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

by Haley Hill

  ‘There are always exceptions,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Not many,’ Mia said. ‘You need to memorise that graph. Because when you meet all the thirty-five year-old women who want to date a thirty-five year-old man, you’ll need to tell them straight without wasting their time.’

  Mandi chipped in. ‘And it’s important for the twenty-eight year-old women too. They need to know that now is the time to make it happen, to get married and settle down.’

  I stood up, wagging my finger at the new recruits.

  ‘Yes. Tell them to hurry. Find a husband quick. Time’s running out. Tick tock. Your ovaries are shrivelling. Tick tock. No one wants you. Tick tock. Come to one of our parties when you’re ovulating, give a guy a blow job, spit his semen into a container and inject it with a turkey baster after he’s gone home.’

  ‘That happened?’

  I nodded and then dropped back down onto the chair.

  ‘Did she get pregnant?’

  ‘Twins.’

  Five pairs of manicured hands flew over five open mouths and I decided it might be time to call the session to a close.

  I arrived home to a heap of suitcases and the musty smell of emptiness. My flat had been vacant since the last tenants had abruptly moved out, lured most probably by the glossy brochure of a new development, and now it was as though it had given up hope and accepted its fate. All those years ago, when I’d first moved in, it had seemed like a blank canvas welcoming my imprint. But now, the curtains hung listlessly, the blinds drooped like heavy eyelids and the carpet looked as worn down as I felt.

  Like an ant tackling a resistant crumb, deserted by the rest of its colony, I pushed the sofa, inch by inch, to the other side of the room. I was hoping a different perspective might help, but then I sank down into the cushions and considered my odds. If being happy meant being in a successful long-term relationship, then, according to the statistics, only a few of us stood a chance. Could I be happy if I never got married? What about if I never had children? What became of all of us who were on the wrong side of the statistics?

  Maybe it was time to rethink my life plan? Maybe, instead of living as one half of the beautiful couple in an advertisement for a luxury riverside development, I was destined to be on my own. To live a life of solitude ruminating over the one that got away and wondering how different the outcome would have been, had I graciously accepted that pea risotto.

  An outlier in society, I could retreat to the country to live off the land and perhaps make chutney. I would take in stray dogs, love them like people and let them sleep in my bed. In an attempt to fill the gaping hole in my heart, I might start hoarding things. It would begin with the odd newspaper, perhaps a few ornaments I’d picked up at the local jumble sale, then, in no time at all, my house would be filled with fermenting chutney, useless bric-a-brac and festering dog litter. My family might stage an intervention, perhaps with the help of Dr Phil – knowing I was a fan – but it would be fruitless. By then I would have lost my mind, muttering profanities under my breath and throwing dog poo at anyone who came near me. I might even be on TV: crazy ex-matchmaker and her pack of dogs.

  Nick would watch, as would Robert, both counting their blessings; they got out while they could. Before she turned thirty-five.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It had been twenty days since the door of number seven had clicked shut behind me. Since then, every morning had been the same: I’d wake up, rub my eyes and for a brief moment believe that everything was okay. I’d stir a little, stretch and then extend my right arm across the mattress, feeling for him, reaching for comfort. But instead I’d find a cold, flat sheet, an unruffled duvet, an empty space. That was when the realisation would make itself known. At first, it would feel like a nudge, then a pinch, then a slap around the face, a punch to the jaw, a blow to the stomach. Then another. Each time with increasing intensity. I’d curl up to protect myself, but at the same time knowing that there was no way to escape the pain.

  That morning had been no different. My muscles stung and my body felt heavy as I lumbered to the bathroom, each step more painful than the last. I had to keep focused. I needed shampoo, body wash. A lazy gaze around the room could set me back again. Just when I thought I’d made it, my concentration lapsed and my gaze lingered on a space in the cabinet where his Mach3 razor blade used to rest. Before I could do anything, my mind had raced back to a time before. Before Gillette had declared to the world that three blades were no longer enough. When my oxytocin, phenylethylamine and dopamine were at their peak. Before he’d decided I was difficult. Before I’d questioned how much he cared.

  In the shower, the water was scalding but I didn’t move. I let it wash over me, let my skin burn. The sting of each drop felt like a brief release, as though my nervous system were grateful to have been diverted elsewhere.

  It wasn’t until I arrived at the club, and walked down the staircase and into the lounge bar, that the dragging feeling in the pit of my stomach subsided. Stepping into the lives of others had given me a way to escape mine. By the time I saw Jeremy, seated at the table with an untouched coffee in hand and studying the Financial Times like a fundamentalist might study the Koran, my attentions had been fully diverted.

  ‘Morning, Mr Blatch.’ I greeted him in my best Miss Moneypenny voice.

  He lurched backwards, spilling coffee over the paper. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that.’

  He dabbed the pages. I edged towards him and slid into the seat opposite, feeling like a negotiator called in to retrieve the financial publication.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Stressed,’ he said, gripping the paper as though it were wired to explosives.

  ‘Work not going so well?’

  His temples pulsed. ‘Down another million today. The entire fund is fucked.’

  A sharp shrill erupted from his phone. He looked at it for a moment then smashed it on the table until the noise stopped.

  ‘There’s a silent button you can use instead?’

  He didn’t laugh.

  ‘So,’ I said leaning forward, elbows on the table, ‘you’re obviously not here for my advice on the markets.’

  He dragged his eyes away from the headlines and picked up the coffee. ‘Might have a better idea than me.’ He took a sip and I noticed his fingernails were bitten down to the beds. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Harriet.’

  ‘I thought as much. You know we met the other day?’

  He nodded, rubbing his temples. ‘I think she should go back to work.’

  I frowned. ‘I thought you said mothers should be at home with their children?’

  ‘I did. They should. But she’s no good to Henry if she’s depressed. She needs to work.’

  ‘Have you discussed it with her?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Do you think you should?’

  ‘Probably,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘We’ll get through it.’

  ‘She thinks you don’t fancy her anymore.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

  ‘She said you haven’t had sex in eight months.’

  He leaned back in his chair, his hand losing contact with the newspaper. ‘She told you that?’

  I nodded.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and his fringe flopped back down like overcooked spaghetti. The skin on his face was pale, transparent even, stretched over his sharp bones like rawhide over a frame.

  ‘It’s my problem. It has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘She thinks it has.’

  He sighed. ‘Maybe we just need a night away from everything. She said you offered to babysit.’

  I nodded, though I knew a night of obligatory sex was not the solution. I pictured Harriet dolled up in a French maid’s outfit and Jeremy in furry handcuffs strapped to a hotel bed, whilst, a few miles away, I plied Henry with custard creams.

  ‘I think you need
more than a night away.’

  He looked at me blankly.

  I pulled myself up in the chair and leaned towards him.

  ‘You had a plan. An idea of how you wanted marriage and family life to be. But it’s not working. Is it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘So you need to adapt. Do you have a Plan B?’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘Not really. My plan’s always been the same.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘To make as much money as possible.’

  ‘Okay, so forget the money. Think about what you want; what makes you happy. Both of you. Then make a Plan B. Together. And if Plan B doesn’t work out, make a Plan C.’

  He looked up to the ceiling for a few seconds and then looked down again, colour flushing back into his cheeks.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’

  When the old Jeremy smile had just about reached half-mast, his phone began vibrating violently on the table. A glance at the screen drained the blood from his face faster than a knife through the jugular.

  ‘Got to go,’ he said, before bolting up the stairs, clutching the FT like Henry clutched a custard cream.

  I sat back in the leather armchair and tapped a pen on my notepad. Although the page was blank and I had no intention of making notes, it kept my hands busy. Lacking any other distractions, physical movement was the only method I had to prevent my thoughts from spiralling into darkness.

  When pen-tapping was no longer functioning as a diversion, I looked up to see a brunette in a brightly-patterned wrap dress edging down the stairs. Below her thick dark-brown fringe, were a delicate nose, pointy chin and rosebud mouth. She looked like the sort of flower fairy I imagined as a child to be living at the bottom of my garden

  I stood up to greet her. ‘Emily?’

  She studied me with inquisitive hazel eyes. ‘You’re Ellie?’

  I smiled, gesturing for her to take a seat.

  ‘You don’t look like I thought you would,’ she said, leaning her elbows on the table after she’d sat down.

  I laughed. ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I dunno, someone a bit older.’

  I laughed again. ‘What, like your mum?’

  She giggled. ‘I can’t imagine her here. In this place. Must’ve been hilarious.’

  I went on to relay the conversation I’d had with her mother, carefully omitting any reference to Oompa Loopmas. Afterwards she covered her face with her hands and apologised profusely, before daring to peer through a gap in her fingers.

  ‘I think I was born to be humiliated,’ she said.

  ‘Anyone with parents was born to be humiliated,’ I replied.

  Moving the conversation on, I asked why she’d changed her mind about meeting me, as opposed to her stated preference for instant death via a lead bullet through the cranium.

  Her shoulders drooped and her chest sunk in. ‘My best friend just got engaged,’ she said.

  I looked on, waiting for the rest.

  ‘She and I were the only single girls left in our group. Now I’m the only one.’

  I continued to wait.

  ‘All they talk about is weddings and babies. They don’t want to go to bars or clubs anymore. They just go around each other’s houses for dinner parties and bang on about interior designs and landscape gardening. Honestly, it’s like they’re in their fifties, not their twenties. One of the girls has even started an antiquing club.’

  I frowned. ‘Antiquing?’

  ‘She’s American,’ she said as though it explained everything.

  I laughed. ‘Okay, so you don’t want to hang out with them anymore, maybe you just need new friends to go to bars with?’

  ‘Don’t really want to do that anymore either,’ she said, ‘although I could do with a drink now.’

  I smiled and then nodded at Steve.

  ‘I thought I’d be married by twenty-eight,’ she said.

  I smirked. ‘Have you met anyone you’d like to marry?’

  She shook her head and then peered at my left hand. ‘Are you married yet?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Not yet. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the best laid plans have a nasty habit of backfiring.’

  Steve laid two glasses of wine on the table. She swiped the one nearest her and took several gulps. Straight away, I noticed her nail polish. Aside from a few chips, it reminded me of a colour I used to wear myself.

  ‘My mum says if you don’t have a plan, then life will find someone who does.’ She took another gulp. ‘But, Dad left her when I was seven, so what does she know anyway?’

  ‘She probably knows a lot more than you’d think.’

  ‘He said she’d let herself go.’

  ‘Do you think that was fair?’

  She stared into her glass. ‘What leaving her or telling her it was because she had a fat arse?’

  I laughed.

  She took another swig. ‘But he’s divorced again now, so clearly he knows shit too.’

  I put my notepad and pen on the table. ‘Well, it’s obvious you don’t want to be like your parents.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘And you don’t want to be like your friends.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  She leaned back in her chair. ‘To fall in love, get married and be happy.’

  ‘How about to be happy, fall in love and then get married?’

  ‘That’s the same thing.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  She blinked. ‘But if I meet the right guy and he loves me, then that will make me happy. I know it will.’

  She sat with her arms crossed in front of her chest, eyes narrowed, jaw jutting out in defiance. It felt almost as though I were looking back at a reflection of my younger self. Only then did I realise that I should know better than to try to teach a lesson that we all must learn for ourselves.

  ‘Okay then,’ I picked up my notepad and clicked my pen. ‘Tell me all about this knight in shining armour.’

  She went on to describe the same man that every female client had also described: thirty to thirty-five years-old, over 6ft, intelligent, good sense of humour, solvent, never married, no children. But this time with the added stipulation of “must like rock music and poetry” and a preference for tattooed torsos.

  Once Emily had left, I completed my notes, feeling as though I’d been subjected to a four-year detention assignment: describe Mr Right in your own words, several thousand times. When I’d finished, I flung my pen on the table and sunk my head into my hands.

  ‘Need another drink?’ Steve asked, peering down at me.

  I looked up. ‘Yes please, something strong. But not too strong, I have to babysit tonight.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You?’

  I followed him back to the bar and pulled myself onto one of the stools. ‘Henry, you remember. Ephenant?’

  He laughed and then poured some whiskey into a tumbler, followed by five cubes of ice, which I assumed were his childcare dilution allowance. ‘So who did the elephant trunk belong to?’

  ‘An international entrepreneur looking for pink nipples.’

  ‘The guy with the dodgy highlights?’

  I nodded and gulped down the whiskey. It burned my throat.

  ‘So what’s his story?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ I put the glass back down on the bar. ‘Mia’s client, we matched him with a glamour model.’

  Steve nodded.

  ‘Didn’t go so well though.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  I checked my watch. ‘She’s coming here in a minute.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ve got to call him first.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  It was clear he wasn’t listening to me. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Um hum.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah, go and call trouser trunk.’

  I stood in reception, watching Marie grinning
sadistically while punching staples into a Barbie doll, which looked uncannily like Mandi, and I dialled his number. The ringing tone was international.

  ‘Hey gorgeous,’ he answered, without even knowing who I was.

  ‘It’s Ellie, I’m a colleague of Mia’s.’

  ‘And how is the devil’s Cupid?’

  ‘She’s fine, thanks. I was just calling to ask about Kerri. Is it a good time to talk?’

  I heard a girl giggling in the background and something that sounded like the light slap of flesh. ‘Yeah sure, I’m in Marbella on my yacht. Chilling. Wanna join us?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I replied.

  ‘Shame. So, you got anymore hotties you can send my way?’

  ‘I want to talk about your date with Kerri.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘Hang on.’ I heard a girl’s voice in the background saying something that sounded Slavic.

  ‘Is that Russian?’

  He laughed. ‘So, what do you want to know?’

  ‘The date?’

  He laughed again and I heard some more flesh-slapping.

  ‘Hello?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what?’

  I took a long and laboured breath. ‘How. Did. It. Go?’

  ‘Okay, okay, calm down. And I thought Mia was the angry one.’ He paused and it sounded as though he were slurping a drink. ‘Okay, yeah, Kerri. Where do I start?’

  ‘What did you think when you saw her?’

  He wolf-whistled. ‘Hot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nice tits.’

  ‘Apart from that?’

  ‘Not a keeper.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too many issues.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Another slurp.

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I heard another girl’s voice in the background. This time it sounded Chinese.

  ‘Is that Mandarin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask what’s going on.’

  He laughed. ‘We’re playing chess.’

  There was more giggling in the background.

  ‘Sure you are. Anyway back to Kerri.’