Perfect Match

by Zoe May

  ‘Hmmm… Good point,’ Tom muses. ‘Although I was planning on brushing up. You know, getting a cookbook or something.’

  ‘Sounds boring!’ I groan, when suddenly a brainwave hits me. ‘How about a karaoke party?’

  ‘Karaoke?’ Tom looks momentarily perplexed, before the idea settles and his face lights up.

  ‘That’s perfect, Sophia!’ he enthuses. ‘Mum loves music. She loves having a good ol’ sing-a-long!’

  ‘And no cooking or cookbooks necessary!’

  ‘Yeah! What was I thinking?!’

  ‘Fuck knows..’ I shrug.

  Tom gazes across The Muffin House, looking spellbound – a little creepily so, actually.

  ‘Err… Tom, are you okay?’

  Startled, he looks back towards me.

  ‘Yeah! I was just picturing the community centre decked out in disco lights, a mirror ball, glow sticks.’

  ‘Glow sticks?! This is a 75-year-old’s birthday party, not a rave!’

  Tom shrugs. ‘It’s as close as I get to raving these days; we’re having glow sticks!’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, fine. Anyway, what’s this about a community centre?’

  ‘Oh yeah, forgot to say. I already booked out Lewisham Community Centre. It was free on the night of Mum’s birthday and I didn’t want to miss out. It’s got a massive hall. Don’t tell me you’re busy the night of the 17th, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ I tut. ‘As if I’d miss Lyn’s birthday.’

  ‘Good. Even if this Daniel bloke does turn out to be the love of your life, you have to keep that night free, Sophia. I mean it,’ Tom says in his bossy, teacherish way.

  ‘I will,’ I sigh. ‘What do you take me for? Sacking off my dear old neighbour for a man! Pah!’

  Tom raises an eyebrow knowingly.

  ‘Okay, fine!’ I sigh. ‘I promise I won’t!’

  ‘Good!’ Tom nods, satisfied. ‘Right, well there’s a lot to think about,’ he says, tapping his spoon against his saucer.

  ‘Food, decorations, guest list, getting a karaoke machine. I’m going to have to make a list.’

  He reaches for his backpack, which, it being Tom, naturally contains a notepad and pen.

  ‘Do we really need a list?’ I groan.

  ‘Of course, we need a list!’ Tom says, as he pulls the notepad out of his backpack. ‘We need to divide the tasks.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The responsibilities,’ Tom says, as he flips over the cover of the pad and finds a crisp white page, writing ‘Mum’s party’ at the top, with a bold underline.

  ‘Who’s responsible for what? I mean, I’ll do the guest list since I know everyone. Oh! And I’d love to do decorations, but what about food and drink. Do you want to do that?’

  ‘What kind of food?’ I ask.

  Tom shrugs. ‘I dunno. Buffet food.’

  ‘Like crisps and quiche and stuff?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tom shrugs.

  ‘Okay, I can handle that. Yeah, I’ll take food.’

  ‘Actually, Mum doesn’t really like quiche. But I suppose you can still get it, for everyone else.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  Tom writes ‘Food – Sophia’ on the pad and then taps his pen against it.

  I glance towards the exit of The Muffin House, getting a bit restless. Tom’s right. I only have a few hours until my big date and I’m sitting in a café discussing quiche. I need to get home and sort out my hair.

  ‘I wonder where I can get a karaoke machine,’ Tom muses. ‘Hope they’re not too expensive.’

  ‘Try Google. I’m sure you’ll find some deals,’ I suggest, a little impatiently.

  He writes ‘karaoke machine – Tom’ on the pad.

  ‘Errr…Tom, I should probably be, umm…’

  ‘Oh! Beautifying! Yes, of course.’ Tom flaps the pad closed as we head off back to Longbridge Way. Tom’s stopping in at Lyn’s so we discuss the party as we walk, deciding that Tom will handle decorations, music and the guest list, while food and drink will be my tasks. Tom insists on putting a couple of hundred pounds into my account to pay for everything and although I protest, he’s having none of it.

  ‘She’s my mum, Soph,’ he reminds me as we walk past Lewisham Park, just as Ferret Man comes charging through the gates in his wheelchair.

  Ferret Man is a local Lewisham legend. He’s a fairly weird-looking older man who hurtles through Lewisham in a rickety old wheelchair pulled along by two whippets. But the trick Ferret Man has employed to keep the whippets running ahead is to keep a ferret on a long leash. The whippets chase the ferret, and Ferret Man gets from A to B without having to touch the wheels of his chair once. It’s actually pretty ingenious when you think about it.

  Tom stares, open-mouthed, as Ferret Man ploughs ahead.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, that’s Ferret Man,’ I explain.

  ‘Ferret Man?’

  Tom looks completely bamboozled, which to be fair, is the same reaction I had when I first saw Ferret Man, but now I’m just used to him. He’s just as much a fixture of Lewisham life as the teenagers who hang around smoking pot or the angry bus drivers or the shady blokes who are always flogging secondhand mobiles and tacky phone accessories by the side of the road.

  ‘Wow…’ Tom watches Ferret Man retreat into the distance. ‘I honestly don’t know what to make of that.’

  ‘It is what it is.’ I shrug. ‘So, back to the party.’

  We carry on discussing the plans until we arrive outside Lyn’s place.

  ‘Anyway, we’d better shut up about it,’ Tom says, glancing towards Lyn’s front room. ‘I don’t want Mum hearing anything.’

  ‘I’m not sure Lyn’s hearing is that razor sharp, Tom,’ I joke.

  ‘You never know! Better to be safe than sorry.’ Tom taps his nose.

  I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Okay, well I’d better go,’ I remind him, pulling him into a hug.

  ‘Good luck for the date! Let me know how it goes!’

  ‘I will!’ I promise before heading home.

  Back in the flat, I have a quick shower before blow-drying my hair and reapplying my make-up. Although time is tight, my extensive experience of getting date-ready works in my favour and I manage to get my hair and make-up looking pretty much perfect in under an hour. Now, all I need to do is get dressed but this is the part of tonight’s date prep I’ve actually been looking forward to.

  I take my favourite dress out of the wardrobe, drape it over my bed and stand back to admire it. It’s made from the softest pearly silk, embellished with embroidered flowers and ivy winding up from the knee-length hem to the bodice and over the shoulders. It’s the most beautiful, unique dress. In fact, it’s more than just a dress, it’s a work of art and yet I’ve never actually worn it. Surely every girl has a dress that’s so nice that you just can’t bring yourself to wear down it down the pub? Well, maybe not every girl, there are probably some girls out there that get to wear this kind of thing all the time (bitches), but for me, a good enough opportunity just hasn’t arisen. But, tonight’s the night. Tonight’s the night I finally get to wear it!

  I run my hand over the soft material. I bought it a few years ago in the Harrods January sale, down from £800 to £245, which was still pretty expensive but I knew if I left the shop without it, I’d regret it. And even though I’ve never worn it before, I’ve liked knowing that it’s there, just in case. I step into it and delicately pull up the zipper. I check out my reflection. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet but this dress really was made for me. It fits perfectly; the shape flatters my figure, while the green leaf embroidery brings out my eyes. I toss my hair over my shoulder and imagine walking into The Cavendish Club, smiling winsomely at Daniel. Is it too much? I’d never normally wear a dress like this on a first date, but then my first dates aren’t normally at exclusive private members’ clubs with extremely attractive Robert Pattinson lookalikes.

  I add a black clutch bag
and a pair of stilettos, which I also hardly ever wear, before putting on my coat and ordering a cab. My phone buzzes. A text from Daniel.

  On my way. See you soon! X Daniel

  My hands grow sweaty as I hold my phone. Shit! I’m actually going to meet him – I glance at the time – in 25 minutes. In 25 minutes, I’ll either be sitting opposite the hottest guy ever, or discovering that I’m the butt of some elaborate joke. A thought occurs to me and I bash out a message.

  How will I get into The Cavendish Club? I’m not a member… x

  My phone buzzes.

  Tell the doorman you’re meeting Daniel Hamilton-Reed. I’ve told them you’re coming x

  Daniel Hamilton-Reed. Oh wow! Double-barrelled. He sounds so posh. My hands grow sweatier and I can feel my heart racing. I’ve never gone out with a man with a surname like that before. He must be old money, aristocracy perhaps. I look in the mirror, suddenly doubting my £245 dress. Will it be good enough for Mr Hamilton-Reed? His ilk might consider this kind of thing tacky. I fling my wardrobe open. But what am I expecting to find? A £3,000 designer gown just waiting for me? A fairy godmother?

  I slump back down on my bed. Daniel Hamilton-Reed. Sophia Hamilton-Reed. It sounds so classy! Now that I know his name, I could google him… After all, I do always google my dates. It’s better to be safe than sorry, like the time I started chatting to that Hugh Grant lookalike on PlentyOfFish, and then when I googled him a stream of headlines came up: ‘Drugs duo jailed for 18 years’, ‘Prison for ketamine dealers’. It turned out that he’d spent the best part of his twenties banged up in a cell. Thank God I did my research before that date.

  But if I google Daniel, will it dispel the magic? Everything’s been so perfect so far, I don’t want to break the spell. But if the spell is going to be broken, then I should probably get it over with now. Screw it, I’m going to google him. I type in his name and scroll through the results. One is a website profiling a grey-haired man who must be in his sixties - the head of an IT company. Well, that had better not be him. Another is for a Daniel Hamilton who, according to his Twitter page, is tattoed Liverpool FC fan living in Swindon who loves ‘the gym, good food and a pub quiz’. My phone buzzes - the taxi’s outside. I jump up, quickly spritz myself with perfume, grab my keys and dash out of the flat, teetering a little on my heels. Thankfully Kate is at the theatre, otherwise I’d have a million and one questions to answer right now. Or she’d be giving me yet another one of her speeches on how the perfect man doesn’t exist and how I should just give up all hope of finding Mr Right and settle for Mr Mediocre. Maybe one day I’ll settle for Mr Mediocre, but not tonight.

  ‘Good evening,’ the driver says, his eyes roaming appreciatively over my outfit.

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘So, you’re going to The Cavendish Club?’ he asks as I climb into the back seat.

  ‘Yes please,’ I reply, trying to sound debonair, as if people like me who live in tiny little flats in Lewisham hang out at private members’ clubs all the time. Although for all he knows, I might be extremely rich. For all he knows, I’m some wealthy socialite who just had to pay a quick visit to my impoverished cousin before swiftly returning to my life of decadence and glamour.

  ‘Night out?’ The driver asks, glancing up at me through the rear-view mirror as he pulls out into the traffic.

  I can’t help breaking into a grin.

  ‘A date actually!’ I gush.

  ‘A date! Who’s the lucky fella?’

  ‘This guy called Daniel. I met him online. It’s our first date. I’m so nervous!’ I let out a high-pitched laugh.

  ‘So, you’ve never met this Daniel bloke before?’ The driver asks, as he glances at his GPS.

  ‘No, I haven’t…’ I reply a little sheepishly.

  ‘But he seems like a nice chap?’

  ‘Yeah, he seems great! Really great, actually. Perfect.’

  ‘Perfect?’ The driver looks a little bemused.

  ‘Well, I suppose you can’t tell just from a dating profile but, you know, fingers crossed! I mean, it’s not the end of the world if he’s not perfect I suppose. My flatmate’s always telling me I need to stop holding out for the perfect guy but at what point do you settle, you know? What’s the cut-off point? Is it 28? Is it 30? Is that when I have to resign myself to some boring, unattractive, bang-average guy? People keep making out that I’m chasing an impossible dream but I’m just not ready to give up on it yet. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ the driver murmurs as he weaves through the traffic.

  ‘And then obviously at the back of your mind, you know the biological clock is ticking and it’s like, should you just settle down, so you can have a family? But then do I want to end up with a mediocre man just so I can procreate? And then end up as the third wheel in a mediocre family. Maybe it’s better to be single forever than to end up like that. What do you think?’

  I peer up at the driver’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. He eyes me strangely.

  ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s the pre-date nerves!’ I laugh awkwardly.

  The driver nods before burping abruptly, stifling his mouth with his hand as he navigates round a bend in the road.

  ‘Pardon me.’ He reaches into his glove compartment and takes out a bottle of Evian.

  ‘Here, have some water.’ He hands it to me. ‘How about some gum?’ He passes me a pack of Wrigley’s Extra.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ I take the gum from him and we lapse into silence. So much for my Uber driver being an oracle of wisdom. I know I have a slight tendency to gabble when nervous, but some input would have been nice. I chew the gum instead and gaze out the window as the car passes through the dark London streets, which thrum with the busy anticipation of a Saturday night. Perfectly made up women teeter down the streets in high heels, blokes lug crates of beer out of off-licences, and gangs of underage teens try to charm their way into bars. We pull onto some quieter side streets, the buzz dying down.

  ‘The Cavendish Club.’

  Finally, the car draws to a halt.

  ‘Oh.’ I crane my neck towards the window, but all I can see are stately homes.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘This is it, love.’ The driver gestures at a pillared entrance. ‘The Cavendish Club.’

  ‘It looks like a house,’ I observe. A big, impressive house but a house nonetheless.

  ‘Well, that’s it.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Oh… Okay. Well, thanks. And thanks for the water!’ I get out of the taxi.

  ‘Good luck, love,’ the driver says. ‘I hope he’s Mr Right,’ he adds, his lips twitching slightly before he drives off.

  I stand on the pavement, taking in the tall arched windows, the pristine white pillars, the steps leading up to an imposing black door with a polished knocker. After smoothing out the creases in my dress, I ascend the steps. I take a deep breath, trying to quell my nerves, before sounding the knocker. A well-groomed doorman in a neat white suit pulls the door open.

  ‘Good evening,’ he greets me.

  ‘Hi, I’m here to see Daniel. Daniel Hamilton-Reed,’ I tell him.

  The man nods and smiles.

  ‘Of course, may I take your coat, madam?’

  Madam! I slip out of my coat and hand it to him, hoping he doesn’t glance at the label (New Look). He hangs it up in a cloak room, leaving me for a moment to take in my surroundings. The hallway is lined with gold baroque wallpaper. Large, ornately framed mirrors hang on the walls, and vases of lilies are displayed on shiny wooden tables. The doorman emerges from the cloakroom, having deposited my coat, and smiles warmly.

  ‘The bar is just at the end of the hall. Mr Hamilton-Reed told me you’d be coming.’ He guides me down a corridor lined with black and white photographs of movie stars.

  My hands are sweating. It’s just a date, I tell myself. It’s just a regular date. Just two people having a drink. Try not to think. Just don’t think. Don’t overthink it. I look down at my feet. Just keep walki
ng. The doorman shows me into the bar I saw online. My eyes skim over the wood-panelled walls, the crimson velvet curtains and the sumptuous leather chairs.

  ‘Sophia,’ says a deep male voice.

  I look up and there he is, taking a step towards me. Robert Pattinson. I mean, Daniel. He smiles and reaches out to take my hand. He takes another step closer and kisses me on the cheek, and for a second I can smell a woody, musky scent on his cool pale skin. A lock of his hair brushes against the side of my face. His eyes are the most striking shade of blue; they really do dazzle.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I utter, finally remembering the basics of the English language.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling. At some point, the doorman must have tactfully slipped away.

  ‘Your dress is beautiful,’ Daniel says. ‘You look incredible.’

  ‘Oh, this old thing?! Thank you.’ I laugh nervously, feeling my cheeks flare up.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Daniel gestures towards the bar.

  ‘I’d love one.’

  Robert, I mean Daniel, grins, revealing the most perfect set of pearly teeth.

  Sandra was right, he looks like Robert Pattinson but better. His lips are just that little bit fuller and his skin really does glow. He places his hand on the small of my back for a moment as he leads me towards the bar. A red-haired barmaid smiles as we approach. She shakes her long glossy mane over her shoulder and fixes Daniel with a sultry gaze.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asks in a low, sultry voice.

  ‘What are you having, Sophia?’ Daniel turns his attention to me.

  ‘Umm…’ I glance at the row of spirits behind the bar, but my mind is blank. I’ve never been the sort of person who has ‘their drink.’ Not like Kate, who always opts for vodka and tonic wherever she goes.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine,’ I blurt out. I don’t even particularly like white wine.

  ‘Any in particular?’ The barmaid’s tone is sharp, as she eyes me coldly.

  Oh crap. I rack my brains, trying to think of a respectable wine choice. Is Pinot Grigio a decent wine or is it the Lambrini of fine wines?

  ‘The Ruinart is nice,’ Daniel suggests.