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

by Haley Hill

  ‘Whatever is this about?’ she asked nonchalantly, as she slipped her narrow hips into the chair in front of me.

  By now, I had worked myself into a silent rage, certain I was about right the wrongs of centuries of women. Today Victoria was going to pay. Retribution was nigh.

  ‘You know full well what this is about. Your behaviour is unacceptable,’ I said, gripping the glass of wine in front of me, fighting the urge to tip it over her. ‘So, unless you have a good explanation, I have no choice but to terminate our working relationship.’

  ‘Our working relationship?’ She sat back in her chair and let out a nasal laugh. ‘If you’re referring to Jeremy, it takes two to tango.’

  ‘From what I saw you were tangoing all over Jeremy.’ My fingers twitched on the glass stem. ‘You’re supposed to be Harriet’s friend.’

  ‘They had broken up.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s an unspoken rule never to touch your friend’s ex as a matter of respect. Surely you know that?’

  ‘Not in my rule book.’

  ‘What – the bitches’ guide to man-catching?’

  Her face dropped, but I decided that now I’d started, I may as well finish.

  ‘When I first met you, you were rude, obnoxious and offensive. Since then my opinion has only deteriorated. You deliberately set out to seduce Jeremy, for what reason I do not know, but without consideration for anyone’s feelings but your own. And there are two exceptionally nice people who have been hurt in the process.’

  Her face began to crumple.

  I kept on. ‘But despite your best efforts, Jeremy didn’t want you. Did he? He wants Harriet. He loves Harriet. Not you.’

  Her lip quivered and her eyes welled with tears, but I wasn’t done.

  ‘Hand it over,’ I said.

  She looked down.

  ‘Hand me your phone. I want to see the photo.’

  She looked up, her eyes flooded with tears and then pushed her phone across the table.

  I flicked through the images, which seemed exclusively of Victoria in an array of designer outfits, and against an array of spectacular backdrops. When I came to the photo of Jeremy and his manhood, the phone seemed to throb in my hand. It was enormous, rippled with veins and almost purple in colour. I had never seen anything quite like it. Just as I was about to hit delete, hoping the image hadn’t had sufficient time to fully imprint on my memory, I noticed something odd in the background. I zoomed in. I saw a terrified-looking puppy holding something in his mouth. Something sliver which looked like a blister pack of tablets, I zoomed in some more. The letters “V” and “a” were just about visible next to the dog’s pink gums.

  ‘Ah ha,’ I said, looking back up at Victoria, ‘now it all makes sense.’

  About to extend my tirade, to include police reports and a possible prison sentence, I stopped when her shoulders began to heave and her bottom lip quivered.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Her head fell into her hands. When she lifted it back up again, it was as though her bitchy mask had been washed away to reveal a little lost girl, one whose kitten I’d just murdered.

  I handed her some tissues. ‘I didn’t mean to be so harsh.’

  ‘I deserved it,’ she said between sobs, her body shuddering as she gasped to breathe.

  Once Steve had noticed what was going on, he nodded for us to go into a private room next to the bar. I helped her up and with my arm around her, I led her into the room and towards an armchair, but when Steve closed the door behind us, she collapsed to the ground and then curled up into a ball on the floor. She sobbed uncontrollably while I sat next to her, holding her hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said repeatedly.

  Soon Steve reappeared with the cup of tea I’d ordered and he also lay down two tumblers of cognac.

  ‘Thought you might want something stronger,’ he said. A faint smile appeared on her red, blotchy face. She drank both in quick succession, so we ordered some more.

  ‘I’m a horrible person,’ she said.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I never used to be horrible.’ She looked down at her nails and picked at a chip in her nail polish. ‘Believe it or not, I used to be a bit like your Barbie of a consultant. The one who was at the party. Candi?’

  ‘Mandi.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Mandi. But now I’ve become one of those women I used to loathe.’ She continued to chip away. ‘Just like the one who ruined my life.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Long story,’ she said, peeling off the final piece of polish.

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  Three hours passed and we hadn’t moved from the floor. The two armchairs remained empty. When he brought in the final round of drinks, Steve explained how he’d discovered the chairs in a skip outside. The original tapestry had been covered with an offensive synthetic fabric and the antique wood had been painted over. He said it had taken months to restore them.

  When I stood up to leave, the room started spinning and it felt as though the armchairs where orbiting me.

  ‘Got to go to leaving Caro’s party,’ I burbled while steadying myself against the wall.

  Victoria frowned, trying to process my words. ‘Someone’s leaving your friend?’

  ‘No, she’s leaving. We’re celebrating. No, I mean…’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ she asked, raising her arm in the air for me to lift her.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, trying to pull her up. ‘Just don’t drug her boyfriend.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sunlight sliced through a gap in the curtains and down my optic nerve like a dagger through the brain. I turned away, rubbed my eyes and noticed something moving under the duvet beside me. My mind raced, or as much as it could given its degree of hungover sluggishness. From the curves of the mound, and a glimpse of blonde hair poking out the top, I could tell it wasn’t a man. I scanned the room, squinting against the sunlight and noticed a crumpled pile of clothes: camel trousers, cashmere jumper. Victoria?

  I patted myself down to check my state of dress and was relieved to find my largest t-shirt over the previous day’s underwear. No embarrassing, I’m-not-really-a-lesbian explanations required today then, I thought. My ankle began to itch. I pulled back the duvet to see neon pink legwarmers around each ankle complete with matching wristbands. As my mind struggled to reconcile my bizarre attire, images of the previous night flooded my mind.

  Caro’s leaving drinks, of course. Initially, it came back in freeze frames, random images filling my mind: mojitos, an Eighties club, tequila. Spearmint Rhino? Finally, the freeze frames merged to replay the entire embarrassing movie in excruciating slow motion.

  If this was a true recollection of events rather than a cocktail-induced false memory, I told myself, then there would be a troop of lap dancers sleeping in the lounge. Also wearing legwarmers. I crept out of bed, pushed the door ajar and peered through the crack.

  The scene looked like the aftermath of one of Robert’s videos. Four alarmingly orange girls were asleep in various positions on my floor and sofa. They were wearing varied degrees of lap-dancing attire, and in addition, as suspected, they were all indeed sporting leg warmers.

  Victoria stirred and poked her head out from under the duvet. ‘Ouch,’ she said, pushing the hair away from her eyes.

  ‘Morning,’ I said, closing the door. ‘I would offer you a cup of coffee, but I wouldn’t want to wake the …’

  I pointed back towards the lounge.

  ‘I was hoping that was a bad dream.’ She hoisted herself up out of bed, revealing a flash of neon green. She looked down and frowned.

  Later that morning, after I’d sent the dancers away, explaining that despite the previous evening’s promises, I hadn’t yet raised enough funds to support a comprehensive exotic-dancers-to-internationally-recognised-matchmakers transition program, but that we would keep them posted on
developments, Victoria and I decided to get some fresh air and wandered to the local bistro for brunch.

  ‘What was I thinking?’ I asked, rubbing my temples, a full English breakfast laid out before me.

  ‘You were quite funny really,’ Victoria said, stabbing a sausage, ‘rallying around trying to rescue the dancers as though they’d been enslaved in some kind of depraved street brothel.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Most of them told you to piss off.’ She laughed. ‘But you were undeterred. And when you’d incited a four-woman mutiny, you commandeered the microphone and launched into some sort of women’s lib speech about objectification and subjugation.’

  ‘In leg warmers?’

  ‘Yes, you insisted that fancy dress would help your cause, citing the widespread press coverage secured by Fathers For Justice.’

  ‘Why didn’t someone stop me?’

  ‘I tried. But you were having none of it. Of course, you were thrown out, but not before threatening to sue the bouncer for infringement of your civil liberties, pleading the fifth amendment.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes and despite the fact that you were quoting some incomprehensible American TV law, he actually looked quite intimidated at one point. That was until you tripped over and vomited in the gutter.’

  I laughed. ‘So did you leave with me?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She took a bite of sausage. ‘I was thrown out too.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘For what then?’

  ‘An altercation.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I hit someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The pilot.’

  ‘Caro’s boyfriend?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You hit him?’

  ‘It was more of a tap over the head. With the Moet.’

  ‘You bottled Caro’s boyfriend?’

  She shook her head. ‘The glass was thick, it didn’t smash. Just a heavy clunk, really. He deserved it.’

  Once we’d cleared our plates, I checked my watch and took a final glug of coffee.

  ‘I’ve got to head off now,’ I said, grabbing my bag. ‘I’m meeting Mia and Mandi.’

  She looked disappointed. ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘Yep, clients to match.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry about matching me,’ she said, tightening her ponytail. ‘I think I need some time to work things out.’

  I stood up from the table. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow for a chat, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and I walked away. ‘Oh, and good luck tonight,’ she shouted after me.

  I stopped and checked the contents of my bag. Inside was make-up, mini GHDs and a dress, which on reflection, seemed more cabaret than canapé. However, it would have to do.

  When I arrived at the club, I found Mia and Mandi sitting at opposite ends of a table in the bar. Mandi, grinning widely, was sporting Charlie’s Angels flicks and a fuscia pink dress. Her pink notepad and pen were placed neatly in front of her. Mia, wearing tight black trousers and a crisp white shirt, had a cigarette dangling from her glossy red lips. As usual, she was blatantly disregarding the smoking ban.

  ‘You look awful’ Mia said before taking a drag and then stubbing it out in her coffee cup.

  I slumped in the chair.

  Mandi waved at Steve. ‘Stevie Wevie. We have a hangover situation.’

  ‘Stevie Wevie?’ Mia mimicked with a droll smile.

  Steve arrived with a coffee and a glass of water, quicker than the speed of light. ‘There you go Ellie.’

  Ellie? He’d never called me that before, usually “gorgeous” or “sweet cheeks” but never my name. I looked up to thank him, but he was staring at Mandi with a dopey smile fixed on his face.

  ‘Okay girls, we have a lot of work to get through,’ I said.

  Mandi produced a giant pink lever-arch file from her Mary Poppins bag. She sat up straight and smoothed down her dress.

  ‘Right,’ Mandi said, ‘I‘ve collated feedback from each of the event attendees and I’ve written a report.’

  She handed out personalised copies. Mine had glittery butterfly stickers fluttering along the page borders.

  ‘Someone has a lot of time on their hands,’ Mia scoffed, picking at the sparkly hearts adorning hers.

  ‘As you can see, from a total of three hundred attendees, there were twenty-three couples that got together. That means fifty-six out of three-hundred people met someone they liked; an average hit rate of nineteen percent. Which isn’t bad. But, of course, the best outcome would be actual long-term relationships rather than just first dates, so I will present updated results every month hereafter. As you can see in the latter part of the report, I have taken feedback from all attendees regarding measures we could take to increase the hit rate. I’ve listed areas for improvement on the final ten pages.’

  She pointed proudly to various charts and tables.

  I raised my eyebrows and leafed through her report.

  ‘Wow, Mandi, this is excellent. Obviously we don’t yet have the funds to build an online networking platform similar to Facebook, number twenty-four on your suggestions for improvement but there are some brilliant ideas here.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Mia coughed several times until she had mine and Mandi’s full attention, then she lifted a freshly lit cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply, careful not to smear her lipstick.

  ‘That’s all great, Mandi. But what about the revenue and profits? We are a business after all.’ With that, she whipped out a folder of her own. ‘This is the P and L for the event. That’s Profit and Loss, if you don’t know.’ She looked pointedly at Mandi. ‘As you can see, in the column entitled variable costs, the biggest expenditure was decorations: £1254 on red sashes, £3200 on chaise lounges and £1456 on cushions.’

  Already having performed rough calculations in my head, I knew we’d gone way over budget, but it was partly my fault. Leaving Mandi unsupervised to arrange a party was like sending a dog to the butchers and expecting him to buy only one sausage.

  ‘How did we spend £1456 on cushions? Is that even possible?’ Mia asked no one in particular.

  Mandi slumped in her seat. Just moments ago, she’d been like an excited schoolgirl rushing home with a painting for mummy, only for it to be snatched away from her and thrown in a puddle by her mean sister.

  ‘The lady said the more cushions I hired, then the cheaper each one would be.’

  Mia rolled her eyes. ‘Look, if we’re working together, then the money you spend is money I can’t earn. Get it? And in case there is any confusion, I am here to make money.’

  ‘Right,’ I interrupted, deciding the best solution to this debate was to change the subject. ‘Here are your clients, Mia.’

  I pulled a folder of carefully selected profiles from my bag and handed them to her, feeling as though I were handing my children over to a strict nanny. She flicked through quickly and nodded as she turned the pages, as though she had the solution for each one within seconds.

  She paused on the last profile. ‘A gynaecologist called Dick Stud?’

  ‘Don’t tease him about his name, he’s quite sensitive about it.’

  ‘So what’s his problem? Your notes say that he’s offensive to women.’

  ‘Oh no, nothing really, he’s a great guy once you get to know him. He’s just a bit, you know, inappropriate sometimes. I’ve tried but I don’t seem to be getting through to him.’

  ‘On it,’ Mia said, a look of determination in her eyes. ‘I’ll whip him into shape.’

  ‘Don’t say that to him though,’ I said. ‘You’ll just be inviting trouble.’

  She smirked.

  ‘And you, Mandi?’ I turned to her. ‘Any feedback I should be aware of?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, yes yes. I’ve been dying to tell you. It’s so exciting!’

  ‘Go on then,’ Mia said.

  ‘William
and Mitzi. They’re totally in love. Since the party, they’ve literally been inseparable. I know it’s only been two days but I’m really excited for them. This weekend they’re going to Paris. How romantic. How exciting! I really have high hopes for those two. I already said that, didn’t I? Isn’t it great though? I’m so happy for them. They met at the ball and now they’re in love. It’s like a fairy tale.’

  ‘What boy meets girl at a party? Call Spielberg now,’ Mia said, stubbing out her cigarette.

  Mandi’s smile faded and she looked back down at her notes. ‘But that Nate, you know, the actor?’ She mouthed the words as though saying them aloud in a public place might breach the data protection act. ‘I’m a bit stuck with him. Every match I send him he rejects. Not tall enough, too tall, not blonde enough, too blonde. What shall I do?’

  ‘Keep trying,’ I said.

  Her bottom lip curled. ‘Can’t I try to get in touch with Rebecca, his ex? I really think he still loves her. Remember. You promised I could help them if I got the job. Remember?’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said no.’

  ‘Well then, we can’t go against his wishes.’

  Mandi scrunched up her tiny nose and twitched it like a rabbit. ‘Hmmm. Okay.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked, following a casual glance at my watch.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Mandi began, springing back to life. ‘Now for the really exciting news.’ She clasped her hands together and flashed her perfect teeth. ‘Harriet and Jeremy!’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sorry Ellie, I didn’t mean to encroach on your clients, but Harriet called me. She said she called you first, but some security guard at Spearmint Rhino answered the phone, so she assumed she had the wrong number. Anyway she told me all about what had happened with Jeremy and –’

  ‘Have they worked things out?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She wriggled in her seat. ‘Yes they did, I’ve been bursting to tell you. It’s so romantic.’

  ‘So, what happened?’