It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (22 page)

Susie, or it might have been Daisy, raised her hand and then swallowed. ‘Why would anyone put their heart on the line if they knew they had only a fifteen percent chance of making it?’

Mandi stood up. ‘Because being in love is the most wonderful feeling in the world.’

She gazed down at the screensaver on her phone, of her and Steve grinning like the couples in the photos. Every day, since Steve had asked her out, Mandi’s faith in love had seemed to multiply exponentially.

Usually Mia would tolerate Mandi’s gusto, but today it looked as though she was about to vomit.

‘The reason people put their heart on the line is because most think they’re immune to the rest of world’s afflictions.’ Mia said, glaring at Mandi.

‘What do you mean?’ Susie or Daisy asked Mia.

‘They think they’re special, that they’ll be the fifteen percent that make it.’

Mandi interrupted. ‘But, even if it doesn’t work out, we all know it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’

Although usually on Mandi’s side, I was no longer in the mood to agree with her. I stood up.

‘For some perhaps, but for others, a life without love would be preferable to a life without heartbreak.’ I said, my legs almost buckling beneath me.

Mandi lurched forward, but Mia blocked her, then frowned as though she were trying to decide if I were likely to break down, and start screaming “Love hurts!” whilst throwing cushions at people in the manner of Jeremy at the masquerade ball. After seemingly completing her assessment of my psychological state, she walked towards me and then gently removed the presentation notes from my lap.

‘Right,’ she said, turning back to face the new recruits. ‘Now, I’m going to talk about market value in dating.’

Mandi jumped up, pink marker in hand, and pushed past Mia. She began writing on the whiteboard.

‘Twenty-eight,’ she said, pointing at the number as though she’d just discovered
pi
. ‘This is the most exciting age for women. It’s the age we are most eligible for marriage.’ She smiled and clasped her hands together. ‘Anything below that is a little young. Above that age, er, well then, sadly …’ Her gaze dipped towards the ground ‘… things get trickier.’

‘What she’s trying to say,’ Mia interjected, ‘is that if you’re a woman and you’re not married, or at least engaged, by thirty, then you may as well slit your wrists. Or get a cat.’

‘There’s always hope,’ Mandi added, scowling at Mia.

The Mandi clones scribbled down notes while Mia handed out a graph. ‘As you can see, for women, the probability of marriage dips after thirty and then nosedives after the age of thirty-five. Down to thirty percent.’

The recruits gasped in unison. Mandi, still brandishing the marker, walked back towards the board.

‘Thir–ty five,’ she said slowly, as she wrote out the number on the board. ‘This is the age men are most eligible for marriage. The peak of their curve.’

‘I thought they peaked at eighteen?’ Minky asked, brow furrowed.

‘No, that’s their sexual peak.’ Mia shook her head, as though she’d been set the task of teaching Pythagorean theorum to a creche.

‘Men,’ Mandi went on, ‘are still in demand up until their late forties.’

‘Especially the rich ones,’ Mia added with a raised eyebrow.

‘However,’ Mandi continued, ignoring Mia. ‘Many men over forty don’t want to get married, which in turn removes them from the pool of availability, further increasing demand. In fact, from our research into men aged forty and over, who have never been married, only thirty-five percent of them want to get married. Whereas, ninety percent of single women over forty would like to get married.’

‘So there’s a deficit,’ said Lucy or was Rosie? Probably, almost definitely, Lucy.

‘Exactly,’ said Mandi. ‘And when there’s a deficit teamed with a high demand, market value goes up.’

She drew big upwards-pointing arrows on the whiteboard.

‘So, men have a higher market value than women?’ Lucy asked.

‘Women’s market value is high when they’re younger, men’s when they’re older.’

Lucy scratched her nose. ‘So, that’s why older men get to date younger women?’

Mandi nodded. ‘Exactly. Thirty-five year-old men want to marry twenty-eight year-old women. So the thirty-five year-old women are left with the men who are over forty.’

‘Can’t they date the thirty-six year-old men?’ Lucy asked.

‘No, those men want the twenty-eight year-olds too,’ Mia answered. ‘All men want twenty-eight year-olds.’

‘Everything being equal,’ Mandi said as though that made it all okay.

‘And the twenty-eight year-old women, what do they want?’ Rosie asked, scratching her head.

‘Well they want a man aged thirty to thirty-five who wants to settle down and have a family,’ Mandi said. ‘Many men in their early thirties still aren’t quite ready for marriage, so these girls end up with the thirty-five year-old men. Eligible meets eligible.’

‘There are always exceptions,’ I interrupted.

‘Not many,’ Mia said. ‘You need to memorise that graph. Because when you meet all the thirty-five year-old women who want to date a thirty-five year-old man, you’ll need to tell them straight without wasting their time.’

Mandi chipped in. ‘And it’s important for the twenty-eight year-old women too. They need to know that now is the time to make it happen, to get married and settle down.’

I stood up, wagging my finger at the new recruits.

‘Yes. Tell them to hurry. Find a husband quick. Time’s running out. Tick tock. Your ovaries are shrivelling. Tick tock. No one wants you. Tick tock. Come to one of our parties when you’re ovulating, give a guy a blow job, spit his semen into a container and inject it with a turkey baster after he’s gone home.’

‘That happened?’

I nodded and then dropped back down onto the chair.

‘Did she get pregnant?’

‘Twins.’

Five pairs of manicured hands flew over five open mouths and I decided it might be time to call the session to a close.

I arrived home to a heap of suitcases and the musty smell of emptiness. My flat had been vacant since the last tenants had abruptly moved out, lured most probably by the glossy brochure of a new development, and now it was as though it had given up hope and accepted its fate. All those years ago, when I’d first moved in, it had seemed like a blank canvas welcoming my imprint. But now, the curtains hung listlessly, the blinds drooped like heavy eyelids and the carpet looked as worn down as I felt.

Like an ant tackling a resistant crumb, deserted by the rest of its colony, I pushed the sofa, inch by inch, to the other side of the room. I was hoping a different perspective might help, but then I sank down into the cushions and considered my odds. If being happy meant being in a successful long-term relationship, then, according to the statistics, only a few of us stood a chance. Could I be happy if I never got married? What about if I never had children? What became of all of us who were on the wrong side of the statistics?

Maybe it was time to rethink my life plan? Maybe, instead of living as one half of the beautiful couple in an advertisement for a luxury riverside development, I was destined to be on my own. To live a life of solitude ruminating over the one that got away and wondering how different the outcome would have been, had I graciously accepted that pea risotto.

An outlier in society, I could retreat to the country to live off the land and perhaps make chutney. I would take in stray dogs, love them like people and let them sleep in my bed. In an attempt to fill the gaping hole in my heart, I might start hoarding things. It would begin with the odd newspaper, perhaps a few ornaments I’d picked up at the local jumble sale, then, in no time at all, my house would be filled with fermenting chutney, useless bric-a-brac and festering dog litter. My family might stage an intervention, perhaps with the help of Dr Phil – knowing I was a fan – but it would be fruitless. By then I would have lost my mind, muttering profanities under my breath and throwing dog poo at anyone who came near me. I might even be on TV: crazy ex-matchmaker and her pack of dogs.

Nick would watch, as would Robert, both counting their blessings; they got out while they could. Before she turned thirty-five.

Chapter Sixteen

It had been twenty days since the door of number seven had clicked shut behind me. Since then, every morning had been the same: I’d wake up, rub my eyes and for a brief moment believe that everything was okay. I’d stir a little, stretch and then extend my right arm across the mattress, feeling for him, reaching for comfort. But instead I’d find a cold, flat sheet, an unruffled duvet, an empty space. That was when the realisation would make itself known. At first, it would feel like a nudge, then a pinch, then a slap around the face, a punch to the jaw, a blow to the stomach. Then another. Each time with increasing intensity. I’d curl up to protect myself, but at the same time knowing that there was no way to escape the pain.

That morning had been no different. My muscles stung and my body felt heavy as I lumbered to the bathroom, each step more painful than the last. I had to keep focused. I needed shampoo, body wash. A lazy gaze around the room could set me back again. Just when I thought I’d made it, my concentration lapsed and my gaze lingered on a space in the cabinet where his Mach3 razor blade used to rest. Before I could do anything, my mind had raced back to a time before. Before Gillette had declared to the world that three blades were no longer enough. When my oxytocin, phenylethylamine and dopamine were at their peak. Before he’d decided I was difficult. Before I’d questioned how much he cared.

In the shower, the water was scalding but I didn’t move. I let it wash over me, let my skin burn. The sting of each drop felt like a brief release, as though my nervous system were grateful to have been diverted elsewhere.

It wasn’t until I arrived at the club, and walked down the staircase and into the lounge bar, that the dragging feeling in the pit of my stomach subsided. Stepping into the lives of others had given me a way to escape mine. By the time I saw Jeremy, seated at the table with an untouched coffee in hand and studying the
Financial Times
like a fundamentalist might study the Koran, my attentions had been fully diverted.

‘Morning, Mr Blatch.’ I greeted him in my best Miss Moneypenny voice.

He lurched backwards, spilling coffee over the paper. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that.’

He dabbed the pages. I edged towards him and slid into the seat opposite, feeling like a negotiator called in to retrieve the financial publication.

‘So, how are you?’ I asked.

‘Stressed,’ he said, gripping the paper as though it were wired to explosives.

‘Work not going so well?’

His temples pulsed. ‘Down another million today. The entire fund is fucked.’

A sharp shrill erupted from his phone. He looked at it for a moment then smashed it on the table until the noise stopped.

‘There’s a silent button you can use instead?’

He didn’t laugh.

‘So,’ I said leaning forward, elbows on the table, ‘you’re obviously not here for my advice on the markets.’

He dragged his eyes away from the headlines and picked up the coffee. ‘Might have a better idea than me.’ He took a sip and I noticed his fingernails were bitten down to the beds. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Harriet.’

‘I thought as much. You know we met the other day?’

He nodded, rubbing his temples. ‘I think she should go back to work.’

I frowned. ‘I thought you said mothers should be at home with their children?’

‘I did. They should. But she’s no good to Henry if she’s depressed. She needs to work.’

‘Have you discussed it with her?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you think you should?’

‘Probably,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘And if you don’t?’

‘We’ll get through it.’

‘She thinks you don’t fancy her anymore.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

‘She said you haven’t had sex in eight months.’

He leaned back in his chair, his hand losing contact with the newspaper. ‘She told you that?’

I nodded.

He ran his fingers through his hair and his fringe flopped back down like overcooked spaghetti. The skin on his face was pale, transparent even, stretched over his sharp bones like rawhide over a frame.

‘It’s my problem. It has nothing to do with her.’

‘She thinks it has.’

He sighed. ‘Maybe we just need a night away from everything. She said you offered to babysit.’

I nodded, though I knew a night of obligatory sex was not the solution. I pictured Harriet dolled up in a French maid’s outfit and Jeremy in furry handcuffs strapped to a hotel bed, whilst, a few miles away, I plied Henry with custard creams.

‘I think you need more than a night away.’

He looked at me blankly.

I pulled myself up in the chair and leaned towards him.

‘You had a plan. An idea of how you wanted marriage and family life to be. But it’s not working. Is it?’

He shook his head.

‘So you need to adapt. Do you have a Plan B?’

He shifted in his seat. ‘Not really. My plan’s always been the same.’

‘Which is what?’

‘To make as much money as possible.’

‘Okay, so forget the money. Think about what you want; what makes you happy. Both of you. Then make a Plan B. Together. And if Plan B doesn’t work out, make a Plan C.’

He looked up to the ceiling for a few seconds and then looked down again, colour flushing back into his cheeks.

‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’

When the old Jeremy smile had just about reached half-mast, his phone began vibrating violently on the table. A glance at the screen drained the blood from his face faster than a knife through the jugular.

‘Got to go,’ he said, before bolting up the stairs, clutching the
FT
like Henry clutched a custard cream.

I sat back in the leather armchair and tapped a pen on my notepad. Although the page was blank and I had no intention of making notes, it kept my hands busy. Lacking any other distractions, physical movement was the only method I had to prevent my thoughts from spiralling into darkness.