Perfect Match

by Zoe May

  She smirks while I gawp at her, utterly mortified.

  ‘Do you know what we call him?’ she asks rhetorically, on a roll now. ‘Prince Charming! He goes for girls like you – Cinderella types - girls who aren’t part of his world and then he whisks you off your feet, takes you out, dresses you up.’ She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me, looking me up and down. ‘Yep. Prince Charming.’

  I want to slap her, the stuck-up cow, but I’m still in shock. I still can’t quite believe it.

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’ I think aloud.

  ‘I don’t know! Maybe he likes seeing the world through your eyes,’ she says, jabbing towards my face with an unsteady finger. Suddenly I realise that she’s actually quite pissed. I’d thought she had just been acting a bit over-the-top because she’s a pretentious show-off, but now I realise that she’s pretty wasted.

  ‘Maybe he gets a thrill out of everything being shiny and new for you.’ She lets out a mirthless laugh before tripping past me out of the toilets.

  I stand there in shock, feeling about five inches tall. Shiny and new. Cleo’s words still ring in the air. Is my enthusiasm that obvious? I think back to my reaction when I first saw Daniel’s flat at the Shard; of course, it is. I dash into a cubicle and hide, finally alone. I close the toilet seat and sit down, feeling like the pathetic idiot I evidently am. I bury my head in my hands. It doesn’t matter how many nice restaurants Daniel takes me to or how many expensive dresses he buys me, I’m still just Sophia Jones, the copywriter from Lewisham. I don’t have some poncey double barrelled surname, my parents don’t own some sprawling country estate and we don’t ‘holiday’ anywhere. I’m just a regular nobody – a charity project.

  My phone buzzes, interrupting my self-loathing. It’s a text from Tom: ‘Don’t forget pork scratchings. X’

  I let out a groan. I’m common. I’m so achingly common. I’m Cinder-bloody-rella.

  ‘Sophia?’ A man’s voice – Daniel’s – calls into the loos. ‘Are you… okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mumble.

  ‘I thought maybe the finger dipping bowl might have disagreed with you? I don’t know what they put in those things. I thought maybe there was some soap in it or something.’

  I sigh. Does he have to bring up the finger dipping bowl again?

  ‘I’m fine, Daniel. I’m just…’ I hesitate. What do I say? I’m wishing the ground would swallow me up? I’m just dying inside?

  ‘I’m just fine, okay?’ I snap. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Umm… Okay.’ Daniel replies and I hear the toilet door swing shut.

  I sit there, trying to will Cleo’s words out of my mind. How could I have been such a fool? To think that someone like Daniel would want to be with me for me?! That he might have seen something special in me! Ha! I’m just a novelty. An amusement. A fetish. Some men like feet, others might be chubby chasers, and then you get blokes like Daniel who are into broke girls. No wonder a guy like him was on Dream Dates. It all makes perfect sense now, from us meeting on such a crappy site to all the extravagant over-the-top dates. Daniel must have revelled in my excitement. No wonder he booked a private booth at the opera. Urghhh, it’s all just so tragic. I bet he loves taking girls like me up to his place at the Shard, he probably got an erection seeing my wide-eyed wonder when I laid eyes on his incredible flat. And then within a few days, he’d bought me a whole new wardrobe. I’d just thought he was being generous, but I get it now. He was trying to transform me, in some of twisted broke-to-rich girl makeover. I could kick myself. I can’t believe it never occurred to me what was going on. And I can’t believe I was so stupidly in awe of his crazy luxurious life. It serves me right that he’d secretly be getting off on my poverty.

  I feel like crying, but I’m too angry and frustrated at myself, Daniel and this entire stupid situation. What am I doing here? At Windsor bloody Gatehouse? Who do I think I am? Swanning around trying to rub shoulders with celebrities and wanting to fit in, when all I am is the token townie. A tourist. I need to get out of this stupid pretentious place. I need to get out of here right now.

  I open the toilet door but naturally, it ends up getting jammed on a bloody hanging vine. Yet another stupid vine. The place is teeming with them. They’re everywhere, like some sort of uncontrollable, infectious disease. I yank the door open, causing a tendril of ivy to fall limply onto my head. Oh, for goodness’ sake. I yank it off and slip out of the loos into the hubbub of the restaurant. I glance over at Daniel, who is now surrounded by plates of food. He plucks at a plate of fries. I look away and keep my head down as I scurry towards a nearby exit and slip furtively out.

  ‘I hope you had a good evening ma’am,’ a doorman says as I dash out onto the street. ‘Oh, have you forgotten your coat?’ he calls after me as I hurry down the road, ignoring him.

  It is a pretty chilly night, but if I hang about to collect my coat, Daniel might come looking for me and I can’t risk that. It’s only the rubbish New Look one I’ve been meaning to replace. And anyway, the street is cold and dark and in a weird way, the horrible shiver-inducing weather accompanies my self-loathing perfectly. I hurry down a few side streets in case Daniel does try to come after me and by the time I feel safely out of sight, I pull my phone out of my bag and order a taxi.

  After all, I don’t have a horse-drawn carriage, and Cinderella has to be home by midnight.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Is it too early to get tinsel?’ Tom asks, fondling a bargain bucket laden with Christmas decorations.

  ‘Oh!’ I reach into the bucket and pull out a long shimmery blue garland of tinsel. ‘Well, it is October, which is practically November…’

  ‘And November is practically December which is basically Christmas,’ Tom adds, grabbing handfuls of tinsel and dumping them into the shopping trolley.

  Even though I insisted I have everything under control ahead of the party, Tom couldn’t resist hopping into his car after work and belting down to Lewisham to catch the shops before they close. I’d planned to have a quiet evening of wallowing in self-pity and working on my novel, but I’m actually quite glad Tom is here to distract me, especially since Daniel keeps calling on and off, wanting to know where I disappeared to last night. Once I got home, I ended up necking a few glasses of wine on my own, before sending him a rambling text about how Cleo told me about his ‘fetish for paupers’ and how ‘he’s not my Prince Charming and never will be’. I fell asleep shortly afterwards, missing the five or six phone calls that followed and the stream of confused and apologetic text messages. He keeps messaging me today as well, but I simply can’t face speaking to him. Like shoving a bill you don’t want to open into a drawer, every time Daniel texts, I just hit delete and immediately push all thoughts of him out of my brain.

  Tom pauses in front of a display of sparkly reindeer ornaments. He picks one up contemplatively.

  ‘That’s taking it too far.’ I shoot him a look.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he relents with a sigh, placing it back on the shelf. Some rainbow-coloured packaging catches my eye.

  ‘Oh my God, party poppers!’ I grab a few bags and chucking them into the trolley.

  ‘Oh, yes! Definitely!’ Tom reaches for another couple of bags, before spotting another display.

  ‘And party string! Must-have!’ He grabs five or six packets.

  ‘Don’t you just love the pound shop?’ he enthuses. ‘Everything’s so cheap! It makes me feel like such a baller!’

  I can’t help giggling. Tom, in his bobbling fleece and glasses, is hardly what you think of when you think of a ‘baller’. He couldn’t be more different to someone like Daniel, but right now, that’s exactly what I need - a lovely, fun, pound shop baller who I can just be myself around.

  ‘Cheese puffs?’ Tom asks, reaching for a huge bag of neon orange balls of something that may once have resembled potato.

  ‘Yeah, why not. Chuck ‘em in.’

  Tom dumps a few bags into the troll
ey and then pauses, remembering something.

  ‘Wait, did you get napkins?’

  ‘Oh no, I forgot!’

  ‘Sophia!’ Tom tuts. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

  ‘Alright,’ I reply as Tom heads to another aisle.

  I push the trolley along before pausing at a section dedicated to cake decorations. It’s a rainbow array of sprinkles, edible glitter, coloured icing and wafer flowers. I pause and pick up a tube of daisies, wondering whether I should get them for Lyn’s cake. Chris probably has everything covered but I pop them into the trolley anyway. As I scan the display, waiting for Tom, I find myself thinking about the time I witnessed Chris’ terrible date when he droned on and on about crisps. Ha. That seems like nothing compared to my finger dipping bowl faux pas last night and yet I thought I was in a position to lecture him on dating? I cringe. What a fool I was to think I knew better. While I’ve been living in a fantasy, thinking a guy like Daniel could genuinely be into me, Chris has been forging a proper relationship, a normal relationship. I sigh and push the trolley along.

  ‘Found them!’ Tom exclaims, appearing around the corner of the aisle, before dumping some napkins in with everything else.

  ‘What’s up?’ he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

  I shrug. ‘Oh, nothing. Was just miles away.’

  ‘Alright,’ Tom murmurs.

  We make a quick final dash through the aisles, stocking up on last minute boxes of biscuits, extra plastic cups and bags of crisps, before heading to the counter, where the girl at the checkout scans everything at the speed of light, clearly desperate to get home. In total, our haul comes to just £36. We both reach for our wallets.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Tom says, swatting my hand away.

  ‘No, I will!’ I insist, unzipping my wallet.

  ‘Sophia, she’s my mum, I’ll get it!’

  ‘But… She’s my neighbour, and my friend, I want to get it!’

  The checkout girl rolls her eyes, rapping her fingers against the counter. Tom gives me a weird look as I pull out my bank card and plonk it down in front of her.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I tell the checkout girl, but Tom protests.

  ‘No, she won’t. We’ll go halves.’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ I sigh. ‘We’ll go halves.’

  I push my card across the counter and ask the checkout girl to charge £18 to it. She sighs loudly at the extra inconvenience, rolling her eyes as Tom roots around in his wallet, pulling out a battered old £10 note before counting out £8 in coins.

  We carry our bags out of the shop and catch a whiff of a strong coffee smell wafting over from the café opposite.

  ‘Coffee?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Tom nods. ‘But what was all that about in there?’ he asks as we head over.

  ‘What was all what about?’

  ‘Wanting to pay, going halves. You seemed kind of weird about it.’

  ‘I dunno.’ I shrug as we head into the café and join the queue. ‘I guess I’m just tired of feeling as though I need a man to pay my way,’ I tell him, thinking of Daniel and all his lavish gifts and contrived generosity.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I insist.

  ‘Sophia, I was offering to buy some party poppers for my mum’s party in the pound shop, I’m hardly challenging your integrity as a modern woman.’

  I smile, relaxing. ‘I know, I know.’

  The barista takes our drink orders and rings them through the till.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not paying for you!’ Tom teases as he gets out his wallet and pays for his Earl Grey.

  I let out a weak laugh and reach for my wallet. Once we’ve both paid, we wait for our drinks before settling down at a table at the back, swamped by shopping bags.

  ‘Has this got something to do with that posh boy you’ve been seeing?’ Tom asks.

  I half-smile. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ I look down at my lap, and feel a fresh flush of humiliation at the thought of last night.

  ‘I thought he liked me for me, but it turns out he just likes dating broke girls,’ I tell Tom, who is busy dispensing sachets of sweetener into his tea.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tom glances up, perplexed.

  I tell him the whole sorry story of last night, and he snorts so hard when I mention what happened with the finger dipping bowl that tea sprays from his nose.

  ‘You ate the finger dipping bowl! Ahahaha!’ Tom roars with laughter.

  ‘Say it, don’t spray it, Tom,’ I tease, wiping the table with my napkin.

  ‘I can’t actually believe you asked for the recipe,’ he chuckles, taking off his glasses, which have misted over he’s been laughing so hard. He wipes them with the sleeve of his fleece.

  ‘Yeah, I know…’ I groan. ‘Neither can I. I told the waiter it was “delicious.”’

  Tears leak from his eyes. ‘Oh, Sophia,’ he wheezes, ‘You’ve made my day. You’ve completely made my day. No, scratch that. My week.’

  ‘It’s alright for you. You weren’t the one dying of humiliation!’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Tom groans, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘I’m dying now though.’

  He takes a deep raggedy breath, finally recovering enough for me to tell him about the rest of the evening.

  ‘This thing with Cleo,’ Tom muses, taking a pensive sip of his tea. ‘How do you know she’s telling the truth? Why are you trusting everything she’s said?’

  ‘I guess it just makes sense,’ I admit. ‘I mean, why else would a super-rich catch like Daniel be interested in someone like me?’

  Tom looks almost hurt by my words.

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Sophia,’ Tom says. ‘Why wouldn’t a guy like Daniel be interested in you? Look at you. He gestures up and down at me. ‘You’re peng!’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘It’s not just about being peng, Tom. It’s about having gone to a posh boarding school or having a grandad who’s an esquire or holidaying in St Barts. I’m not one of them, am I? And anyway, some of those posh bitches are so bloody peng,’ I reluctantly admit, thinking of Cleo with her irritatingly perfect figure.

  Tom rolls his eyes. ‘Not as peng as my Soph.’

  I shrug. ‘Trust me. They’re well peng.’

  ‘Nah…’ Tom insists, sipping his tea.

  ‘But seriously, I do think you’re being a bit hard on Daniel. If someone said something horrible about me, wouldn’t you talk to me about it first before just cutting me off? Why aren’t you giving him a chance to explain himself?’

  I sigh. ‘Every time he texts me, I get a flashback of last night…’ I groan and put my head in my hands.

  Tom fights back a smile. ‘Look, Daniel didn’t force you to eat the finger dipping bowl! You did that all by yourself!’

  I squirm at the memory. ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  ‘I’m serious though. I get that you’re finding his texts a bit…’ Tom takes a sip of his tea, searching for the right word. ‘…Triggering, but I think you owe it to him to at least have a conversation.’

  I try to ignore the pointed look Tom’s giving me over the top of his glasses. He really does look like a strict headmaster sometimes.

  ‘Okay, fine! I’ll talk to him. Will you stop giving me that look now?’

  Tom smiles and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘What look?!’ he says, feigning innocence.

  ‘Your patronising headmaster look!’

  ‘Hmmphh,’ Tom huffs. ‘So anyway, will you call him? Because I don’t like seeing you down. Even if your own personal humiliation does cause me a great deal of amusement.’

  I reach over and poke his side. ‘Ouch!’ he yelps, flinching, before fixing me with that pointed teacher expression again.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ I groan. ‘But I’m not calling him. I’ll text.’

  I rummage in my bag for my phone, which has been on silent, and notice that Daniel has tried to call twice since I last checked, which was just before Tom and I went to the pound shop.

 
I bash out a quick text.

  Hey. Still feeling weird about what Cleo said. Need some space. Let’s speak in a few days. x

  ‘There, I’ve sent a text.’

  I quickly stash my phone back in my bag in case Tom wants to see what I’ve written. Somehow, I doubt my message was quite the olive branch he was looking for, but it’s better than nothing.

  ‘Good,’ Tom relents, taking a sip of tea.

  He places his cup down on the table. ‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about, Soph,’ he says, breaking eye contact and concentrating on emptying another sachet of sugar into his tea.

  ‘Oh, really,’ I reply, frowning. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s about Mum.’ He stirs his tea before looking up at me with an almost guilty expression.

  ‘Okay…’ I murmur.

  ‘I’m going to ask her to move in with me,’ Tom blurts out. ‘I went over the other day and she nearly tripped down the stairs. She managed to grab the bannister to save herself but if she hadn’t, if she’d tumbled…’ He swallows hard.

  ‘Oh God.’ My stomach lurches at the thought of Lyn falling down that long narrow staircase.

  ‘Yeah, it was scary. Mum loves that house but it’s too big for her now. She can’t maintain it and with all those stairs, it’s just not safe. She needs somewhere better suited to her needs.’

  I nod, thinking of the cobwebs I noticed at Lyn’s place the other day. I hadn’t given them much thought at the time, but come to think of it, her bathroom was also looking a little grubby. Tom’s right, maybe Lyn has been struggling to look after the house and with her agility issues, the stairs aren’t exactly ideal.

  ‘But you live in a terraced house too,’ I think aloud. ‘Doesn’t your place have stairs?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll turn the living room into a bedroom. Mum will only need to use the ground floor since I’ve got a downstairs bathroom. Then I can make the second bedroom upstairs a living room for me,’ Tom says.