It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (19 page)

‘No, of course not. But this is entirely different.’

‘It’s not. The competition out there is enormous. The kind of man you want is what most women want. So you have to compete with them.’

‘But what about the men? Don’t they want a nice girl?’

‘There are plenty of lovely men out there. However, the men you pointed out at the ball were the same three men that all the other girls were after.’

She nodded slowly. ‘But I didn’t fancy anyone else.’

‘Did you give anyone a chance?’

She huffed. ‘And what about you? The man you were talking to, is he the date tonight?’

I nodded.

She flicked her wrist. ‘But you’re naturally gorgeous anyway, so I suppose you don’t have to worry about the competition.’

‘Come with me,’ I said and then jumped up from my seat, hauled my bag from under the table and led her to the Ladies. ‘I’ve got to get ready anyway, so I’m going to do a quick demonstration.’

After retrieving my make-up remover and cotton pads from my bag, I wiped off the make-up that I had applied liberally that morning in attempt to conceal my hangover. Bare and exposed in the strip lighting, my skin looked dull and grey, with an alarming green tinge. I turned her towards the mirror and pointed at my face in the reflection.

‘There you go. See.’

She looked on quizzically while I scraped back my hair to reveal my badly touched-up roots and sticky-out ears. To complete my deconstruction, I unzipped my dress, exposing pasty skin and greying underwear.

Our reflections stared back at us: two rather unremarkable peas in a pod. Without make-up or styled hair, we both looked like average girls, not sexy or glamorous, not even close to fresh-faced girl next door. I wondered how she had the confidence to live her life that exposed.

‘See?’ I said. ‘Everything being equal, why would a man look at me like this, compared to the girls at the ball? He wouldn’t look twice. But most of the other girls would look just like us, stripped down.’

She looked on, saying nothing.

‘The annoying thing is,’ I said as I rummaged in my make-up bag and began the routine application. ‘I know it’s unfair …’ I applied serum, line plumper and moisturiser ‘… we shouldn’t have to do this …’ Then primer, a corrector to offset the bags ‘… media conditioning … idealised beauty…’ I added eyeshadow base and powder ‘… unattainable ideals …’ Then eyeshadow on my lids and then brows ‘…. we should reject them …’ then eyeliner and three coats of mascara ‘… take a stand …’ then blusher and lip gloss ‘… and boycott the industry.’ I pulled a black Wonderbra from my bag, followed by its matching thong. ‘But,’ I said, hoisting my bra on, ‘we’ve come to expect …’ I wiggled into my dress ‘… this is how we should look …’ I squeezed my feet into my size-too-small stilettos ‘… and it would take a brave woman …’ I adjusted my neckline, appreciating the bra’s sterling effort ‘… to go on a date without it.’

Joanna looked on in silence as I singed loose curls into my hair. ‘And that,’ I said, replacing the lost shine with a gloss spray, followed by two squirts of synthesised pheromones, packaged by Yves Saint Laurent, ‘is the secret to natural beauty.’

‘Now come with me,’ I said and then led her out of the Ladies back to the bar.

Steve wolf-whistled when he met us on the stairs.

‘Looking good,’ he said without even registering Joanna’s presence.

When we walked through the club, the men looked. They were not quite the looks that Victoria or Harriet may warrant, but looks of approval and interest nonetheless. When we parted company at the entrance to the club, I expected a flurry of “thank yous”, as though I had opened her eyes to the world and it all made sense, but instead she looked me up and down.

‘Thanks. But all that gloss …’ She pulled open the door ‘… it’s really not me.’ She walked out onto the street, arm raised to hail a taxi. ‘Hope the date goes well though.’

When I arrived at the restaurant, I scanned across a sea of glossy heads to locate the bar. Thinking I’d seen it, I strode ahead, tummy in, shoulders back, towards … the kitchen.

‘Madame. Can we help you?’ an anxious-looking waiter asked, as though I were trying to penetrate the MI5 head office. A hand grabbed mine and I turned to see Nick smiling.

‘I’ve got us seats at the bar,’ he said, leading me away from the relieved waiter. ‘But if you’d rather sit in the kitchen, then I’m sure that can be arranged.’

As we sipped pre-dinner gin and tonics, my hangover became a long and distant memory. We chatted as though we only had this one night to share each other’s stories. When he spoke, I couldn’t help but stare. His smile seemed comfortingly familiar, yet his eyes betrayed a mysterious glint, as though there were a deep hidden cave in his soul, filled with treasure, that he were inviting me to open.

‘Your table is ready.’ The
maitre d’
informed us and then led us through to the dining area.

‘Right,’ I said when we were seated. ‘I have to warn you, I’m hungover so that means I’m hungry.’

‘The way you wolfed down those nuts at the bar, I was a little concerned. Thought you might have worms or something.’

‘Maybe a dead one from the tequila bottle.’

He winced. ‘Sounds like quite a night.’

By the time I’d given him a first-date censored version of events, Nick was belly laughing.

‘That’s why they don’t tend to allow women in strip clubs,’ he said. ‘How did you get in, anyway?’

‘Pretended we were journalists. The doorman was of the understanding I was writing a feature entitled “Female empowerment through naked dancing”.’

He smirked. ‘So is this a regular thing you like to do?’

‘What, go to strip clubs and incite feminist anarchy?’

He laughed.

‘It was Caro’s leaving do. Her boyfriend thought it would be something they might enjoy together. Because she’s bisexual now.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

‘Well, during the twenty years I’ve known her, and depending on the boy in question, she has been a Jehovah’s witness, a Hell’s Angel, a militant fundamentalist for the Animal Liberation Front, a professional air guitarist, a unicyclist, a naturist, and most recently, a gangster rapper. So adding the relatively unremarkable bisexual to the list, well, quite frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.’

‘Looking forward to meeting her, she sounds hilarious.’

Meet her? I visualised Mandi sitting next to us, clapping wildly, wedding bells in her eyes.

By the time the food arrived, we were on our second bottle of wine and our conversation, initially filled with intelligent and witty exchanges, had degenerated into outrageous flirting and stupid jokes.

‘What did the Californian roll say to the Nigiri roll?’ I said, confident I was about to trigger a bout of uncontrolled laughter. ‘Roll over.’

He frowned and then laughed. ‘That’s not even a joke. What is that? It doesn’t make sense!’

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ I said, scratching my head. ‘It was the sashimi. The sashimi said it to the, er, to the Californian roll.’

He continued to look perplexed.

‘Oh, I can’t remember the sodding joke. It’s really funny though.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ he said, taking my hand, and leaning forward, his eyes drawing me in. ‘You know, if you weren’t such a greedy guts …’ He paused ‘… and if your jokes weren’t so, so terrible …’ Another pause ‘… not to mention being barred from Spearmint Rhino …’ He squeezed my hand ‘well, without all that, you could have very nearly been my perfect woman.’

‘Only the perfect can demand perfection,’ I said, flicking some sticky rice in his direction.

Later that night when we walked along the bank of the Thames, hand in hand, the clouds parted to reveal our glittering future mapped out by the stars. When his lips met mine, sparks shot through my veins and into my heart like a defibrillator, bringing me back to life.

PART TWO

Chapter Fourteen

‘Blonde hair, blue eyes and big tits,’ he said to Mia.

Fortunately for him, in the four years we’d worked together, she had learned to temper her eye rolls and her expression was fixed at something that could have even been described as earnest.

‘Would you consider green eyes?’ Mia asked.

‘No,’ he said, pushing up his sleeves to reveal a diamond-encrusted Rolex. ‘I dated someone with green eyes once. It didn’t work out.’

I continued typing on my keyboard on the table next to them, brushing the hair away from my face to sneak a sideways glance at him.

He wore a shiny grey suit, the garish end of Gucci. His watch was obnoxiously bling like a bank balance on his wrist, his hair: blond, highlighted. Tan: deep, natural. Eyes: blue, sparkling. Smile: cheeky, lopsided. Teeth: even, white. Age: I’d guess, thirty-seven. Height: around 5ft 7in, unfortunate considering his other physical attributes. Body language: overtly male, legs splayed, hand near crotch, shoulders wide. Eye contact: good. Champagne choice: predictably expensive. Overall assessment: inflated ego, directly proportional to, and fully dependent on, his net assets.

I looked over at Mia, watching how her dark hair hid her face as she leant over a notepad and began writing. He sat opposite her, his hands miming two large beach balls.

‘Like this,’ he said, a self-satisfied smile sweeping across his face. ‘Are you looking?’

Mia raised her head and the curtain lifted. I could tell she was fighting to suppress an emotion. I supposed it was either amusement or rage, but I couldn’t quite tell.

‘Yes, got it,’ she replied. ‘Please continue.’

‘And I like nipples that point upwards.’

‘Upwards-pointing nipples,’ she said, scribbling away.

‘And I prefer pink to brown.’

‘Preferably pink.’ She paused and looked up, eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a deal breaker? The pink nipples?’

He weighed his head from side to side and I pictured a tiny cluster of brain cells rolling around inside his skull.

‘Yes. Definitely pink. I’m not fussed which shade.’

‘There are shades?’

‘Of course, from light pink, like the colour of your nail varnish, to a dark pink, a bit like your lipstick.’

‘Wow, you learn something every day.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’

‘Surprised?’

‘Yes, you being a –’

‘Matchmaker?’

‘No, being a woman. You must have seen hundreds of your friends’ nipples.’

‘My friends don’t have hundreds of nipples.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Oh, you mean all those topless pillow fights we have?’

He nodded and winked.

She locked him with Medusa eyes. ‘Right, now your turn.’

‘What else do you need to know?’

She ripped out a sheet of paper from her notepad and slid it across the table along with a pen. ‘Draw an outline of your penis for me, please.’

‘An outline?’ he asked.

I giggled inwardly and wondered if he had selected the wrong word for clarification.

‘Yes, sketch the outline and then add in any unusual features.’ Her expression remained fixed at a plausible serious.

He picked up the pen. ‘Does it have to be to scale?’

‘Preferably. Or else you can indicate the measurements.’

With an expression of intense concentration and with a tight grip on the pencil, he soon completed his sketch. Then after a further five minutes of shading and corrections, he held the sheet of paper aloft for Mia to see.

‘Obviously we’ll have to verify this with a photo,’ she said, taking it from him and studying it.

He leaned back in his seat. ‘Will you want that signed by my bank manager?’

‘Ex-girlfriend will do. But if your bank manager is happy to do it …’

Moments later, after he’d left and the buzz of his phone was fading into the distance, Mia turned to me with a tight smile.

‘Another Prince Charming,’ she said, handing me the sketch. ‘Good sport though.’

I looked at the drawing, winced and then quickly folded it away. It appeared, his ego wasn’t the only thing that was inflated.

‘So, what were you scribbling down?’ I asked. ‘A full psychological profile?’

She shook her head. ‘Shopping list.’

I sighed. ‘Mia.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a client. You’re supposed to be focused on helping him.’

‘I am.’

‘Go on then.’

She laughed. ‘Well, under all the bravado, there’s probably a lost little boy who just wants to be loved.’

‘Mia. Stop it.’

‘Know any stupid girls with big tits who want a rich guy?’

My mind flicked through its archives. ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding slowly, ‘but she’s not stupid. She’s quite intelligent actually. Her name’s Kerri.’

‘We don’t care about her name. What’s her cup size?’

‘FF.’

‘Nipples?’

‘Hang on.’ I picked up my phone and typed her name into Google images, then handed the phone to Mia. ‘There you go, pink nipples.’

Mia sniffed. ‘Of course, a glamour model. She looks so … what’s the word?’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Yes, that’s it. Intelligent.’

I rolled my eyes, something I appeared to have acquired from Mia. ‘You okay to arrange the introduction?’

‘Sure,’ she said, stuffing her notebook back into her bag. ‘Living the dream.’

The lounge bar hadn’t changed much since the first day I’d walked down the staircase, but something of the magic had been lost. I remembered how the fast-beating pulse of music initially drew me in, the allure of the hidden cave shielded by its ten-inch stone barrier. The pull of the spiral staircase had been like a whirlpool sucking me in, filling me with fear, excitement and anticipation. But, by now I had sat in every seat, uncovered every cushion, felt every undulation of the floor, tracked every crack in the plaster, sampled every drink on the menu. It felt more like an old friend than a new lover.

It wasn’t as though essential maintenance hadn’t been carried out: there’d been a lick of paint here, a new painting there. But even the antique chairs had lost their allure, their saggy centres and gnarled legs betraying their age. There had been talk of replacing them with new Philippe Starck-type designs: fine leather stretched over taut springs, but nothing, as yet, had quite measured up.