Waiting For Mr Perfect

FICTION My new friend definitely appeared to have found the ideal man, but would he turn out to be too good to be true?

How’s the new office? Settling in?” Mum asks. “Absolutely,” I reassure her. I can hear the concern in her voice and I feel guilty. I’m too old to be worrying my parents. “Making friends?” “Yes,” I assure her brightly and falsely. It’s trickier than I imagined, making new friends at my age. It’s easy when you’re eight; you simply share a KitKat or offer to turn the skipping rope. Not so easy at thirty-eight.

“A new start, new town, just what you need, Phoebe.”

She’s right, but it doesn’t make her words any easier to hear. I was stuck in a rut – emotionally and professionally. Leeds was crammed with haunting memories of my ex, Tim, even though we divorced over two years ago. We’d been together for eighteen years.

I needed to know that I could shop without dreading bumping into Tim and his new wife; I wanted to be able to go to a bar or restaurant without being hammered with memories of times I’d visited before as half of a happy couple.

“And you’re going to follow my advice – accept every invite that flutters your way?” asks Mum. “Yes,” I mumble dutifully. “I’ll be ringing and expecting updates.” I was lucky that my company were accommodating about a transfer, but the problem is that a clean start requires a lot of effort. I’ve found, despite moving two hundred and fifty miles, there are days that I still struggle to get out of bed. I miss my family and old friends.

This doesn’t feel like my home yet. It feels like somewhere I’m hiding out.

Thank goodness for Amanda. She’s a woman at work who has kindly swept me under her wing. I’m grateful.

We’re the same grade, we’re the same age, and it transpires neither of us has ever watched an episode of Game OfThrones but we’ve seen all seven seasons of TheGoodWife. I’m hoping it’s enough to kick start a friendship.

The notable difference is that

What have I got to LOSE? My DIGNITY – but I resist SAYING SO

Amanda is married with two sons. She adores “her boys” and talks about them all the time. I try not to feel jealous and, when she invites me for dinner one Friday, I accept quickly. I don’t want to be alone with a Domino’s pizza box again.

I realise Amanda will be serving up for my delectation, an eligible man. A happily married woman like her is unable to resist matchmaking. I’ve come to know the dinner party formula – three couples, me and a spare man. Marrieds look to singletons for entertainment. Will we or won’t we share a taxi home?

I fear I’m forever a disappointment. I always go home alone. I hate being set up.

When I arrive at Amanda’s place, bottle of red in one hand, chocs in the other, I’m pleasantly surprised. I’m the only guest. Dinner is a casual, chaotic business – more of a family tea, really – interrupted by the kids’ stories and demands and the need to take their dog for a walk. It’s very relaxed, lovely.

Amanda’s husband is a surprise, too. He’s exceptionally striking – classically tall, dark and handsome, with cheek bones you could cut yourself on. He’s not just ornamental; he helps prepare supper and once we finish eating, and the children are in bed, he insists Amanda and I take our wine glasses through to the sitting room while he washes up.

“You’ve a good one there,” I comment enthusiastically. “How did you meet?” “Online.” “Online?” I nearly spit out my wine in astonishment. I’d have had money on her saying at university or work. When I started dating Tim, the internet was in its infancy. I feel the world has moved on without me.

“I buy loads online. Books, shoes, food, all my white goods. You get a wider choice. Why would I leave something as important as finding love to chance?” she asks. “You should give it a go.” “You’re kidding?” “I’m deadly serious. What have you got to lose?” Mydignity, but I resist saying so. We finish the wine and when it’s time for me to leave, Amanda pulls me into a hug and whispers, “I know that one day you’ll find someone just as wonderful as my Andy.”

For the next few weeks, I mull over the idea. I was so badly wounded by Tim’s infidelity, almost done in. I’m doing OK now, in my new flat and new town, dare I risk hoping for more again?

On one hand, it seems too “out there”. On the other, I have my mother asking if I’m accepting every invitation. I would but there haven’t been any, unless you count a flyer from the local solicitors inviting residents to make an appointment to discuss drafting a will.

I reach for my laptop and the note of the name of the site which served Amanda and Andy so well.

At first, I feel a slight flush of excitement and optimism as the home page shows a number of beautiful couples, smiling adoringly at one another. They are eating lobster in candle-lit restaurants, standing outside ski chalets or picnicking in open fields bursting with wild flowers. It would take a harder woman than me not to feel squelchy.

However, the momentary illusion that these are real couples, who have found true love by logging on, vanishes when I recognise one of the images as a stock shot. I’ve seen it on the side of a bus, advertising an optician. Still, I push on, rapidly ticking boxes. It takes a few seconds before a red heart, almost covering the screen, pops up announcing: Yoursearchof20 MILES around SOUTHAMPTON for a MANaged between 40 and 45 has resulted in 189 MATCHES.

I don’t think it is a cheering statistic. So many lonely people. I’m as superficial as the next girl, so I start by looking at the photos.

The first is a picture of Austen Powers, so it doesn’t count. Candidate number two looks like an axe murderer. Candidate number three doesn’t. In fact, if he committed a crime he’d be impossible to identify in a line-up because he looks like two thirds of the male population; five feet ten, short, brown, slightly receding hair, solid but not overweight with brown eyes.

He’s not especially handsome nor is he particularly ugly. He’s bland. Almost invisible. I sigh and wonder if we might be suited. I read his profile. He says that in another life he might have been a golden eagle.

Whereas in this life he’ s simply an idiot, I reflect.

Number four says he’s thirty-eight, but looks closer to seventy-eight. I rule out the fifth guy. He’s gorgeous, but he says he’s done an Ironman triathlon. I get out of breath running for the train; you have to be realistic.

The sixth one says his favourite book is WutheringHeights. No man has ever read WutheringHeights. Maybe he’s watched a movie version at best, but it’s not very truthful.

Number seven is lovely – very handsome. He’s… Andy. Amanda’s Andy. My heartbeat starts to quicken and yet at the same time my blood slows.

I look again, hoping to discover I’ve made a mistake but I haven’t. There he is. Tall, dark, handsome, considerate washer-upper Andy! He’s registered as FriendlyA. I scan-read his profile, hoping to find it’s out of date and he’s forgotten to delete his profile. Although they’ve been together ten years.

I like long walks, especially along the beach, I really enjoy watching movies (especially blockbusters !) and there’ s

I’m as SUPERFICIAL as the NEXT GIRL. I start by LOOKING at the photos

nothing I like more than a lazy Sunday of reading papers and enjoying a pub roastlunch. No mention of poor trusting, content, loving Amanda, not unless I count the bit, Myfriendsand family mean the world tome.

I read an article that said one in three online daters lie about their marital status. The other two just don’t tell the truth.

I quickly knock up a profile for myself, omitting to attach a photo and then as soon as my profile is active, I press wink on his page. It’s not that I’m interested. I would never, ever look at a man that was taken – I’ve been on the brutally cruel wrong end of infidelity – but I want to prove to myself that this account is inactive.

Within a moment he winks back at

“There’s NOTHING you can say that will MAKE this all RIGHT…”

me. Active, then. I want to cry. He sends me a message. Nophoto? I like to chat a bit first, I reply. I want to see how far he’ll go with this. After Tim left, and the initial storm of tears and regrets had finally subsided, two of my friends said they’d known he was having an affair for months.

I felt betrayed all over again. Why had they not told me? Warned me? My friends muttered something about messengers being shot. I hadn’t understood at the time but now I do. I don’t want to bring the bad news to Amanda’s door… but if I do, I must be certain.

As I push open the door to the packed wine bar I’m hit by the smell of bodies and booze, by loud music and equally loud shirts. Everyone is clearly jacked up on irresponsibility, a powerful aphrodisiac.

I haven’t been to this kind of bar, full of intensely alluring types, for ages. Andy suggested it.

We’ve been messaging for a week. I’ve been playing it cool, knowing he’s married to my friend. Perhaps unsurprisingly, playing it cool has reeled him in.

Today he asked me on a date, even though he has yet to see a photo of me – a brave move.

It’s been a weird and heartwrenching week. It was actually nice chatting to him, seeing his messages pop onto my screen, being asked about myself. He made me feel interesting. It’s so annoying. He gently complimented me, which was lovely; he made me laugh.

I had to keep reminding myself he’s a total rat. I’m only agreeing to meet him because I want to see if he goes through with it. I’m hoping he stands me up.

I spot him at the bar, waiting. He looks devastatingly handsome. I guess he’s exactly that. I march up.

“Hello Friendly A. Good to see you,” I snap sarcastically.

He flashes the most charming smile and it doesn’t falter. I’m struck dumb by his audacity. Poor Amanda! Those poor boys! I demand, “How could you?”

“Sorry?” Andy doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He looks unconcerned, although mildly confused.

“Actually, don’t say a thing. There’s nothing you can say that will make this all right.” I heard all the excuses and clichés when Tim and I split; I don’t want to hear them again. “It’s the blatancy, the cruel indifference to Amanda that I find most shocking.” “Oh – you’re a friend of Amanda’s.” Andy’s face clears. “Andy, we met at your house. Am I that forgettable?” I demand angrily.

“You’re very memorable. And now I see you’re loyal, feisty and cute too.”

I’m incensed. How dare he continue to hit on me now he knows who I am?

“But I’m not Andy. I’m Alex, Andy’s twin brother. Single twin brother,” he adds with a delicious, slow smile. “Oh. I thought…” I’m relieved, faltered, embarrassed, delighted and excited all at once.

Alex’s smile broadens a fraction further. “Yes, I can imagine what you thought. Now, I wonder, would you like that drink?”

I accept. After all, I promised Mum I’d accept every invite that came my way.

I text Amanda and demand, Why didn’ t you tell me Andy has a hot brother?

Her reply pings back. Ididn’tthink you’ d like being set up.