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

by Haley Hill

  IT’S GOT TO BE

  Perfect

  THE MEMOIRS OF A

  MODERN-DAY MATCHMAKER

  HALEY HILL

  Copyright © 2013 Haley Hill

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador®

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 9781783069484

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To all the fabulous clients who laughed, sobbed, and on

  occasion, vomited their way into my heart.

  And to James, for bearing with me.

  “If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.”

  Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

  Contents

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  While this book is inspired by what the author learned and experienced during her career as a matchmaker, none of the characters portrayed are in any way based on real people. Just as Ellie Rigby is not Haley Hill, the names and characters in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Although real places are referred to throughout, they are all used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  ‘So Ellie, let’s get this straight.’ Cordelia strode through the exhibition centre entrance, batting leaflet distributers out of the way. ‘He couldn’t come to The Wedding Show because he had an emergency golf game?’

  I nodded, scanning a pamphlet about the merits of marrying on a farm.

  Cordelia snatched it from me and threw it in the bin. ‘How can knocking a ball into a hole ever constitute an emergency?’

  ‘It’s more a meeting on a golf course. The meeting was the emergency.’

  She raised her eyebrows, an action I was unsure whether was directed at me or the taffeta monstrosity that was about to be paraded down the runway.

  I stopped and looked around. It was as though we’d walked into a five-year-old girl’s utopia. A fantastical land of pink, white and silver. Cakes of every flavour, shape and size were stacked up in front of us like turrets on a castle. Beyond were stands loaded with shoes, dresses, tiaras and veils. It looked as though a fairy godmother had zipped through with her wand leaving trails of diamonds, pearls and crystals in her wake. I imagined if I spun around on the spot, my skinny jeans and vest would transform into a sparkling gown.

  My daydream was interrupted by a burly mother-of-the-bride who steamrollered past me, her gaze fixed on a flamboyant feather fascinator. After I’d regained my balance, a salesgirl sprang out from behind a stand, wielding an elaborate-looking headpiece and a horror movie smile. Cordelia sidestepped her and then dragged me towards a champagne bar.

  It wasn’t long before we were on our third glass.

  ‘Then a photo of a minge pops up.’ I said, taking another gulp.

  Cordelia shrugged her shoulders and sighed. ‘They all do it.’

  ‘It wasn’t even a nice-looking one.’

  She screwed up her mouth. ‘Are any of them nice-looking?’

  I weighed my head from side to side. ‘So, Harry looks at porn too?’

  She gestured for more champagne. ‘Generally he hides it quite well.’ She paused. ‘Although the other day, when I was looking online for a recipe, a site called flappy flanges came up.’

  I laughed, wondering what search term she’d entered. ‘What is it with the flaps? I mean, I suppose I get the whole pretty girl naked thing. But some of those sites, they’re a bit, you know.’

  ‘Hardcore?’

  I nodded. ‘One minute he’s telling me I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen and that he’s never felt this way before. The next he’s downloading Backdoor Babes or Anal Warrior III.’

  Cordelia refilled my glass.

  I twirled my engagement ring around my finger. ‘And he’s been going to strip clubs. I found the receipts.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘He says it’s a work thing. But I don’t see how he has to spend five hundred pounds on private dances to secure a deal. Surely that’s going above and beyond the call of duty for an investment banker?’

  She chuckled. ‘You have to be firm with them. Once Harry tried to convince me that a weekend in Ibiza with the salesgirls was essential for team morale.’

  I took another swig of champagne. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him about it but he just fobs me off. Says his ex-wife never used to mind. He thinks I’m insecure.’

  She laughed. ‘Imagine how he’d react if you were hanging out at Adonis’ every weekend having giant schlongs dangled in your face?’

  I sighed and swirled the champagne around in my glass. ‘But I don’t want that.’

  ‘And he can’t exactly call her his ex-wife if the divorce hasn’t gone through yet, can he?’

  I scanned the room and watched a girl squashing her foot into a tiny diamante shoe. ‘He said it should only be a couple more weeks until the decree absolute. Then we can set a date.’

  Cordelia looked at me for a moment as though trying to read my expression. Then she grabbed the remainder of the champagne and jumped down from her stool.

  ‘Right then,’ she said, barging past a bewildered-looking groom, ‘we’ve got a wedding to plan.’

  By now the place was rammed. Wide-eyed brides and their entourages darted frenetically from stand to stand, scooping up wedding wares by the armful. As we pushed up the aisles, we were bombarded by poster images of porcelain-skinned brides who looked as though they had been plucked from a remote island of purity where men only existed as legends of honour, valour and glory. I tried to imagine the groom lifting the bride’s skirt and re-enacting a scene from one of Robert’s movies, but somehow my brain refused to comply. I took another swig of champagne.

  Just as I went to offer Cordelia a refill, I saw her weaving towards a stand,
which looked to be exhibiting underwear. I glanced up at the sign:

  “Débauche: lingerie for the contemporary bride”

  When I caught up with Cordelia, she span around waving a pair of white lace crotchless knickers.

  ‘Maybe Robert would like a pair of these?’ she said and smiled.

  I grimaced. ‘He’s not a cross-dresser.’

  She handed them to me. ‘For you, I meant.’

  I peered through the hole in the gusset, then raised my eyebrows.

  ‘As some kind of porn-diversion strategy?’

  She giggled. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Except my dignity,’ I said handing them back to her.

  ‘Besides, I thought flapping flanges were Harry’s thing.’

  ‘Flappy not flapping,’ she said, attempting to hang them back on the rail.

  Suddenly a small woman with a large nose and orange lipstick appeared between us and snatched the knickers from Cordelia.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘My friend’s getting married.’ Cordelia nudged me forward, smirking. ‘She wants something special for her groom.’

  The saleswoman looked me up and down, then stepped back and cocked her head.

  ‘34C,’ she said, then began selecting bras from the display without diverting her gaze from my chest. ‘Although the one on the left might be more of a B.’

  I stood silent for a moment, wondering how I had reached twenty-eight years of age without realising I had asymmetrical boobs.

  ‘And you’re wearing the wrong bra.’

  ‘The wrong bra?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, piling undergarments into my arms. ‘A balconette suits a broad ribcage much better than a plunge.’

  I stood speechless.

  ‘You’ll need a thong too. That will detract from your thick waist. You’re a size twelve, yes?’

  ‘Eight,’ I said.

  Moments later, while I was still digesting the news that I had a man-sized ribcage, and no waist, I found myself braless in a changing room along with the saleswoman, who I now knew was called Rosemary. She was brandishing a tape measure and an assortment of Backdoor babe-style lingerie.

  ‘Men enjoy a suspender,’ she said, thrusting a pair of white stockings into my hands. ‘Now pop those on and then come out and give us a twirl.’

  By this point, the champagne was wearing off, and I wasn’t entirely enthused by the idea of parading around the stand in some kind of porno-bride ensemble.

  Just as I fastened the last suspender-belt clasp, Rosemary poked her head around the curtain.

  ‘Divine,’ she said, then ripped the curtain back and dragged me out. She turned to Cordelia. ‘Doesn’t she look simply divine?’

  Cordelia stepped back with a smirk. The rest of the crowd milling around the stand parted as Rosemary shoved me in front of an enormous swivel mirror. My eyes widened. Staring back at me – absent only the backcombed hair and lace fingerless gloves – was Madonna circa 1980s.

  Rosemary lunged forward and yanked up the straps. ‘The balconette works wonders. Doesn’t it? Especially when there’s a bit of droop.’

  Cordelia was still smirking.

  When I’d eventually extracted myself from Rosemary’s grasp, I retreated back into the changing room. Just as I was about to close the curtain, I noticed Rosemary twirling my old bra in the air.

  ‘Of course we’d be happy to dispose of this.’ She turned her nose up then lobbed it in the bin. ‘You can wear your new pieces home. Maybe give the groom-to-be a little teaser?’ Then she winked.

  After I’d managed to pull my jeans on over the suspender belt, and loosened the bra straps so that my cleavage was no longer directly under my chin, Cordelia and I decided it might be a sensible time to go home. Albeit via the champagne bar.

  By the time the taxi-driver deposited me back at the mansion block, I realised I had acquired several more bags of shopping and an inability to coordinate my limbs. Although I wasn’t fully aware of my acquisitions and couldn’t quite account for the past four hours, I had a vague recollection of visiting a stand that specialised in “honeymoon pleasure enhancers” and a rather disturbing memory of a small man dressed in purple. Also, when I climbed out the taxi, I noticed some white netting in my field of vision, which I took as confirmation that I had purchased a veil.

  Once inside the building, it took me a while to open Robert’s door. It had only been a week since he had given me keys. I hadn’t yet mastered the complicated mortice lock and bolt combination. An undertaking which was further inhibited by my inability to focus on the actual door, let alone the keys. When I finally entered the flat, I heard Robert moving around the bedroom. With Rosemary’s suggestion that I give the groom a “teaser” playing through my mind, I dumped my bags. I pulled off my t-shirt and readjusted my basque. Then I tried to wiggle out of my jeans, but they got stuck around my ankles so I bent down to pull them over my shoes. However, the veil kept falling in my face so I couldn’t quite see what I was doing. I heard footsteps behind me and I jumped back up, flung my veil over my shoulder and leaned against the wall adopting my most seductive pose.

  Robert regarded me for a moment, one hand down his tracksuit bottoms and the other holding a mug of tea.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  I ran my hands over the basque and mustered a breathy voice.

  ‘It’s so hot in here.’ I then stuck out my chest, remembering to emphasise the one on the left. ‘Want to help me out of this?’

  He frowned, looked at the jeans around my ankles and then cocked his head. ‘Are you drunk?’

  I twirled my hair. ‘If I am, it might be your lucky night.’

  He grinned. ‘As much as I’d love to take advantage of a Madonna clone bound at the ankles by skinny jeans, I have to work. The Edmundson deal is closing next week. Is that a veil?’

  I huffed. In one strenuous tug, I released the jeans from my ankles.

  ‘Yes, it is a veil. I went to The Wedding Show if you remember. To plan our wedding.’ I threw my jeans to the floor. ‘The wedding which you have seemingly ranked somewhere between an old man’s recreational sport and …’ I glared at him, noticing his hand still down his tracksuit bottoms, ‘… and wanking.’

  ‘Wanking? You think that’s what I’ve been doing all night?’

  I nodded, realising my argument had taken a surprising turn, but unwilling to back down.

  He slammed his mug down on the sideboard. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  My hands were on my hips. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Look, if I don’t close this deal then I don’t get a bonus. How else do you propose we fund your masters in Anthology?’

  I let out a theatrical laugh. ‘It’s Anth-ro-pology.’

  He sighed. ‘Whatever. Some pointless social science is hardly going to save the economy.’

  ‘Oh, and you are? How exactly? By wanking us out of the recession?’ I barged past him and marched into his office. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ I grabbed the mouse and clicked on the “History” tab. ‘Which will it be? Recession busting multimillion dollar deal or …’

  I scanned the listed sites – Latino Lesbos. Money-shot milfs. Bushy beavers – and my stomach tightened.

  ‘Bushy beavers?’ I shouted. ‘Yeah, that’s certain to whack the FTSE index up a couple of points.’

  He rolled his eyes.

  I read on: Jiz on Jugs. Sluttycumbuckets.

  He tried to snatch the mouse from me, but I wrestled it away from him. The next link I clicked on took me to a site called Adult Friend Finder, which had his “log-in” box autofilled. Just as I began scanning his messages, Robert dived under the desk and yanked out the plug.

  He jumped back up, the cord dangling in his hand.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ he said, in a condescending tone. ‘All men look at porn.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘No, they don’t.’

  He smirked. ‘Oh come on, I’m hardly single-handedly fundin
g a hundred billion dollar industry.’

  ‘Double-handedly, then?’

  He sighed.

  I slumped back in the chair and glanced down at the princess-cut diamond on my finger. ‘You’re supposed to love me more than anything, more than anyone.’

  He dropped the cord to the ground and smiled. ‘I do.’

  I looked up. ‘Forsaking all others?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course.’

  I glared at him.

  His smile faded. ‘What?’

  ‘My professor says the human brain has the inability to distinguish between imagined and real sexual encounters. So technically you’re being unfaithful.’

  He huffed. ‘I don’t know why you’re studying that shit.’

  I scowled. ‘What would you rather I do instead? Masturbate on webcam while sucking a lollipop?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘You’re being very immature.’

  I turned back towards the computer. ‘And what about these girls you’ve been emailing? “Juicy Lucy” and “Shaven Haven” on that shag-buddy website.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all harmless.’

  ‘So it wouldn’t bother you if I was logging on to monstrouswillies.com every chance I got.’

  He smirked. ‘Yeah, like mine’s not big enough.’

  ‘It’s not loyal enough.’

  He sighed. ‘Look, there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t look at porn. It’s normal. And you just need to get over it.’

  ‘And the strip clubs?’

  ‘Client entertainment. We’ve been through this.’

  I huffed and then folded my arms.

  He leaned forward, resting his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re the one I want. You’re the one I love. I’m marrying you …’ He pointed at the screen ‘… not them.’