It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (14 page)

‘Welcome to the world of dating,’ I said and stood up to shake her hand. She leapt forward, bypassing my hand and flung her arms around my neck.

‘Thank you! Thank you! You won’t regret this.’ She jumped up and down and started clapping like a seal. ‘This is so exciting! I’m so excited. I said that already, didn’t I? Sorry. When do I start? Can I start tomorrow?’

The beam from the skylight followed her path as she bounced up the stairs and out of the club.

Just as I was packing up my notes, preparing to go home, Marie slinked towards me.

‘Aylee your nixt cleeant ees ere.’

‘But I don’t have any more appointments tonight.’

‘I sind er down,’ she said, clearly perceiving it as my problem to solve.

I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the calendar to look for any missed appointments, when in breezed a leggy blonde. Her hair was swept up into a high ponytail, which was swinging like a palomino’s tail. Encased in a tight charcoal grey dress, her thoroughbred body was toned to perfection: one of the lucky few whose liver appeared to enjoy destroying unwanted fat cells, as though it were partaking in some kind of blood sport.

She swerved past the few remaining men in the bar as though accidently touching one might result in the transmission of an incurable disease. Then she strode towards me with her hand outstretched.

‘Hi,’ she said, and then sat down opposite me, locking me with a cold fixed glare. Her face was as striking as her figure: sharp cheekbones and staggering turquoise eyes. She should have been beautiful, but there was something that didn’t quite work, a certain hardness I couldn’t define.

I flicked through my calendar. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recall scheduling an appointment with you.’

‘I’m Victoria,’ she said as though it would explain everything. ‘A friend of Harriet’s.’

I raised one eyebrow. Well I intended to raise one but, having never fully mastered this quizzical gesture, I most likely raised both, resulting in an expression of surprise rather than intelligent scepticism as intended.

She continued, unfazed by my bizarre facial contortions. ‘I sent an enquiry via your website but you didn’t get back to me, so I thought I’d come along, to see if anyone was actually working at your agency.’

‘That’s weird,’ I replied. ‘When did you send it?’

‘Oh I can’t remember, at least an hour ago.’

I suppressed an eye-roll. ‘Well you certainly would have had a response by–’

‘Whatever,’ she said and lifted her hand as though stopping traffic. ‘We’re wasting time, let’s get on with it.’

I sat back down and heaved my bag onto the seat next to me.

‘
Garçon, champagne. J’ai soif
, ’ she said, snapping her fingers at Steve, who couldn’t look less French if he tried. While he took an uncharacteristically long time to bring our drinks, we spoke, well to be accurate, she spoke about what she was looking for in a man. He had to be tall, good-looking, successful, wealthy, never married, no children (yet) and good family values.

‘So you want children?’ I asked just as the champagne arrived. Steve placed her glass down on the table with a cheeky grin.

‘About time.’ She glared at him then looked back at me. ‘Well, I want to leave a legacy.’ She took a sip and pulled a face. ‘With my looks and intelligence, I have a duty to breed, don’t you think?’

I hoped she was joking, but her earnest expression revealed otherwise.

‘Not to the detriment of my career or social life, of course. I’ll have a nanny, a live-in au pair or something. And a cleaner. I’m not into any of that domestic stuff. Hideous. Anyway, how about Jeremy? I could see myself with him.’

‘Jeremy?’

‘Yes Je-re-my,’ she repeated, as though I were a moron. ‘Harriet’s ex.’

‘Harriet’s ex?’

‘Yes Harriet’s ex,’ she continued impatiently. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you for your concern, just a little confused. As far as I’m aware, Harriet and Jeremy are dating. Besides, I don’t think you two are suited at all.’

‘Harriet dumped him last night, so he
is
available, actually. That’s why I decided to come by before you matched him with anyone else.’ She glared at me, her eyes opaque like ice on a lake. ‘Or if you can’t manage him, I’d like one of these?’ She slammed down a magazine opened at the centre-spread feature.

‘We’re too rich to get married.’ I read out the title and looked down at the men. It was the magazine feature I’d roped Nick into.

‘But not that one,’ she pointed at the photo of Nick, his arm casually slung over a leather sofa in an uncharacteristically arrogant pose.

I need someone who understands my lifestyle,
or so Nick had said, as I gathered from the captioned quote above his head.

‘Shit. He’s never going to forgive me for this,’ I muttered.

‘Sorry?’ she interrupted. ‘Are you paying attention? This feature is about your dating service, is it not?’

‘Yes, it is. But it was supposed to be about eligible men who struggled to find nice girls to date. Not about how rich they were.’ I stared at the page and then cringed at the hyperbolic descriptions of Nick’s property portfolio and extensive wine collection.

‘Whatever. Please pay attention. If I am going to hire you as my matchmaker, you will have to sharpen up.’

After handing me a pre-counted cash payment, she explained that now, she was entitled to meet any of my clients, as and when she pleased, and that she would be in touch tomorrow regarding her date with Jeremy. Then she flounced off, almost mowing Marie down as they passed each other on the staircase.

Steve was giggling when I walked over to pay for the champagne.

‘I’ve only put one glass on the bill,’ he said. ‘I think the other one might have been contaminated.’

I smirked and then opened the magazine on the bar. ‘What do you think about this?’

He scanned the page and his laughter faded.

‘Wasn’t that the guy you were with the other day?’

I nodded.

He continued reading and shook his head. ‘Not good, sweet cheeks. Not good.’

I sighed, looking up to the skylight. All I could see was black.

‘But, on the plus side, if he can forgive you for that, he could forgive you for anything.’

His throaty laugh echoed in my ears as I made my way home, fighting against the wind as it funnelled though the empty streets.

Chapter Eleven

Willing a message to arrive from Nick, my eyes flitted between the screen of my laptop and my phone. It had been two weeks since the magazine feature. Two weeks of unsettled weather, storms gathering and then passing in the blink of an eye. Just as the sun looked as though it might prevail, clouds would sweep across, like a damp blanket over a fire. And with each day, my hope was fading.

Lying on the sofa, laptop balanced on my legs, I gazed through the window, up at the sky. I watched the sun trying to burn through a wispy cloud and I imagined the email I had been willing to arrive. If I concentrated hard enough, maybe by the time I looked back down at the screen, it would be there at the top of the list.

The email would begin with a brief yet plausible justification for the two-week delay, then, with wit and charm Nick might go on to explain how entertained he was by the feature, how hilarious he found it and perhaps suggest a drink that evening to dissect it properly. Later that night, at an intimate wine bar, most likely one with a terrace overlooking the Thames, we would sip Provencal Rose from crystal glasses. I could wear my new Warehouse dress and we might share some canapés, perhaps little crostini with an exotic terrine or some kind of tapenade. We would laugh and joke until the sun set, painting the sky pinky orange, and then as he took my hand in his, he would gaze deep into my eyes to see his future reflected back at him. At that moment, he would be certain that, after years of searching, finally he had met “the one”. Many more blissful nights would follow, and in no time at all, possibly three months, he would ask me to move in.

I kept staring out of the window, my mind continuing to wander, as I imagined living with Nick in his Hampstead pad. We could take strolls on the heath. And get a dog, one of those cute little scruffy ones. Perhaps redecorate and buy a new bed; a rococo carved wooden one painted white. I had always liked the shabby chic look. However, I reminded myself, it would be sensible that we invest in durable furniture that would also work with the interior of the house we would buy when we were married. Providing Nick proposed within a year, then the wedding would be the following summer, after which we would start trying for a family. I would be thirty then. That’s a good age. Not the originally targeted twenty-eight, when I’d planned to have my first child, but close enough. Nick would be a great dad. We’d probably have girls. Alternatively, one girl and a boy. Names? Chloe and Patrick. Or Joseph.
Yes, I like those.

So, I had been waiting for the email or call, either would work in this scenario, which would begin it all. My entire future happiness was hanging by a thread. But, infuriatingly, it was now 10am and again nothing. Frustrated by this annoying delay on my path to fulfillment, and noticing an ominous-looking cloud drifting towards the sun, I decided to type an email.

To: Nick

From: Ellie

Subject: Sorry

Still talking to me? x

‘No that’s pathetic. Delete it immediately,’ Matthew instructed, after I’d called him in a panic. ‘Hide your phone and laptop if necessary. What
has
got into you?’

‘Don’t you get all judgmental now, just because you’re
engaged
.’

‘I’m not being judgmental. You’re being mental. Anyway, I thought you were off men?’

‘So did I.’

He sighed, a particularly drawn-out, exasperated sigh. ‘And you said
no
when he asked you out.’

‘I did.’

‘It’s a classic case of wanting what you can’t have.’ Cordelia explained after Matthew had insisted I conference her in. ‘When he wanted you, you didn’t want him. Now you know he probably hates you, you want him. Now it’s safe for you to want him with no danger of him wanting you back. You see, you’re still avoiding getting hurt.’

‘Or she’s just being an idiot,’ Matthew chipped in.

‘Are those my only two options?’

‘Look, if he likes you, he’ll get over your humongous fuck-up and call. You’ll just have to wait and see,’ Matthew said, before excusing himself from the conversation.

‘Just don’t try and sabotage it if he does, okay?’ Cordelia added.

‘What, like you did with Harry?’

‘I dumped him. That’s not sabotage. That was a well thought out and thoroughly considered decision.’

‘You’ll be back together next week.’

‘Won’t.’

‘Will.’

‘Won’t.’ She huffed. ‘In fact, I wanted to ask you to set me up on some dates. This time I want someone who doesn’t think employment is an infringement of their human rights.’

I hung up the phone, having promised to present Cordelia with a more ambitious, slightly slimmer version of Harry by the end of the week. Then I noticed yet another missed call from Emily’s mother. Having left Emily a series of over-enthusiastic voicemails, I suspected she was now screening my calls or maybe even in the midst of filing an injunction against me. However, I decided to give her one final try, but this time from my landline, withholding my number, in the manner of an amateur stalker.

‘Hullo.’

‘Emily?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name’s Ellie, I’ve left you a few voicemail messages about my dating service –’

‘My mother put you up to this didn’t she?’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘That bloody woman! Why can’t she just keep her giant nose out of my business?’

‘I’m sure she means well.’

‘Listen. Thanks for the call, but I’m really not that desperate that I need to use a dating agency. Okay? No offence.’

‘You’d be surprised who uses the service, though. In fact, I set it up because I was single –’

‘You sound old though,’ she said, cutting me off again. ‘No offence.’

‘I’m twenty-eight.’

‘That’s quite old to still be single though, isn’t it?’

‘You’re only three years away from twenty-eight.’

‘Four actually, I’m only twenty-four. Twenty-five next month.’

I laughed, remembering how I felt at her age. With all the time in the world, the possibilities were endless. Life was an exciting journey, to be embraced with wild abandon, safe in the belief that everything would work out okay in the end.

‘All right, I’ll leave you in peace. But if you ever want to meet up for a chat, save my number.’

‘Yeah, whatever. If I ever get that desperate, shoot me. No offence.’

Once I’d hung up the phone, I scrolled through Mandi’s emails, which seemed to be dominating my inbox. Most of them, it appeared, were regarding the party she strong-armed me into bringing forward two weeks to mark her arrival.

‘I love parties!’ she’d said the day after I’d hired her. ‘I’m so brilliant at parties! We should make it a ball. A masquerade ball. Yes. It simply has to be a ball. This is so exciting. This will be the best ball ever. Let’s do it next week.’

After deleting twenty of her emails with the subject title “Decorations”, I moved on to Victoria’s daily email, demanding a match within the next hour. I quickly sent her Dr Stud’s profile, along with a photo of him leaning against the side of a yacht. It was a perfect scene: his sculpted muscles glistened in the sun, his dark brown hair flopped over ocean blue eyes. His smile was a broad as the horizon and his teeth were as polished as the deck. She replied immediately.

No. Too short. Have you heard back from Jeremy yet?

When I’d worked my way through the remaining matches, including the controversial decision to send Cordelia on a date with Dr Stud, I lay my head against the arm of the sofa. While I’d been working, thick clouds had crept in and smothered the sun, one after the other, layer after layer. I pulled up the sash. The air hung heavy outside, dense and motionless. My skin felt sweaty and my head throbbed, and it felt as though every promise I’d made was in there, banging away with a tiny hammer. When more emails piled into my inbox, to the point where I thought my laptop might actually topple over, I wondered if now might be the time to recruit another matchmaker. I scrolled through the CVs and stumbled upon one from a girl named Mia, whose personal statement implied she might be the ideal candidate to offset Mandi’s unyielding exuberance. Straight away I sent her a text asking if she was free that night.