Zoe May - Perfect Match

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? She can be a little odd sometimes but she’s not mean. And yeah, she was a bit disappointed when I wouldn’t join her knitting club but it’s hardly the kind of thing that warrants revenge. She wouldn’t be that petty. But if it wasn’t her, then it must have been a stranger and who would go to the effort of photoshopping a load of pictures just to wind a random person up? People just don’t do that. I minimise my novel and log on to Dream Dates again. A new message pops up on my screen.

Cityboy33:

All right missus,

Lookin for a partner in crime sum1 as dirty n naughty as me. Reckon it cud be u ;) wot u think?

X Baz

I shudder and hit delete. At least ‘Baz’ had the courtesy not to attach a dick pic. I reread my messages from Daniel; they seem so surprisingly well adjusted in comparison. I click through his pictures and find my gaze lingering on one of him sitting at a restaurant, smiling with a sort of wry half-smile. He really is gorgeous – in a completely different league to the guys I’ve been dating. His jaw is lined with stubble and his hair is thick, dark brown and soft-looking, with loose curls swept away from his face, apart from one stray lock falling across his forehead. His eyes are so piercingly blue that they would be quite intimidating if it wasn’t for the dark girlish lashes lining them. He’s got a tiny gold stud midway up his left ear. I don’t think I’ve seen a guy with a piercing there before. It’s so cool. Original and stylish, just like I specified. Oh, screw it. I may as well message him. It’s not like I’ve got much to lose from simply sending a message. Either he’s a catfish and I’ll end up writing him off as yet another internet weirdo, or he’s for real, in which case… I want to meet him – though he’s more than likely to be an arrogant fuck-boy with a face that good.

I start drafting a reply.

Sophialj:

Hi Daniel,

Maybe I could be the Bella Swan to your Edward Cullen?

I type, smiling to myself. I reread it. Actually no, what am I doing?! I think that’s funny but he might not get that I’m being ironically naff. Okay, I’ll just write something normal, something casual. I can always reveal my truly witty self at a later date.

Sophialj:

Hi Daniel,

I’m really glad you got in touch and weren’t put off by my crazy profile! I did in fact set it up as a bit of a laugh – I wasn’t really expecting to actually meet anyone through it! Sorry I couldn’t make it to the pub last night, I only picked up your messages this morning. Perhaps you’re free for a drink tomorrow evening? I’d love to hear more about Esther, volunteering, and what it’s like to look just like Robert Pattinson.

X

Sophia

I reread the message. I’m really glad you got in touch . That sounds too keen. I delete ‘really’ but ‘I’m glad you got in touch’ sounds too formal, like I’m sending a work email or something. I’ll just delete it and start with, ‘I’m glad you weren’t put off by my crazy profile!’ Yes, that sounds better – lighter and happier. The rest of the message is fine. Interested but not desperate, friendly but not full-on. With a small thrill of excitement, I hit the send button. I can hear Kate shuffling about next door and quickly log off the site, opening up my novel again.

‘Sophia…?’ Kate knocks on my door whilst simultaneously turning the knob and pushing it open. I’ve told her a million times that opening the door while knocking defeats the point of knocking in the first place but it’s a habit that she just can’t seem to break.

‘What are you up to?’ she asks.

‘Reading,’ I reply.

She lingers in the doorway. ‘Do you want some pasta?’

‘What with?’

Kate shrugs. ‘I don’t know, pesto or something?’

‘Yeah, go on then.’

‘Cool.’

Kate closes my bedroom door. Culinary prowess has never been our strong point. In all the years that Kate and I have lived together, our meals have rarely digressed from a limited menu of pasta with pesto, pasta with red pesto, pasta with tuna, and occasionally, when we’re feeling adventurous, jacket potatoes with beans and cheese. Even back at school when we first became friends, we’d go over to each other’s house and scoff pasta and crisps. There was a brief interlude – when Kate went to RADA and I went to Aberystwyth Uni – when I began eating slightly healthier but since I moved to London and we became flatmates, it’s been carb central. Sometimes I feel guilty that we eat so badly but Kate says it’s because we’re creatives, and creatives have better things to think about than food.

I start writing another paragraph of my novel but my eyes begin to sting. I try reducing the brightness of my screen but it doesn’t help. That’s the problem with typing all day long and then attempting to write a novel in the evenings; there are only so many hours one human being can stare at a screen and I’m already maxed out. I turn my computer off and pick up a notebook. I’ll write by longhand instead. No excuses. I doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been put off if his typewriter broke down. And didn’t J. K. Rowling plot Harry Potter on the back of a napkin? A notebook is a luxury. I start writing.

A minute later, I pick up my phone to check if I have any messages from Dream Dates. I mean, it might have developed a fault and maybe Daniel replied but the message notification failed to sound. But, of course, it hasn’t malfunctioned; I just don’t have any messages. I let out a big sigh and carry on writing.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ Kate calls.

I head into the living room to find her curled up on the sofa tucking into a bowl of pasta in front of EastEnders .

‘Thanks.’ I pick up the steaming bowl she’s left for me on the coffee table.

I try not to make a habit of watching EastEnders , but sometimes I can’t help getting sucked into the storylines. I tuck into my pasta, losing myself in a row in the Queen Vic when my phone suddenly beeps. Without skipping a beat, I grab it from the armrest. I sigh.

‘What’s up?’ Kate glances over.

‘It’s just a text from the noodle nerd, my date from the other day,’ I tell her glumly.

‘Who did you think it was?’ Kate asks.

‘Oh, no one.’ There’s no way I’m telling her that I thought it might have been Daniel from Dream Dates. I read the message.