SATE - soulmate guaranteed

Chapter One

SATE - soulmate guaranteed.

With a 99.9% success rate in matching couples who stay together FOR LIFE, this party is proud to continue its support of SATE as the national matchmaking scheme.

From an 85% divorce rate in 2050, to a 0.1% rate just fifty-years later, it is an indisputable fact that SATE has truly transformed the dating landscape of this county and, indeed, the landscape of love itself.

So, constituents, have faith, relax, and enjoy your youth, secure in the knowledge that your soulmate will be delivered straight to your door!

And remember: trust SATE, say NO to in-person meeting, and say YES to love.

Marianne ran her eyes down the glossy rectangular advert that had just been posted through the letterbox.

"Mum, they're campaigning again," she shouted up the stairs.

"Anything good?" A voice called down. Marianne flipped the card over. On the back was the slogan: VOTE EAST. Beneath it was a picture of a gold envelope made out of thick card, SATE's signature way of delivering the name of soulmates.

"Nothing new," she said. "Just SATE stuff." Her mother's head appeared over the upstairs bannister. Her cheeks were flushed, and the hairs of her fringe stuck out chaotically.

"I'm trying a new pilates routine," she said, in answer to the expression on Marianne's face.

Marianne held out her hands. "I wasn't going to say anything. Pilates away, mother."

"Who's campaigning? Don't tell me. It's East, isn't it? They always go for the safe policies. Nothing ground-breaking, nothing innovative. Just parrot off what they already know everyone wants to hear."

Marianne nodded. What she didn't say was that she knew for a fact that both her parents had voted East in every election since they turned eighteen.

Her mother held out one finger. "Now, I know I vote for them. I'm part of the problem, I admit it. But I'm old. I'm set in my ways."

Marianne smiled. "Sometimes mum, it's like you can read my mind." 

Her mother shrugged and straightened up. "You have a very expressive face, my love. I'm old and wise enough to read it." 

At the second mention of her age, Marianne got the hint. "Mum. You're not old. You're thirty-eight. It's barely socially acceptable that you have a seventeen-year-old daughter." 

Her mother smiled and mimed flicking long hair over her shoulders before attempting to pat her fringe into submission. It was true. Out of all of her friends' mums, Marianne's was by far the youngest. Her Dad was the youngest too, for that matter. They'd been matched by SATE when they were just eighteen, the youngest age it's possible be matched at. It was rare, but it happened occasionally. They'd been married within the year, although that part wasn't so unusual. Once you know you've met your soulmate, why wait?

"I'll have an eighteen-year-old daughter this time tomorrow," her mother reminds her. "Who knows? Maybe you'll be getting your own gold envelope through the door. They say the age of match-day runs in families, after all."

Marianne had moved to the kitchen. She took the SATE card and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. "Maybe," she said quietly, to herself. "But I bloody hope not." Despite having happily married parents who were the closest thing you could get these days to childhood sweethearts, Marianne did not want this for herself. Finding her soulmate? No thanks. Not right now. She wanted adventure. She wanted experiences. She wanted to meet the wrong people in the wrong places before she got it right.

She picked her phone up from the counter and typed into the search bar: what is the average age at match-day? The answer popped up immediately. Twenty-five. She placed the phone back down and considered this. Seven years. That might just about be enough time to fit in all the living she was planning on doing, if she got a move on, that was.

And get a move on she fully planned on doing.

Tomorrow was her eighteenth birthday, and Marianne had plans. Capital "P" plans. The kind that you wrote smudged gel-pen-lists for, and thought about before you went to bed, and would remember for years after.

Her co-conspirator was Chiara Last, obviously, and the plan was simple.

Firstly, get drunk for the first time.

Secondly, go clubbing for the first time.

Thirdly, kiss someone for the first time.

Three firsts to kickstart her adult life. As Chiara would say, boom shakalaka job done.