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

‘He says it was all moving too fast,’ shouts a girl from the other party, inches from my ear. ‘And now I hear he’s moved in with that woman. You know the fat one who’s, like, thirty?’

I glance around, and she casts me a look of disdain as if I have no business being here at all.

‘Oh my God,’ gasps her friend, flicking her tussled blonde hair. ‘The one with skirt up her arse, cellulite on display?’

Helena’s sister Sophie catches my eye across the table and grimaces.

‘Yeah, don’t know how he can stand seeing her naked.’

Our nondescript meals are brought by a glum waitress, and bear all the hallmarks of having hopped straight from freezer to microwave. I poke at my bland Thai curry, wondering when thirty was deemed ancient and whether I can get away with slipping off home pretty soon.

The two girls are still positioned right beside our table where they are continuing their annihilation of this unnamed woman. ‘She must be at least a size fourteen,’ the blonde one remarks.

‘Yeah! God, it’s disgusting. It always amazes me how some women allow themselves to get to that size.’ I look down at my bowl, my appetite having waned, my curry watery and tepid. After our initial sterling efforts, our group seems to have given up on making ourselves heard above the din. Even Helena looks as if her spirits are sagging.

As our plates are cleared, I reflect that, at some point, Mum stopped mentioning my ‘puppy fat’, declaring instead, ‘You’re lucky, you can carry off your size because of your height.’ Which made me feel like some vast ocean liner: strong, sturdy, reliable in high seas.

More people are crowding into the room now, jostling our table and shouting over our heads. The waitress seems to have forgotten that we’ve ordered another round of drinks, and I find myself yearning to be spirited home to Stu and the kids.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ Helena says in frustration.

‘Good idea,’ remarks Sophie as the bill is plonked on our table, without the extra round of drinks. As we divvy it up, I make my excuses for a quick exit and hug Helena and Andi goodbye. That’s one bonus of growing older; there’s no shame to be had in ducking out early.

Liberated into the humid July night, I make my way towards the tube, finally getting a moment to consider Antoine’s ‘the summer I came alive’ declaration. How am I supposed to respond to that, and why is he telling me now? Perhaps he was just hit by a wave of nostalgia, as I am occasionally. Only mine tend to feature David and the children, the four of us together, on a holiday or at Christmas, or just lazing around the house on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Sometimes, I miss him so much it causes an actual ache.

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 slightlyless 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.’