by Zoe May
Can you ever find true love online?
Sophia Jones is an expert in all things online dating: the best sites, how to write a decent bio, which questions to ask and the right type of photos to use. The only thing she’s not so great at? Picking the guys…
After sitting through yet another dreadful date with a man who isn’t quite what she expected, Sophia is just about ready to give up on the whole dating scene. But her flatmate, Kate, persuades her to give it one more chance, only this time she must create a profile describing her ‘perfect’ man.
Yes, he must look like Robert Pattinson and needs to own a multi-million pound business, but there are a couple of other deal breakers, too! So, when a guy comes along who ticks every box, surely there’s got to be a catch?
A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy, perfect for fans of Catherine Bennetto and Rosie Blake!
Perfect Match
Zoe May
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Zoe May 2018
Zoe May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-828214-1
ZOE MAY
lives in southeast London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and of course, reading.
Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes
To my Mum
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Endpages
Chapter One
It might be date number 71, and perhaps I ought to have cut my losses by this point, but for some reason, I had a good feeling about tonight. Chris (or ‘Thundrill84’ as he was called on his Match.com profile) seemed like a genuinely great catch, so how did things end up going so horribly wrong?
It’s not like I didn’t do my homework. I’m not a fool. I stopped going on dates without googling in advance a loooong time ago. I typed random combinations of words gleaned from our text conversations into the search bar (Chris, Senior Sales Manager, Durham University, Cloud Computing) until I hit the jackpot: his LinkedIn profile. He was legit! In fact, he was better than legit. I discovered a few extra details he hadn’t divulged that made me like him even more. Not only did he have a good job, but he’d been promoted every year and he was head of his company’s charity fundraising committee. And not only did he have a degree in Classical Civilisation from Durham University, but he’d got a first! And he looked exactly the same in his LinkedIn photo as he did on his dating profile – tall, slim and with lovely blue eyes! I really did believe my luck might finally be changing. 71st time lucky! But no, hah! As if. Chris, the seemingly great catch, is now sitting across from me in a dingy Chinatown restaurant droning on about the precise differences between ho fun, udon and ramen noodles, while slurping said noodles and splashing soy sauce all over his shirt.
‘You see, ho fun noodles are interesting, because while you may think that noodles, like pasta, are made from wheat, ho fun are actually made from rice flour!’ Chris enthuses.
‘Mm-hmm…’ I murmur, downing the dregs of my white wine. I place the empty glass back down with despair.
‘Udon and ramen, on the other hand, are wheat noodles – a bit more commonplace, but while they may both be wheat-based, the differences in the way they’re prepared affects their taste to a surprising degree. You see, udon are made using a technique of…’
I peer over Chris’ shoulder while he drones on, hoping to catch the waitress’ eye to order another glass of wine, but she’s running around the restaurant tending to other customers. It occurs to me that perhaps I ought to start bringing a hip flask on dates for this kind of emergency: when a man is so boring that only alcohol-induced merriment can make him remotely tolerable. I wonder how much hip flasks cost. It might be quite cool and edgy to carry one around in my handbag. Maybe I’ll start a trend. It’ll become the next ironic fashion, like the wheeled shopping trolleys hipsters pull around in Hackney.
Chris loudly slurps another noodle, tearing me out of my reverie, while leaving yet another streak of soy sauce on his once-white shirt. He looks like he’s been standing behind a truck that’s been attempting to reverse out of a muddy ditch. He carries on talking. He appears to have changed the subject to hobbies. Or more precisely, to weird nerdy games I thought were meant for children. I smile awkwardly and shovel my sweet and sour stir-fry into my mouth, as if by eating quicker, I can speed up the passage of time.
‘We meet up every Saturday morning. We used to get together at the gaming shop, but the atmosphere there got a bit too competitive so we meet in a pub now. We all bring along our army figurines and we battle for hours! Right into the evening sometimes. It’s great, although there’s this one guy who keeps beating me. It’s so annoying, but I’ve got a new addition to my army now – Grand Lord Thor – one of the toughest figures in the game. So, he’s in for a treat!’ Chris says with a loud cackle.
Other diners are looking over at us, but Chris is oblivious. I smile tightly, shrinking into my seat.
‘You know, some women are a bit put off when I tell them I play battle games, but I don’t really see what’s so bad about it. It’s just a game. It’s just guys hanging out, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry, what?’ I pipe up.
‘Battle games! We each have an army of figurines, hand painted,’ Chris adds with pride. ‘And then we play battle against
each other’s armies.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Some men meet to play football, I play battle games!’ Chris says before slurping up his last noodle. It splatters triumphantly on his cheek, leaving a murky brown trail.
‘Whoops!’ he chuckles, reaching for a napkin to wipe it off.
I laugh. My first laugh of the evening. Chris smiles as if we’re having a moment. I don’t think he realises that my laughter is really just joyous relief emanating from deep within over the fact that he’s finished his meal and the date is almost over. I beckon over the waitress.
‘Dessert menu? Bill?’ she asks. Chris looks at me questioningly.
‘Bill!’ I yelp, a little too shrilly.
‘Okay…’ The waitress gives me a funny look before scurrying off to get the bill.
She brings it over and Chris plonks his wallet on the table, while I rummage in my bag for my wallet.
‘I’ll get it,’ Chris says.
‘No! Let’s go halves,’ I insist. ‘One sec.’ The last thing I need after the world’s most boring date is to feel like I owe this guy something just because he bought me dinner. Finally, I land upon my wallet amid a debris of stray receipts, blunted eye-liners and errant hair pins.
‘I’ve got this.’ Chris passes the waitress his card with a charming smile, as I flip my wallet open, pull mine out and thrust it towards her.
‘No! We’ll go fifty-fifty, please.’
‘Oh…’ The waitress looks to Chris, as if for permission.
‘That’s okay with you, isn’t it Chris?’ I ask, giving him the most beaming smile I’ve delivered all night.
‘Err, okay,’ he relents.
‘Okay,’ the waitress echoes, taking another look at the bill and punching half the total into the card machine for Chris and then again for me. I try not to let my eyes bulge when I clock the figure – since when did Chinatown get so expensive? – and punch in my pin. Even though I’m a bit pissed off that I’ve had to pay an arm and a leg for the pleasure of listening to a lecture on noodle variations and battle games, I can feel my spirits begin to lift. The date is practically over! We leave the restaurant and start walking towards Leicester Square.
‘You know, it’s interesting…’ Chris muses, nodding to himself at some thought he’s had.
‘What’s interesting?’ I ask, immediately regretting the question.
‘Tube stations,’ he says. ‘People tend to think that they’re all roughly the same distance apart but they’re actually not. It’ll only take us a couple of minutes to walk to Leicester Square, but that’s because the tube stations around here are unusually close together. You’d be surprised to know that the distance between Leicester Square and Covent Garden is actually only a third of the distance between Victoria and Green Park.’
‘Mm-hmm…’ I quicken my pace. Maybe if we walk faster, we can get to Leicester Square in one minute, rather than two. Chris carries on talking about tube station geography as I pound the street with my heels. It feels like an hour has passed by the time we finally get there.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ I mumble half-heartedly. It’s just one of those things you say, isn’t it?
‘I’ll text you,’ I add, edging towards the escalator.
Chris looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Surprise? Cynicism? Dread? Perhaps the date was as bad for him as it was for me.
‘Okay, take care,’ he replies.
He smiles politely and I smile politely and we politely go our separate ways.
Chapter Two
‘He can’t really have been that boring?’ Kate tops up my glass of wine.
‘Trust me, he was.’ I take a glug.
‘But he seemed so sweet, with all those photos of him and his Labrador. So cute,’ she says wistfully.
‘Yeah, well, apparently a love of dogs doesn’t necessarily guarantee a good date,’ I sigh, thinking back to all those misleading pictures of him smiling with his family’s pet.
‘Oh well, you’ll find someone soon.’ Kate sounds reassuring as she opens a message on her phone, but even she must be beginning to doubt it. As my flatmate and best friend, Kate’s witnessed all my dating disasters: the Hugh Grant lookalike who turned out to be an ex-con; the creepy chartered surveyor who kept referring to himself in the third person (‘Isaac would like to take Sophia out.’ For the record, Sophia said no); the gorgeous photographer who seemed like a great catch until he requested foot photographs to masturbate over; the geeky journalist who drank too much fizzy water and then burped in my mouth as he kissed me goodnight… The list goes on and that’s just my dates, don’t even get me started on my exes.
First there was my university boyfriend, Sam. Six foot two with curly blonde hair and an IQ of 130, what more could I want, right? Well, a healthy disregard for vermin would have been nice. Sam ended up getting so wrapped up in his studies that he stopped cleaning his flat; carpets went unhoovered, bins went unemptied, pizza boxes piled up and eventually a couple of rats moved in. Not even mice – I can just about handle mice – I’m talking rats, big dirty rats! I might have been able to forgive him if he’d got rid of them, but when he simply named them Itchy and Scratchy and carried on studying, enough was enough.
So, I thought I’d go for the polar opposite after that (as you do when you rebound) and what could be more different to a vermin-loving, geeky Aberystwyth student, than a bisexual Italian hairdresser who’d probably need one-to-one tuition to get his head around Spot the Dog? Paulo was so ditzy that my friends dubbed him ‘the himbo’ – the male bimbo. But still, he was great fun. Even though it did get quite annoying how he’d always bang on about how ‘bellissima’ I’d look with shorter hair. He simply refused to accept that I wanted to keep it long so one night, he took it upon himself to gently chop it off in my sleep. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few weeks later he left me for a man. A man with short hair.
‘I reckon it’s a matter of perseverance. You just need to keep looking,’ Kate’s voice snaps me back to the present. I realise I’m twirling a lock of my hair around my finger, as if to console myself that it’s there, all grown back. Nice and long. Kate places her phone on the table.
‘Just Max saying goodnight,’ she says.
She takes a sip of her wine and looks at me with a sweet, hopeful smile. Poor Kate. She really wants me to find love. It must be hard when you’ve been with your boyfriend for four and a half years to see your flatmate so romantically destitute. She probably feels the same sense of guilty awkwardness witnessing my love life (or lack thereof) that rich people get when they scurry past homeless people on the streets.
But it was just so easy for Kate; meeting Max was effortless. We’d only been living in London a few weeks when we went to see the play where Kate first laid eyes on him. It was a production of A Streetcar Named Desire and Max was playing Stanley Kowalski. He wasn’t a far cry from Marlon Brando himself, with his wife-beater vest and muscles, and Kate was practically drooling the entire show. The second it ended, she hurried over to the stage door and hung about waiting to introduce herself, swapping numbers with him on the pretence that she was an actress and might need tips on getting into the London scene (even though at that point, she already had a role lined up at The Globe). A couple of weeks later, she and Max were an item and they’ve been smitten with each other ever since.
‘Seriously, you just have to keep looking,’ Kate insists.
I wind my hair up into a bun, wincing at the platitude that I must have heard a million and one times before.
‘Do you know what? Maybe it’s just not meant to be,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Some people just are, aren’t they? I should probably stop fighting it.’
‘Nah, it’s only a bit of bad luck.’ Kate bats the thought away. ‘I’m sure he’s just around the corner. One day, you’ll look back on all this stuff and laugh.’
‘You said that six months ago,’ I remind her.
Kate pulls an awkward expressio
n and plucks at a loose thread on her leggings.
‘Well, at least it’s all good material for your novel,’ she chirps.
‘Yeah s’pose,’ I grumble. One of the perks of wanting to be a writer is that you can view all your crazy experiences as material, except now I’ve got enough for a trilogy.
‘Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places,’ Kate takes a sip of her wine.
I roll my eyes.
‘Kate, I’ve tried Match.com, eHarmony, PlentyOfFish, Guardian Soulmates, Tinder.’ I rap my fingernails against the table, trying to recall the full list. ‘OkCupid, Bumble, Happn, MySingleFriend, even Single bloody Booklovers. I’ve tried speed-dating, I’ve tried singles nights, I’ve tried—’
‘Oh, what about Dream Dates?’ Kate interjects, her eyes lighting up.
‘What’s Dream Dates?’
‘Saw it advertised today. Massive poster on the tube. It’s a new dating site. It had this really hot guy on the ad,’ Kate gushes.
‘Well, he was clearly a model,’ I point out. ‘It’s not like they’re going to use photos of the actual people that use it. The big, fat, hairy, hunchbacked…’
Kate sighs. ‘Come on, if you take that attitude, you’re never going to find anyone. You should try Dream—’
‘Leave it, Kate,’ I cut her off. ‘I can’t face any more.’
I get up to open the kitchen cupboard and pull out a bag of nachos. I shove a handful into my mouth and feel the delicious saltiness spread over my tongue. So good. I shove in another handful. At least food never lets you down. You open a bag of crisps and you know exactly what you’re getting. Predictable, satisfying, dependable crisps.
Kate eyes me warily. ‘Just one more site.’
I shake my head and crunch through another mouthful.
‘One more won’t hurt!’ she insists.
Ignoring her, I open up the fridge and retrieve a block of cheddar. I’ll just grate some cheese over these crisps and then pop them in the microwave. It’ll be even tastier. I find the cheese grater and start grating the cheddar onto the chopping board. I can hear Kate shuffling about behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m going to focus on grating my nice little mound of cheese instead. A singsong tone chimes through the kitchen — the familiar sound of Kate’s laptop firing up. I grab a bowl, fill it with nachos and sprinkle the cheese over them but as I turn to pop them in the microwave, I spot a dating site – Dream Dates – open on Kate’s computer. She looks at me guiltily as I snap the microwave door shut.
