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

‘Like Tinder?’ I spluttered.

‘No! God no. Tinder’s for our age. There’s others – ones for older people. It’s what single women your age do. They have no way of meeting people any other way.’

‘But I meet people all day,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s my job—’

‘Yeah, we know about that,’ he conceded. ‘It’s called traffic stopping …’

‘But actually,’ Amy cut in, smirking, ‘it’s taking innocent people hostage and forcing them to sit on your stool so you can plaster them in foundation.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I tie them up and gag them. I never told you that part.’

Cam tossed his choppily cut brown hair back from his handsome, angular face. ‘Stop changing the subject. We’re not talking about customers at a make-up counter. We mean, you know …’ He winced slightly. ‘Meeting a man.’

‘Oh.’

‘And we’ve already written your profile,’ Amy added, her dark eyes glinting with amusement.

‘What? All this plotting and scheming’s been going on behind my back?’

‘Yeah, it was fun,’ she said, grinning. ‘Stu helped us.’ So my oldest friend – currently our lodger – was in on this too? The traitor!

Cam fetched his laptop to show me their ‘work’:

Our mum is a lovely outgoing and attractive person who would like to meet someone special. She is kind, sociable and loves a laugh with her friends. She is incredibly thoughtful and has brought us up all by herself for the past seven years. In all that time she has been single, not because there is anything wrong with her but because she has always put us first. But we are older now and both feel it’s time for her to get out there, meet someone special and enjoy life to the full.

Mum is called Lorrie – short for Lorraine – and is forty-six (but looks younger). Why not meet her and find out how lovely she is?

Please get in touch,

Cam and Amy

Oh my God. It wasn’t perfect, I decided as I blotted my sudden hot tears on a tea towel. It certainly wasn’t what I would have written myself. But, like a child’s lumpen rock cake lovingly transported home from school, you have to give it a try.

Slowly, the idea started to grow on me. Not in a ‘finding a life partner’ way – I’d had that in David, my children’s father and lost him seven years ago – but the odd date now and again, just to liven things up. So I agreed to go with the profile my kids had so sweetly created, and see what happened. Perhaps I’d find a ‘companion’, like wealthy Victorian ladies used to have?

First of all I met the curiously named Beppie, a plummy ‘lifestyle consultant’ – whatever that meant – who charmingly remarked, ‘If you’re not looking for anything serious we might be able to have a bit of fun.’ As if he might deign to sleep with me when there wasn’t much on the telly. No thank you.

Marco, my date before Ralph, had perhaps three teeth in the whole of his head due to extensive oral decay, judging by the remaining examples (in his profile picture he’d had his mouth firmly closed). Was I being too fussy, hoping for something at least approaching a full set? Probably.

Yes, I get lonely, but for someone to hang out with there’s always Stu, who’s funny and kind and does possess teeth, and who I have known since we were school friends growing up in our beleaguered West Yorkshire town. We snogged just the once, under the stairs at a party in 1987 (my futile attempt to get Antoine Rousseau out of my head), and never mentioned it again. The unspoken message was that we knew each other too well as friends for anything else to happen, and the kiss had been a drunken accident. By our early twenties, when we drifted to London at around the same time, I’d almost forgotten it had ever happened.

I glance at Ralph now as he prowls around the gallery, reading all the little cards on the wall. Will this be a case of third time lucky with my online dates? I’m trying to remain positive.

He turns to me and indicates the bundle of brown fabric. ‘Ooh, it’s called “jacket for two”. The idea is, we both get in it and wear it together.’ He beams eagerly as I step back.

‘But surely we’re not supposed to touch it?’

Ralph shakes his head. ‘No, it’s an interactive piece. Look, it says over there on the wall, “Please wear me with a friend …”’

But we’re not friends! ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so …’

He holds up the grubby-looking garment. ‘Look, it’s enormous.’

‘It really is,’ I agree.

‘I think even we could fit into it!’ What, me with my ample chest and sizeable backside? He’s really not helping himself. ‘Must have been specially made,’ he adds.

‘Yes. Wow.’ I can smell coffee wafting through from the cafe. I’m starving now, to the point of light-headedness. Perhaps this, coupled with my pity for Ralph, is why I find myself standing there like some inert shop mannequin while he drapes half the jacket around me. It smells like an ancient sofa in a tawdry B&B as he feeds one of my arms into a sleeve whilst shimmying into the other half himself.

He buttons up the jacket with impressive speed. We are now both trapped in it, our bodies pressed awkwardly together. I can feel the thumping of Ralph’s heart as he grins at me. ‘We’re a living sculpture!’

‘Yes, lovely. Very good. What an amazing, er, concept.’ What the hell am I saying? If Amy told me she’d been cajoled into wearing a stinky jacket with a man, I’d be horrified. As a single parent, I hope I have raised her to have a darn sight more self-respect than I clearly possess. I’m sweating now, my special date pants clinging to my bottom (not that I was expecting to show them but, you know) as I fumble for the buttons.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ralph exclaims as I struggle out of the jacket.

‘Nothing. I’m just a bit hot, that’s all. Think I might be having a flush. Look, Ralph, I’d really like a coffee now if you don’t mind,’ i.e. enough of Thomas-bloody-Trotter and his so-called art!

‘Oh! Yes, of course …’ He pulls his arm from the sleeve and dumps the jacket back on its plinth, trooping rather sulkily beside me as we make our way to the cafe.

As we order lattes, my gaze skims the array of baking on offer. ‘A piece of carrot cake please,’ I tell the girl behind the counter before turning to Ralph. ‘Would you like something?’

‘No, no, you go ahead, though,’ he says.

We install ourselves at a table at the waterside. It’s a picturesque stretch of canal, with a row of brightly painted narrowboats moored on the opposite bank. A mallard duck bobs along on the water, and a young couple stroll hand-in-hand along the towpath.

‘Well, that was interesting,’ I remark.

‘Glad you thought so,’ he says with a smile.

Silence descends, and I focus instead on sampling the carrot cake which, I have to say, is perhaps the best I have ever tasted.

‘I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon,’ Ralph adds.

‘Oh, me too,’ I say through a mouthful of delicately spiced sponge and creamy icing. I swallow it down, soothed now by the delicious cake and the slight breeze, and decide Ralph’s not that bad really. This has become my marker of dating success: he’s not that bad really. I glance at him as he observes the bobbing boats. ‘I hope you don’t mind …’ I venture cautiously, poking at my cake with my fork. ‘I mean, I sort of need to ask you this really, but, of course, I completely understand if you don’t want to talk about it …’

He raises a brow. ‘Yes?’

‘Um, you know the painting with the big yellow sun? The one you said Belinda liked?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s called “Orb”.’ He sips his coffee.

I clear my throat. ‘Look, I hope this isn’t intrusive, but you said, “My wife”. So I’m sort of assuming – well, you know, otherwise you’d have said my ex …’ Hotness spreads up my cheeks. ‘Is she … I mean … what happened to—’

‘Oh, it was all very amicable. We married very young, silly mistake really. In fact, we’re still married—’

‘You’re married?’ I dump my fork on my plate.

‘Well, yes, technically, I suppose …’