It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (11 page)

I took a gulp before broaching the topic of men.

‘I’m so not fussy!’ she squealed at full volume. ‘Just as long as he can keep up with me! Ya know!’ She erupted into a raucous laugh.

I nodded and took another gulp of wine.

‘I’m divorced,’ she continued, and then almost downed hers. ‘So I’m not fussed by the whole baggage thing.’

I offered a sympathetic smile.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I am totally over it!’ she squealed, grabbing another glass of wine out of Steve’s hand as he walked past. ‘He’s such a cliché, ran off with his secretary.’

Immediately I visualised the mismatched couple sprinting away from Cassandra.

‘Now he’s moved the little slut into my house. And he’s hidden all our money offshore somewhere, so my lawyer can’t find it. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ I said cautiously.

‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she replied. ‘Save it for her. Now
she
has to look at his droopy ass, scrub the skid marks from his underwear and pretend his weird puffing-into-the-vagina cunnilingus is mind blowing.’

I laughed, albeit a little awkwardly.

‘Now,’ she said, downing the rest of her wine. ‘It’s time I had some fun.’

As soon as we were done, like a tornado she swept out as quickly as she’d arrived. I picked up my pen and notepad and began scribbling down my thoughts. Just as I flagged a potential pleated tennis-skirt match with William, a thin wisp of air wafted down the staircase. I glanced up to see a woman looking down at me with eager eyes.

‘Ellie?’ she asked, I nodded.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit early,’ she said, while attempting to remove several layers of clothing and an oversized scarf. ‘I’m Joanna.’

Forty minutes early, I realised as I watched her drape a coat, two cardigans and said scarf over the back of her chair.

She was tall, about 5ft 10in, and probably a size 14. When she sat down, almost apologetically, she looked as though she’d been allocated the wrong body. As though there’d been some terrible mix-up with her genetic coding. And while she was waiting for the mistake to be rectified and the smaller size to be delivered, it seemed she’d resolved to tolerate the cumbersome costume.

Her face was attractive: fine bone structure, a snub nose and a friendly smile. But her skin looked pale and grey, like the “before” image for a miracle face cream. Her ash blonde hair was the type that a stylist might diagnose as unruly and a shade that could have been described as flat or dull, or even lifeless.

As she spoke, I imagined a team of “professionals” buzzing around her, suggesting highlights to lift the dull tones, low lights to add warmth and a treatment to add shine. When my daydream had concluded with Joanna leaving a salon with an armful of products and a puzzled expression, I waved Steve over and ordered two glasses of wine.

She took tiny sips as though not wishing to exceed the prescribed dose and then began to explain why she was here.

‘And they married in my church,’ she added after she’d described how her boyfriend of seven years had recently left her for a girl ten years her junior.

‘You own a church?’ I asked.

She shook her head, and took another slightly larger sip of wine. ‘No. Our church. The one we’d planned to marry in.’

‘Oh.’

‘And now she’s pregnant,’ she said, looking into her glass as though it might be a crystal ball. ‘She stole my life. Stole my dreams.’

We went on to discuss her job as a Human Resources manager and her hobbies: dining out, country walks, city breaks and occasionally visiting galleries. While she was describing a recent Dali exhibition she had enjoyed, she stopped abruptly and gripped the stem of her glass. She looked up at me. Her brow was creased and her eyes were teary.

‘Do you think you can help me?’ she asked.

I looked back at her, at her stooped shoulders, at the rolls of skin spilling over her waistband, at her too-short trousers, at the leg stubble sprouting over pop socks, at the fingernails bitten to the nail beds and I wondered if she had given up, given up the fight, she’d decided she could no longer win. But when my gaze moved up into her dove grey eyes, beyond the mournful glaze, there was something that I recognised, something I couldn’t ignore.

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, before downing the rest of my drink.

Once she’d left, I pulled on my hat, climbed the stairs out of the club and rejoined civilisation. By now, the sky was black and the wind had whipped itself into frenzy, sending litter flying through the air. Fighting its force, I held onto my hat and marched forwards, watching discarded paper coffee cups rolling past me along the pavement. Redundant of purpose, they were like displaced souls in a world where it was easier to manufacture the new, than to recycle the old.

At the station, I joined the bottleneck of passengers, everyone jostling towards their platform, anxious to go home to a place where they had a face and a name.

My phone buzzed.

‘Aylee.’

‘Hi Marie.’

‘Der ees a guy for you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I poot eem through.’

‘Hello Ellie. Hope this is a good time.’ It was William.

‘Yes, perfect timing actually, I think I might have found the girl for you.’

He made a funny excited noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. ‘That’s great. I’m so pleased.’

‘I hope you like her, her name is Cassandra, she’s American, full of energy.’

‘She sounds wonderful. Does she play tennis?’

Beep beep. There was a call waiting.

‘Hang on a minute, William, I have another call.’

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Ellie?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Hey, it’s Nate, we met at the Royal Exchange?’

After a few days of keeping me guessing, Cordelia had revealed that Nate and Josh were the co-stars of a popular daytime show in America. Once she said it, of course I recognised them.

‘Nate, yes. Hi. How are you?’

‘Great, thank you. Listen, the reason I am calling is I’d like you to set me up on some dates in London. Do you have time to talk now?’

Beep Beep.

‘Yes, sure. Hang on one second I have another call.’

I pressed hold.

‘Thanks for holding. Yes, she loves tennis, has a varied selection of pleated skirts, one of which she wore when I met her. She loves herbs.’

‘Ellie. Is that you?’ Another voice came down the line. My stomach flipped. My hands started trembling.

‘Yes. It is I,’ I said, most oddly, in the manner of a Shakespearian actor.

‘It’s Nick.’

‘I know,’ I replied.

‘Well, I appreciate your offering of a girl with a love of herbs and a varied selection of pleated skirts, but I was rather hoping I could take you out instead?’

‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m too busy,’ I said, my face flushing. ‘I’m independent. Hang on. Hold for a second.’

‘William?’

‘Yes.’

Thank God.
‘You’ll love Cassandra. I’ll call you tomorrow with all the details. Have a good evening.’

‘Thank you Ellie. Thanks so much.’

I clicked hold again.

‘Nate?’

‘No. It is I, Nick,’ he said.

‘Arrghh, stupid retarded phone. Hold on.’

I clicked again. ‘Nate?’

‘Yes.’

Phew
. ‘Is it a bad time? I can call again tomorrow.’

‘No, no, it’s fine. So you were saying you would like some dates?’

‘Yes. I had a good feeling about you when we met. My judgment’s all messed up, so I’m going to leave the decision in your hands. I’ll put you in touch with my sister, she lives in London. She can tell you everything there is to know about me. Okay?’

‘Well, I’d rather it came from you–’

‘Awesome. I’ve already transferred your payment. She’ll call you tomorrow.’ He added before hanging up.

I clicked Hold. ‘Nick?’

The line was dead.

Either I’d inadvertently hung up or he’d given up. When I looked up, the platform had emptied out. I stood alone while the train I’d rushed to board pulled away from the station.

Chapter Nine

Up since dawn, I sat cross-legged on the lounge floor, surrounded by paper: notes on clients, notes on feedback for clients, notes on feedback for their dates, notes on matches, notes on who was dating, notes on who wasn’t dating and notes on who should be dating. In only two weeks, I’d already matched over a hundred couples and I was beginning to lose track. Sharon with Mark, David with Claire. Or was it Mark and Claire? Hadn’t Mark already dated Claire? Or was that the other Claire?

‘There are too many Claires,’ I sighed, running my hands through my hair.

‘Yes that’s the problem with the world,’ Matthew chipped in as he emerged from his room. ‘Too many Claires and just not enough time.’

‘That’s really not helpful,’ I replied.

‘How many have you got?’

‘Ten.’

‘Clients?’

‘No, Claires.’

He tapped on his phone. ‘And how many clients?’

‘Two hundred and something. I think.’

He tapped on his phone again and patted down his hair. ‘According to this website, Claire is the 555
^th
most popular name.’

I sighed. ‘How is this helping anyone?’

‘Well statistically, from your sample size, you shouldn’t have any Claires at all.’

‘And?’

‘Well maybe people named Claire are more likely to be single? Maybe men don’t like the name.’

I snatched the phone out of his hand. ‘These are stats from the US. And, besides, your hypothesis is totally flawed. Claire Danes isn’t exactly a spinster, is she?’

‘Stereotypes.’ He scratched his head. ‘I bet if you look at your figures, you’ll find loads of different trends. And when you’ve got a big enough sample size you’ll be able to pinpoint the most eligible criteria in a man and a woman. Height, age, colouring, education and even name.’

‘Yeah, hold the headlines. Women want men who are tall, dark, handsome and preferably not called Marvin.’

He laughed. ‘Seriously, though–’

‘Look, I have more important things to be doing right now than engaging in another we-live-in-a-brainwashed-society debate.’ I held my head in my hands. ‘I’ve promised all these people that I’ll help them.’ I lifted my head and stared at the pile of papers. ‘Two hundred and something promises. So far, not one has been fulfilled.’

‘You need help.’

‘I hope you mean practical and not psychological.’

He smiled. ‘Promise me you won’t make any more promises until you’ve found someone to help you?’

My phone buzzed and, five minutes later, I’d ended the call with yet another firm promise. Matthew’s look burned as much as the cup of tea he’d just handed me.

‘It was a journalist,’ I said.

He frowned.

‘From Glamour magazine.’

Still frowning.

‘I couldn’t say no.’

He frowned further.

‘It’s free publicity in a leading woman’s magazine.’

His frown softened.

‘She needs three eligible bachelors for a feature.’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘By tomorrow.’

He smiled and then flexing his non-existing muscles, coiffed his morning bouffant and struck a pose against the doorframe. ‘Well, one down, two to go.’

‘You’re not exactly a bachelor,’ I said. ‘Oh and congratulations by the way. On your
engagement
.’

With a sheepish look on his face, he sat down next to me. ‘Sorry, I should have told you sooner.’

I sighed and once again explained that I was, in fact, okay and not about to break down at the very mention of anything wedding-related. And that perhaps, after ten years’ of friendship, a Post-it note left on the fridge was not the most appropriate way to inform me.

After a moment’s silence, he leant forward and picked up one of the profile forms. ‘Right, let’s get these Claires on some dates.’

Two hours later – following a victorious high five – I ran into my bedroom and wiggled into a navy shift dress. It was borderline in terms of snugness but sufficient for purpose, so long as I didn’t eat or breathe. I grabbed my bag.

The moment the door to the flat clicked shut behind me, something felt different. The chill in the air had lifted, the frost on the grass had melted and tulips poked their heads out from the soil as though they had awoken from a deep sleep. But it wasn’t until I looked up to see the sun edging out from behind the clouds, and felt its warmth on my skin, that I realised just how long the winter had been.

With spring in my step, I skipped towards the station and began phoning the eligible bachelors I’d recently acquired to ask if they might like to take part in a “once in a lifetime opportunity” to reach an audience of over one million women. Sadly, most of them didn’t share my enthusiasm for international media exposure while labelled as a lonely single and politely declined. But by the time I’d arrived at the bar, and after I’d reiterated that Glamour was the title of the publication and not the nature of the shoot, Mike and Stephen had agreed. Also, a barrister called John was a maybe depending on his schedule.

Nestled comfortably in my favourite leather chair with a glass of wine, I was preparing to meet Alistair, an architect who had sent an online enquiry, when a text message somehow squeezed its way through the walls of the underground vaults to appear on my phone.

Fancy “crashing” at mine again tonight? X

Caro’s text included a photo, which was taking its time to download. Baffled, I shook my head and then looked up to see Marie wiggling towards me, her boobs bobbing up and down in a too-tight v-neck jumper.

‘Aylee. There ees a man to see you,’ she said, stopping and placing her hands on her hips as though she’d reached the end of a catwalk. ‘I sind im down?’

I nodded, then, preoccupied with my search for magazine fodder, began to assess all the groups of businessmen in the bar. The journalist had asked for eligible men, which she’d defined as good-looking and wealthy. In fact, she may have said wealthy before good-looking. Either way, the purpose of the feature, as she’d gone on to explain, was to highlight the struggles such men have finding women who can see beyond their looks and wealth. I suspected it wasn’t in my best interests to point out that an airbrushed photograph, alongside an article discussing their net worth, may not be the best way.