Perfect Match

‘Hopefully!’

Poor Ted. He tries so hard to be cool but it never quite works out for him. He subscribes to Time Out’s mailing list and he’s always banging on about this or that up-and-coming burger place or Shoreditch’s cat café, and he absolutely loves outdoor cinema nights in random run-down locations. But even though he may have done every gimmicky thing there is to do in London, he’ll still never be trendy. Ted’s another long-term singleton. I wonder what his username would be if he did online dating… Probably something really creepy like YourSpecialTeddy. Repressing a shudder, I push the thought out of my mind.

‘Anyway.’ Ted peels his clammy hand from my desk. ‘I need the paper to be done by the end of the day and it’s got to be spot on. You know what the infections lot are like.’ He pulls a face.

‘Okay, sure. No problem!’ I add, a little too brightly as he wanders off.

I read the first sentence: ‘Catheter-associated urinary tract infections (CAUTI) are one of the most commonly occurring healthcare associated infections, Urinary Catheters can frequntly become colonised with micro-bacteria; but most do not lead to infection.’ I rearrange the sentence, adding a full stop and a dash, removing unnecessary capitals and semicolons and correcting ‘frequntly’. It ends up vaguely readable, but still, one sentence in and I’ve already had to make five changes and this document is… I flick through it… seventy-three pages long! Great. Just great.

I take a few sips of my tea and try to pull myself together. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse. It’s not like I’m down the mines or anything. I could be down a dark, wet, horrible mine. All I have to do is sit here, in front of my computer, and make some changes to a document. It’s fine. Except, I can’t help feeling like I’m wasted on this. I don’t want comma corrections on this document to be my legacy. An image pops into my mind of my funeral. Ted standing at the podium with a tear in his eye.

‘She worked tirelessly for the betterment of catheters,’ he’ll sob, wiping his eyes with a sodden hanky that, naturally, he’ll have been storing up one of his roomy sleeves. ‘None of us at Shadwell Medical Research Centre will ever forget her.’

No! I shudder, trying to shake the image from my brain. I was put on this earth to be a writer, a real writer. But somehow, writing a novel is taking a lot longer than I thought it would and simply dreaming of the Booker doesn’t pay the rent (if it did, I’d be living in a Chelsea mansion right now). I let out a gusty sigh. I shouldn’t be so downbeat. Maybe my luck will change. Maybe I’ll win the lottery and then I’ll have all the time in the world to write. Yes, that would be perfect. But I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t go planning my life around winning the lottery! No, Deal or No Deal is far more likely. I reckon I’m quite in tune with the universe and most people win at least something on that show, don’t they? I open up a Google browser and type in ‘How to apply…’ I’m about to add ‘to take part in Deal or No Deal’, when Sandra swoops by my desk to check out what I’m working on.

She picks up the paper.

‘Oh, UTIs. Interesting.’ She nods approvingly.

I laugh, assuming she’s being funny, but she hands the document back to me with a sad smile, as if I lucked out and she didn’t.

I take the paper from her, abandon my Deal or No Deal plans for now and reluctantly get to work.

By 6 p.m., I’ve picked up an inhuman amount of knowledge on catheters, drunk a gallon of tea and corrected so many diabolically written sentences that I’m beginning to seriously consider setting up an educational outreach campaign: Medics Need Literacy Too.

‘Here you go, Ted.’ I plonk a new, freshly printed version of the document down on his desk.

He picks it up, scanning the front page with his well-trained, punctuation-hawk eyes.

‘Looks good, Sophia,’ he says, flicking through the pages.

He starts stroking his chin as he appraises my work. He could really do with a beard for moments like this but I’m not in the mood for Ted’s ponderings. It’s the end of the day and I just want to go home, have some dinner and get a nice early night.

‘Great! Well, see you tomorrow!’ I say, edging my way to the door.

‘Wait, Sophia!’ Ted calls me back. ‘Seeing as you’ve done such a good job on this, I’ve actually got another paper you might like to do. It’s not quite as innovative as this one, but I think you’ll still find it interesting.’

He rifles through his desk drawer. ‘Here it is!’ He hands me a paper with a big smile.

Stifling a sense of dread, I read the title: Prevent Catheter-induced Urinary Tract Infections Using Sterilisation.

I can feel Ted watching me, waiting for a reaction.

‘Thank you, Ted,’ I croak.

‘No problem,’ he replies, with a kind smile.

I walk back to my desk, abandon the paper and bolt to the door.

‘Right, see you tomorrow!’ I call across the office, barely waiting for a response before the door swings shut behind me

I head to the tube station and catch the DLR home, feeling glum. I remember when Ted started giving Sandra all the papers on fungal infections, I thought it was absolutely hilarious. But now, thanks to some horrible karmic twist of fate, I seem to have become the office’s resident catheter specialist. I don’t know which is worse - fungal infections or catheter-induced UTIs. Actually, come to think of it, I’ve probably drawn the short straw.

*

‘Hey,’ Kate mumbles, peering over the back of the sofa as I arrive home. She’s sitting with Max watching EastEnders.

‘All right, Sophia?’ Max turns around and gives me a little salute.

I hang my coat up by the door.

‘Hey guys.’ I walk over and sink into an armchair.

‘What’s up? You look a bit down,’ Kate says, looking over at me.

I shrug. ‘It’s nothing.’

I can tell from what she’s wearing that Kate probably hasn’t left the house today. She’s in her black and white striped Beetlejuice leggings, the ones she always dons for lounging around. Max is wearing his off-duty actor-wear – black jogging bottoms and a tight black t-shirt. Kate’s legs are stretched out over his lap. They’re always like this. If they’re not on stage, you can guarantee they’ll be watching DVDs or soaps, carrying out ‘research’ as they call it. But I guess they don’t have much energy for anything else, or at least Kate doesn’t anyway. It’s her first week off for nearly a year. She’s playing Desdemona at the Globe and finally decided to have a break, letting her understudy step in until Friday. Unlike Kate, who can’t get enough of playing Shakespearean heroines, Max doesn’t really go in for the classics. At the moment, he’s pretending to shoot up every weekend while playing Mark Renton in a pub theatre adaptation of Trainspotting. He fixes me with a concerned look.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asks.

Part of me wants to offload about the catheter papers, the creepy messages on Dream Dates and the dick pic, but I know they’ll just laugh and I can’t face being the hilarious singleton today.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit tired. Long day.’ I force a weak smile.

‘Fair enough,’ Max remarks.

‘Oh…Poor Soph.’ Kate pulls a glum face, reaches over and squeezes my knee.

My phone buzzes. One new message from Dream Dates.

Jonno582: Hey Sophia,

Have you heard what scientists are saying? There are only going to be eight planets in the solar system after I destroy Uranus.

‘What the fuck?!’

‘What is it?’ Kate asks.

I look up from my screen. Both she and Max are looking over.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Just an annoying work email from Ted.’ I hit delete. This message makes emails from Ted look like Petrarchan sonnets.

‘Oh, all right then.’ Kate turns her attention back to EastEnders but after a few minutes her stomach makes a loud growling noise, so loud in fact that it makes the booming voices of an Albert Square argument sound like faint whispers.

Max raises an eyebrow. ‘You hungry by any chance, love?’

‘Starving,’ Kate mutters, her eyes fixed to the screen. ‘Let’s get a takeaway.’

‘Cool.’ Max reaches for his phone, no doubt to open his favourite fast food app. It never ceases to amaze me how Max can eat so much takeaway and still look so athletic. I should pitch him as a specimen to the diet and nutrition researchers at work. Now that would make an interesting paper.

‘Wanna order something, Sophia?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I swing my legs over the side of the armchair and settle in to watch the rest of EastEnders.

Chapter Four

‘Morning,’ Sandra chirps as I arrive at work the next day.

‘Morning,’ I echo as I cross the office. Sandra smiles expectantly, her eyes following me.

‘Working on anything interesting?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, yes.’ She holds up a paper on fungal vaccines.

‘Cool,’ I murmur as I sit down at my desk and pick up my paper.

Right, catheter-induced urinary tract infections. I suppose it’s not as bad as the time I had to edit a paper on fibre content variations between different stool types. But still, I might just make a cup of tea before I get started. I’m about to ask Sandra if she’d like one, but when I look round, she’s already staring at me with an odd expression on her face. She taps her pen against her desk, faster and faster. Tiny beads of sweat have formed on her upper lip.

‘Are you all right, Sandra?’ I venture.

‘Of course!’ she replies without skipping a beat.

‘Okay…’

Sandra shuffles in her chair and blushes a little.

‘Do you want a cuppa?’ I ask.

‘I’m all right, thanks. Just had one,’ she says, her cheeks growing redder and redder.

‘Okay then…’ I shoot her a wary look before heading to the kitchen.

As I fill the kettle, I can’t help wondering what’s up with her. Sandra can be so strange. Maybe she’s just found out she’s been shortlisted for the Medical Copywriter of the Year Awards and doesn’t want to break it to me because she thinks I might get jealous. I remember how awkward she got last year when she won and I didn’t make the shortlist. But even if that were the case, it doesn’t quite explain why she’d be blushing and staring at me in such a weird, intense way. Suddenly, I feel a dawning sense of dread. Oh God, what if Sandra’s got in touch with her inner lesbian and developed a crush on me or something?

‘Sophia!’ Sandra bursts through the kitchen door, her cheeks aflame.

‘Yes?’ I reply quietly, edging away a little until my back is flat against the fridge.

Sandra sidles up to me. ‘Sorry, I just have to tell you something. I’m going to have to admit it now or else I won’t be able to concentrate on anything all day, and the fungal vaccine paper is due this afternoon and I really don’t want to mess it up. It’s really important that I tell you. I just have to get it off my chest!’

‘What is it?’ I ask in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Please don’t tell me you’re in love with me, please don’t, I silently pray.

‘I hope you’re not going to be annoyed with me,’ she frets.

‘What is it?!’

‘Well, last night, after you left work, I stayed late to go over my report on bunions one last time and…’ She trails off and looks downs at the floor. I have literally no idea where she’s going with this.

‘And?’

‘Well, I got stuck on a semi-colon. I just wasn’t sure whether it was right or not so I thought I’d consult that punctuation manual. You know, the one Ted emailed us a few months ago? Semi-colons: Instructions on correct usage.’

‘Uhhh, yeah…’ I vaguely remember something about it.

Ted sends round these copywriting manuals from time to time, just in case Sandra and I want to do a bit of extra ‘background reading’. But I don’t think, in this lifetime, I’ll ever be bored enough to go through them; I’d rather watch paint dry. In fact, I’m sure they’d make watching paint dry look like a fireworks display.

‘Well normally…’ Sandra chuckles nervously. ‘Normally, I keep all the manuals in a folder on my desktop labelled “Punctuation SOS”.’

For a second I’m quiet, and then I realise that Sandra thinks she’s been really witty. I let out a polite little laugh. Sandra takes a deep wheezing breath to calm herself down.

‘Well, the manual wasn’t in my folder, I couldn’t believe it. I always put them in there,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘I searched everywhere. I did a comprehensive search of all my files, but I still couldn’t find it, then I went through my emails from Ted. I checked my backpack, because sometimes I take the manuals to read on the tube but it wasn’t there either! Ted had gone home so it wasn’t like I could ask him to resend it, so I thought I’d just have a quick look on your computer to see if you had a copy.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘I went over to your desk and your computer was still on. You seemed to be in a bit of a hurry to get home last night so I guess you forgot to turn it off, but when I moved your mouse, the screen lit up and the first thing I saw was this site… Dream Dates,’ Sandra says.

Now it’s my turn to blush. Bloody hell. I went on Dream Dates during my lunch break to find the deactivation button, but with my deadline looming for the catheter paper, I must have forgotten to log off. Oh no! What if Sandra had seen the penis criteria?

‘Sandra, you didn’t read anything, did you? It was just a joke. My friend set it up as a joke!’

‘I’m sorry, I did read something,’ Sandra admits.

That’s it. I’ve scarred her for life. I’ve traumatised Sandra, who I’m pretty sure is still a virgin, with my crude penis specifications. No wonder she’s been blushing so much.

‘What did you read?’

‘I wasn’t snooping. I don’t want you to think I was snooping or anything… It was just there.’

Not a dick pic. Dear Lord, not another dick pic! Last time I checked my phone, it did say I had twenty unread messages, some of which were no doubt genitalia.

‘What was “just there”?’ I ask tentatively, bracing myself.

‘This message, from this guy. It popped up on the screen, the words were just there. I couldn’t help reading them,’ Sandra tells me.

‘Just words?’ I ask.

‘Yes… Just words.’

‘Oh great!’ I enthuse, relieved.

Sandra looks momentarily confused. ‘Anyway, it was a message from a guy. He said he’d like to meet you and that he was going to be at The Anchor and Hope from 7 p.m. if you fancied stopping by.’

‘Okay…’ I murmur.

‘Well, it was such a coincidence because I was going to The Anchor and Hope anyway and so I—’

‘Hang on, you were going to a pub?’ I interrupt her.

Sandra is a loud and proud teetotaller and in the three years I’ve known her, she’s never once set foot in a pub. I’d actually got the impression she was a bit afraid of them.

‘Yeah. They’ve stopped keeping Starbucks open until eleven p.m. so now my knitting group has to meet at a pub instead. We’ve got no other choice really,’ she tells me, despondently. ‘I’ve written to Starbucks to complain but I’m still waiting to hear back from them. It’s really annoying.’

‘So, what happened?’ I ask.

‘Nothing. I sent a message via their customer complaints form on the website the other day. They say they’ll reply within forty-eight hours but it’s been three days now,’ Sandra huffs.

‘Not about the complaint, about going to the pub!’

‘Oh, that!’ Sandra laughs. ‘Well, I thought, seeing as I was going to the pub, I may as well check this guy out for you, just in case he was really dishy in person. He looked quite attractive on the little thumbnail by the message and so I thought… I really hope you’re not going to be annoyed at me, I didn’t mean to be nosy but…’ She tugs nervously at the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘What, Sandra?’

‘Well I clicked on his profile and he was really, really hot,’ she says, her face lighting up. ‘He looked like that actor. You know the one from that film about vampires.’

‘Twilight? Robert Pattinson?’

‘Yes! That’s the one. He was really quite something.’ Sandra lets out a low dirty laugh that sends shivers down my spine. Maybe she isn’t quite as pure as I thought.

‘Muscly as well. Pecs, biceps, rippling abs, lean, toned thighs…’ Her eyes glaze over and her mouth hangs open a bit. I’m almost worried that a dribble of drool might spill over her bottom lip.

‘Okay, I get the picture. So, what happened?’

‘Well, after I checked out his photos, I had a quick read of his profile. I hope you don’t mind, but I know you wouldn’t want to date someone who can’t punctuate properly and you know what most people are like these days.’ She shakes her head morosely. ‘But I was pleasantly surprised. He writes like one of us. Not a spelling mistake, unnecessary capital letter or misplaced semicolon in sight!’ Sandra tells me triumphantly.

‘So, I went to the pub to meet the Knitting Ninjas and at first I couldn’t see him, but then after a while the pub just fell silent. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, it was a bit unnerving. I looked round to the entrance and saw this guy coming in – the one from Dream Dates! And oh my goodness, Sophia, he was even better in person. He was so good-looking! He almost glowed. He wasn’t a regular guy,’ Sandra gushes, a little breathlessly.

‘He was super human, like a different species or something. He had this aura about him. Everyone in the pub was just kind of stunned and then gradually people came back to their senses and started chatting again. All the ladies in my knitting group agreed that he must be a model or an actor or someone famous. He was just too gorgeous to be an ordinary man!’

I frown sceptically. ‘But did he really look like Robert Pattinson?’

‘Yes, he did! He made Robert Pattinson look a bit worse for wear actually. He was a total dish!’ Sandra insists, and I can’t help grinning.

A Robert Pattinson lookalike! Oh my God! Just like my ad! But hang on a minute, why would someone that hot be into online dating? It doesn’t make sense.

‘Hmmm… This all seems a bit suspicious,’ I comment, turning my attention back to the kettle. I drop tea bags into our mugs and pour boiling water over them. ‘If this guy is that gorgeous, surely he could have his pick of women. Surely he’d be beating them off with a stick?’

‘He was! It was quite funny actually,’ Sandra recalls. ‘He was sitting on his own by the window reading a book and three or four women tried to make conversation with him, but he just didn’t seem interested.’ She gives a little shrug.

‘Right, so he sat there on his own all evening thinking that I might just happen to show up? That’s a bit odd.’

‘No.’ Sandra tuts. ‘He only sat on his own for a bit and then his friend came and joined him for a drink.’

‘Right… So, what did his friend look like?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing special.’ Sandra shrugs. ‘Just a normal-looking guy. But the Robert Pattinson one kept looking over his friend’s shoulder towards the exit. I think he was looking out for you, just in case.’

I cast Sandra a wary look as I open the fridge door to get some milk.

‘This all sounds a bit strange,’ I muse, unscrewing the lid of what looks like the least curdled bottle. I take a sniff to find that it’s just about passable.

‘Very strange actually,’ I add as I pour the milk into the tea, trying to wrap my head around Sandra’s bizarre tale.

You don’t find men who are so gorgeous that they can silence a room on dating websites. You just don’t. I’ve tried enough of them to know. The only conclusion I can come to is that Sandra saw a slightly above average guy and managed to throw this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe he farted as he came into the pub and that’s why everyone went silent and started staring at him. Yes, that’s much more likely. He’s probably a complete dweeb who smells of farts. That’s the kind of guy you find on dating websites. I reach for the sugar and stir a few teaspoons into Sandra’s mug.

‘So, are you going to meet him then?’ she asks. ‘You’re not annoyed with me, are you? I didn’t mean to invade your privacy or anything. The message was just there on the screen and I thought it was such a bizarre coincidence that he was going to The Anchor and Hope.’

‘You should have spoken to him,’ I say.

‘Should I?’ Sandra looks perplexed.

‘Yeah. You two might have hit it off.’

Sandra snorts loudly. ‘Me? He wouldn’t be interested in me!’ she scoffs, and for a moment, I feel a little sorry for her.

‘You have to go on a date with this guy, Sophia, if it’s the last thing you do!’ Sandra insists as the kitchen door swings open.

‘Excuse me, ladies,’ Ted says, clearing his throat. ‘This isn’t the WI. I’m not paying you to have a cup of tea and a natter. You both have pressing deadlines and I don’t want to see a single comma out of place. Come along now, back to work.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ted, ever so sorry,’ Sandra gabbles.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I echo, putting the milk back in the fridge.

‘Just had a bit of a personal emergency but back to work, absolutely! So sorry!’ Sandra hurries after Ted, leaving me plodding down the hallway after them with the hot mugs of tea.

I sit back down at my desk and pick up my paper. Right, How to Prevent Catheter-induced Urinary Tract Infections Using Sterilisation. I flick through it. Nineteen pages long, could be worse. I jolt my mouse, bringing my screen to life. The Dream Dates website is still there, the profile of the Robert Pattinson lookalike staring back at me. Holy shit, he actually does look like Robert Pattinson; Sandra wasn’t just imagining it. Except his hair is thicker and his eyes are even more blue and piercing. And oh my gosh, his body! She wasn’t exaggerating when she said rippling abs and lean, toned thighs. Wow! This guy is something else. I scroll through his photos, getting more and more excited as I click through to some holiday shots of him lounging topless on a yacht, the sunlight melting over his perfectly chiselled pecs.

‘Last time I checked, our website didn’t contain photos of naked hunks.’

I turn around to see Ted standing at the photocopier behind my desk. I quickly close the window, but it’s too late.

‘What’s got into you today, Sophia?’ he tuts. ‘Come on, back to work.’

‘Yes, Ted. Sorry. Spam!’

Reluctantly, I get on with my work, although images of that guy’s piercing blue eyes keep flitting through my mind. I just want to go back on Dream Dates to get a better look but Ted keeps wandering through the office, peering over at mine and Sandra’s monitors to make sure we’re working. Finally, he heads out to get his daily elevenses, a blueberry muffin from the café down the road, and I’m back on Dream Dates quicker than you can say ‘romance’. I click on the last message this guy sent.

Daniel_86:

Hey Sophia,

It might seem a little forward but I’m going to be at this pub, The Anchor and Hope, in Waterloo, from around 7 tonight. Would be great to meet you if you happen to be in the area.

x Daniel

I scroll down and see that there’s another message, sent half an hour earlier.

Daniel_86:

Hi Sophia,

Thanks for putting a smile on my face! Your profile is the funniest and most downright honest thing I’ve read all day. I’m guessing you set it up for a laugh but I actually found your honesty pretty refreshing, and, bizarrely, I happen to meet the majority of your criteria. You probably won’t believe this, but I get told I look like Robert Pattinson all the time! I used to volunteer for an animal charity and I have a fluffy rescue cat called Esther! Crazy, huh?

I know it all sounds a bit unlikely, but when I read your profile, I was as taken aback as you probably are right now. Speak to you soon, I hope.