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

by Haley Hill

  Two years on and I was still waiting.

  Chapter Three

  It was a bitterly cold November evening, when I found myself in All Bar One on Regent Street, sitting opposite a man whose head was too small for his body. Below a gelled curtain fringe were squinty eyes, shiny skin and bushy hair sprouting from one nostril.

  ‘You’re the only girl I’ve met online who isn’t a porker,’ he said, getting up from his seat and then sidling up next to me. ‘But I’d put you more as a size twelve than an eight.’

  I forced a smile.

  ‘I don’t mind a bit of meat though,’ he said, his fingers creeping onto my thigh, tongue edging out in anticipation. His breath smelled of coffee and pickled onions.

  I stood up. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, before offering what turned out to be a rather long-winded excuse, involving a 24-hour veterinary surgery, a fictional cat and implausible bowel surgery.

  The bar’s heavy door slammed shut behind me and the icy air hit me like a slap in the face. I pulled up my scarf and began the familiar trudge to Waterloo Station.

  Lured by the promise of meeting thousands of “like-minded singles”, I’d embraced online dating with gusto, imagining it to be like shopping for a husband: ooh, add to basket. But after four months of intensive participation, my disappointment was mounting. The slick profiles – comprising impressive credentials and enticing photos – often omitted pertinent details such as a clubbed foot, sexual deviance or, just as in Robert’s case, a wife. Occasionally, I’d find one who walked and talked like a normal boyfriend, only to reveal a deep dark shadow that would have sent even Dr. Phil running for the hills. And after tonight’s offering of a misogynist with hair from the Nineties, I knew it was time to call off the online search.

  But as I traipsed towards the Thames, it seemed that while I was being groped in All Bar One, London’s entire population had paired off, and then gone on to organize some kind of flashmob snog-a-thon. Couples crisscrossed my path and flaunted their love.

  Enter besotted duo from the left. Cue loving gaze in restaurant. Candlelight, please.

  Despite auditioning for roles such as “happy bride” and “woman in love”, it felt as though I had inadvertently secured the lead in a new blockbuster entitled: Everyone finds love … except for you. And when a taxi, transporting a mess of entwined limbs, ploughed through a muddy puddle and splashed water up my leg, I felt more alone than ever before.

  When I eventually arrived home, I found Matthew, my long-term friend and short-term flatmate, lounging on the sofa, glass in one hand, wine bottle in the other, a wildlife documentary flickering in the background.

  ‘So, how was the six-foot-two international entrepreneur?’ he asked, sitting up to pour me a glass.

  ‘He used to sell t-shirts in Thailand,’ I said and then awaited his obligatory sarcastic response.

  He smirked. ‘Well, there are around seventy million people in Thailand and they all need t-shirts …’

  ‘Yes, but I suspect they know better than to buy them from a guy on a beach working to pay off his drug debt.’ I unravelled my scarf and collapsed down next to him on the sofa. ‘And he was half my height. Like he wasn’t going to be found out?’

  ‘Maybe he was planning to win you over with his personality?’

  ‘Indeed. Now, was it the tales of childhood animal torture? Or perhaps the moment he almost stabbed the waitress with his fork? I just can’t decide which indicator of mental instability actually won me over.’ I wriggled out of my coat and then threw it on the floor. ‘No more internet dates. I’m done.’

  He passed me an overfilled glass of wine and I took a large glug.

  ‘Where are all the good men?’ I asked, and then stared helplessly up at the ceiling.

  He chuckled. ‘Please, no. Not Bonnie Tyler.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t need a hero, just a decent guy.’

  ‘And what, pray tell, is a decent guy?’

  ‘One who doesn’t have nasal hair, a porn addiction or a personality disorder.’

  He laughed. ‘No nasal hair? That would be a tricky one.’

  ‘You know what I mean, tufts sprouting out of nostrils. Or one nostril even, that was weird.’

  He laughed.

  ‘What? What’s so funny?’

  ‘Do you know that every time you come back from a date, you’ve added something else to your tick list?’

  He picked up a pen and notebook from the coffee table in front of him. ‘Symmetrical nasal hair,’ he said, pretending to write.

  I heard a strange groan. A quick glance at the TV implied that either it came from me or a horny hippopotamus.

  ‘But I have to discriminate somehow. I mean, look at my choices so far. It couldn’t really get any worse, could it?’

  ‘The male attracts the female by using his tail to spray her with faeces,’ David Attenborough announced.

  Matthew raised his eyebrows at the disturbing image on the screen. ‘See. It could always get worse,’ he said and flipped his legs up onto the sofa. ‘So, where were we? Yes, your tick list. When we met, you must have been, what, fifteen?’

  I nodded and took another gulp of wine.

  ‘Well, back then, you said that the only thing you looked for in a boyfriend was a cute smile.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Then,’ he continued, adopting a bizarre cover-girl-like pose, ‘after a month or so, your requirements had progressed to a boy with cute smile and a car.’

  I could see where he was going with this.

  ‘And now, let me think, what are your requirements now?’ He moved his hand over his mouth in a dramatic shock gesture and before I had a chance to answer, he continued. ‘He has to be aged between thirty and thirty-five (preferably thirty-three), over six foot tall, good-looking, successful, independently wealthy, fit and sporty, confident (not arrogant), intelligent, interesting, well-educated and have a great sense of humour.’

  ‘Well…’

  He put his hand up in a flamboyant stop sign, ‘I haven’t finished yet. In addition to that, he also has to be sensitive yet masculine, affectionate and attentive, but not clingy. He must think you’re the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, cherish you for eternity and have manly hands.’

  I tried to speak, but Matthew rattled on.

  ‘And now, since your recent bout of internet dating, you’re discounting men for the most trivial of things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Tapered jeans.’

  ‘Trivial?’

  ‘Deck shoes.’

  I screwed up my face

  ‘Triangular shoulders.’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Skinny calves.’

  ‘Yuk.’

  ‘Lumberjack shirt.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Flat bottom.’

  ‘Eew.’

  ‘Furry neck.’

  ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Whiny voice.’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Pointy fingernails. Head like a grape. Hyena laugh. Upside-down eyebrows. And what about the guy with the goatee?’

  ‘He looked like a gnome.’

  ‘He could have shaved it off.’

  ‘That’s not the point. He chose to grow it in the first place. I couldn’t trust a man with such bad judgment.’

  He sighed and lifted his arms above his head.

  ‘Don’t you think I deserve to meet a great guy?’

  ‘Well,’ he said planting his feet on the carpet, as though reverting to his default sexuality ‘I think I deserve a room full of Playboy Bunnies and a permission slip from my girlfriend. But I’m going to get that though, am I?’

  I lunged forward and slapped him on the arm. ‘You shouldn’t want Playboy Bunnies. You’re supposed to be in love.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. You also believe that a man who loves you should never so much as imagine having sex with anyone else because that’s disloyal.’

  ‘That’s because I have good values.’
<
br />   ‘You have idealistic values. There’s a distinct difference.’

  I sighed, feeling like a deflated balloon at the end of a party.

  Matthew’s expression softened as he shuffled up next to me and wiggled his fingers in my face. ‘Are my hands manly?’

  I inspected them and then laughed. ‘You’ve had a manicure?’

  He frowned. ‘Well, what about your feet, Miss Perfect?’ He glanced down at my size eights. ‘They wouldn’t look out of place on a seven foot basketball player.’

  I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes.

  ‘Seriously though, no one is perfect. You have to give up your quest for the ideal man or you are only going to be disappointed. And even if you do find a man possessing all your requirements, who’s to say, he would want to date a banana-footed fussypants?’

  I huffed and then folded my arms. ‘So, instead, I’m supposed to settle? For someone I don’t fancy or even like?’

  He took a sip of wine.

  ‘Or should I have stayed with Robert, embraced polyamory and moved to a commune in California?’

  Matthew’s expression morphed into his newsreader-face, a familiar precursor to a serious talk. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  He looked me directly in the eye, ‘If Robert didn’t look like your perfect man? If he wasn’t a tall, good-looking investment banker who drove an Aston Martin, would you have fallen in love with him?’

  I took another large glug of wine and considered what he had said.

  ‘The issue is,’ he went on, as though having been chimed in by Big Ben. ‘You made too many assumptions based on the fact that he looked perfect to you.’

  I nodded, taking in the headline but wanting the full story.

  ‘So, my wise guru, if my perfect man might not look like my perfect man, then how am I supposed to know who he is?’

  ‘Well, firstly,’ he said raising a finger, his face fighting a smile. ‘We’ve already established that there are no perfect men. That’s error number one in your pursuit of love. You really must pay attention.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay then. I stand corrected. As you are the font of all knowledge on this matter, are you going to find Mr Not-so-perfect-but-right for me?’

  He laughed. ‘What, like your personal matchmaker?’

  I nodded. ‘You know me. You know what I’m looking for. So go find him. I’ll pay you in wine,’ I said and then refilled his glass.

  Matthew stared at me for a moment, then pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and picked up the notepad and pen from the coffee table.

  ‘Right, young lady,’ he said, adopting a matronly voice, ‘you say you want to meet a wealthy man. Could you explain why this is so important to you?’

  I giggled. ‘So I can live in a big house and have a nice lifestyle, without having to worry about money.’

  The cringe crept in as soon as I had said it.

  ‘Well, madam,’ he began, peering over his glasses, ‘in this day and age, a lady can go out and achieve such things without the aid of a man. So, you’re just being a lazybones. I’m going to cross that one off your list.’

  ‘Er,’ I said, trying to interrupt but he or she was in full flow.

  ‘And what’s all this about appearance? You say you want a handsome man. Don’t we all dear?’ he said as he hoisted up his imaginary bosoms. ‘But those good-looking ones are often a bit full of themselves and rather high maintenance, don’t you think? I’ll cross that off too.’

  Before I was even close to finishing my glass of wine, Matthew’s alter-ego had annihilated my tick list.

  Later that night, when I lay in bed, images flashed through my mind: men with goatees, tapered jeans, curtain fringes, hairy nostrils. If Matthew was right and I had been deluding myself by expecting a perfect man to give me the perfect life, and to behave perfectly at all times, then what was I supposed to do instead? I couldn’t talk myself into fancying someone, and besides, I knew that no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for a man who smelled of pickled onions.

  I pulled the duvet over my head and let out a deep sigh. It was then that the idea came to me. At first, it just flitted through my mind, skittish like a butterfly. But then it settled and I couldn’t ignore it.

  What if I could prove Matthew and the rest of the cynics wrong? What if I could show the world that there was a perfect soulmate out there for each of us? After years of bad press, perhaps the time had come to rebrand “Happy Ever After”. To give the disillusioned singles a nudge up the bottom, for even the vaguest contemplation of settling.

  Using Matthew’s idea as a template, I could reclaim Cupid’s bow from soulless software and lead an army of matchmakers across the land, leaving deep and meaningful love, shared values and mutual respect in our wake. Word would spread like an airborne virus and people would travel from far and wide to seek my counsel. My days would be filled nurturing budding romances from under a pile of thankyou notes. My nights would be spent sleeping soundly, content in the knowledge that I had helped unite all the lonely hearts of the world.

  The following morning, I woke from a dream, in which an elderly lady with a kind face sat knitting in front of a log fire. At her feet, playing absentmindedly with the ball of wool, was a plump-faced toddler.

  ‘And if it wasn’t for that wonderful matchmaker,’ she had said, stroking his ruddy cheek, ‘you, little Johnny, wouldn’t be here today.’

  I rubbed my eyes, momentarily confused as to why fast-forwarding generations into the future would manifest in my imagination as a scene from a past century. But when my focus adjusted to the white light pouring through the curtains, I realised that the message was clear. The path to my destiny lit up like a runway.

  Suddenly, it all made sense. The pain and heartache that I’d suffered had all been for a reason, and now, it could be channelled towards the greater good.

  I’m going to be a matchmaker, I decided, throwing off the duvet. I’ll start today.

  And so, I did.

  Chapter Four

  ‘What about them? They’re cute,’ I said, pointing to a group of men by the bar.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia replied with a dismissive flick of her Gwyneth Paltrow hair. ‘Your first clients have to be super eligible.’

  With her sleek frame encased in a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped dress and her long legs elongated further with red Dior stilettos, she looked the image of timeless elegance. I couldn’t help but feel inferior. My ensemble wasn’t dissimilar, albeit a High Street version on a High Street body, but for me, it didn’t come so easily. With a smudge of Benetint and a light dusting of powder, Cordelia personified Hollywood glamour. However, my less-impressive result required hours of prep, more foil than a Christmas turkey, and a paranoid avoidance of neon lighting. People who loved me, or those who saw me in candlelight, said I looked a bit like Holly Willoughby. The rest said Beverley Callard.

  Cordelia slipped her arm through mine and led me away from the men – who she had ruthlessly culled for their unimaginable crime of “drinking pints in a champagne bar” – then marched us on to a balcony which afforded a panoramic view of the bar.

  ‘No. No. And no,’ she said, scanning the crowd and dismissing everyone in sight. ‘Where have all the hot men gone?’

  I laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking for the past two years.’

  ‘They must be hiding out somewhere,’ she said, craning her neck around a gilt pillar. ‘This is supposed to be the champagne bar of the moment according to the FT.’

  I checked my watch: it was six o’clock on a Thursday evening. We were in the heart of the financial district and the bar was jammed, teeming with enough men to send The Weather Girls into cardiac arrest, but according to Cordelia, no one was good enough.

  ‘They don’t have to be outrageously good-looking, do they?’ I asked, feeling far less discriminatory since my dressing down from Matthew
, ‘All I need are normal people who are single.’

  She flicked a sheet of golden hair behind her shoulder. ‘You want to avoid the stigma that other agencies have, don’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well the only way to do that, is to have the ubereligible as your first members. It’s a bit like a celebrity endorsement. You know, if they’re doing it, then it must be good.’

  ‘But no one really believes that Cheryl Cole dyes her own hair over a sink at home? Why would they believe that a gorgeous man has trouble finding love?’

  ‘Because he does. Everyone does. That’s the reason you have decided to become a matchmaker, is it not?’ Her voice was sympathetic, but the pinched expression betrayed her impatience.

  I nodded again, looking around the bar at the seemingly contented patrons. What if it was just me? What if no one wanted or even needed my help?

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ she said gesturing towards two men who had just swaggered through the doorway. ‘That’s more like it.’

  Both well over six foot tall, with dark hair, and wearing impeccably tailored suits, they sauntered in, looking like they’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. One of them glanced my way and flashed a show-stopping smile. Smiling timidly back, I took a deep breath, sucked in my tummy and weaved my way through the crowd towards him.

  ‘Well, hello,’ he said, when I’d reached him.

  ‘Well, hello yourself,’ I replied, attempting a Cordelia-style hair flick which resulted in several drinks being spilled behind me. He laughed: a soft, sexy, George Clooney chuckle, not the high-pitched roadrunner warble that appeared to be coming from my mouth.

  ‘So, what brings a gorgeous girl like you to a place like this?’

  Back straight, tummy still miraculously in, I looked him directly in the eye and declared my purpose. ‘I’m headhunting for eligible men.’