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

‘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.’

I end the call, plunge my mobile into my pocket and stride up to the nearest available till, dumping my basket with a clatter onto the counter. The girl at the till gives me a startled look, and the customer at the next till – a huge bear of a man clutching a box of frozen toad in the hole – swings round to stare.

‘Good on you, darling,’ he says with a throaty laugh. ‘You bloody give ’im what for.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_ac5b88a4-c5ae-5842-8619-d446c6c37c80)

It’s raining heavily by the time I leave the supermarket, causing people to duck into doorways or march quickly, heads bent against the weather. I hurry into the tube station, gripping my carrier bag tightly, the relaxing effect of those couple of glasses of wine having now worn off.

That’s definitely the end of datemylovelymum and me. Any dating at all, actually. If it’s adult male company I’m after, there’s always Stu: amenable, funny, requiring no effort whatsoever in the personal grooming or acquisition of fancy lingerie departments. He has seen all my pants anyway: the full range from fancy black lace to saggy and greying. Mine and his are often laundered together, and sit companionably on the radiator drying side by side. They are even touching, sometimes. No one thinks anything of it. I have seen him trimming his nasal hair with his clipper, and he has watched with interest while I’ve applied some kind of acid solution to my recurring corn. We might as well be an old married couple – apart from the fact that we probably like each other more than most long-term partners do.

Who needs sex anyway? No one died from a lack of it, as far as I am aware. Neither Stu nor I have had any for a thousand years – well, ages anyway – and he, at least, seems pretty chilled out most of the time. A celibate life seems preferable now to running the risk of encountering any more men like Ralph. That’s the thing with having big boobs, hips, bottom and all that: it tends to bring out the creeps. There seems to be an assumption that a larger woman is parading herself – ‘flaunting her assets’ in Daily Mail speak – and a certain type of man takes this as permission to make personal comments. ‘I love a woman with curves,’ growled Pete from electricals, kissing my stomach in his nicotine-hued flat, last time we were in bed together. ‘God, you don’t half give me an appetite, Lorrie. If we hurry up and get dressed we’ll be able to use my two-for-one Groupon deal for that Indian buffet down the road.’