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

by Haley Hill

  I stood up and pushed past him.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me back. ‘Ellie, sweetheart. Come to bed. Please.’

  I brushed him off. ‘Nope. It’s just you and your virtual harem tonight.’

  With that, I flounced off to the spare room.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning I woke to the sound of hammering on the door. I opened one eye and saw a flash of netting on the side table. Then I hauled myself up and out of bed. The hammering continued. Concerned I was about to be the unfortunate subject of a botched drug raid, I grabbed Robert’s gown and dragged myself to the front door.

  The moment I unhooked the latch, a small man with coiffed hair barged into the hallway. He smoothed down his slim-fit purple suit and glared at me.

  ‘Fastidio Weddings has a zero tolerance on tardiness,’ he said in a quasi Italian accent, while waving a piece of paper in my face. ‘Clause twelve on the agreement you signed. The bride must honour appointments.’ He pointed at his watch. ‘Fastidio time equals Fastidio money.’

  I stood still, staring at his luminous white teeth and thick eyebrows.

  Suddenly I noticed Cordelia trudging up the stairs, sweat beading on her forehead. He swung round to face her. ‘Chop chop, maid of honour, we have work to do.’ Then he leaned over the banister. ‘And you too, chief bridesmaid,’ he shouted down the stairwell.

  ‘Caro?’ I said, just as I noticed her scaling the staircase behind Cordelia.

  He clapped his hands.

  ‘And the groom?’ He turned on his heel and began to patrol the corridor, swerving his neck into each room as he passed. ‘Groom? Groom?’ He clapped his hands again as though summoning an errant pet.

  Robert appeared from the bathroom, towel round his waist, face half-covered in shaving foam.

  He looked at the man in purple and then at me. ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘Filippo Fastidio. Chief wedding architect.’ He stepped forward and thrust his purple business card into Robert’s hand.

  Robert studied it with a frown. ‘Wedding architect?’

  ‘Must I educate everyone?’ Filippo’s arms began flailing around like those of a deranged thespian. ‘A wedding is art. It is a creation, a beautiful design, is it not? Roberto.’

  After we had all been ushered into the lounge for an emergency briefing, Filippo shuffled up next to Robert on the sofa, then opened a padded purple folder.

  ‘Right. Now your bride has selected the diamond package.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Yes.’ He thrust a purple envelope into Robert’s hands. ‘That is the receipt for the first instalment. Your bride was prudent enough to take advantage of the complementary upgrade offered at the show yesterday.’

  ‘Upgrade?’

  ‘Yes.’ Filippo’s chest puffed out. ‘To include the pioneering Fastidio virtual wedding software package.’

  Robert shifted in his seat, struggling for words, but before he could even open his mouth, Filippo silenced him with a hand gesture.

  ‘You can afford it,’ Filippo said, flicking through his notebook. ‘Our routine background checks showed a healthy balance in your offshore account.’

  Suddenly the doorbell rang and Filippo jumped to his feet. ‘Excellent. Edwina is here.’ Then he rushed off to open the door.

  Robert looked at me. I looked at Cordelia. Cordelia looked at Caro. Caro held up her phone.

  ‘I got a text last night,’ she said, then read from the screen: ‘Eleanor Maureen Rigby and Robert Titus Hoffman request your presence for Stage One in the Fastidio wedding experience, 7am tomorrow at the Hoffman residence. Please be prompt.’ She scrolled through her phone. ‘Then a second text straight afterwards: Fastido Weddings Inc reserves the right to levy supplementary charges for late arrivals.’

  Cordelia rubbed her head and then handed me her phone. ‘I got one too. Precisely how much champagne did we drink yesterday?’

  I shook my head in bewilderment, then offered Robert an apologetic smile. Before I could read Robert’s reciprocal expression, Filippo burst in the room with a tiny woman whose face was entirely eclipsed by the bundle of bridal accessories she was carrying. Filippo who was trailing an oversized clothes rail behind him, stopped abruptly and began clinking hangers.

  ‘The CB’s quite hefty up top …’ he said to Edwina while pointing at Caro’s chest. ‘Might cause a few problems if you were thinking halter.’

  Then Filippo turned to me and looked me up and down. ‘The bride needs a full skirt, bandeau top, sweetheart neckline. Size twelve?’

  ‘Eight,’ I said, although now I was beginning to wonder.

  Then he lurched forward, pulled open the dressing gown that I was wearing and noted the basque.

  ‘Excellent. She’s already been to see Rosemary.’

  While Filippo began typing furiously on his laptop, Edwina fitted Cordelia and Caro for something called the Cappuccino Cornucopia range. Then she moved on to Robert and I, draping various shades of fabric against our faces. Somewhere between Havana Horizon and Dandelion Daze she stood back, looking as though all her worldly belongings had just been lost to a house fire.

  ‘Filippo. We have a problem,’ she said.

  Filippo snapped shut his laptop and leapt to his feet.

  ‘She’s spring and he’s winter.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s never going to work.’

  Robert snatched the fabric from her and examined it.

  ‘This is absurd,’ he said, tossing it onto the sofa.

  Filippo rushed over to Robert, held down his arms and stared into his eyes.

  ‘Blue. With flecks of green,’ he said, then stepped back and ran his fingers through Robert’s hair. ‘A sizeable amount of grey too, he’ll carry spring.’

  Robert knocked him out the way and headed towards the drinks cabinet. Filippo sprang backwards and following a rather flamboyant arm flail, blocked Robert’s path.

  ‘Uh, uh.’ Filippo wagged his finger. ‘Clause fifteen. No alcohol consumption during the preliminary phases of the wedding construction.’

  Robert glared at him for a moment, then poured himself a whiskey. When Filippo had scuttled off, mumbling something about additional fees for breach of the contract, I sidled up to Robert, grabbed the glass and took a sip. He smiled and slipped his arm around my waist.

  ‘You owe me Mrs Hoffman,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Big time.’

  I smiled. Despite our argument the night before, I could never stay angry at Robert. I leaned my head on his shoulder and looked up into his eyes. I’d never noticed the flecks of green before.

  Filippo jumped towards us and prised us apart. ‘No fornication until phase four. Clause nineteen.’ Then his phone buzzed and he bounced in the air.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said with a clap. ‘The rest of the team are on their way.’

  Several hours later, after we had been introduced to the photographer, videographer, cake maker, hair stylist, confetti blower hire company and endured an hour-long interview with Robert’s family priest, Filippo clapped his hands.

  ‘Right. Bride in the boudoir. We need to get you fitted.’

  Before I could protest, Edwina and Filippo had bundled me into the bedroom and began scanning my body with a device that Filippo referred to as a Fastidio adipose scanner.

  The beauty of which, Filippo informed me, was to take measurements at the same time as highlighting any problem areas. After I’d been presented with a print-out of my Fastidio body graph and pre-wedding action plan, Filippo nodded at Edwina.

  ‘Le cent-mille?’ he said.

  Edwina took a deep breath and nodded, then carefully extracted a dress from the rail.

  As I stepped into it, she explained that the name of the limited-edition piece was derived from the hundred thousand crystals sewn on by hand in Belgium. Apparently, there was a three-year waiting list for made-to-measure orders. While Edwina tightened up the bodice, Filippo reassured me that as a diamond-package Fastidio bride, I would be awarded prior
ity and the option of an interest-free payment plan.

  When she’d finished making the final adjustments, Edwina stepped back, clasped her hands together and let out a deep sigh. Filippo kissed his fingertips.

  ‘Bellissimo,’ he said, ripping a sheet from the mirror like a magician.

  I saw my reflection then stepped back, taking a sharp breath. I barely recognised myself. Somehow ten inches had disappeared from my waist and been cunningly displaced elsewhere. To my chest, it seemed. And against the ivory satin, my usually pasty complexion and honey-blonde curls could have even passed for English rose. I twirled around, feeling like one of those figurines advertised in the Sunday newspaper supplements. I’d be called something like Jezebel or Cressida. I swished my skirt from side to side and let out an excitable giggle. My hand shot over my mouth. It had been years since I’d made a sound like that. When I swished again, I giggled some more.

  By now Filippo had hurried back to his laptop and was typing frantically on his keyboard. Then, with one seemingly triumphant tap, he took a deep breath and looked up.

  ‘Fastidio Weddings are proud to present …’ He threw his arms in the air as though leading an orchestra to crescendo. ‘… Mr and Mrs Robert Titus Hoffman’s virtual wedd –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Where’s the groom gone?’ Filippo sprang up from his seat, waving his hands above his head. ‘Groom. Groom. Groom!’

  I looked over to where Robert had been standing. Only a half-empty bottle of whiskey remained. By now Filippo was pulling back the curtains and peering out the window.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘He’s outside. Bride, go get him. Hurry, hurry.’

  I put my hand up. ‘But the groom shouldn’t see the –’

  Filippo grabbed my coat from the stand and lobbed it at me. ‘Put this on. Go. Go. Go.’

  As I skipped down the communal stairs of the mansion block, sunlight poured through the skylight and bounced off the crystal chandelier. Despite the weight of the dress, I felt a lightness in my step. I stopped by the window halfway down and peered outside.

  Only this week, Robert had said that if the Edmundson deal went through, we could buy one of the townhouses opposite. I found myself grinning as I imagined walking up the stone steps then through one of the imposing doorways.

  Until I’d met Robert, I’d spent years drifting purposelessly though dead-end jobs and flatshares, but now I was about to join his world of dinner parties, fine wine and filter coffee. I leaned forward and squinted: number twelve had a “For Sale” sign.

  If I stood on tiptoes, I could see straight into the front room. It looked a bit rundown, but the idea of a renovation had always appealed. I quickly calculated the timelines in my head. It would take three months to knock through and extend, making it open-plan. Then probably another six weeks to install one of those sleek kitchens with handleless drawers. I’d already decided on white gloss units with a slate granite work surface, although I hadn’t yet committed to a shade of splashback. Something contrasting, I imagined. As I trotted down the last flight of stairs, I counted the months out on my fingers. If we were married by August, we could be in our new house by Christmas.

  I stepped over a pile of flyers for Bikram Yoga and pushed open the front door. Robert was on the pavement, leaning against the wrought iron railings.

  ‘Had to take a call,’ he said, lifting his phone. Then he looked me up and down and frowned. ‘Bloody hell. Have you got Filippo and the team hiding out under there?’

  I pulled the coat tighter over my dress and smiled. ‘Edwina said the full skirt is the most forgiving.’

  He chuckled.

  I leaned against the railings next to him. ‘I don’t blame you for scarpering,’ I said. ‘That Filippo’s quite a character, isn’t he?’

  ‘I could think of a few other words starting with “c”.’

  I laughed and then slid down the fence so Filippo couldn’t see us.

  ‘Shall we do a runner?’ I whispered. ‘We could elope right now?’

  Robert glanced up at the window. ‘He’s probably got Fastidio air patrol and road blocks on speed dial.’

  I giggled. ‘I swear he spiked my drink at the wedding show. There’s no way I would’ve signed up for this otherwise.’

  He looked up to the sky and sighed. ‘That’s such a relief. I thought you were all for it.’

  I smiled. ‘A power trip in purple dictating our relationship? I don’t think so.’

  He leaned towards me and brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

  ‘Who needs a piece of paper anyway?’ he said.

  My stomach lurched and I stepped back. ‘I was talking about the wedding planner. I still want the wedding.’

  He tensed.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He looked down at his shoes.

  ‘Robert?’

  He glanced up at me, silent.

  My heart raced. ‘Say something, you’re freaking me out.’

  He put his hands in his pockets. ‘It is a little soon.’

  ‘Soon? What do you mean “soon”?’

  He stood there, motionless.

  My stomach churned. ‘You’re the one who proposed. You bought the ring.’ My throat felt like it was closing and I could hardly speak. ‘You asked me to move in. It was all you.’

  He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. ‘I thought we’d be engaged for a few years before we got married.’

  I swallowed. ‘You said as soon as the divorce was finalised.’

  He looked back down at his shoes. I glared at him until he looked up again.

  ‘I need time to tie up a few ends first.’

  My hands were shaking. ‘Ends? You have ends to tie up? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  His eyes darted from side to side like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘My wife just called. She wants to reconcile.’

  I stepped back, almost knocking my head against a lamppost. ‘What?’

  His eyes finally met mine.

  ‘You did tell her that’s not going to happen?’

  His ran his fingers through his hair. ‘The divorce is going to cost me a fortune.’

  The bodice seemed to tighten, like a python wrapped around my chest.

  ‘What?’ I shouted.

  He reached for my hands. ‘It doesn’t have to be the end of us though.’ He squeezed them tightly. ‘You can stay in the flat. We can see each other in the week.’

  I knocked his hands away. ‘You want me to be your mistress?’

  His looked at me as though that might not be such a terrible idea.

  ‘Are you insane?’

  Immediately, I visualised the three of us as the subject of a Louis Theroux documentary about polyamory in the Western world.

  I stared at his face, searching for answers. I looked into his pleading eyes, then down at his mouth, the mouth that had only to curl at the edges to give me goosebumps. I looked at his chest, at the outline of muscles through his shirt. Then at his arms: the strong arms that I thought would hold me forever.

  He walked towards me and slipped his hands around my waist. ‘I love you, Ellie. We can get through this.’

  I stepped back. ‘Get through this? This isn’t a world war. We were supposed to be planning the happiest day of our lives.’

  My heart pounded and my mind whirled. I struggled to hold back the tears as I gazed up at the sky and tried to make sense of it all: the work trips, the late nights at the office, the emergency golf games.

  ‘You’re still sleeping together, aren’t you?’

  He began digging at a weed in the pavement with his foot.

  My muscles twitched and adrenalin shot through my veins. I wanted to rip the shoe from his foot and pummel him over the head with it, but before I could act, I caught a glimpse of cappuccino-coloured chiffon in my peripheral vision. I turned to see Caro and Cordelia behind me.

  Cordelia, clearly having caught the drift of the conversation was clutching a bag from the “Have a Horny Honeymoon” stand and had a me
nacing glint in her eye. Just as my thoughts were diverted to our porn-diversion splurge at The Wedding Show, she reached in and pulled out a dayglow dildo.

  ‘She bought this for you!’ she shouted, waving the oversized phallus at Robert.

  He looked at her and lifted his hands as if to say: ‘Thanks, but I’m all good for dildos.’

  Cordelia clenched her jaw, and tightened her grip around the girth. Filippo, seemingly anticipating her intentions, darted out the door and snatched the dildo from her as though he were partaking in some kind of bizarre relay race.

  I looked back at Robert. Images from Backdoor Babes flooded my mind. Latino Lesbos and bushy beavers. I imagined strippers writhing on his groin. I pictured him in his office emailing “Juicy Lucy” with his hands down his trousers. Then I imagined his wife bouncing through the doorway of their new townhouse and into his arms.

  Tears pooling in my eyes, I glanced down at the three-carat diamond nestled in its platinum clasp. Its market value was probably enough for a deposit on a flat. Or a round-the-world trip with Cordelia. Yet, without hesitation, I tore it from my finger. I looked at Robert’s bewildered expression, then across the road at the “For Sale” sign. Every muscle in my body tensed as I swung my arm back and then hurled the ring towards the gutter.

  As the ring spiralled through the Mayfair street, the front door creaked open. Edwina and the priest emerged, mouths agape, to witness Filippo leaping into the air like a brightly dressed frog. His eyes bulged as he held the dildo aloft like a baseball bat. He soared towards the ring, ready to intercept it, but his back swing was a little overzealous and the dildo slipped from his grasp. It bounced a few times, rebounded from the curb and then somersaulted after the ring into the gutter. The rest of the Fastidio team edged out, eyes wide, to see the ring twirl on the spot, offering a closing pirouette before the advancing dildo sent it plummeting down the drain.

  The sound of the tiny splash it made when it hit the water echoed in my mind for months. With each memory, the tears would come. Tears laced with grief for Robert’s strong arms and the white-gloss kitchen that would never be realised. Ricocheting between cocktail-fuelled nights out with the girls, inappropriate dates and wallowing in bed watching reality TV, I gradually began to piece my life back together. A new bar job. Another flat-share. A different hair colour. Every day I reminded myself that the aching void inside would pass, just as soon as fate delivered “The One”. My Mr Right. The man my friends and family assured me was out there somewhere and would come along when I least expected it.