The Dating Game

by Ally Zetterberg

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

In this clever and surprising thriller about the perils of modern dating and the female rage it sometimes inspires, a board game designer starts playing by her own rules, and losers won’t be tolerated.

The friendship game. The dating game. The end game. For board game designer Tilda Smith they’re all necessary steps on the path to finding happiness. And by structuring her life according to a set of rules, just like in the games that she loves to create at her job, Tilda can finally win.

The only problem? The other players don’t know they’re playing by Tilda’s rules. She’s fair. Very fair, in fact. But then one night her date pushes her too far and she gets just a bit carried away. Any player who disappoints must face consequences, right? But as Tilda finds herself transporting a body in a laundry bag, she has to question how to make the punishment fit the crime. 

And now someone is watching Tilda and playing a game of their own. Will they turn the tables on her, or can she figure out a way to best them? The game is never really over until she says it is.

Game on.

Release date: September 8, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

One Month Earlier

Fontvieille, Monaco

Monaco. Today it's postcard pretty with blue skies, and not a cloud sits over the mountain that surrounds it to the north. In the Larvotto beach clubs, mattresses and parasols are being arranged, and the bottles of rosé will be stocked and ready in the fridge. Bankers are beginning to arrive at their offices to start yet another day of protecting generational wealth, yachts move in and out of the berths in Port Hercule, and on the dock above it, groups of men and women in activewear are meeting up with their personal trainers before the sun becomes too hot to move under.

I arrive at my building and pop my sunglasses onto my forehead.

"There's post for you today, Miss Tilda." Juan smiles his usual warm smile. He's the first person I see today. I remember a movie where they made a big thing about loss. He was the first person I spoke to and the last person I spoke to each day; that leaves a hole, the teary-eyed woman said of her life-partner. As if the first words are important, as if we were all babies, as if it fucking matters if I speak to the gardener or the doorman on a Friday morning. My last spoken word of the day is usually to my current publisher, Grant, in the shape of a voice message outlining the day's accomplishments, or to myself in the mirror, telling myself I'm one bad bitch and I got this life (my therapist is big on manifesting). I don't care about the first and last words of the day, the good mornings and good nights. What I want back are all the words in between. The unremarkable ones. A normal, mundane day full of Mum's words, her complaints and concerns.

"Thank you." I stretch out my hand, already humid from sweat, despite it still being morning.

"Nice walk?"

"As always."

"Miss Tilda. How is the bedroom shutter? Not playing up again I hope?"

Juan is the building's caretaker and handles my parcels and proofs of board games that need a signature. He is in his early fifties and has three children who are teenagers. He keeps a dog water bowl behind his desk even though the building's owner complained about it.

"Seems to be working, thank you for taking a look at it."

People like Juan don't get enough credit. Every morning he takes his scooter from Menton, a French town just east of Monaco, arriving at 8 a.m. sharp to deal with our parcels, lost keys, and shutters playing up. He makes sure this little part of Monaco is running smoothly. Juan is a saint and one of the few people I don't feel any anger toward.

A letter is an unusual occurrence, and so I carry it with two hands, like you would a fragile baby chick, as I wait for the lift, alight, press the fifth floor with my elbow, and finally get out and open up the door to my quiet apartment. I regularly receive prototypes of board games from my publishers, yes. Games that are being sent out for play testing. I also receive boxes with an agreed-upon number of finished copies for me to keep, as part of the contract. I often get mail that are packages. But letters in brown envelopes that look like they contain words rather than items are not commonplace. I kick my sneakers off, not bothering to place them on the shelf. Who cares? I live alone and never have any guests. If I have a Zoom call, I can face the opposite direction of any mess.

The letter has been returned once and re-sent, and the brown envelope is worn and thin when I squeeze it between my thumbs. My throat is dry after my walk, but I ignore its call for water and carefully peel the flap open with my naked nail.

Then the tears come. Or they would have, had I been able to cry like other people. Now the only hint I get that it's sadness I'm experiencing is the fiery burning behind my eyelids as my tear ducts try their best to release something, in vain. I rub at them, alleviating a burn similar to that of hay fever. Then I read.

Tilda,

I'm awfully sorry to unsettle you like this. I have had this forwarded in agreement with the firm handling my estate. I know how you hate being unsettled and for life to be stirred. Tilda, my girl, happy thirtieth birthday! I wish I could have been there to celebrate it with you. We would have had a Colin the Caterpillar cake, wouldn't we? Like we always do. All those fancy cakes from bakeries can't beat Colin. With some prosecco to wash it down. I hope you did something nice to celebrate yourself.

Now, if you have reached the point in your life where you're happy, then do toss this letter in the paper bin, will you, and forget all about it. Off you go to enjoy your day. But if you are not happy, if you are still alone, still in the place you were when I left you, then continue reading.

Tilda-get yourself together. Life is more than work and board games. I always said one day you'd believe me, and I'd like you to make that day today. Life is more fun if you aren't lonely. Now, this might come as a surprise to you. Considering we spent all our time with one another. I always wanted you close, didn't I, my girl? Was quite happy with your predisposition and loyalty to me. I only wanted to protect you and steer you on the right path in life. Maybe that was wrong and maybe one day you'll judge me for my selfishness. But you're still young as I leave you, and can turn your life around. Please do that-turn your life around. Work less, see the sun more, swim in the ocean, and drink sweet cocktails even if they're just empty calories. Because before you know it, you might be fifty years old and in a hospice saying goodbye to your only daughter.

Think of it as a game if that helps. Taskmaster, perhaps? I won't design it for you because that's your area. I'm simply your contractor telling you to design the game in which Tilda completes tasks and ends up less lonely and bitter than her poor old mum.

Promise me?

Bye, my girl. I trust that you've said your goodbyes and moved on from my untimely death by now. That you kept the promise to move somewhere sunnier than Bristol for me. Spain? Portugal? Australia? I can only imagine the place you picked and the things you get to see. I hope you chose a therapist like I told you to. Someone to help you make sense of the world and control your emotions now that I'm gone. If you did, you'll be ready. I'll leave you with this list. It's short but please take it seriously. This is what I've learned-if only too late-and I'd like you to try.

- Find a friend. Everyone needs friends. Look for one in a place you normally wouldn't look and approach someone you normally wouldn't think is for you. Keep an open mind. When you find a friend, you need to do anything to keep them.

- Find love. There is someone out there for you. You just have to trawl through the woods and find him or her. A nice young man or woman who gets you and supports you being you. Do not settle.

- Finally, be happy. That's the endgame here. Just be happy.

Please try for me, darling.

If all this confuses you, then simply do this and the rest will follow:

Go make a difference in the world in your own special way.

Love always,

Mum

I fold the letter up, more times than necessary, into a tiny little square, as if I'm attempting origami. I think I miss the voice the most. Her slow, calming tone. Dark and sweet, like wine. It's like she's here with me. I feel like I am important again. A daughter, a loved one, someone's little girl. Not just a woman alone in a town where everyone knows someone except her.

Mum was right. I am still lonely. When I needed to burn some bad cells off my cervix a year ago I put a made-up name on my next of kin form and my own phone number below it. If they ever called it they'd end up in my voicemail. My thirtieth birthday was spent alone with a glass of prosecco, no Colin, because the English aisle at Carrefour doesn't stock them-just tin after tin of Heinz baked beans, as if that's what an expat really craves. The only wishes I received were from my publisher, Grant, on a work Zoom and from Asos telling me my gift was 25 percent off a full-priced item of my choice.

If Mum were still here I could explain to her that she was never selfish. She was my most beloved mother, and nothing gave me as much joy as staying close to her, in our own little world. Of course, I did fulfill her first wish-I moved abroad. I fulfilled her second wish, too-I found a therapist. If only I could explain that I've tried all the things she suggested and in the end I gave up because it just doesn't work.

I let the instructions take space in my mind, turning them around until they look like games, just like Mum said. I like games; I always have. They are easy to understand, and you know exactly what to expect. If the dice says three, you take three steps. Games are a haven in a world where people say one thing but think another and then end up doing something else completely.

Three games. Three missions. The Friendship Game, the Dating Game, and the End Game, where I will have the perfect, happy life. I'm not sure about it one bit, but then you should listen to your mum, shouldn't you?

I'll go and make a difference in the world in my own special way.

2

Fontvieille, Monaco

Gamerfreak123: greetings

Score: 2+1+1+1+1+1+1+2+1 = 11

I squint my eyes, read the message notification, and am about to reply when I realize that it's my Scrabble app and simply my opponent who's laid a word. I laugh out loud. Who am I kidding? The only morning greeting I get is one laid with the intention of scoring neat points.

It's early September, and although it's still impossible to rise before the sun, I'm not far behind it. I press the button that controls the electronic metal shutters and watch them open with a slow rattle. Next, I make myself a coffee in the kitchen, which is really part of the living room, not because of a spacious open-plan design but due to lack of space. My apartment is a box; it even has the rectangular shape of a box that houses sneakers. It's technically a studio, although it was sold to me as a one bed. They just forgot to tell me that the bedroom was half the terrace that had been converted. It's okay, you don't move to Monaco to stay at home. Studios like mine are in demand here. You need half a million in a bank account and an apartment lease to become a Monaco resident. Which means the place is now full of traders who've made their first half million and rented a grubby ground-floor studio where they sit and deal crypto, infiltrating and polluting the population of superrich and supersophisticated, much to the dislike of the original residents.

I'm not sure I belong here, either, although I've done well for myself. I got lucky, really, sending off an idea to an open submission window at Hasbro and being picked up and offered a two-game deal, age twenty. The first game, a Dobble-style tabletop card game of observation, articulation, and speed, became a success, licensing in multiple countries, and my success continued. I'm the creator of 2019's bestselling board game. Of course, I didn't outsell Monopoly or Scrabble; no one does that. But I did claim the top spot for a game created that year. Then I held on to the top spot throughout COVID. Apparently people played a lot of games while waiting for the virus to go away. My statements got larger and larger, and I suddenly found myself living more than comfortably. When Mum passed and I had nothing to stay for back in Bristol, I mapped out the countries with sun and generous tax laws and decided on Monaco. I didn't have to know anyone to move here, I figured. No one really has a connection to the country. We all end up here because of convenience, money, work, proximity to Europe, or to follow a dream. After all, it's a place where an American actress became a princess and where anything can happen. Maybe even to a woman like me.


My first attempt at honoring Mum’s wish has, I’m disappointed to conclude, been unsuccessful. Last night I texted three people from my contacts list asking if they’d like to grab a drink, and I’m reading the replies I received as I have my morning coffee on the narrow balcony.

From "Tanya yoga class" I have: New number, sorry who's this?

Then from "Stephanie Marketplace": You bought a shoe rack from me last month. I think you sent this by mistake?

Just as I finish reading that, the final reply comes in from "Khaled driver": When I wrote I'm here for you I meant outside. I was your Uber driver.

Disappointment. I think that's what I'm feeling, at least. Feelings are tricky and confusing and very much like faces of people you meet but can't place. You know you've seen them before, and they say hello and smile right at your face, but you have no idea who they are or how to talk to them. But I have promised Mum to try. If she's right, my soulmates are bound to be out here, lurking and waiting for me on some yacht or roof terrace. I just have to find them.


Two coffees later, at precisely 8 a.m., I go for my morning walk. Today is Saturday, and I don’t normally walk on weekends, too many people in pairs that I have to step aside for on the narrow pavements, as they stride with big power walking steps. I don’t like stepping aside for people. Usually I rest and snooze and clean what Melita, my useless housekeeper, missed, but today I need the movement.

I walk along the coast, past the new development in the sea and then below Casino Square and the yacht club. Preparations are already starting for the annual yacht show, an event large enough to rival the Grand Prix but bringing a different crowd to town: yacht owners, recruitment agencies, and maritime companies. I reach the port and follow its curve; I look at the boats' names and play the game of pretending I could pick one and which one would I choose to be mine. Except I wouldn't pick one. Global warming is real. And I don't even like the sea. It's dark and endless and impossible to fully map out; it reminds me too much of my own inner life.