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

As light rain starts to fall, I step into Tesco Metro where I select packets of chilli and lime rice crackers to satisfy Cam’s copious late-night snacking. Amy favours cheese – the pricier varieties, naturally – and it’s as I approach the dairy section that my mobile rings.

‘Hello?’ I reach for a wedge of Brie.

‘Hi, Lorrie. It’s Ralph—’

‘Oh! How are you?’

‘Great. Look, I hope this isn’t a bad time …’

‘Um, I’m just shopping actually …’ And didn’t I explain last Sunday that we wouldn’t be meeting again? I drop the cheese into my basket, confused as to why he’s calling at all.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Ralph, you did get my text, didn’t you? After our date, I mean?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he blusters. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just calling because, uhh …’ There’s some anxious throat-clearing. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘Really? What for?’ The cake thing, he must mean.

Feeling generous, I select the smoked cheese Amy likes, the one with the terracotta-coloured skin.

‘Oh … everything really,’ he says with an awkward laugh. ‘Mentioning Belinda, for one thing. I’m not sure what I was thinking. That’s not what one does on a date, is it?’

‘It’s okay to talk about your ex,’ I say lightly, ‘and I did ask. Don’t worry about it.’ It’s slightly less okay to infer that I’m a cake-scoffing heifer, not that I care about that now …

‘… And going on about the art,’ Ralph continues. ‘Obviously, they weren’t your cup of tea, those wound paintings, the Thomas Trotter installations …’

‘Well, they were interesting.’

‘No, I’m sorry. You must have found me a colossal bore …’

‘No, not at all ,’ I say, firmly, making my way down the aisle.

‘You’re very kind, Lorrie. Anyway, what I wanted to say is, I was terribly nervous on our date. Does that sound pathetic?’

‘No, of course not. It’s nerve-racking, this online dating business, strangers thrown together like that. But look, Ralph, I’m in Tesco, I really must get on and—’

‘The thing is,’ he interrupts, ‘I was pretty taken aback when I saw you.’

I stop and frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Oh, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really not like you appear in your photo …’

‘Aren’t I?’ Neither are you, Mr-dig-out-a-pic-from-the-90s!

‘No. I mean, your photo’s lovely, of course – that’s why I contacted you in the first place. But in real life you’re much more, er …’

Oh, God, what now?

‘… You’re beautiful !’ he exclaims.

I blink, wondering whether I’ve heard him correctly. ‘Erm … that’s very kind of you, Ralph …’

‘No, I mean it. I think I was rather bowled over, and when I’m nervous I sort of … oh God, this is awful, I am sorry, but I wanted to impress you, I suppose.’

Something in me softens, and then I realise I’m doing it again. At the gallery it was poor, bereaved Ralph. Now it’s poor, nervous Ralph. I must get a grip before I find myself agreeing to another date just because I feel sorry for him. ‘Well, thanks for explaining,’ I murmur.

‘That’s okay. Just thought, if I cleared the air, you might agree to meet me again, just for a coffee or something—’

‘I’m sorry, but no,’ I say firmly.

‘Ah. Okay.’

‘But there is something else,’ I add. ‘Something I’d like to say about our date, if that’s okay.’

He coughs. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

‘It’s about the cake thing.’

‘The cake thing? I’m sorry, I don’t—’

‘Remember when we were in the cafe?’ I cut in, emboldened now. ‘You said something that came across as rather rude, actually.’

‘Really?’ He sounds aghast.

‘Yes, you said, “You’re obviously a girl who very much enjoys her cake.”’

A small silence hangs between us. ‘Oh. Was that impolite?’

‘A little, yes.’

He sighs audibly. ‘I’m so sorry. I meant it as a compliment actually. It’s very attractive, you know, seeing a woman enjoying her food, tucking in with gusto …’

‘Really?’ I say, laughing now.

‘Yes. Women these days – the ones I work with at least – it’s all tiny trays of sushi for lunch, or maybe a dip and some crudités …’

‘I’m not a crudité sort of woman.’

‘No, I can see that.’

‘Because I am a larger woman, you mean …’

‘Well, yes, although I’d rather use the term curvaceous …’

Those few forkfuls of Thai green curry sit uneasily in my stomach. ‘Pardon?’

‘Or perhaps I should say voluptuous ,’ he adds, and there’s a catch to his voice now that makes me shudder.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t,’ I remark.

‘I meant it as a compliment. You’re very attractive. The way you carry yourself, your body …’

I frown, aware that his breathing has taken on a rasping quality. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with—’

‘… When we interacted with the art,’ he adds. ‘I noticed it then, especially …’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I have stopped by the laundry detergents.

‘When we – you know – tried on that jacket. It was rather …’

‘Rather what?’ I bark, flinging a bottle of fabric conditioner into my basket.

‘It was, you know … quite stirring . I enjoyed interacting with you, Lorrie …’

It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean in an art way? You were stirred by the art?’

‘No, by being in such close … proximity to you. You see, when we were pressed up together I couldn’t help but notice your marvellous figure …’ Oh my God. ‘I’m sorry,’ he goes on, sounding a little breathless now. ‘You see, since Belinda left, I haven’t actually been physically close to anyone at all …’ I am standing dead still. An elderly woman gripping a gigantic pack of loo roll gives me a quizzical look. ‘… And there we were, so close together, and it was rather …’ His breath catches.

‘Stirring?’ I snatch a three-pack of yellow dishwasher sponges from the bottom shelf.

‘Well, yes.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath, then another.

‘Are you jogging, Ralph?’

‘Jogging? No, no, I’m still at work—’

‘But it’s nearly nine o’clock!’

‘Yes, I often work late,’ he pants. ‘Busy, you know. And I’ve been thinking about you. Been thinking how much I’d like to, uh, get to know you better—’

‘You sound out of breath,’ I cut in. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No, no—’

‘Are you saying all this in front of your colleagues? Or are you the only one left in the office?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m being discreet …’

I frown. ‘Are you under your desk?’

‘No, no …’ His voice, I realise, has an echoey quality, as if he’s in a small enclosed space. ‘I’m in the gents’ actually.’

‘Oh!’

‘Bit of privacy,’ he adds as it dawns on me what he’s actually doing.

‘Are you in a cubicle?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘And what are you doing exactly?’ I ask sharply.

‘I’m just thinking about our date, about me and you all buttoned up together in that jacket …’

Oh, dear lord. ‘For God’s sake, Ralph. Do you know how vile this sounds? How completely creepy it is to talk to a woman in this way?’

He makes a choking sound. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t help—’

‘I think you can help yourself actually,’ I snap, ‘unless you’ve stumbled into the office loo and your trousers and pants fell down and your hand has accidentally clamped itself around your penis.’