Page 14 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

She was browning the soya mince – were you meant to brown soya mince? – when there was another ping. She turned the gas down and went to retrieve her phone.

Fancy meeting on Saturday afternoon? I know the perfect place for our first date.

Their first date?

Did she want to go on a date with him?

She’d enjoyed his messages; they’d been chatty – like the sort of messages you’d send to a friend, rather than a stranger from a dating app – and a welcome distraction on the train home. Without them, she’d have spent the journey dwelling on the shenanigans – 15 points – in the office.

And she was curious about this ‘perfect place’ he’d mentioned. It had to be food-related since that was all they’d talked about. Probably some fabulous café that served afternoon tea on a three-tiered cake stand: neat little sandwiches, chocolate eclairs, tiny sherry trifles.

It was tempting; he seemed like a lovely guy but he wasn’t her type and she didn’t want to lead him on.

She didn’t know what he was called, she realised suddenly, remembering her Scrabble dating idea. If his name would score double figures, she decided, she’d go on the date. If it wouldn’t, she’d let him down gently.

You haven’t told me your name

she messaged and waited for his reply.

Nothing.

She put her phone down and began chopping an onion.

She picked up her phone a minute later and checked his profile again. The little green dot on his profile had disappeared. He was offline.

She was adding the tin of tomatoes to her culinary masterpiece when there was a ping.

My name is Rasmus. My grandad was Danish.

Rasmus – 8 points. So not double figures.

But only 2 points off.

6

Saturday. For once, Jo was relieved it was the weekend after the trauma of the missing document on Monday, although the rest of the week had been non-eventful: nothing else disappeared, David seemed to have forgiven her, and Leona hadn’t made any snide comments. Plus, she was looking forward to her date with Rasmus. Especially the afternoon tea element.

Jo made an effort for this date, hoping he’d be taking her to one of Hebbleswick’s smarter cafés. She donned her favourite jeans – deep indigo with lighter patches down the thighs that the woman in the shop had assured her would have a slimming effect – and a crisp white T-shirt under a tailored green jacket. She even ditched her usual trainers in favour of navy flats.

After a brief tussle with the front door, which did not want to close, Jo set off towards the centre of the little town. A long, stone staircase led down from her street, alongside the allotments with their neat rows of carrots and lettuces. Jo shoved her earbuds in and cranked up the volume on Etta James. She was pretty sure that today wouldn’t be the day her love came along, but it wouldn’t hurt to get herself in the right mood.

But she almost turned straight around when she spotted Rasmus waiting on the town hall steps, glancing around nervously in the way that men on first dates often did. She knew she shouldn’t judge on appearances, but no way was he five foot eight. Five foot seven, maybe. At a push. Definitely shorter than her. The NHS glasses had gone – contacts perhaps? But his orange anorak had seen better days – an anorak? Really? On a date? – and was about three sizes too big for his slim frame. His baggy jeans weren’t much better. His hair was a nondescript shade of brown – admittedly the same colour hers would be if she didn’t use Nice ‘n’ Easy – and hadn’t seen a comb recently. And his eyebrows could have done with a trim. Or a pair of garden shears.

If she had to describe him in one word, that word would be ‘awkward’ – 18 points.

He took first-date awkwardness to a whole new level.

He was awkwardness personified.

He shuffled towards her, fiddling with the zip on his jacket. Here was a man who worked in IT if ever there was one. No kiss on both cheeks. No handshake. Just a mumbled ‘hi’ as he looked at his feet.

‘Hi, Rasmus,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

‘Call me Ras. Everyone does.’

Ras? He went by the name of Ras.

The letters R, A and S each scored only 1 point in Scrabble so that made a pathetic total of 3 points.