The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Fiona Gibson
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bit of baggage, but then who hasn’t amassed some of that, at our age?’
‘Oh no, please don’t set me up. I’m not looking for any more dates …’
She helps herself to a slice of Stu’s recent bake – a particularly moist and delicious gingerbread – and takes an enthusiastic bite. The sugar ban doesn’t seem to extend beyond the boundaries of the Kentons’ home. ‘Well, what about meeting more men from that dating site?’
‘Oh, no, I’m coming off that …’
‘But you’ve hardly given it a chance!’
‘I have, Cecily. Three dates is quite enough—’
‘Three’s nothing in that sort of world.’
I laugh. ‘You don’t know that sort of world. You have no idea what it’s like to spend an evening with someone who drones on about how much he hates work – how the insurance business is killing him – and all you can do is stare at the three little brown pegs which you suspect might actually be teeth …’
‘Ugh, really? It provides good stories, at least.’
But who wants to go on dates just for stories? I reflect as Cecily takes another bite of cake. She and Gerry have been together since, well, forever, and still adore each other. As well as Bella – who’s an excellent pianist – they have Matthew, Oliver and George, all accomplished classical musicians with impeccable manners and hearty red cheeks. Their Victorian townhouse gleams with gilt-framed accolades.
‘Oh, there is someone who’s crawled out of the woodwork,’ I add, lifting my laptop from the worktop. ‘See what you think of this …’ I open Antoine’s Facebook page and click on the beach picture.
‘Mmmm, he’s a bit of a fox. Who is he?’
‘First love,’ I explain. ‘Well, first obsession really, but it felt like true love at the time. Mum packed me off to France at sixteen to stay with my penpal. He was her older brother and he’s just sent me a friend request …’
‘So you had a thing with him?’
I nod. ‘Just a holiday romance, I suppose, although there wasn’t any “just” about it at the time …’
‘Let’s see more pictures,’ she enthuses as I start to click through them. ‘So many work events,’ she adds. ‘Conferences, meetings, that kind of thing …’
‘It’s all very corporate,’ I agree, hearing the front door open and Stu striding in.
‘Hey, Stu,’ Cecily says with a smile.
‘Hey, Cess.’ He always calls her this. I’m not sure she likes it much, but she does like Stu, so she lets him get away with it. ‘What’s this?’ he enquires, glancing over my shoulder. ‘You’re Facebook friends with an orange?’
‘It’s actually a person,’ I explain. ‘Remember Antoine, from that French trip? The one who stopped writing—’
‘Not the shithead who broke your heart?’ Stu asks.
‘Yep, that’s the one,’ I say wryly.
He turns to Cecily. ‘She was devastated. Cried for weeks. Of course, it was left to me to pick up the pieces …’
I sense my cheeks colouring as Cecily crooks a brow. ‘And you accepted his friend request?’ she remarks.
‘Well, yes, but only because—’
‘So, did he poke you?’ Stu cuts in.
‘Stu, she was only sixteen!’ Cecily exclaims.
‘No, I mean a Facebook poke.’
I laugh derisively. ‘No one pokes anyone these days. No one’s poked anyone since about 2007 …’
‘No, I heard it was coming back,’ he says, suddenly quite the social media guru. ‘People are poking each other all over the place. So, you didn’t tell me he’d been in touch?’
Cecily and I exchange a quick look.
‘It was only yesterday,’ I remark.
‘Oh, right. So, what does he want?’ He cranes forward for a closer look, radiating disapproval.
‘Just to be friends, I guess …’
‘Friends?’ he repeats.
‘Yes, is there anything wrong with that?’ I’m starting to feel rather crowded in now, and slightly regret turning this utterly insignificant incident into a public event. I decide not to mention that I have already messaged Antoine, and have yet to receive a reply.
‘I s’pose not,’ Stu says with a shrug, ‘if you really want to be in contact again …’
‘Well, I think he’s gorgeous,’ Cecily adds with a grin.
‘He’s all right,’ I say lightly.
‘Oh, come on! Look at those lovely dark eyes, Lorrie. The chiselled cheekbones. Very sexy in that polished professional sort of way …’
‘Puh.’ With a snort, Stu ambles away. He opens the fridge, peers inside and closes it again.
‘Well, that’s enough Antoine for me,’ Cecily adds, jumping up. ‘Better head back before I get overheated.’ She turns towards the kitchen door. ‘Bella darling? We really need to get going …’
And off they go, shortly followed by Stu, who’s called out on another job – emergency unsalted butter required in Crouch End – so, with Amy enjoying one of her customary soaks in the bath, I hunker down at the kitchen table and scroll through yet more of Antoine’s pictures.
More personal insights into his life is what I’m looking for: a wife, a girlfriend, children. A couple of photos I missed earlier were taken at some kind of gathering in a garden, in which he’s wearing a casual shirt and jeans, but there are no couply pictures, and there’s nothing to indicate whether he’s married or not. I examine picture after picture like some rabidly obsessed teenager, and when I check the clock on the cooker I realise over an hour has passed since Stu went out. That’s how long I’ve spent gawping at someone I haven’t seen since I was sixteen years old. What’s wrong with me? I am forty-six, I have a tunic to iron for work tomorrow, there’s a load of saggy old vegetables to dispose of in the fridge.
Allowing myself one final peek, I click on the picture that isn’t of a person or thing, but a phrase – perhaps one of those mottoes for life. Nuala pins them up whenever we’re all gathered together in a hotel for a La Beauté away-day: Because every woman is beautiful. Antoine’s reads: La vie est comme une bicyclette. Pour garder votre équilibre, vous devez continuer à avancer.
Even I can understand the first bit. Google translates the rest: To keep your balance, you must keep moving. So this is the type of person he’s turned out to be: a-life-is-a-bicycle sort of man. Right-ho. I go back to the corporate pictures, vaguely registering Stu arriving home and clattering about in the hallway.
A message pops up. Antoine!
Hey Lorrie, Thanks for accepting :) I’m very flattered that you remember me …
Remember? Is the man insane? Of course I remember!
Realise it was thirty years ago, he continues. Where does all the time go?
Oh, I don’t know – it just keeps moving. On its bicycle probably.
So, he goes on, what are you up to these days?
I wait, but nothing more comes. So, how to respond? I rehearse the words in my head: I am in charge of a highly successful