Would Like to Meet
‘It made me giggle and it made me think’ Daily Mail‘A properly good writer’ India KnightA hilarious, heart-warming read perfect for fans of Shirley Valentine and You’ve Got Mail.Could the worst thing that’s ever happened to Hannah Pinkman also turn out to be one of the best?She and her husband Dan have reached the end of the line. Bored with the same gripes, the same old arguments – in fact, bored with everything – they split up after a trivial row turns into something much more serious.Now Hannah has to make a new life for herself, but that’s not easy. She’s been so busy being a wife and mum that she’s let all her other interests slip away, along with her friends. And when Hannah is persuaded to join a dating site, her ‘best match’ is the very last person she expects it to be . . .A clever, funny and poignant novel about life after a long relationship, the importance of friendship, and rediscovering your identity.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Polly James 2016
Polly James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007548552
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007548569
Version 2016-05-13
For Mark, Daisy and Jack, as always – and for Becky Thomas, without whom there would be no book.
“There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.”
François de la Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680
Table of Contents
Dan lets go of both oars and searches the front pockets of his jeans, looking more anxious by the second.
“Shit,” he says. “Where’ve I put it?”
I take no notice, as I’m too busy lounging in the stern of the dinghy and trailing my fingers in the water. The sky is intensely blue and I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. (I’m about to get even happier, though I don’t know that yet.)
“A-ha!” says Dan. “I’ve found it. Thank God for that.”
I’m still not looking at him, because now I’m friend-spotting amongst the groups of art school students celebrating the end of finals on the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park. The sun’s so bright, I can’t see properly without the sunglasses I dropped overboard the last time Dan kissed me, so I just wave vaguely in the direction of the crowds.
Someone shouts something unintelligible across the water, at the same time as a duck squawks and Dan says something equally unintelligible.
“What?” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Hannah,” says Dan, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Pay attention, will you? I’m trying to do something important here.”
The boat bobs gently up and down as he adds, “I asked you if you’ll marry me.”
I stare at him, wondering if I’ve misheard due to that infuriating still-squawking duck, and then he tries again.
“I love you, Han. Marry me?”
“Oh, my God, yes,” I say, “Yes, please.”
I jump up and hurl myself towards Dan, just as he tries to pass me the small blue ring box that he’s holding, but then the boat rocks and tips me headfirst into the lake.
Thirty seconds later, Dan has already dived in to rescue me from the weeds in which I’m now entangled, and has lost my engagement ring in the process – as well as the boat, which is drifting away.
Fifteen minutes after that, we’ve swum to the bank and are outside the cafe, wrapped in blankets and toasting each other with mugs of hot chocolate, while being lectured on why you should never stand up carelessly in a dinghy by the owner of the one we allowed to drift away. That’s the exact moment at which an off-duty press photographer takes our photograph, the one that appears in the local paper the following day, under the headline: Loved-Up Art Students Make a Splash.
It’s all the fault of the half-naked teenagers, or most of it, anyway. They’re staggering about drunkenly on the TV screen, and Dan is staring at them as if his life depended on it.
“What the hell are you watching?” I say, as I come into the room bearing two mugs of extra-strong coffee to help prevent the hangover we’ll otherwise be doomed to have.
It’s 12:30am, and we’ve been drinking geriatric drinks all night: Aunt Pearl’s way of thanking us for moving her belongings into her new retirement flat during the day. I don’t think port and lemon agrees with me, and it certainly doesn’t agree with Dan. It’s given him short-term memory loss, judging by the fact that he completely forgot to wish me a happy New Year when we heard Big Ben strike twelve on the radio, in the taxi that was bringing us home.
