The Meet Cute Method, page 1
THE MEET CUTE METHOD
PORTIA MACINTOSH
For Joe – my ultimate meet cute
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
More from Portia MacIntosh
Also by Portia MacIntosh
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
I’ve seen some seriously weird things on my way to work over the years.
It’s to be expected, I suppose, given that my office is based in Soho, smack bang between Oxford Circus and Piccadilly Circus – very apt names because, with the sights I’m used to seeing, a circus feels like the right place for them.
I’ve been caught in the literal crossfire when activists were launching red paint bombs at the HQ of a fashion retailer across the street. I saw a woman use a flash mob to dump her cheating boyfriend. I even saw a woman giving birth on the Tube, which is a sight I won’t forget in a hurry, but is still also probably not the strangest thing I’ve seen on the Underground.
But of all the weird, sick and twisted things I’ve seen in the nine years (my God, has it been nine years?) I’ve been living and working in the city, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this…
‘I’m sorry, I think that might be my skinny cinnamon vanilla decaf latte,’ the man says.
He’s a twenty-something with a double shot of the Hugh Grants. He’s just reached for a coffee at the same time as a young red-headed woman. Now they’re both holding it between them, a hand each on the cup, as they stare into one another’s eyes. I don’t know how to describe it, there’s just something between them, an immediate connection.
‘You drink a skinny cinnamon vanilla decaf latte?’ the woman asks in disbelief.
‘Frankie,’ the barista calls out, letting me know that my latte macchiato is ready. Normally I’d grab it and get on my way but, honestly, I’m gripped.
‘I do,’ the man replies. He uses his free hand to run it through his hair while he briefly glances down at the floor, embarrassed. ‘I know, it’s a bit weird, but—’
‘That’s exactly what I drink,’ she tells him. ‘I need the vanilla to take the edge off the cinnamon and the decaf…’
‘…to take the edge off the coffee,’ the man continues.
‘Wow, we’re already finishing each other’s…’
‘…coffee,’ the man jokes, finishing her sentence again.
The woman giggles.
I need to get to work, I really do, but I can’t take me eyes off them.
I’m hoping today is the day at work – the day I’m finally officially made head of my department at Stylife Magazine. It’s a formality, in a way. I’m already acting head of Love & Dating, since my boss went off on maternity leave and never came back, and they decided that I’d been doing her job just fine while she was off. Jane, the editor at Stylife, finally took me to one side last week and told me that, with my ten-year anniversary coming up, she was going to make my promotion official and give me that all-important pay rise I’ve been fantasising about.
Of course, for all this to happen, I need to actually get to work, but I can’t look away. You see, despite being the main features writer of all things Love & Dating, I’m kind of a cynic when it comes to love. I know, that sounds awful, it would be like finding out Ed Sheeran didn’t believe in love (on a much smaller scale, obviously, the magazine and website may be the most popular amongst women between the ages of twenty and forty, but I doubt my features have the same size audience as Ed’s music).
I wasn’t always like this. In fact, I used to love this job, but I’m thirty-four now, and I don’t know if it’s because my job has been so focused on telling people how to find love, but I’ve either been too busy to find it myself, or I’ve seen too much. Deep diving into all things dating has shown me the man behind the curtain, and he is not a catch, he usually has a girlfriend and a penchant for taking pictures of his penis that nobody asked for.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so captivated by the scene in the coffee shop this morning. This couple, with the exact same weird drink order, not just finishing each other’s sentences but finishing each other’s jokes too. It’s the perfect romantic scene – like something from a movie – and I’m not the only one who has noticed. Everyone in this coffee shop has their eyes on them. I have to see how this plays out.
‘I’m Mark.’
‘My dad is called Mark,’ she replies, her smile growing. ‘I’m Erin.’
‘My cat is called Erin,’ Mark tells her giddily.
‘Really?’ she squeaks, her eyes lighting up even more than they were already.
‘No, not really,’ he says with an awkward but still charming smile. ‘I just didn’t want to end our streak of amazing coincidences. To be honest, I’m more of a dog person.’
‘Me too!’ Erin replies, surely maxing out her enthusiasm.
Mark’s face falls straight for a moment.
‘God, you’re beautiful when you smile,’ he tells her. ‘If I could wake up to that smile every day, I’d be the happiest man in the world.’
Bloody hell, that’s a bit intense.
Erin is still smiling, though. I would have run a mile from a line like that.
‘I’m supposed to be on my way to work,’ she says through a giggle.
Me and you both, girl.
‘Me too,’ Mark replies. ‘But… what if we don’t go?’
Erin laughs again.
‘I’m serious,’ he tells her. ‘Something about this just feels so right. Let’s just, I don’t know, let’s just get on a plane and go somewhere.’
I hold my breath as I wait for her reaction.
‘You’re right,’ she tells him. ‘There’s something between us, I know it, I feel it… Okay, forget work. Let’s go.’
Mark grabs Erin and kisses her and, as their lips finally meet, everyone in the café starts to applaud. Finding myself caught up in it all, I can’t help but clap too. I can feel my frosty heart thawing out a little and it’s nothing to do with the coffee that I’m letting go cold in my head. I am absolutely captivated. This is like something from a movie!
Mark and Erin stop kissing, hold hands, turn to their applauding audience and take a bow. Okay, that’s weird.
‘Thank you so much,’ Erin announces to the room.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Mark continues. ‘And if you enjoyed our performance today, then be sure to check out the screening of our movie Love and Stuff Like It over at the Old Picture Place cinema across the street, starting Tuesday.’
Okay, it was literally a movie. Bloody hell, I’m so annoyed I could crush my coffee cup in my hand. I feel like I’ve been scammed. The one day – the one day – I absolutely want to be at work on time and I’ve let myself fall for a performance like this. And I let my coffee go cold too. Brilliant.
I take a few swigs before tossing the cup in the café bin and heading outside to catch my bus, dashing to the bus stop just in time to see it pulling away. Marvellous. I’m definitely going to be late for work now.
I gently lean against the convenience shop window behind me. I can’t believe I let myself get suckered into an act. Honestly, I feel dirty.
My attention is captured by a woman and a man colliding in front of me. His coffee cup crumples between them, spilling coffee all over them both. Now this really is like something out of a movie, it’s very Notting Hill, although the fallout is more in keeping with what I’m used to seeing on my way to work. He shouts at her, telling her she owes him a coffee. She starts screaming back at him, telling him he owes her a new blouse. Their arguing is only broken by the commotion across the road. Another couple in an embrace and, nope, he’s stealing her handbag. Of course he is.
‘Ergh,’ I say under my breath, although I feel an almost smug satisfaction that my faith in humanity has been, well, whatever the opposite of restored is.
‘It’s mad out here today, huh?’ a man with a Scottish accent says.
I turn to face him. He’s talking to me.
‘It’s mad out here every day,’ I reply with a smile.
‘I’ve never really been over this way,’ he says. ‘Although I haven’t been here that long and sometimes it feels like all I do is work.’
Even if it weren’t for his accent, you can tell he isn’t a Londoner. He’s too friendly, too chatty. There’s an understanding, among commuters, that you let people get on with what they’re doing, leaving th em to travel to and from work in peace. No one wants to chat on public transport, or when they are waiting for it, although I have to admit he’s a good-looking guy. He reminds me of Prince Harry, just a bit, but you know, a Scottish version who gets the bus.
‘Do you like to hang around bus stops?’ he asks.
‘Erm, only when I’m getting buses,’ I point out.
What a bizarre question.
The stranger smiles curiously.
‘I thought you’d have more of an accent,’ he tells me.
I raise my eyebrows. Really? I just sound like any other thirty-something Londoner. What is he expecting, Dick Van Dyke?
‘Nope, this is it,’ I say with a shrug and a polite smile.
‘I’m not complaining,’ he insists. ‘You have a lovely voice. So, where are we going?’
‘Where are we going?’ I repeat back to him.
‘I was thinking coffee first,’ he says. ‘We can have a chat, get to know each other, then maybe a museum?’
I can’t help but laugh. Is this man asking me out? Me? Here at this bus stop? After the morning I’ve had, I refuse to believe it.
‘Sorry, is that sad?’ he replies. ‘Well, we can do whatever you want to do, then. What do you think?’
I think I need to get to work but, wow, he really does seem keen. Ordinarily I’d run a mile but is that my problem? Do I never give people a chance? My instincts are telling me to tell him to piss off and leave me to wait for my bus in peace but…
‘Sean?’ a petite Irish woman asks.
The first thing I notice is that she’s carrying the exact same bright pink Michael Kors handbag as I am.
The man – Sean, I’m assuming – looks at her, then at me, then at her again.
‘Saoirse?’ he says to her.
‘Erm, yeah,’ she replies.
Sean turns to me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m new in town so a friend said he’d set me up with someone else who was new in town, and all he said was that she’d be outside this shop with a bright pink bag and…’
I don’t know who is more embarrassed, me or him. Actually, I do, it’s me. It’s absolutely me. Of course he wasn’t asking me out, he thought I was someone else. Why did I even consider, for a second, that I was having some kind of moment? It’s that bloody scene from the café this morning, it’s got romance in my head. I suppose it’s a good thing, given my job, and my bus is here now, and I’ve never been so motivated to get on it.
‘No worries,’ I tell him. ‘I need to get to work.’
‘Nice to almost meet you,’ he calls after me.
‘Yep,’ I say as I hurry on board.
I find a seat and slump down into it. At least when I finally get to work things will turn around for me. My promotion is imminent, and I’ve got a pitch for a series of articles that my editor is going to love, where I basically adopt a different personality type on each dating app, and see which one gets me the furthest.
I really need to hurry up and get there now but, it’s true, you never know what you’re going to see on your way to work on a morning. I just can’t believe today, of all days, was the day I let it make me late.
2
I work in a large building nicknamed the Cactus – I’m unsure if it was intentionally modelled on a cactus or not, but it does look like one, thanks to its rounded shape and its green window frames. I like that it’s different from all the other blocky buildings that sit alongside it. I do love this part of London. That’s why I’m so excited about the idea of moving here – well, that and the commute. Currently it takes me about an hour to get to work. An hour that consists of a bus, a Tube and a couple of fast walks. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are people with much longer commutes, but that doesn’t make mine any easier. The apartment I viewed last night was in Soho, which not only means I can get to work in minutes, but it’s so gorgeous, really. So modern, so sleek, and – most importantly – all mine. Well, I’ll be renting it, obviously, and it’s small, but I won’t be sharing it with anyone like I am now.
It’s not that I don’t like living with other people, it’s just that I live with four other people. There’s a bit of a student house vibe, just with the sheer volume and mixture of people living there, which is fine some of the time, but I’m supposed to be a young professional (although I rarely feel like both of those things at the same time). Still, living in Soho is the dream, so I’m trying to make it happen. It finally seems on the horizon, as I’m due a promotion at work, which comes with a nice pay bump – a bump that means I’ll be able to finally get my own swanky place.
I’m hoping the pay increase might help me to feel a bit better about my job too – the fact that I’m really not enjoying it any more. Well, it’s hard to write about all things love and dating when no one outside your family loves you and you haven’t dated anyone in ages. It’s just such a demoralising time to be playing the dating game and, given that I’m expected to write all about it too, it forces you to overanalyse everything. Plus, everything is so tech driven these days. It’s all apps and algorithms, and while I do prefer to be ghosted on an app than stood up in person, I don’t enjoy inputting data into programs that tell me how loveable I am.
But that’s the job, doing all of these things in the name of finding love, writing about how it plays out. I still try to keep an optimistic tone to my work – no one would want to read it if I didn’t – but for me, finding love is just work, it’s not something I’m actively looking for, it’s just all part of the day job. I do realise how depressing that sounds, but trust me, no matter how much you enjoy doing something, as soon as it’s work, it sucks all the fun out. They say if you do something you love you’ll never work a day in your life. I disagree. I sometimes wonder, if I did find someone and then settled down with them, whether or not I could even do my job any more, and I like to think that perhaps for that reason I self-sabotage all my relationships, for the good of my career, but it’s not true, I’m a jaded old cynic – and at just thirty-four years old too.
Today I’m an extremely late jaded old cynic. I scan my pass to get through the barriers in the lobby and, as I make my way towards the lifts, I notice that one of them is on the ground floor, the doors just about to close.
I do that painfully awkward fast walk, the kind you see so often in this country, that is more a sign of intent than an actual increase in speed. Sure enough, it does its job. One of the men in the lift sees me hurrying towards them and quickly presses the button to open the doors again.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I practically dive through them, not unlike a shattered marathon runner charging past the finish line (although clearly in much worse shape because all I have done is hurry from the bus stop to here).
As the doors close behind me, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I could almost be convinced to smile, were it not for the fact that only a few seconds later the lift grinds to a premature halt.
I feel my eyes widen as I look to my lift mates. There are two of them, the one who held the door for me and another guy who quickly takes a leadership role.
‘Hello?’ he says as he pushes the alarm button. ‘Helloooo?’
Nothing. He glances at his friend, then at me.
‘Oi,’ he tries again. ‘Some of us have got actual work to do.’
The Cactus is home to Mediworldwide, the big bad company which owns Stylife Magazine, along with a handful of other news outlets, and a rolling news channel. This building is home to Yum Things, the food magazine, as well as ByteBanter, a popular tech website. Somehow, I can tell, just by looking at these two guys, that they are from the tech website. They must be. The guy angrily mashing at the emergency button is wearing a plaid shirt, it doesn’t get any more tech than that, does it? They both have a sort of cool vibe about them, which sounds vague, but it’s a genuine coolness that can’t really be defined. Like the coolest boys at school. They get the girls, get the attention, get away with murder. If only they could get this lift going.
