From: [email protected]

      To: [email protected]

      Ok then *sighs* (deleted – and please delete this).

      I hit delete and get on with the document. The morning flies by. I feel like I’ve got something to look forward to – even if it is only writing a message to Daniel this afternoon. I know if Kate were here, she’d give me a slap for getting so carried away, but it’s so hard not to. I keep thinking about that photo: Daniel’s wry smile, his dishevelled hair, his gold stud.

      ‘Are you coming for lunch, Sandra?’ I ask as the clock strikes 1 p.m.

      Sandra glances up from her screen. ‘Not today, brought a packed lunch. Just going to plough on with this paper. Bit of a tricky one,’ she says, making a face.

      ‘Okay, good luck.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Sandra smiles optimistically.

      I slip a notebook from my desk into my handbag, before leaving work and heading to the café down the road. It’s good that Sandra’s not coming in a way as it gives me a chance to work on my novel. I walk in, grab a sandwich from one of the display fridges and join the queue, before scanning the tables for a quiet place to sit. A stunning long-haired girl laughs loudly, tossing her thick wavy hair over her shoulder as she beams at the man opposite her – a blond guy with his back to me. He scratches his neck, turning his head as he does so. Oh my God! It’s ho fun guy! Chris. That boring noodle nerd from the other night. Bugger! I turn around and look down at the floor, praying he doesn’t see me. I’d forgotten that he worked in Shadwell too. He thought that was so interesting. Straight before he launched into his lecture on noodles, he’d been going on and on about what a bizarre coincidence it was that our offices were just down the road from each other. Damn, I thought I’d never have to see him again. I didn’t even bother replying to his text.

      I take a step forward in the queue and furtively glance over my shoulder again. The girl is smiling and pouting. She’s dressed in office clothes, but she’s certainly not acting like a colleague. They must be on a lunch date or something. She throws her head back in laughter again and then takes a sip of her drink. How is she finding him so funny and charming? I shuffle over to the fridges and put my sandwich back. I can’t have lunch here now. I need somewhere peaceful and devoid of past dates in order to write. I glance over at them one last time before slipping out of the café. She really is a beautiful girl – perfect glowing skin, the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, long flirty eyelashes. I walk out onto the street and head down the road. A bulky man in a suit barges into me, knocking into my shoulder without bothering to apologise.

      ‘Excuse me!’ I call after him, huffily.

      What a rude man. Honestly. Some people in London. I walk into another café, a dingy place where no one ever goes to because the sandwiches are always flavourless and stale. I buy a coffee and an unappetising cheese baguette and sit down, glaring out of the window as I eat. I watch as office workers stomp down the road. Why do people have to be so self-important? Can’t everyone just chill out? I tear off a few angry bites of my sandwich but eating the sweaty cheese and tough bread just makes me feel worse so I give up and take out my notebook instead to do some novel writing, but I can’t get into the zone; I’m in too much of a bad mood. Okay. Forget about the rude man who barged into me. Forget about the horrible food. I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but something else is niggling at me. That beautiful girl and the noodle nerd. Why has seeing them together pissed me off? It’s not like I’m into him. He’s just a random weird guy with an obsessive interest in noodles and tube station geography. Why do I care? Although she looked like she was having such a good time. Maybe he was just having an off day on our date. After all, he was really good on paper, with his intellectual degree and his charity work.

      I pull my phone out of my bag. Why am I giving a second thought to some random noodle nerd when I potentially have a Robert Pattinson lookalike at my fingertips? I quickly draft a reply to Daniel, telling him I’m free to meet on Saturday. I take a sip of my coffee. I wonder what he’ll suggest we do for our date. It would probably best if we just start with a drink so if he does turn out to be a complete freak, I can leave fairly quickly. Not like my date with Chris. What was I thinking, agreeing to an entire dinner! Talk about holding your date hostage!

      ‘Good lunch?’ Sandra asks, as I get back to the office forty-five minutes later.

      ‘All right.’ I shrug. I’m not going to mention seeing Chris, it’s not like it matters anyway.

      ‘So, did you send the message?’ Sandra presses me.

      Ted glances over. He looks a little confused but doesn’t push it.

      ‘I did indeed,’ I reply.

      Sandra grins. ‘So exciting!’

      I sit back down at my computer and click on to my catheter paper. My phone vibrates, muffled by my bag. Surely, it’s not Daniel already? I undo the zip and reach for my lip balm while subtly glancing at my phone screen. One new message from Dream Dates.

       Daniel_86:

      Hi Sophia,

      Saturday night it is. How about 8 p.m. at The Cavendish Club? Do you know it? I look forward to meeting you.

      x Daniel

      It’s him, it’s actually him! I quickly google The Cavendish Club. ‘Set on a leafy Victorian square in a townhouse that was once the Spanish embassy, this exclusive private-members club features sumptuous décor throughout. This stylish venue boasts three bars, a restaurant catering for up to eighty diners complete with private dining rooms, a members-only nightclub, a library, several suites, and a spacious roof terrace overlooking London.’

      I click through the photos, which show a wood-panelled bar with floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtains; a dining room with gold pillars and chandeliers; hotel rooms with four poster beds; waiting staff wearing crisp waistcoats carrying trays of drinks. The sound of a phlegmy throat being cleared suddenly pierces my daydream.

      ‘That doesn’t look like a medical research paper to me, Sophia,’ Ted barks, over my shoulder.

      I swivel round.

      ‘Sorry, Ted, I just…’ I rack my brains for a reasonable excuse.

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