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

by Haley Hill

  He raised one eyebrow, and his friend, who had been loitering beside him, leaned in closer.

  ‘You’re what?’ the friend asked, head cocked like a befuddled puppy.

  ‘I represent an exclusive dating agency,’ I explained, easing into character, ‘and I’m looking for men good enough to date our female clients.’ Technically, I decided, that wasn’t a lie.

  They both laughed, but were clearly intrigued.

  ‘This, I absolutely have to hear,’ George Clooney said. ‘Have a drink with us, I want all the details.’ He waved a fifty at the barman. ‘I’m Mike, by the way, and this is Stephen.’ He nodded vaguely in his friend’s direction.

  ‘Ellie,’ I replied.

  He slipped his arm around my waist and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. When Stephen stepped in to repeat the process, I began to wonder why I hadn’t considered this career change years ago.

  ‘So, you headhunters, do you hunt alone? Or in packs?’ Mike asked, handing me a glass of champagne.

  ‘In pairs,’ I answered, glancing over my shoulder, wondering where Cordelia had gone. ‘I’m here with my friend.’ I stood on tip-toes to look above the heads. ‘Cordelia. Now where is she? Ah, over there.’

  I pointed her out. She was immersed in conversation with a tall olive-skinned girl who was blessed with the rare combination of endless limbs, tiny bottom and big boobs. As if to add further insult to the rest of the female population, she had also been awarded a super bonus ball of waist-length glossy brown hair.

  ‘So, you do the boys and she does the girls?’ Mike asked with a wink.

  ‘No, we do both,’ I replied, waving Cordelia over.

  Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘You do girls and boys?

  Nice.’

  I smirked and he topped up my champagne.

  When Cordelia returned and introduced her new acquaintance, Megan, whose bee-stung lips and striking green eyes now made the rest of her attributes seem decidedly average, Stephen was transfixed, as if the befuddled puppy had encountered his first T-bone steak.

  ‘We’re not supposed to pair them off before they sign up,’ Cordelia said, jabbing me in the ribs. ‘Or spend the entire night talking to one guy.’

  She nodded in Mike’s direction as he reached again for the champagne bottle.

  ‘Okay, we’re moving on now,’ I declared, placing my glass on the table. Cordelia gathered our coats.

  After I’d thanked Mike for the drinks, he handed me his business card.

  ‘Call me,’ he said, before I hurried after Cordelia.

  ‘Right, be completely honest with me,’ Cordelia said as she marched into the night. ‘Are you really doing this dating thing for the good of the people? Or …’ She let the door swing shut in my face.

  I heaved it back open, with the aid of a slow-to-respond doorman and then glared at her. ‘Or what?’ I asked.

  ‘Or,’ she began, marching along the pavement. ‘Are you looking for a man for yourself?’

  I scrunched up my nose. It was a valid question, and one, which I wasn’t quite sure I had an answer to.

  ‘I want to help people,’ I said, tottering behind her.

  ‘Since when?’ she asked, turning to face me and throwing up her hands. ‘I mean, I love you to bits. You’re my best friend. And I know you have a good heart: you donate to charities, you adore animals, you help old ladies with their shopping and you even smile at ugly babies. But people, the unimpaired, adult kind, you’ve never really had much time for them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, wondering what had prompted such dramatics.

  ‘Well they irritate you. By eating in public, dithering on pavements, wearing bad clothes and saying inane things. People get on your nerves. So why would you want to help them?’

  I squinted across the street at a man grappling with a cumbersome kebab, and I wondered if she was right.

  ‘And then in the bar,’ she said, pointing back as if to remind me of its location, ‘with that guy. You had that smitten look you get.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘It’s not as though I can prevent my most base level desires from reacting to a stimulus. Pupils, cease dilation, for now I am a matchmaker, born of higher purpose. And besides, its not like you haven’t exploited the perks of your job at Dior, is it?’

  I stared at her shoes. She looked down and a smile crept across her face.

  ‘Fair point,’ she said, admiring her red Mary Janes as if for the first time. Then she looked up and her eyes met mine.

  ‘I just want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.’

  I watched Kebab Man, now heading towards us with iceberg lettuce stuck to his chin, and I mustered a smile.

  ‘I think I’ll make a good altruist,’ I said, before leaning into the road to hail a passing taxi. ‘Next stop, the Royal Exchange.’

  When we arrived at the eminent sixteenth century building, Cordelia pointed up at the Duke of Wellington statue. ‘He defeated Napoleon, was Prime Minister twice and still managed a twenty-five year marriage.’

  ‘Well he deserves a statue, then,’ I said, striding up the stone steps.

  ‘Although he was shagging around the entire time,’ she added, shaking her head.

  I rolled my eyes, shot a disapproving look back at the statue and then pulled open the door to the courtyard. After a quick scan of the terrain, we headed upstairs to the lounge bar and then perched on chrome bar stools. Following a quick glance at the wine list, which appeared to comprise those made exclusively from ancient vines, I tentatively offered my credit card and asked if they had a house white.

  I’d noticed a few potentials when we walked in, so as we waited for our drinks, I peered around the room for a further inspection. Straight away three men approached the bar and stood right next to us.

  ‘Oh I’m so sorry,’ the oldest one said after bumping Cordelia’s knee. ‘Now, the least I can do is to buy you a drink to make up for my clumsiness?’

  His creepy double eyebrow raise, reminded me of Filippo.

  ‘I already have one, thanks,’ she replied, swivelling her barstool away from him.

  Undeterred, he walked around the other side and wedged his paunch between us, and then leaned in towards Cordelia.

  ‘How else could I apologise? Dinner?’ A dribble of saliva hung off his bottom lip.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said, swivelling her barstool back the other way.

  He grabbed the seat and spun it back. ‘Diamonds? There’s a jewellers downstairs. Pick anything you’d like.’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said, peeling his hands off her seat.

  Following what amounted to a clockwise-anticlockwise barstool spin-off, he thrust his leg through the foot stand to anchor it, grabbed her arm and deposited a sloppy kiss, complete with blob of saliva, on her hand.

  ‘I’m Timothy,’ he said, platinum wedding ring shining for all to see.

  ‘Cordelia,’ she replied, wiping her hand on a napkin, ‘and this is my friend Ellie.’ She waved him on to me as though he were an annoying fly. ‘She’s a matchma–’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ he interrupted, looking me up and down, ‘but in an obvious way. You’re much more interesting.’ He leaned back towards her. I laughed, relieved at least to have escaped the slimy hand kiss, though after her blatant attempt to offload him onto me, I was struggling to decide whether she deserved rescuing. Just as I was weighing it up, one of his friends stepped forward.

  ‘Sorry about him,’ he said in a gentle American accent, his smile confirming teeth too perfect to be British. ‘I’m Nate.’

  He offered me his hand. I took it, reciprocating the firm grip.

  ‘And this is Josh.’ His other friend moved forward with his hand out too. Although mildly perturbed by the level of hand shaking involved, I realised that it was an excellent opportunity to check for wedding rings. These two were in the clear and as I looked more closely at their clean-cut all-American faces, the sort that seemed immediately familiar, I kne
w instantly that they would be popular with the girls. The girls I had yet to sign up, I quickly reminded myself.

  When I went on to explain my grand plans to dominate the world of matchmaking, Nate looked fascinated, but Josh appeared mildly bemused. Or perhaps he was amused, it was hard to tell.

  ‘So your marketing strategy consists entirely of tapping people on the shoulder and asking if they’re single?’ he asked as he studied my business card.

  I nodded, realising how silly it sounded.

  ‘And how will you discriminate?’ Nate asked.

  I looked over at Tim, who was now attempting to mount Cordelia on the barstool and we all laughed.

  It seemed her Lulu Guinness handbag was no longer functioning as a makeshift shield and her facial expression had shifted from disgust to something resembling genuine fear. I decided she had suffered enough for her sins and stepped in to rescue her. With a firm prod to his upper arm, my finger sank in to his soft flesh, absent any resistance from muscle.

  ‘Excuse me, Timothy,’ I said.

  He looked up as though I had interrupted him midcopulation.

  ‘You are obviously an intelligent man.’

  He frowned.

  ‘So, I’m surprised you have failed to pick up on any of the glaringly obvious signs that my friend here would rather lick the inside of a Delhi toilet bowl than remain in your company for a second longer.’

  He smirked and leaned back against the bar, thrusting out his gut. ‘She’s enjoying–’

  ‘Enjoying it?’ I interrupted, growing increasingly incensed by his arrogant demeanor.

  He nodded, still pawing at her thigh.

  I removed his hand from her leg. ‘Enjoying what exactly? A paunchy, married man trying to bribe her to have sex with him? Yes, that must be it. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be tempted by the exciting prospect of all the glittering diamonds she could acquire simply by straddling your flabby belly and pretending your cocktail sausage was a donkey dong?’

  I paused for breath, keen to continue, but Cordelia stood up, grabbed my arm and frogmarched me towards the staircase.

  ‘Cocktail sausage?’ she said, throwing my coat at me.

  I glanced behind to see Josh chuckling, and Nate giving me a thumbs-up.

  ‘A simple goodbye would have sufficed,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile.

  I shook my head and then marched towards the stairs. ‘Men like him think a restraining order is playing hard to get.’

  She laughed.

  ‘But the other two guys, they seemed nice – looked so familiar.’

  She paused on the step below me, and looked up. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’

  ‘Or is it that they all look the same? You know those American preppy types.’

  ‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who they are?’

  ‘What do you mean? Who are they?’ I followed her down the stairs as quickly as my Primark peep toes would allow.

  ‘Nope,’ she said, striding ahead. ‘You’ll have to figure it out.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t care anyway,’ I said, folding my arms, which was a brave move considering my questionable stability.

  She smiled, clearly amused by my wobbly sulk. ‘So, where are we going next?’

  ‘Well, the target was fifty men and women by the end of the night.’

  ‘Right,’ she said and glanced at her watch, ‘let’s head to Apt.’

  A three-tiered bar in Mansion House, Apt was where all the office workers within a half-mile radius ended up for “one more drink”. After which, the original plan was generally abandoned in favour of another, which most likely involved sambuca shots, bad dancing and inappropriate liaisons with colleagues.

  ‘But we’ll have to go right now though,’ Cordelia said, ‘before they’re too wasted to bother with.’

  We flagged a cab. Although within easy walking distance, Cordelia insisted Dior heels were not made for walking, especially in the City, where she was convinced cobbles and cobblers were in a conspiratorial partnership.

  When we arrived at Apt, there was a queue around the block and a one-in-one-out entrance restriction. Having decided that it was imperative, in the name of love, that I find a way to push in, I made a beeline for a group of men who were swaying precariously at the front of the queue. Thrusting my shoulders back, I adopted my most convincing smile and paired it with a less clumsily-executed Cordelia hair flick.

  ‘Like your style,’ said the most sober one, after I’d explained how, by allowing two girls to push in, he was actually increasing his chances of entry. Rugged and stocky, and with a thick Irish accent, he seemed decent enough, although obviously unaware that the door policy was in no way as discerning as I had implied.

  ‘These girls with you?’ The towering doorman asked him.

  He slid his arm around my waist.

  ‘She’s my fiancée,’ he said, his hand inching down as we walked in, clearly aiming for a bottom grope. When I blocked its path and placed it back on my waist, he turned to me and frowned.

  ‘A fair exchange, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘You get the front entrance, and I get the back entrance!’

  The entire group erupted in a simultaneous belly laugh. I glared at him, opened my mouth to say something, and then immediately closed it again after thinking better of it. Although his comment was moderately offensive, I knew the point was valid. Accepting diamonds for sex was much further along the spectrum, but hair-flicking for door entry was most definitely in the same category.

  Leaving them still rolling with laughter and inwardly apologising to my better self, I followed Cordelia through to the main bar area, down the staircase and into the blackness of the basement.

  Two hours later, as shirts were being shed and city workers danced a drunken version of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, Cordelia and I retreated up the stairs and out of bar.

  ‘That’s the hard part over with,’ she said, handing me a stack of business cards.

  Later, when the beat of the music had faded into the distance, the faces of all the people we’d met that night flashed through my mind. I gripped the cards tighter and wondered if, when it came to it, they would trust me enough to put their hearts in my hands.

  Chapter Five

  Barristers, advocates, solicitors, heads of PR, heads of HR, heads of marketing, marketing consultants, business consultants, business analysts, risk analysts, CTOs, CEOs, CFOs, PAs, EAs. Despite the grown-up titles, the business cards I’d laid out on my coffee table seemed to stare up at me with the expectancy of a classroom of school children.

  I gazed out of the window and into the early morning mist and suddenly the incredible irony of the situation hit me.

  ‘How am I qualified to help them when I can’t even help myself?’ I asked Cordelia after panic-calling her.

  ‘Seriously? I haven’t even had my morning latte and you’re throwing that conundrum at me?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to start. I don’t…’

  She interrupted me with a sharp sigh. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down.’

  I breathed in obediently.

  ‘Now, what exactly are you worried about?’

  ‘How am I supposed to match them? Where do I start? Should I be using psychological profiling? Astrology? Cosmopolitan’s latest compatibility quiz?’

  ‘Or what? Adding up the letters in his name and hers like we did at school?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, we all know none of that rubbish works.’

  I scratched my head. ‘Well, according to the most recent studies, psychological profiles are good indicators of compatibility.’

  ‘According to whom? Those who commissioned them, I assume. Look, I think you’re overcomplicating things. No need to reinvent the wheel. Why not stick with what’s worked for centuries?’

  ‘Which is what exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know, rich men and pretty girls. That seems successful.’

  ‘Yeah, for the divorce la
wyers.’

  ‘You have to give people what they want.’

  ‘What if what they want isn’t good for them?’

  ‘It rarely is.’

  ‘And what about the men who aren’t rich or the girls who aren’t so pretty?’

  ‘Leave that to Darwinism.’

  I huffed. ‘That theory suits you.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go now. Some of us have proper jobs. But remember you’re selling a dream, not reality.’

  Following a gentle reminder that the Dior shoe-buying department would never lead the world to peace, I hung up the phone and considered what she had said. If true love was a dream, then what was reality? Disillusioned brides and wanking grooms? Or if Cordelia was right and natural selection would favour the richest men and the prettiest girls, then what would happen to the rest of us? Would we fade to extinction? Nature, it appeared, was already trying to phase out asymmetrical nasal hair.

  After I’d emailed everyone whose card I’d collected with a light-hearted, “meet me for a drink, no obligation” kind of invite, Matthew emerged from his room rubbing his eyes, hair upright on his head like he’d slept in a high voltage chamber.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked, looking down at the cards on the table. ‘Some kind of corporate snap? Is this what you’ve been doing all night?’

  I peeled myself off the sofa. ‘Cuppa?’

  He nodded and picked up a card.

  When I walked into the kitchen, the morning rays sliced through the blind, as though desperate to shed some light on the situation.

  ‘Don’t match Teresa with Patrick Greene,’ he shouted after me.

  I laughed. ‘I hope to find them more than just a socially acceptable name,’ I said as I returned, snatching the card from his hand and replacing it with his Dennis the Menace mug. I looked at Dennis then back at Matthew, then back at Dennis. He patted down his hair, but as soon as he removed his hand, it sprang back up.

  ‘So what happens next?’ he asked.

  ‘They meet me for a drink and a chat about what they’re looking for. Then I match them.’

  ‘And then?’