Perfect Match: a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy you won’t want to miss!

I couldn’t help laughing. Despite looking like a little old lady, with her headscarf, quilted coat, crumpled skin and slick of dated, bright red lipstick, this woman had the sass of a twenty-year-old.

We ended up walking back to Lyn’s house together, which turned out to be only a few doors down from my flat.

She invited me in for a cup of tea in her chintzy front room, and though she didn’t seem it, with her sharp tongue, I could tell she was a little vulnerable and, I suspected, a bit lonely. Seeing her swerving to avoid being knocked by the taxi door tugged at my heart strings. I’ve never considered myself an overly charitable person but I couldn’t walk away without leaving my number and telling her to call me if she ever needed anything.

About a week later, Lyn texted to see if I wanted to come over for another cuppa; it turned out that all she really needed was company. Her husband, Alfie, died five years ago and I think she misses having someone to chat to. And, to be honest, maybe I needed a bit of extra company too. Lyn’s become like family to me, and since my actual family (when they’re not away on round-the-world cruises) live over a hundred miles away, it’s nice to have someone nearby who’s kind and sweet and always there for me. It’s comforting, when London life gets crazy, to have a little enclave where nothing really changes. Lyn is always her funny old self. Her front room is always exactly the same. Biscuits are always arranged on a plate and the telly is always on. We both have a mutual love of trashy TV shows like Come Dine With Me and The X Factor, neither of us approve of the Conservatives and we both enjoy French Fancies – what more do you need in a friend?

The kettle boils as I finish unloading the shopping. Lyn pours the steaming water into a pair of mugs and we settle down at the kitchen table for a catch up.

‘And how’s the love life?’ Lyn asks, after we’ve finished moaning about the Tories’ latest benefits cut.

‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Same old,’ I tell her, deciding to keep Daniel to myself for now.

He still hasn’t replied to the message I sent last night. Kate’s probably right. The whole thing is likely some long-winded prank some weirdo went to the trouble of, but then again, if he is real, maybe I ought to give him a bit more of a chance to respond. After all, it is only 8.10 a.m.

‘I don’t get it,’ Lyn sighs. ‘You and my Tom. Both single. Both so sweet. What’s the world coming to if you two can’t find love, eh?’

‘It’s tough out there, Lyn,’ I murmur, reaching for a biscuit and hoping she won’t launch into one of her spiels about how Tom and I would make such a great couple.

Much as I’m fond of Lyn’s son Tom, he’s not exactly my type. I’m pretty sure he’s either gay or asexual since, according to Lyn, he’s never had a girlfriend and he doesn’t seem in the least bit interested in finding one. But even if he wasn’t totally uninterested in women, he still wouldn’t be my type. He’s thirty-eight and probably the only man I’ve ever met who I can really describe as ‘frumpy’. He works as an English teacher at a secondary school, wears thick glasses that make his eyes bulge, has several hairy moles dotted over his face and is constantly rambling on about how amazing a writer Philip Pullman is, even though His Dark Materials was published, like, twenty years ago. He lives in a bobbling zip-up fleece which is always just a little tight around his paunch, as well as being covered in dog hair from his beloved sausage dog, Hamish. And even though he’s the apple of Lyn’s eye, and he is incredibly sweet and does have a ridiculously infectious laugh, he’s still Tom. Frumpy, albeit lovely, Tom.

The Tom who texted me a couple of days ago asking if I could meet for coffee. Bugger. I completely forgot to text back. I remember thinking it was weird at the time that he’d wanted to meet, just the two of us. Especially since we’ve only ever hung out in the company of Lyn on the handful of occasions she’s invited us both round for Sunday lunch. I hope she hasn’t twisted his arm into taking me out on a date or something.

‘My Tom’s a lovely lad,’ Lyn says, looking pensive as she chews on a digestive.

I eye her suspiciously, trying to figure out if she’s set us up.

‘Why you looking at me like that?’ Lyn pipes up through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Here, have a biscuit.’

She pushes the plate towards me, seemingly more concerned about filling my stomach than playing Cupid.

‘Nah.’ I ignore the biscuits and glance at my watch. ‘I’d better go, Lyn. Gotta get to work.’

‘Oh, all right, love, you get on,’ Lyn relents.

She gives me a kiss on the cheek, thanks me again for doing the shopping and I head off. As I sit on the DLR, I reply to Tom, suggesting coffee on Saturday afternoon at The Muffin House in Lewisham, before logging on to Dream Dates. Five new messages! I flick through them. There’s one from Bigboy17, another from Mysteriousluva; ManCandy4u and Hoplessromantic, bloody hell. I’m just about to log off when I spot the final message, which must have come through while I was walking to the station from Lyn’s, from Daniel_86. It’s him. I open the message.

Daniel_86:

Hi Sophia,

I’d love to chat about all things cats, volunteering and RPatz-related, but unfortunately, I’m off to Paris today for work. I’ll be back on Saturday if you fancy meeting in the evening?

x Daniel

P.S. I see you removed the penis measurements from your profile…? ;)

I break into a massive grin. He’s so cool! He travels for work, he calls Robert Pattinson, ‘RPatz’ (which clearly means that he doesn’t take life too seriously), he’s cheeky enough to tease me, and he even added a flirty wink! I bet his penis measures up perfectly.

‘Can I see your ticket please?’ the train conductor says, for what I suspect is the second time, judging by his impatient tone. I must have been too wrapped up in my message from Daniel to have noticed him.

‘Oh!’ I rummage around in my bag and retrieve my wallet, holding it out for him to scan.

‘Thank you,’ he says in a clipped voice before moving on to the next passenger.

I reread the message. How is it possible that by creating the world’s most obnoxious dating profile, I’ve somehow managed to find someone who seems like such a catch?! I really want to look at his photos while the train hurtles along but he’ll be able to see that I’ve viewed his profile again and I don’t want to look obsessive. I should have taken screenshots so I could have had something nice to look at on the way to work. Never mind. I flick through Metro instead, half reading an article about a freak shark attack in Hawaii while daydreaming about my potential date with Daniel on Saturday night. My phone buzzes. A text from Tom.

The Muffin House at 4 p.m. is perfect. See you there. x

By the time I arrive at work, Sandra is already sitting at her desk, no doubt getting a head start on her latest fungal assignment.

‘Morning!’ I chirp.

‘Morning,’ she replies, her eyes following me as I cross the office and sit down at my desk.

‘Sooo? Did you message him?’ she asks.

She was nagging me to message Daniel all afternoon yesterday, but I refused. I wanted to get Kate’s advice first, although that turned out to be a downer. I look at Sandra’s eager open face. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s catfishing me.

‘Yes, I did!’ I admit.

Sandra grins and lets out a little squeal. ‘Oh my gosh! Can I be maid of honour? Can I?’

‘Ummm… Maybe!’

‘What did you say?’ Sandra asks, her eyes wide.

‘I just asked him if he fancied meeting up for a drink tonight. Kept it casual, not too keen,’ I tell her as I turn on my computer.

‘And? What did he say?’

‘He’s going to Paris for work so he can’t meet until Saturday.’

Sandra looks momentarily glum.

‘Well, Saturday’s not that far off,’ she reasons.

‘Yeah, exactly.’

‘It’s so exciting!’

‘I know!’ I grin, unable to stop myself and then Kate’s words come back to me, about how I always expect too much and then I’m always let down.

‘There must be a catch though,’ I think aloud. ‘He can’t really be as great as he seems. He’s just too good to be true.’

‘Trust me, he’s gorgeous,’ Sandra insists.

‘Kate reckons he’s just using photos of Robert Pattinson he found online,’ I tell her.