Perfect Match

‘Sophia,’ Kate calls me back. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My personal ad… It’s on my laptop.’

‘You’ve already written it?’ She looks confused.

‘It’s in my dating file,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a copy and paste job.’

Kate snorts with laughter. ‘Your dating file! Hah! What next? A spreadsheet for all the men you’ve ever dated?’

‘Shut up!’ I give her a little push.

‘Dating file! Hahahaha!’ Her eyes tear up as she falls about laughing.

‘Not all of us meet our ideal man the minute we move to London,’ I tut. ‘Some of us actually have to work at finding someone! And anyway, if you were dating, I think you’d find that having a dating file is actually quite efficient,’ I add, but Kate just roars with laughter and I can’t help cracking up too.

She wheezes, wiping the tears from her eyes.

‘Sorry, Sophia, but that was just…’ She shakes her head, turning her attention back to Dream Dates.

‘Okay, so, personal ad!’ she says.

I stand up to make a second attempt at going to get my laptop but Kate tugs my arm, pulling me back down.

‘Not from the file!’ Her mouth twitches.

I look at her blankly. ‘Why not?’

Kate clears her throat and glances down awkwardly.

‘Well something’s clearly not working if you’re not meeting any decent guys the way you’re going about things at the moment. I’m not saying it’s you. It could be the sites but don’t you think it would be good to just start this profile completely from scratch? You said it yourself – no more loserish guys, seeing as this is the final attempt?’

I shrug. ‘Suppose.’

‘Just freestyle it.’

‘Freestyle it…’ I groan as I take a sip of wine.

‘Yeah!’ Kate replies, the light from the laptop screen illuminating the look of hopeful determination on her face.

I really can’t be bothered to create a whole new profile from scratch on yet another site just to attract yet another bunch of weirdos and fuck-boys, but Kate is so keen to help that I’d feel bad letting her down now. Suddenly an idea hits me. I’ve tried to find love – a genuine, open, honest connection – again and again. All I’ve wanted is to meet someone nice, kind, intelligent and fun, but that’s proven completely and utterly impossible. I’ve put myself out there, with my best photos and a smart, witty (and not to mention properly punctuated) profile, and all I’ve gotten in return is dates with creeps and bores, and unsolicited dick pics. Kate’s right, what I’ve been doing so far clearly hasn’t been working. Maybe being sincere gets you nowhere, maybe now it’s time to play the players at their own game, to fuck with the fuck-boys and dick around with the dick pic dudes. I’m done being nice sweet Sophia; my new profile is going to be a little different. I’m not going to look for love this time, I’m going to look for man candy with the most crass, superficial and crude profile I can imagine. It’s time to meet my ‘perfect’ man.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’ Kate asks.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know… mischievously.’ She narrows her eyes.

‘Oh, no reason.’ I shrug innocently.

‘Hmmm…’ Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘So, what are you looking for?’

‘I’m looking for someone who’s a cut above the rest,’ I tell her. ‘He’s cool, he’s confident. He’s suave and sexy. He’s smart and super successful, he’s got an incredible job.’

Oh! What does Mr Perfect do for work? My gaze wanders over to the well-thumbed copy of The Stage on the kitchen counter. Maybe he could be an actor like Kate? I never get bored of hearing her talk about work. But then again, dating an actor as well as having one for a best friend might be a bit much.

‘Right, okay.’ Kate finishes typing and looks up from the keyboard. ‘Carry on.’

‘I’m thinking…’

Voices from the street outside drift through the open window, distracting me.

‘Pass dat ting, bruv,’ someone says.

I get up to close it and spot a group of teenagers huddled outside the council estate opposite, passing around a joint. A few of them are lounging on an old mattress someone dumped on the pavement a couple of days ago. No doubt too broke to pay Lewisham Council to come and pick it up. I fasten the window shut. I never used to mind living down this shabby old street; if I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve always had the cringe-worthily romantic notion that it doesn’t matter where you live, it doesn’t matter if it’s a little shabby around the edges, as long as you have love. I mean, look at Kate. She’s head over heels for Max and she’s happy with her lot – she doesn’t mind living in crummy old Lewisham. I sort of imagined that when I found someone, I’d stop noticing the rubbish on the streets and the loitering teens, too. But when you find yourself alone at twenty-eight sitting in a cramped flat, with the closest thing you have to love being a softly lit dick pic on your phone, your romanticism starts to wear off. Since love isn’t softening the edges of my existence, why not just look for a stinking rich guy instead? Someone who lives in a beautiful part of London with big wide streets lined with tall spacious houses. The wealthy yang to my impoverished yin. Perhaps a banker. No, a banker would be too dull. Maybe he could be an entrepreneur. Yes! That’s it. A wildly original self-made millionaire.

‘He’s an entrepreneur,’ I announce to Kate as I turn from the window and sit back down.

‘He’s not some boring Etonian who’s just climbed through the ranks in law or finance, he’s done something original instead. He’s started his own business, but not just some crappy business, a multimillion-pound business, obviously.’

‘Multimillion-pound business?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes! Just write it!’

She gives me a weird look.

‘Just do it!’ I insist.

‘Fine,’ she sighs, shaking her head as she types.

I take another sip of wine, even though I’m already feeling pretty merry.

Okay, so I’ve figured out that I’m looking for a self-made millionaire, but what does he look like? Obviously, I have my preferences, I definitely prefer tall guys, for example, though I’ve never considered myself particularly superficial when it comes to looks; after all, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? But, of course, this profile isn’t about what’s on the inside.

‘He’s good-looking, like, really good-looking… He’s got dark hair, blue eyes, maybe a bit of stubble… Actually, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but he’s more muscular. Yeah, he has the face of Robert Pattinson but with the body of Daniel Craig. He—’

Kate sputters on her wine. ‘Stop, Sophia! Be serious, how many guys do you know that have the face of Robert Pattinson and the body of Daniel Craig?’

I shrug. ‘If I knew anyone like that, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’

Kate rolls her eyes. ‘True. But seriously, I’m not writing that.’

‘But you told me to freestyle, that’s what I’m doing,’ I protest.

‘Yeah, but this is ridiculous!’

I top up Kate’s wine glass. ‘Oh, come on, just write it.’

‘Fine.’ She carries on typing. ‘You do realise that no one in their right mind is going to reply to this though, don’t you?’

‘No one in their right mind replies anyway,’ I remind her as I lean back in my chair. Of course, I know no one’s going to reply. Well, no one who meets the criteria anyway. As if a self-made millionaire who looks like Robert Pattinson would be doing online dating, but still, it’s quite fun to indulge in the fantasy and at least this profile is getting Kate off my back.

The sound of Kate typing trails off.

‘What else?’ She looks up from the keyboard.

Hmmm… What else does this guy have going for him? Oh, dress sense! I almost forgot!

‘He dresses well. He wears expensive, well-cut clothes, but he’s also got style, his own personal style. He mixes things up a bit. He’s not afraid to pair a vintage charity shop shirt with an Armani coat and—’

‘Are you actually serious?’

‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Anything else, apart from a penchant for Armani? His character, for example?! His values?’

‘Dress sense is important!’ I say.

‘Sophia!’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘What’s his character like?’

Hmmm… His character. Even if this guy isn’t going to be the love of my life, he at least needs to be independent and self-assured. I can’t stand needy guys. When I was with Sam (this was pre-Itchy and Scratchy), he was so clingy, he’d get jealous if I went gay clubbing with my latex-loving uni course mate. And the himbo would moan whenever I wanted to stay home and write my novel. No, I definitely can’t be dealing with needy.

‘He has his own interests, his own life.’ I pause. ‘Obviously, he’s more than happy to go on fun dates, but he gives me a bit of space to do my own thing. Maybe he travels with work a bit…’ I think for a minute. ‘Yes, that would be perfect. He travels with work, so he comes and goes. Maybe we only see each other a couple of times a week, but when we do, it’s always amazing. We don’t just sit in front of the TV day in, day out like boring couples, we go out to amazing restaurants. We go to the theatre, the opera…’

‘The opera?!’ Kate scoffs. ‘Since when do you go to the opera?’

‘I don’t! But that’s because I haven’t met this guy yet, he’s going to take me,’ I explain.

‘Of course he is…’ Kate types it in. ‘What about hobbies?’

‘His hobby is arranging incredible, exciting dates,’ I tell her. ‘It’s his thing.’

‘I mean proper hobbies,’ Kate points out. ‘Wholesome hobbies.’

‘Fine.’ I sigh. ‘He volunteers at an orphanage then,’ I mumble as I reach for another nacho.

‘An orphanage!’ Kate mocks. ‘How many orphanages do you know of in London?’

‘I don’t. But I don’t volunteer.’

‘Well, you help out with Lyn,’ Kate reminds me.

‘Yeah, but that’s not volunteering,’ I tell her, trying not to feel put out.

You see, Lyn might be an older lady who I visit every week and help out by doing the odd bit of shopping, but it’s not volunteering. She lives down the road, and while technically, at seventy-four, she could be described as an old lady, she certainly doesn’t act like one. She’s like a friend to me but none of my mates my own age really get it. Lyn’s a great laugh, a born-and-bred East Londoner with a sharp no-nonsense wit you’d never expect from her benign-looking exterior. She’s a big fan of Fifties floral headscarves and bold red lipstick and even taught me how to wear my hair in victory rolls once. She’s incredibly sweet and caring and when I go over to her place on Saturday afternoons to watch Come Dine With Me, it’s one of the highlights of my week; it’s certainly not a chore or some kind of obligation.

‘Well whatever, scrap the orphanage idea, because I’m pretty sure they died out in the Victorian era. What kind of volunteering does he do?’

‘Does he have to do volunteering?’ I whine.

‘Well he needs to have something going for him, apart from a penchant for Armani!’

‘He is a multi-millionaire,’ I remind her. ‘But okay, if you say so…’ I think for a minute. ‘I know! He volunteers at an animal shelter. He loves animals. He has a cat. A fluffy one.’

‘How does he have a cat if he’s travelling all the time?’ Kate questions.

‘Because he has a maid.’

‘Right.’ Kate fixes me with an unimpressed look. ‘So, he has a cat and a maid?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’m beginning to see why you’re single.’ Kate shakes her head as she types it in. ‘Anything else?’

I think for a second. That must be about it. I’ve covered everything from looks to pets to voluntary work. What else is there?

‘I nearly forgot!’ I plonk my wine glass down on the table, feeling a head rush from the booze.

Kate looks up expectantly.

‘He’s got a massive cock!’ I add, grinning.

After all, I don’t want to end up with some super-rich, gorgeous, well-dressed animal lover who’s crap in the sack. Sex is important too.

Kate nearly spits out her wine. ‘Shut up, Sophia. I’m not writing that!’

‘Fine, I’ll write it then!’ I grab the laptop and start typing away.

‘I can’t believe you!’ Kate laughs.

On second thoughts, I delete ‘massive’ and add ‘7 inches’. No, ‘7.5 inches’. Slightly above average, but not so big that it would be painful.

‘“Cock must be 7.5 inches,”’ Kate reads out, giggling. ‘Oh my God!’

Oh, and girth. I don’t want some guy with a spaghetti dick. He’s got to have girth too. I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger, making it bigger and smaller until it’s just the right size.

‘What are you doing now?’ Kate sighs.

‘Do you have a ruler?’

‘What? Why?!’

‘Can you just get me a ruler?’

Kate groans as she goes to get one from her bedroom.

A minute later, she returns.

‘Cheers.’ I take it from her and rest it against the perfect girth circle I’ve created with my right hand.

‘Okay, “cock diameter must be 2.1 inches”,’ I type the words in as I speak. ‘Shit, how do you work out the circumference from that?’

‘I’m sure Mr Perfect is smart enough to figure it out,’ Kate tuts.

I gaze at my ad dreamily.

‘Do you think seven and a half inches is enough? Or should I make it eight?’

Kate grabs the ruler to compare.

‘I’d go with eight,’ she says.

‘Okay, eight it is.’ I edit the text. ‘Done!’

‘You do realise you’re going to get hundreds of dick pics now?’ Kate points out.

I shrug.

‘You’re crazy!’ Kate comments as she reaches for the laptop. ‘Right, photos…’

She opens up her Facebook account and starts scrolling through my pictures.

‘Let me get my laptop.’ I get up.

‘Not from the file!’ Kate yelps, grabbing my arm and pulling me back down.

‘This one’s nice,’ she says, hesitating on a terrible photo my mum took of me walking through Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon with no make-up on.

‘Nice?! It’s rubbish. I’ve got loads better than that.’

‘It’s nice. You look natural, at ease, approachable.’

‘I look pale and drab. Anaemic. It doesn’t even have a filter.’

‘You look natural. Guys like natural.’

‘No, they don’t!’ I grab the laptop. ‘Guys like hot!’

‘Sophia!’ Kate yanks the laptop back off me. ‘You said it yourself! What you’ve been doing so far hasn’t been working. You need to try something different—’

‘I didn’t mean upload an ugly pic of myself!’

‘It’s not an ugly pic!’ Kate right clicks onto the photo and saves it to her desktop.

‘It is! No one’s going to reply to that! Please don’t use that, Kate!’

Ignoring me, Kate goes back onto Dream Dates and selects ‘Add photo’. I stand up, a little unsteadily, and drain the last of my wine.

‘Picture uploaded,’ she announces smugly. I roll my eyes. ‘Right. Well now I’m definitely not going to meet anyone.’

I place my empty glass in the sink. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Kate clicks a few more buttons on the screen. ‘Your profile is now live,’ she trills.

‘Great.’ I skulk off to my room.

Chapter Three

‘So….’ My colleague Sandra sidles up to my desk.

She’s wearing one of her ratty old cardigans, a dark blue number that’s unravelling slightly at the hem. It’s one she knitted herself and like all her handmade creations, she’s incredibly proud of it, even if it does look a little worse for wear to the rest of us.

‘How was your date last night then?’ she asks in her sing-song voice, which is just a little too squeaky and high-pitched for me to handle today.

Unlike Sandra, who no doubt went to bed at 10 p.m. last night (like she does every night, with a mug of Ovaltine), Kate and I were up until gone 2 a.m., knocking back wine and creating that stupid dating profile. My head is pounding and I’m sure I look awful. I spent half the tube journey cowering in my seat desperately trying to conceal my eye bags with lashings of concealer. The overall effect being that my caked on make-up probably only serves to highlight my tiredness, rather than hide it.

‘It was all right,’ I grumble, reaching for my mug of tea, but that’s not enough to satisfy Sandra. Sandra thrives on details.

‘What was he like?’ she pries, with a suggestive little eyebrow wiggle as she perches on the end of my desk.

She’s clearly not going away any time soon. While it’s evident to everyone who knows me that I have a depressingly terrible love life, to Sandra I’m some sort of whimsical Carrie Bradshaw figure. Sometimes I revel in the attention and quite enjoy having a good old gossip, poring over guys’ pictures and analysing their messages, but other times – like today – I just wish Sandra would get out a bit more and stop living through me. We’re both single, and even though she’s obsessed with my love life, she won’t contemplate going on a date herself.

‘Well?!’ Sandra pleads. ‘Come on, what was he like?’

‘Oh… tall, nice eyes,’ I tell her.

Her face lights up like a puppy being offered a treat.

‘But we didn’t really click.’

She deflates. ‘How come?’

‘He was into weird figurine battle games and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the layout of London’s tube stations,’ I explain, but Sandra looks nonplussed.

‘We just didn’t have a spark.’

‘But he sounds nice,’ Sandra protests.

I should have known Sandra would find him fascinating.

‘What about one more date? Just to give him a chance,’ Sandra suggests.

I shake my head. ‘Don’t think so. Fancy another cup of tea?’

I down the dregs left in my mug. Making tea is the only way I’m going to be able to get out of this conversation. Give her two more minutes and she’ll be asking to see Chris’s profile. Sandra always wants to see my dates’ profiles, even if I have no intention of ever seeing them again. I think it’s almost like porn to her.

‘Oh yes, a cup of tea would be lovely. The usual.’ Sandra smiles, handing me her mug – a customised one she ordered online featuring a picture of her hamster, Betsy.

‘Thanks.’ I take the mug and hurry out the office, down the corridor to the kitchen, where I savour the sweet relief of silence.

I fill the kettle and check my phone while it boils. Twelve new messages from Dream Dates and it’s only 9.45 a.m. Fuzzy fragments from last night filter back into my mind. The face of Robert Pattinson with the body of Daniel Craig. Must have a cat. I feel my cheeks redden suddenly. Oh my God. The penis specifications. Bugger! What if someone at work spots my profile and HR calls me in? What if this goes on my record? I’ll be known as the Girl Who Advertised for Sex Online or Penis Girl. I’ll never get a reference again. Oh no! I search around on the site, looking for the deactivation button, but like on all dating sites, it’s as hidden as humanly possible. Messages start pinging into my account. No doubt all the weirdo men trawling the site can see that I’m online.

Sunjil1964: Hello dear, I like your profile. Me? I look for wife. We meet? X

Timster: Hi Sophia,

I’m a little tired having just flown in from Singapore but I saw your profile and wanted to send you a message seeing as you like men who travel like myself. Not many women can handle my schedule, among other things ;)

Tim xx

PC34C: Hi Sophia, my name is Omar and I am creative I work in the video games industry as a software engineer I also like animals I used to have a cat but he died then I had another cat but he also died that was when I decided to stop adopting animals. I like to get to know you more.

Tattoos_and_bass: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Can I stick a finger up your bum hole?

RichyRich: Hi Sophia, You would look great in my cage. Rich

Bobhot4u: Hallo Sophia ;)

My name’s Bob. I’m kind and I enjoy life to the fullest. I’m just looking for woman to make it more interesting and worth living.

xox. Bob

Markeyboi88: Hey babe, If I flip a coin, what are the chances I’ll get head?

Ali_Jaff: I feel some kind of ticklish in my belly as I saw your pic and I can stop looking at it. :)

I was assuming what if I was lucky someday to meet you up I will be a happy like little Charlie in chocolate factory. ;)

But don’t know if I ever get a reply from you as I believe it’s not mandatory that you reply me and fact is you can only see the moon but never touch moon and appreciate its sweetness but never get a reply let’s see what happen. :)

Jimbo_9: Hi Sophia, I don’t have the body of Daniel Craig, more like James Corden, but I do have an eight-inch cock. Take a look if you don’t believe me!

Without thinking, I scroll down to reveal a close-up shot of an engorged veiny penis protruding from a generous mound of ginger pubes and automatically eject my phone from my hand. It crashes to the kitchen floor.

‘Are you all right?’ Sandra’s head pops around the door. ‘I heard a sort of yelping sound,’ she remarks.

‘Yes! Yes! I’m fine! Totally fine! Just dropped my phone.’ I dive down to the ground and grab it, thankful that it’s landed screen down. The last thing I need this morning is for my workmates to think I’m looking at porn in the staff kitchen. I stash it in my trouser pocket.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little…’

‘It’s nothing! Just making tea. It’s nothing!’ I shriek, opening the cutlery draw and rummaging around for a spoon.

‘Do you need a hand?’ Sandra asks.

‘No! Nope. I’m fine!’ I insist.

‘Okay, then,’ Sandra relents, giving me a weird look as she closes the door.

I’m going to kill Kate. What kind of site is this? Dream Dates. More like Nightmare Nutjobs. I can’t wipe the image of that penis from my mind. It’s there as I stir the tea. As I pour in the milk. As I spoon in the sugar. It’s going to be for ever burned on my retinas.

I take the mugs of tea and head back into the office, handing Sandra her mug as I walk to my desk. She takes a sip and her eyes bulge.

‘Bit sugary, Sophia!’ She winces, as if she’s swallowing poison. ‘Surely this isn’t the usual one and a half teaspoons?’

‘Something like that.’ I shrug. I have a vague memory of brandishing a teaspoon around, sugar grains flying about, the image of an eight-inch penis attached to James Cordenesque thighs throbbing in my brain. ‘Sorry, Sandra.’

‘No problem.’ She takes another tentative sip before faking a smile.

I sit down in front of my computer, wondering whether I can log on to Dream Dates without anyone noticing. I need to delete that profile. I’m about to type in the web address when I see Ted, my boss, walking over to my desk. As usual, he’s wearing a suit that’s three sizes too big. It would make him look like a child dressing up in his dad’s clothes if it wasn’t for the greying hair dusted with dandruff, which is a bit of a giveaway.

‘Need you to proofread this, Sophia,’ he says, plonking a document in front of me. I pick it up tentatively, appraising the title: A Study of Catheter-associated Urinary Tract Infections. I arrange my features into an agreeable expression.

‘Of course, thanks Ted.’ I smile politely. ‘It looks great,’ I add for extra measure, although that might be taking it too far.

Ted clutches the side of my desk and leans against it in a pained attempt at nonchalance.

‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ he observes, gazing out of the window. The September sky is shrouded in clouds, although the sun is peeking out between a few of them. It’s a fairly ordinary-looking day as far as I can tell, but Ted gazes towards the horizon, bewitched.

‘Yes, lovely!’ I enthuse.

‘Heading to an open-air cinema event later, hopefully it doesn’t rain!’ Ted says.