Perfect Match

by Zoe May

  The sun has set and the air has turned cool as we step out onto the street.

  ‘I know a little place round here,’ Daniel says, leading me past Covent Garden market.

  ‘It’s nothing special,’ he comments as we walk past the market and into a little cocktail bar with a conservatory ceiling dotted with fairy lights.

  ‘You mean it’s not a private members’ club?’ I tease. Daniel laughs.

  The bar is busy, but Daniel manages to spot a table at the back.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, taking my hand.

  He weaves through the crowded room and I follow, observing the turning heads, the wide eyes and the whispered hush he commands. Daniel doesn’t seem remotely phased by the ripples of attention. A few women look me up and down as we pass and I avert my gaze, self-consciously, down at the floor. They’re probably wondering what he’s doing with me and I can’t help but ask myself the same question. What is he doing with me? I mean, I’m fairly cute and all, but he could have any woman in this room. I tuck my hair behind my ear, a nervous tic my classmates used to make fun of when I was at school. Daniel pulls out a chair for me at the empty table and I sit down.

  ‘What are you having?’ he asks.

  ‘Umm… I guess I’ll have a martini.’

  ‘Two martinis please,’ Daniel says to a cocktail waiter passing our table.

  ‘Of course,’ the waiter replies before hurrying off to the bar.

  ‘Finally, a man’s serving us,’ I remark.

  Daniel eyes me quizzically.

  ‘Someone who isn’t flirting with you.’

  Daniel laughs. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ I tuck my hair behind my ear again but Daniel takes my hand and runs his fingers over my knuckles.

  ‘You don’t know how much I wanted you in there,’ he says, a dark look in his eyes.

  ‘It’s only our second date, Daniel,’ I remind him, in spite of myself. My legs have turned to jelly.

  ‘I know.’ He frowns a little. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We should be talking about wholesome things like our childhoods or our families or…’

  ‘Fluffy clouds and kittens?’ Daniel teases.

  ‘Yes, or puppies and the countryside.’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ Daniel groans. ‘I had a puppy when I was a kid. It was a chihuahua.’

  ‘How masculine,’ I ask. ‘What was it called?’

  The waiter comes over with our martinis. Daniel takes a sip of his drink and ignores the question.

  ‘Come on, Daniel…What was it called?’

  ‘It’s embarrassing,’ he mutters.

  ‘Tell me!’

  He takes another sip of his drink.

  ‘Okay, fine.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘It was called Fluffy Bear.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, it was called…?’

  Daniel shakes his head. ‘You heard me.’

  I can’t help grinning. ‘Aww, Daniel and Fluffy Bear!’

  ‘I was five!’ he protests.

  ‘Oh…’ I squeeze his hand. ‘Do you miss Fluffy Bear?’

  ‘Yes, I do actually,’ he admits quietly.

  I gaze at him dreamily, imagining a little five-year-old Daniel and his Fluffy Bear.

  ‘It’s funny, talking about childhood,’ Daniel says. ‘I used to come here all the time when I was a kid.’

  ‘What? To a cocktail bar?’

  ‘No! To Covent Garden. We used to fly back every Easter and then again in the autumn. My mum loves the opera. We’d wander round before the shows and watch the street performers,’ Daniel says, plucking his olive from his drink. ‘I felt almost disappointed when I moved to London and found that there weren’t men juggling on unicycles on every street corner.’

  I laugh and take a sip of my martini. Flying over from Dubai for the opera? Could his childhood have been any more different to mine? I’m 28 and I’ve only just seen my first opera. And as a kid, we barely flew anywhere. Most of our family holidays were down in Dorset, cheap and cheerful. We’d just hang out on the beach, where I’d spend hours in a little dream world making sandcastles and crab fishing.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Daniel asks. ‘You were smiling.’

  Even though I’m a little embarrassed, I tell him all about it. I expect him to find it boring – a simpleton’s holiday compared to his family’s no doubt exotic jaunts – but he seems rapt. Wistful almost.

  A group on the table next to us break into a rendition of Happy Birthday and interrupt our moment.

  ‘I’m just going to the loo. Back in a minute,’ Daniel says.

  As he walks across the bar, I reach for my phone. 3 new messages from Dream Dates. Hmm… I wonder when Daniel and I are going to have the ‘let’s delete our profiles chat.’ Out of curiosity, I open the first message.

  Jimbo31:

  Hey Sophia,

  My cock has just died. Can I bury it in your ass?

  Urghhh! I hit delete. What is wrong with these men?!

  Chlamlydia:

  Hey sista!

  Fancy some girl on girl?? ;)

  Lydia xx

  Right, so it’s not just the men on this site who are weird. The women are too. Somehow, I don’t think I want my first girl-on-girl experience to be with a woman whose username is a wordplay on an STD. I hit delete. There’s one more message. Dare I open it? I look up to see if Daniel’s coming back, but he must still be in the loo. I open the message.

  It’s from another girl. What the hell? Do my settings include women? I probably need to check, but first, I open the message.

  Rachel1989:

  Hey, watch out. Lots of scammers and catfish on this site.

  Spreading the word.x

  What?! I click onto Rachel1989’s picture. She looks like a normal pretty girl, ready for a night out in a blue dress with flower hairclips in her hair. The photo is a typical dating profile shot. It’s almost like she set up her profile initially to date people and is now genuinely trying to warn other girls about the site. Strange.

  ‘Hey,’ Daniel murmurs as he sits back down.

  ‘Oh, hey.’ I shut down Dream Dates and drop my phone in my bag.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit off.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I’m fine.’

  I smile, but I can’t help feeling a bit shaken up. I reach for my drink. What if the girl’s right? What if Daniel is one of the scammers or catfish she’s talking about. Kate’s words come back to me: In my experience, when things seem too good to be true, they usually are.

  ‘So, are you excited about Milan?’ I ask, changing the subject and forcing myself not to think about the message.

  Daniel tells me about his trip and I try to concentrate, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Dream Dates. Could Daniel be a scammer? I mean, this whole thing does feel a bit weird: dates at the opera, private members’ clubs. Is it really possible for a man like Daniel to be genuinely interested in a regular Lewisham girl like me? Or am I just a love-struck moron, so desperate to believe in Mr Perfect that I’m kidding myself? But if he is a scammer, then what’s the scam? He’s the one with the money, after all. Unless he’s faking it and living off credit cards or something. Perhaps in a few weeks, he’ll reveal he has a cousin in Nigeria who needs £4,000 wired to him for a lifesaving operation, and his accounts will suddenly be out of action due to a fault at the bank or something, and before I know it, I’ll—

  ‘I’m so glad I met you,’ Daniel interrupts my thoughts. He takes my hand again, enclosing my fingers between his soft warm palms as he gazes affectionately into my eyes.

  ‘I’m glad I met you too!’ I say with a pang of guilt over what I’ve been thinking.

  The waiter approaches our table. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ he asks.

  Daniel looks over at me. ‘I’ve got to be up at 4am for my flight.’

  ‘And I’ve got work,’ I add.

  ‘Well, that settles it,’ Daniel relents as he opens
his wallet and hands the waiter a fifty-pound note.

  ‘Keep the change,’ he says.

  ‘Wow! Thank you!’ The waiter replies, taken aback.

  I drain the last few drops of my margarita, and then we don our coats and weave back out through the tables, causing the same turned heads and intrigued hush that we, or should I say, Daniel, caused on the way in. It’s almost a relief to step out onto the cobbled Covent Garden street, away from the attention, although the sky has grown darker and the air is cooler than it was before. I shiver and pull my coat tight around me.

  ‘Let’s get you home,’ Daniel says as he hails down a passing taxi.

  ‘I can take the tube, Daniel,’ I tell him, although, to be fair, I’d rather not.

  ‘I know you can, but I don’t want you to.’ Daniel hands the taxi driver a few twenties.

  ‘Text me when you get back,’ he says as he opens the taxi door.

  ‘I will. Fly safe tomorrow.’ I plant a kiss on his lips before slipping into the cab.

  As the driver pulls away, I watch Daniel climbing into the taxi behind and even though I’ve had an incredible evening, I can’t deny it’s been slightly soured by that girl’s message on Dream Dates. If anyone knows about bad dates, scammers and catfish, it’s me, and yet here I am, desperate to believe I’ve met Prince Charming. Am I a die-hard romantic, or just pathetically naïve?

  Daniel catches my eye just before he gets into his cab and raises his hand in a wave.

  Chapter Twelve

  My phone buzzes, and I put down the copy of Eugene Onegin I bought in my lunchbreak. A message from Chris.

  Guess what? I had a date and I managed not to bring up a single fact! Second date already booked in!

  I smile.

  Awesome, I type back. Who’s the lucky lady?

  I watch him typing on screen before a message pings back.

  A girl from work actually. She just started a few weeks ago. And guess what? She’s into crafts and painting ceramics too so she didn’t mind me talking about battle games!

  She sounds like a keeper! So, what have you got planned for date two? I type back.

  I wait a moment for him to reply, before I’m distracted by the sound of Kate’s keys jangling in the front door.

  ‘Hey,’ she says as she comes into the flat and closes the door behind her.

  ‘Hey.’ I place my phone down on the arm rest and turn my attention to her as she hangs her coat up. She’s fully made up, with bold red lipstick, lashings of mascara, black skin-tight jeans and a figure-hugging white top. Her hair is wound into a ballerina-style bun, made slightly damp by the drizzle outside.

  ‘So, I went to the audition for The Mousetrap,’ Kate tells me, as she comes over and flops down onto the sofa.

  ‘Oh! How was it?’

  ‘It went pretty well! Think I overdid it at first – bit tinny but once I warmed up, it was fine. Think I won them over in the end.’ She grins.

  ‘The director said I looked the part. He actually said I look exactly how he’s always imagined Mollie Ralston! I don’t want to get my hopes up but I reckon it’s in the bag!’

  ‘That’s so cool!’

  ‘I know!’ Kate gushes, clapping her hands together.

  ‘It’s a bit scary, leaving the comfort of the Globe but I think it’s time. I haven’t felt this excited since…’ She pauses for thought. ‘God knows!’

  Her enthusiasm is so infectious that I can’t help grinning back at her. ‘Did you meet the rest of the cast?’

  ‘Yeah. I met a couple of other people auditioning. They seemed alright I guess but you know what it’s like.’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘Everyone sizing each other up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I tut. I don’t really know what it’s like but I’ve heard enough stories about bitchy auditions to have a fairly good idea.

  ‘What are you doing anyway? What are you reading?’

  ‘Oh, Eugene Onegin,’ I tell her casually. ‘You know, that opera I went to see with Daniel the other day.’

  Kate laughs. ‘Wow. You really do have it bad.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I insist. ‘I’m just… bettering myself. Furthering my knowledge of nineteenth-century Russian literature. Becoming a more cultured, well-rounded individual.’

  ‘Right.’ Kate snorts. ‘So, when are you seeing him next?’

  ‘Friday night. Going to his place!’

  ‘You’re going to his?’ She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit hasty? You don’t really know this guy. You know what’s going to happen if you go to his.’

  ‘Well, I hope so. I could do with a bit of Netflix and chill,’ I retort with a dirty laugh. ‘But don’t jinx it!’

  Kate rolls her eyes as I touch the wooden part of the arm rest.

  Touching wood,’ she scoffs. ‘Honestly, I haven’t had sex for nearly a year now!’ I shudder as I think back to the last time, a half-hearted hump with a horny 22-year-old I met on Tinder who kept calling me ‘mama’.

  ‘It’s alright for you. You get laid every weekend.’

  ‘Not every weekend,’ Kate points out. ‘Look, I just want you to be careful. Two dates and you’re going to his, I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ Kate says as she pulls the hairband from her bun.

  I sigh. Why can’t anyone just believe in Daniel? I deleted my profile on Dream Dates when I got home after our date last night. I don’t want to let any more random trolls on the internet plant seeds of doubt in my mind about him. There’s a chance I’ve finally got lucky. There’s a chance I’ve finally met a decent guy after enduring seventy-one mind-bendingly terrible dates and I’m sure as hell not going to sour things. Even if it does turn out that I’ve been a naïve fool.

  ‘Look, Kate,’ I say, a little sternly. ‘I know it might seem a bit fast but I feel like I’ve known him for way longer. It’s weird.’

  ‘How can you know him so well? You’ve met him twice and every time he’s been flashing the cash at you, trying to win you over with his money.’ Kate runs her fingers through her hair, shaking it out.

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing!’

  Kate tuts. ‘What are you like?!’

  ‘Yes, Daniel’s a bit flash, but he’s a nice guy and anyway, don’t forget, you slept with Max the first night you met him,’ I remind her.

  ‘Yeah, but that was different,’ Kate insists.

  ‘How?!’

  ‘Well, I knew him through other people.’

  ‘But did you?’

  Kate has a tendency to see every actor in London as though they’re connected through some giant network and are all part of one big family.

  ‘Well, I knew of him. I knew he was normal,’ she says.

  ‘Daniel’s normal too.’

  Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘You found him online a week ago. I’m not trying to be a killjoy here but you don’t really know him, Sophia’.

  ‘Week? Month? Potato, patato. Anyway, what does it matter?’ I shrug. ‘Why are you so anti-Daniel? You were the one who suggested I join Dream Dates. Without you, none of this would have ever happened.’

  Kate shudders a little. ‘So, it’s going to be on my shoulders when you get chopped up into tiny little pieces?’

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘Great,’ Kate groans as she gets up off the sofa. ‘I’m starving. Do you want pasta?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  Kate wanders off to the kitchen and starts rummaging around for a pan. I check my phone but Chris hasn’t replied so I pick up my book instead. I’m trying to get into Pushkin’s iambic tetrameter, but my thoughts keep wandering to Daniel. The way he blushed when he told me about Fluffy Bear. His hand on my knee during the opera, his forefinger tracing tiny circles on my inner thigh. The woody smell of his skin. The wistful look in his eyes when I told him about my family holidays in Dorset.

  The butterflies I felt after our first date have morphed into something deeper; it’s more than just lust now. I want to talk t
o him. I want to learn more about him, find out about his past, his hopes and his dreams. I want to see the operas he’s seen, read the books he’s read. I want to familiarise myself with the landscape of his mind. I haven’t felt this way about anyone for such a long time. And the amazing thing is that Daniel seems to feel exactly the same way about me. He messaged me a few days ago to tell me that he missed me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I told him I was at work, editing a paper. I may have left out the fact that it was about intestinal tract micro-bacteria.

  I want to see your office. Take a photo. I want to see what you see.

  I took a photo of my desk with my crappy old PC, scattered papers and my wrinkly malnourished pot plant. For the first time, I actually regretted not decorating my desk. Sandra has a matching stripy stationery holder and picture frame (although it does display a photo of Betsy).

  I think your cactus might be thirsty :P

  I told him I wanted to see what he could see and he sent me a photo of giant mound of golden curtain tassels at the trade show in Milan.

  Now it’s become our thing. I take photos of little things that I find charming or interesting throughout the day: the doorknob in the shape of a stag’s head that I noticed on the way to the work this morning; the reflection of a street lamp on a puddle; a jam jar filled with wilted chrysanthemums next to a cup of steaming coffee in a café. Daniel’s photos have been of planes taking off at Heathrow; a light-filled swanky hotel lobby; rolls of expensive fabric spread across a measuring table. I feel like my eyes have been opened as I look out for things to photograph for him. I even took a picture of Sandra’s multi-coloured ball of wool, spiked with needles like a hedgehog. Things I’d ordinarily overlook suddenly feel worth noticing.

  I point the phone’s camera at my feet, but there’s nothing particularly interesting about my socks or the sofa. Kate clatters about in the kitchen. I wish she could be more excited for me about Daniel but I know where she’s coming from, there are plenty of weird men online. Men who look like they truly would quite like to chop you up into tiny pieces, and if the tables were turned, I’d probably be freaking out too, but she hasn’t met Daniel. She doesn’t know him. If she met him, she’d understand.