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

by Haley Hill

  Chapter Eight

  He slammed his business card on the table ‘This is me. Google me. Now can we talk about what I’m looking for?’

  ‘Er, hang on,’ I interrupted, picking up his card. ‘Richard Rodney Stud. Consultant gynaecologist.’

  I looked up to see him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Is that really your name?’ I asked, assuming he was having me on.

  He let out an irritated sigh. ‘Yes. It is. It’s not like my parents gave me any choice in the matter.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. It’s just…’

  ‘I know. A gynaecologist called Dick Stud. I’ve heard it all before. There’s also dermatologist called Mr Cream, so you can use that one for your dinner party anecdotes too if you like.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Honestly, I thought it was a joke. Anyway I’ve had to live with the name Eleanor Rigby, so I know where you’re coming from.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s a Beatles’ song.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘About a desperately lonely woman who died a spinster? Anyway, moving on from my issues, let’s talk about yours. Apart from bottom groping in wine bars, what do you like to do in your spare time?’

  Two days prior, I’d received a call from a man with a familiar Irish accent. The man explained that he had been headhunted in a bar a few weeks back and wanted to book an appointment to see me. It was only when he’d arrived that I’d recognised him as the bottom-groper from the queue at Apt. I suppose I could have argued the accuracy of his use of the term “headhunted”, or his suitability as a client in general, but something stopped me. When I’d first met him, his jet black hair and white teeth made him look like one of those cheesy hair-dye adverts. But this time – albeit through the haze of a cherry-plucker hangover, with his bright blue eyes and floppy hair, he reminded me, a bit, of Rob Lowe.

  Behind him, the lounge bar, and also makeshift matchmaker meeting room, gleamed as though it had been the subject of an extreme makeover. In the twenty-four hours since the party, the carpet had been shampooed, the sofas scrubbed and the surfaces polished. Fresh flowers replaced the old, new candles replaced withered stumps and the shadows seemed to have crept back into the crevices. Aside from a few resistant stains, all traces of the night had been erased.

  During the requisite discussion about his family and career background, I sensed we were both losing interest.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, improvising a drum roll on the table. ‘Now you get to tell me what you’re looking for.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re going to love this.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. That’s my answer. I honestly don’t have a clue what I’m looking for. I just want someone nice.’

  I smiled. ‘That’s great. Open-minded is the best way to be when dating,’ I said, though not entirely convincing myself. ‘So you don’t have a type at all?’

  He shuffled in his seat again. ‘I used to have a type, but not anymore. I love all girls: tall, short, slim, curvy, blondes, brunettes, white, black. I suppose the main issue would be settling with just one.’

  He laughed.

  I frowned.

  ‘That was a joke,’ he said. ‘I’d be more than happy with one. The right one.’

  ‘Okay, so how do we find the right one?’

  His eyebrows met in a semi-frown. ‘I don’t have any trouble attracting girls, or finding girls I’m attracted to. But …’ He leaned back in his seat and looked up to the ceiling ‘… I go off them.’

  ‘You go off them?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can you explain?’

  He scratched his nose. ‘It’s quite difficult to explain when I don’t really understand it myself.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Okay, well when I meet a girl I like, I fall in love easily,’ he explained, still scratching his nose. ‘It’s a bit like a favorite t-shirt. I’ll wear it all the time and then one day, I’ll look at it and hate it. And then throw it out.’

  ‘Because you’ve found a new favourite t-shirt?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Sometimes. Other times, I’ll just wear other t-shirts until I find a new favourite one.’

  Steve appeared at our table. ‘You can never have enough t-shirts,’ he said, nodding at Dr Stud who then laughed. ‘Any more drinks?’

  ‘Thanks for the insightful input, Steve, another coffee for me. Still haven’t quite metabolised those cocktails.’

  ‘You’re better off with water: rehydrate and flush out that acetaldehyde.’ Dr Stud suggested, before turning towards Steve. ‘I’ll have a beer, please mate. And I like your t-shirt.’

  He nodded at Marie who was squeezed into a tiny red dress and pouting next to the bar. I turned around. I hadn’t noticed her until now, yet Dr Stud, who’d had his back to the bar, had somehow managed to assess her attractiveness and ascertain that she was something to do with Steve.

  ‘The male sixth sense,’ I said after I’d shared my thoughts with him. ‘The ability to determine cup size and sexual availability without turning your head.’

  He laughed. ‘And the female equivalent? The ability to calculate total net worth with a casual glance.’

  I smirked. ‘So do you think what you earn is important to women?’

  He laughed, but this time it sounded forced and irritated. ‘Of course. You wouldn’t believe the number of women I’ve pulled just by telling them I’m a doctor.’

  ‘But that’s not because of how much you earn.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s more of a profession fetish. You know, a sort of white-coat-hyper-competent-House-meets-George-Clooney-in-ER combined with I’ve-married-a-doctor-didn’t-I-do-well-type-thing.’

  He leaned back and laughed. ‘I thought we weren’t discussing your issues?’

  My cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry, please continue.’

  And I think,’ he continued, still half-smiling from my outburst, ‘that’s half the reason I get fed up with the girls I date. It’s as though they’re too stupid to plan their own lives, so instead, they’re waiting for me to do it for them. It’s pathetic really.’

  I opened my mouth to say something, but he continued.

  ‘I’ve got this friend who quit being a doctor the day she married. She studied for seven years and then only worked for one. What’s that all about? Seriously, what’s the point of putting women through university if they’re just going to give it up when they get married?’

  ‘But that’s only one girl,’ I said.

  He didn’t respond, but simply took a sip of the beer Steve had just brought over.

  ‘So I think what you’re saying is that you want to date an independent woman?’ I asked, picking up my pen, poised to take notes.

  ‘That’s what most girls think they are. But they’re not.’

  ‘Okay okay,’ I interrupted, now feeling the need to defend my team. ‘Let’s rewind a bit. The night we met. In the queue for Apt.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were pretty offensive.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Grabbing bottoms and making reference to anal sex is likely to put off the intelligent, independent women. We want to be wined, dined and cherished. Not objectified and manhandled.’

  He smirked. ‘Manhandled? Do people still say that?’

  I frowned. ‘Don’t deflect.’

  ‘I was hardly Benny Hill chasing you around the club to clown music. Honk, honk.’ He pretended to squeeze a pair of imaginary boobs.

  ‘It was still disrespectful.’

  ‘You disrespected yourself, wearing that miniskirt.’

  I laughed. ‘It was a dress actually and it wasn’t that short.’

  ‘It was tight around your bottom. And yes it was short.’

  ‘So you’re saying I was asking for it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course not. But…’

  ‘
Yes, go on please.’

  ‘You wanted men to notice. Or you wouldn’t have worn it.’

  ‘Is it a crime to want to look nice?’

  ‘Nice or sexy?’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Okay. So this is how it goes.’ He sat forward in his chair and stared at me. ‘I work my arse off in a job which gives me a good salary and lifestyle. I then use this to wine and dine a woman who feels she is entitled to it just for being her wonderful, beautiful, mini-skirted self. And then, if I behave correctly – i.e. spend enough money, shower her with enough compliments, pander to her neurosis – then I am allowed sex. I’m supposed to pretend it is the best sex I have ever had and never want it with anyone else again. From then onward, I am expected to continue this ridiculous charade until she has borne her desired number of children and we are old and withered. Unless I get fed up with her unending list of demands, and leave her, or have an affair, in which case I will be back at square one, only with half my income gone.’

  When he had finished, he sat back in his chair and took, what seemed to be, a triumphant sip of beer.

  ‘So, is that what you think marriage is?’ I asked, raising my eyebrows. ‘A woman taking and a man giving.’

  He looked to the ceiling. ‘More like, a woman demanding and a man giving up.’

  I looked up at the ceiling too, hoping to find some inspiration there. ‘Do you think there’s another way?’

  He looked back down towards me. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  After he’d left, I wrote up my notes, concluding with “No extreme feminists” written in capitals and underlined twice. I thought about what he’d said. No matter how much I wanted to disagree, I couldn’t deny he had a point. On one hand, women had fought enamelled tooth and acrylic nail to be treated equally in the workplace and in society, but on the other hand, when it came to dating, it seemed as though we were driven by some primal urge to be protected. We wanted men to take control and to look after us. We wanted to be perceived as sex goddesses but not as sexual objects. Obsessing over our looks yet not wanting to be defined by them.

  ‘The reason we will never be true feminists,’ I recalled Caro explaining after she’d unveiled her new double Ds, ‘is because we care too much about what men think. Until we stop caring, women will always compete with each other and will always be seeking approval from men.’

  ‘But men should love us for who we are,’ I’d answered.

  ‘To get a man to love us for who we are, we first have to attract their attention. We have to stand out from the competition or we will be overlooked.’

  She’d also had a point, well two actually, and they had both been staring defensively back at me.

  After Dr Stud had left, I watched Marie loitering by the bar, her eyes tracking Steve like she were the Mona Lisa. I let out a deep sigh. In the past few weeks, since vowing to become the world’s best matchmaker, I’d pored over almost every dating and relationship guide ever written and every psychology paper published. Yet I still hadn’t found the answers. Were they written on an ancient rock in a temple in the desert? Guarded by ghosts of loves lost? Were the answers on the wind? In our hearts? Who had them? Did Oprah know? Dr Phil’s wife always seemed pleased to see him, so maybe he knew?

  With only a few minutes before my next consultation, I decided to postpone my philosophical ponderings and picked up my phone to check my emails. My stomach flipped when I saw his name:

  To: Ellie

  From: Nick

  Subject: Spiritual guidance

  Hi Ellie,

  It was a pleasure to meet you at the party, though I feel further discussion is required re: your attitude problem.

  I suggest working on your yin-yang balance over dim sum on Saturday?

  Nick x

  PS I won’t bring the randy dog.

  My hands were trembling. My god, get a grip. I was acting like one of those girls I despised: the type to get all excited at the prospect of a boy liking them as though that’s all they live for. The ones who couldn’t hold a conversation because their eyes were glued to their phone just in case he texts. This wasn’t who I was. I was an independent laydee now. Instead of throwing my hands up Beyonce-style, I quickly emailed him back.

  To: Nick

  From: Ellie

  Subject: Re: Therapy?

  Hi Nick,

  Thanks for the offer but I find public eating venues a further source of frustration. Particularly those that necessitate the incompetent use of chopsticks. Perhaps you should invite the girl you left with? She might enjoy a discussion about how clothing inhibits her qi.

  Ellie x

  PS randy dog needs a trip to the vets.

  I paused and then removed the kiss, then added it again. Removed. Added. Sent.

  Looking up, I saw Marie directing a petite woman across the room towards my table. Size-zero thin with rich auburn hair, and wearing a black polo neck and a short tartan skirt, she looked as fragile as a porcelain doll. I was surprised she hadn’t been blown away by a gust of the wintry wind which had been howling through the streets that morning.

  ‘Oh! My! Gaaad! I so can’t believe I’m doing this! This is crazy!’ she shrieked at Marie with an unmistakable New York twang, complemented with wild gesticulations. It was like watching a badly dubbed movie. Marie stepped back and the others looked on, their expressions united in disbelief.

  There’s no way that voice should be coming from that person, I thought, as she introduced herself as Cassandra and then slipped her tiny frame into the chair in front of me.

  ‘It’s so good to meet you!’ she said as her lips stretched across a mouth crammed with shiny white teeth.

  After a few minutes, my eardrums had adjusted to the volume and my brain had just about managed to process all the information she had fired at me. After explaining every detail of her start-up internet business and zipping through each of her thirty-six years of life, she moved on to list her current hobbies. When she’d wrapped up the outdoor pursuits category with sailing, rock climbing, skiing, caving, tennis and hand-gliding, I let out a deep sigh and then ordered us each a large glass of wine.

  I took a gulp before broaching the topic of men.

  ‘I’m so not fussy!’ she squealed at full volume. ‘Just as long as he can keep up with me! Ya know!’ She erupted into a raucous laugh.

  I nodded and took another gulp of wine.

  ‘I’m divorced,’ she continued, and then almost downed hers. ‘So I’m not fussed by the whole baggage thing.’

  I offered a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I am totally over it!’ she squealed, grabbing another glass of wine out of Steve’s hand as he walked past. ‘He’s such a cliché, ran off with his secretary.’

  Immediately I visualised the mismatched couple sprinting away from Cassandra.

  ‘Now he’s moved the little slut into my house. And he’s hidden all our money offshore somewhere, so my lawyer can’t find it. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she replied. ‘Save it for her. Now she has to look at his droopy ass, scrub the skid marks from his underwear and pretend his weird puffing-into-the-vagina cunnilingus is mind blowing.’

  I laughed, albeit a little awkwardly.

  ‘Now,’ she said, downing the rest of her wine. ‘It’s time I had some fun.’

  As soon as we were done, like a tornado she swept out as quickly as she’d arrived. I picked up my pen and notepad and began scribbling down my thoughts. Just as I flagged a potential pleated tennis-skirt match with William, a thin wisp of air wafted down the staircase. I glanced up to see a woman looking down at me with eager eyes.

  ‘Ellie?’ she asked, I nodded.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit early,’ she said, while attempting to remove several layers of clothing and an oversized scarf. ‘I’m Joanna.’

  Forty minutes early, I realised as I watched her drape a
coat, two cardigans and said scarf over the back of her chair.

  She was tall, about 5ft 10in, and probably a size 14. When she sat down, almost apologetically, she looked as though she’d been allocated the wrong body. As though there’d been some terrible mix-up with her genetic coding. And while she was waiting for the mistake to be rectified and the smaller size to be delivered, it seemed she’d resolved to tolerate the cumbersome costume.

  Her face was attractive: fine bone structure, a snub nose and a friendly smile. But her skin looked pale and grey, like the “before” image for a miracle face cream. Her ash blonde hair was the type that a stylist might diagnose as unruly and a shade that could have been described as flat or dull, or even lifeless.

  As she spoke, I imagined a team of “professionals” buzzing around her, suggesting highlights to lift the dull tones, low lights to add warmth and a treatment to add shine. When my daydream had concluded with Joanna leaving a salon with an armful of products and a puzzled expression, I waved Steve over and ordered two glasses of wine.

  She took tiny sips as though not wishing to exceed the prescribed dose and then began to explain why she was here.

  ‘And they married in my church,’ she added after she’d described how her boyfriend of seven years had recently left her for a girl ten years her junior.

  ‘You own a church?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, and took another slightly larger sip of wine. ‘No. Our church. The one we’d planned to marry in.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And now she’s pregnant,’ she said, looking into her glass as though it might be a crystal ball. ‘She stole my life. Stole my dreams.’

  We went on to discuss her job as a Human Resources manager and her hobbies: dining out, country walks, city breaks and occasionally visiting galleries. While she was describing a recent Dali exhibition she had enjoyed, she stopped abruptly and gripped the stem of her glass. She looked up at me. Her brow was creased and her eyes were teary.

  ‘Do you think you can help me?’ she asked.