Fiona Gibson - The Woman Who Met Her Match - The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018

I stop at the corner of the street. Five minutes left of my break. I type a message, feeling emboldened now.

Can I just ask what’s made you get in touch with me now, after all this time?

Hell, why not? I want to know what he wants, and I’ve been far too reserved lately. Take the date with Ralph. What possessed me to just sit there, being pleasant, while he told me I was clearly very fond of my cake? Why didn’t I say, ‘Actually, that’s incredibly rude of you and, while we’re at it, I really couldn’t give a toss about what Thomas Trotter is trying to “say” with his caged Brillo pads’?

I hover, staring at my phone like a fixated teenager. Perhaps Cecily was right, and Antoine is newly single and working his way through the list of all the women who’ve been in any way significant to him. Who would I have, if I was playing that game? Without David, there is literally no one. There have been others, of course – a few forgettables before I met him, then more recently Pete Parkin from the electricals department at work, with whom I had a brief thing about three years ago, until he left to take up a deputy manager’s position at Holland and Barrett. But he’d hardly feature on any list; in fact, I suspected we’d only got together because we were both lonely and ended up chatting at a work leaving do. We had absolutely nothing in common, and the sex, which happened just a handful of times – accompanied by the shrill squawks of his parrot in the living room – was a rather dismal affair.

I moved a few months ago, Antoine replies. I’m still sorting through papers and photos, trying to throw things away. Do you find it hard to let go of things?

Oh, yes. Our loft is stuffed with boxes and bags containing David’s possessions. His books, paperwork, numerous shirts with frayed collars that he refused to throw away: they’re all there, waiting for decisions to be made about their destiny.

Once, I got as far as packing up a dozen or so shirts for charity. I was halfway to the shop when I glimpsed a faded blue one poking out of the bag – the one David always took on holiday and threw on over a T-shirt when the beach turned cool. I pulled it out of the bag and briefly buried my face in it, certain I could smell his sun-warmed skin and not caring whether passers-by thought I was crazy. Then I hurried home and bundled the bag of shirts back into the loft.

That, Antoine types, is when I found pictures of us!

I stare at my phone. Pictures of us? I don’t remember many being taken, and the only one I have from that trip is of Valérie and me, sitting rather unhappily on the edge of her bed. I am smiling tensely and Valérie is pulling off one of her socks.

Really? I type. I am amazed you have any from that long ago.

Yes, he replies instantly, it was lovely to see them. You know, I couldn’t believe you had travelled alone, all the way from Yorkshire, with that piece of paper your mother typed. You were brave. Anything could have happened to you …

Something did happen to me.

I thought you were clever, brave and beautiful …

My heart seems to slam against my ribs.

Look, here’s one of the pictures …

My breath catches as a photo appears. It’s a little fuzzy, and at first it’s hard to believe it’s really us. He’s probably photographed the old print with his phone. But I remember it being taken now, by one of Valérie’s friends on a blisteringly hot day. Antoine and I are standing on the old stone bridge in the village, squinting a little – or at least I am – at the camera. He is looking at me, and his slim brown arm is slung around my shoulders, pulling me close. I have dreadful hair – yellowy highlights clashing against my natural brunette, the style verging perilously close to mullet – but I look so happy. Both of us do. You can see it clearly, shining out of our faces, even from a thirty- year-old faded print.

Wow, I type.

It’s lovely, he replies.

Apart from my highlights!

Highlights?

Those yellow stripes in my hair …

I swallow hard, poised to walk back into the store, wanting to remind him that his letters became rather blunt (‘Valérie learns karate but broke shoulder!’) before petering out altogether. I could tell him about my prowlings in the hallway at home, waiting for the postman, or the fact that I lied to Gail Cuthbertson, the mean girl at school, when she asked if I still had ‘that French boyfriend’.

‘Yes, if it’s any of your business.’

‘Let’s see a photo of him then.’

‘Don’t have any.’

‘Yeah, ’cause you made him up!’

Of course I don’t hold grudges: not like my mother, who’s still prone to muttering about my father’s unwillingness to fix a dodgy plug – ‘It’s like he was waging a campaign to electrocute me, Lorrie. Like he wanted to shoot thousands of volts through my body!’ And they broke up thirty-six years ago.

‘Can’t you just let it go, Mum?’ I implored her the last time she dredged it up. ‘It’s a very long time ago and he’s safely on the other side of the world. No one’s going to get electrocuted now.’

‘Maybe Jill will,’ she muttered, with a trace of gleefulness.

So, no – of course I’m not bitter about a teenage romance that fizzled out.

I thought you had lovely hair, Antoine replies now.

A busker starts playing a harmonica incredibly badly as another picture appears on my phone: the two of us again, this time lying on our backs in some grassy place – the goat farm perhaps – photographed from above. I guess his friend must have taken it. Of course, it was long before the days of selfies. My T-shirt is rumpled and slipping off one shoulder, and I am smiling broadly; that pouty photo face, the one all the girls do now, hadn’t been invented then. Even if it had, I’d have been too filled with happiness to remember to pull it.

I stare at the picture, no longer registering the throngs of people all around because I’m just seeing me, a young girl madly in love for the very first time. My vision fuzzes as Antoine’s message appears:

I have to tell you, Lorrie, it was the summer I came alive.

There’s no time to reply and, anyway, I haven’t the first idea how to respond. The summer he came alive? What does that mean? I hurry back into the store and find Nuala hovering at our counter.

‘Ah, here you are, Lorrie.’ She smiles tightly.

‘Oh, sorry, were you looking for me?’

‘No, it’s okay, you’re here now. Just wondering how things are going?’

Helena, who’s helping a customer to select a blusher, throws me a quizzical look.

‘Great,’ I reply. ‘We’re all hitting targets, the day cream and serum are going especially well …’ Nuala knows all this because our sales are carefully recorded and monitored. In her late thirties, authoritative but approachable and chatty with the team, she usually just drops by to ensure everything is tidy and just so. She might share some gossip from one of the other stores, and one of us will touch up her lipstick. Today, she doesn’t seem interested in any of that.

‘Just wanted to let you know,’ she starts, pushing back her sleek black hair, ‘we’re having a bit of a company meeting on Friday and it’s really important everyone attends.’