It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (21 page)

‘You won’t believe the day I’ve had. I’m so tired.’ I sighed at Nick and then slung my wet coat on the chair.

‘Me too.’ He glared at the coat and then picked it up and walked towards the radiator with exaggerated effort. ‘I’m exhausted
.
’

He always had to win. If I was tired, then he was exhausted. How did I beat that? Terminal illness?

‘What’s for dinner?’ I asked, eyeing the shopping bag on the counter.

He tipped it up and two cartons tumbled out. ‘Paella or pea risotto?’

‘Paella, please.’

He huffed.

‘Oh, you want the paella?’

‘I don’t really like risotto.’

‘Why did you buy it then?’

‘Because I thought you didn’t like paella.’

‘What? I’ve eaten paella like five million times since we’ve been together.’

‘Five million times. Really? That’s, on average, three thousand times a day. No wonder you didn’t get time to sort the insurance.’

‘Fine. I’ll have the pea risotto then. Rice and peas. Delicious.’

‘Paella is just yellow rice and peas. It’s the same thing.’

‘Well, if it’s the same thing, then why don’t you have it?’

We glared at each other, a standoff which seemed to result in a truce

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, plunging a fork into the film lid. ‘I’ve had a horrible day.’ I withdrew the fork and plunged it in again. Withdrew, plunged. Withdrew, plunged. ‘And the tossers at the pound wouldn’t release the car.’ I said on the fifth plunge.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I didn’t have the original copy of the insurance certificate.’

‘That’s fair enough.’

‘But I only got the insurance today, so how could I possibly have the original certificate?’

‘Get it couriered.’

I huffed. ‘And I’m being sued.’

‘For what?’

I explained, as best I could, the fertility case against me, but his look, instead of the desired empathy, seemed irritated and condescending.

‘Everything’s always such a drama with you.’

The incessant beeping of the microwave plunged through my eardrums and into my brain like my fork through the film. I lunged forward to open the door.

‘You’d make a trip to the supermarket sound like you’d undergone open-heart surgery.’

I threw the paella carton onto the counter and ripped off the lid.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I told you not to drive the car until the insurance was sorted.’

The hot steam burned my hand.

‘You bring these things on yourself.’

The burn throbbed, radiating up my arm.

‘And getting sued, in the tail end of a recession, you know, that could take your business down.’

Throb. Throb. Throb.

He shot me a petulant glare. ‘You really need to grow up and start taking responsibility for your life.’

‘Right,’ I said, slamming down the carton, paella oozing down the sides like molten lava. ‘So let’s get this straight. You’re saying that it was irresponsible of me to get sued by an opportunistic menopausal loon? And it was irresponsible of me to trust my boyfriend when he’d promised to do something? If that is, indeed, what you are saying then, yes, you’re right. I’m totally and utterly irresponsible.’

The tears lined up, ready to spill out.

‘You rely on me too much. You need to stand on your own two feet.’

‘We’re supposed to support each other.’ I sloshed the paella onto a plate. ‘Not me do everything while you’re eating steak with your wanky mate.’

‘You don’t do everything.’

‘I run a business. It’s hard work.’

‘If it’s so stressful, why don’t you go get a proper job like the rest of us.’

The throb of the burn merged with the throb in my head. ‘Oh here we go. Why slog my guts out trying to help people when I could sell my soul for a big fat bonus? Like you do.’

Throb. Throb. Throb.

It was as though my body had had enough and decided to override my senses. I looked down to see my fist closing in around some paella, then my arm swinging back, slowly, purposefully before propelling the contents, catapult-style, towards Nick. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened as the yellow gloop slid down his face and onto his favourite Thomas Pink shirt.

He looked at me, looked down at his shirt and then back at me.

‘That’s it. I’ve had enough of you,’ he said, lips thin, teeth gritted. ‘Get out. Get out of my house.’

‘Your house?’ My eyes bulged, my muscles tensed.

‘I paid more, so I’m the majority shareholder.’

‘Oh yes. Of course. Mr Billy Big Balls earns more than his irresponsible matchmaking girlfriend. And don’t we all know it. Well done you!’ I noticed I was clapping my hands like a crazy person. ‘But,’ I said, the applause fading to a stop, ‘I contributed towards this house so part of it is mine too. ‘This bit.’ I marked out an area on the ground with my foot. ‘So I’ll stay if I want to. I plonked down on the sofa and folded my arms. ‘You leave!’

‘I’m going!’ he shouted and then marched into the hallway to grab his coat, which was under several of my coats and required some wrestling to free. ‘But I want you out of here when I get back.’

‘Fine!’

‘Good!’ He slammed the door, leaving a trail of yellow rice behind him.

Chapter Fifteen

Bags rammed with my life’s belongings lay scattered across the floor looking like the aftermath of a battle. I slumped down on the stairs and took one last look around.

Aside from a few rice grains trodden into the rug, and a saffron splatter on the wall, it was like a poster for the perfect home; the sort of image that would be blown up and displayed around a building site. This scene in front of me, however, lacked the ubiquitous beautiful couple laughing and drinking wine. Her, languishing across a contemporary sofa, make-up as flawless as the white linen trousers she’d simply thrown on after a busy day as a city executive. Him, a successful financier and gym enthusiast, arriving home just in time to don Armani casuals and pan fry monkfish on the brushed-chrome hob.

The sunlight poured through the glass pane above the front door, casting the shadow of a number seven across the floor. Lucky number seven, we’d joked on the day we’d exchanged contracts on the house. Even the postcode ending with the letters N and E had our destiny stamped on it.

‘I can’t take anymore,’ Nick had said, rather melodramatically I’d thought, during our post-paella deconstruction.

‘Fine. I’ll go,’ I’d said, my pride having answered before my heart could argue.

It was only now I’d come to collect my things, at the agreed time, while Nick was at work, that I realised I didn’t want to go. My heart belonged here. All my dreams and plans for the future were here. But short of chaining myself to the banister and claiming squatter’s rights, I had no choice but to leave and to take my overfilled bags with me.

When I had rehearsed the moving-out scene in my mind, my behaviour had been dignified, mature and entirely appropriate for the demise of a significant and meaningful relationship. But when it came down to it, I found myself overcome by a juvenile urge to take
everything
that was mine, which included my toasted sandwich maker, my bath mats, my Christmas tree stand. Quite frankly, anything that I could recall having paid for. After I’d shoved my toilet brush into the car boot, I felt a twinge of shame though, and at the point when I’d considered unscrewing my doorknob and digging up my garden plants, I quickly closed the door behind me and posted the keys through the letterbox.

During the drive home, as the toilet brush handle rattled against the rear window, the tears began to well and my chest began to heave. I quickly called Matthew, hoping his humour might somehow counteract my despair.

‘Yes, exact your revenge.’ Matthew laughed. ‘He’ll be sorry when he has to buy a new bath mat.’

‘Okay, okay. I know it was childish. So, are you free tonight or not?’

‘Sorry, no can do. Date night tonight.’

Since getting married and having two kids, Matthew was rarely available for anything that required less than six months’ notice.

I sighed. ‘All right then, but any advice for me now? I could do with some.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I thought you’d nailed it this time. Nick is a good guy.’

‘He is.’

‘So what happened?’

I tried the words out in my head first, to see how they sounded:
He wouldn’t let me have the paella. He forgot to get the car insured
. But that sounded pathetic. Finally I thought of something more convincing.

‘He called me irresponsible.’

‘Well, you are, a bit.’

I huffed. If I hadn’t have been driving, I would have folded my arms. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’

‘Are you on your side?’

‘And you’re supposed to be making me feel better, not worse.’

‘Nick isn’t the one for you. You can do better. Plenty more fish in the sea. Is that what you want to hear?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what then?’

‘I want my fish. But.’

‘But?’

‘I want him to love me for who I am.’

I immediately pictured Matthew’s eyes rolling, then I saw Mia’s face, and her eyes were rolling, I could even picture Mandi’s eyes rolling.

‘That cuts both ways.’

‘What’s with the clichés today? What happened to my sharp-tongued, super-witty friend?’

He laughed. ‘Well, if you want my two pennies’ worth, I’ll lay it on the line: at the end of the day, what it boils down to, the long and short of it is –’

I laughed. ‘Stop beating around the bush and spit it out.’

‘Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. It’s plain as day that you’re making a mountain out of a molehill and cutting your nose off to spite your face. You should wait for the dust to settle, then lay your cards on the table and hope that this cloud has a silver lining.’

‘And go back with my tail between my legs. I don’t think so.’

‘Pride comes before a fall.’

‘Oh, put a sock in it.’

After I had hauled all my belongings into the hallway, feeling like a crazy bag lady, I retrieved the least creased dress from one of my suitcases and pulled on some suede boots. Then I ran a brush through my hair and set off for the club. This afternoon, along with Mandi and Mia, I was supposed to be delivering a training session for five newly recruited consultants. Due to Mia’s propensity to fire more consultants than she hired, Mandi had put herself forward to run the recruitment campaign.

When I arrived, I was unsurprised to find five Mandi clones, all lined up in one of the meeting rooms. Their eyes were wide, they had notepads on their laps and their pink pens were poised.

After formally welcoming Lucy, Susie, Daisy, Maisy and Minky to the team, Mandi stood up. She took a moment to smooth down her candyfloss pink dress and push back her blonde flicks, which were looking especially perky that day.

‘Twelve thousand, four hundred and seventy-eight,’ she said, tapping on her keyboard.

Suddenly, Jennifer Rush’s “The Power of Love” pulsed out of Mandi’s pink laptop. The number was projected, in neon pink, onto a screen on the wall.

‘That’s the number of single people who have asked for our help.’

The Mandi clones looked on.

‘Five thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine,’ Mandi said, then tapped a key. ‘Long-term relationships we’ve helped create.’ Photographs of smiling couples appeared on the screen. ‘Nine hundred and forty-eight …’ Mandi clicked ‘… engagements.’

Images raced past my eyes: sparkling smiles, sparkling rings, more smiles, more rings. I was starting to feel dizzy.

‘Two hundred and seventy-one …’ She clicked again ‘… weddings.’

We saw more happy faces, smiles, hand-holding, kissing, more smiles, more hand-holding, more kissing. I sat down, grabbing the sides of the chair for support.

Mandi beamed. ‘And as of today …’ She clapped her hands and bounced on the spot ‘… three hundred and seven …’ One more click ‘… new lives!’

The screen filled with images of pink wrinkly faces: some wearing bonnets, some sucking dummies, one of Henry as a newborn, poking his tongue out. Each had doting parents, whose hopes for the future were clear through every crease on their face.

Just as the power ballet reached its crescendo, the Mandi clones, with beaming smiles and weepy eyes, all stood up and clapped. One of them, who I think was Minky, even whooped. Mandi basked in the glory as though she had delivered a world-changing presidential speech.

Next to me, Mia’s eye rolling had reached an intensity whereby I was seriously concerned that she might be in the midst of an epileptic fit. When her eyes had settled back to their usual state – a vaguely bored, glare – she stood up, switched off the music and addressed each of the Mandi clones with a silent nod.

‘Relationships fail,’ she said, her silhouette eclipsing the smiles on the screen. ‘First marriages: fifty-three percent. Second marriages: seventy-five percent. Engagements: seventy percent. Cohabitations: seventy-seven percent. And early relationships, those of six months and under, have a failure rate of around eighty-five percent.’

My personal contribution to these statistics had been a formidable endeavour, I realised as soon as she’d said it.

Mia continued without blinking. ‘The pictures you’ve just seen were all taken within the first two years of a relationship. That kind of love does not last.’

Mandi’s recruits looked on dumbfounded, as did Mandi, who despite having heard Mia’s speech many times before, never really accepted it as the truth.

Mia tapped on the keyboard and a graph appeared on the screen.

‘Dopamine, phenylethylamine and oxytocin. These are the neuro-chemicals which drive the early stages of love. Psychologists refer to this stage as the collapse of ego boundaries. Neurologists say it fires off the same part of the brain as cocaine. Some psychiatrists believe behaviour patterns during this phase are comparable to being mentally ill.’

Mandi looked away as though the particularly scary part of a movie were about to unravel.

Mia continued, her eyes fixed ahead. ‘And when the hormones drop, which, just to be clear, they always do – anytime between three months to two years later – that’s when most relationships break down.’