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

by Haley Hill

  ‘I am never, ever getting in a car with you again. You’re a lunatic.’

  ‘Oh, lighten up,’ I said and stomped off in search of coffee.

  One hazelnut mochachino and a pep talk from Caro later, I was feeling much saner and ready to continue the journey as a responsible lady-driver in her thirties. However, when I walked towards the driver door, Caro ushered me away as though I were an elderly relative who couldn’t be trusted near a stove.

  ‘I think it’s best I drive,’ she said after grabbing the wheel. ‘Come on.’ She patted the passenger seat. ‘You can check your emails and do some matchmaking while I’m driving.’

  As soon as I clicked on my inbox, I crossed over into the parallel world, where finding happiness for others was no different from finding it for myself. The first email I read was from David, the lawyer who’d offered to help me with my case. He informed me that the other party had backed down and all threats of legal action had been retracted. I sighed. I should have felt vindicated, but I didn’t. I felt as though I’d let her down. I knew she wasn’t the perimenopausal loon I’d initially thought her to be. She was just a woman who desperately wanted a family, and probably felt as though the choice had been taken away from her. Short of an overnight transformation of societal perception, coupled with further biological advancements, there wasn’t much either her or I could do about it. But I couldn’t help feeling irritated with myself for not intervening during the canapé quibble at the masquerade ball all those years ago. Maybe if I’d told her the truth back then: that we were unable to present her with a Colin Firth clone, along with the canapés, to immediately impregnate her, she’d have faced reality while she still had time to do something about it.

  Fortunately, the latter part of the email had cheerier news, and the match between David and Kerri had, it seemed, been a resounding success.

  ‘So, let’s get this straight,’ Caro said after I’d explained. ‘He’s some random solicitor who called you up and offered to represent you for free?’

  ‘Barrister. Yes.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Don’t know. Because he’s nice?’

  ‘No one’s that nice. And now you’ve matched him with a glamour model.’

  I nodded. ‘Kerri.’

  ‘And you’ve never met him?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘And neither has she?’

  ‘Nope, but they’ve spoken on the phone for hours.’

  Caro shook her head. ‘He could be a right minger. Hasn’t Kerri asked for a photo?’

  ‘No, she trusts me.’

  Caro burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny? Wouldn’t you trust me?’

  ‘Certainly not to drive.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you trust me to match you?’

  ‘I don’t see why you would do a better job than I would, and besides, I don’t think you really understand what I’m looking for.’

  I laughed. ‘I do understand. I just don’t agree.’

  She took her hand off the wheel and dug me in the ribs. ‘So, what if he is a minger? This guy? And they’ve fallen for each other on the phone and then she doesn’t fancy him. Why didn’t you suggest they meet first? Before talking?’

  ‘Because she needs a man to get to know her before he sees her. She’s gorgeous and that’s all men see.’

  Caro nodded.

  ‘It’s like when you wear your teeny-tiny bikini top to Inferno’s nightclub. No man listens to a word you say.’

  ‘No one talks at Inferno’s,’ she said. ‘And no one says nightclub anymore.’ She paused for a minute, staring ahead at the road and then lifted her finger in the air. ‘And he doesn’t know she’s a glamour model?’

  ‘No.’

  She scrunched up her mouth.

  ‘What?’

  She opened it to say something, then closed it again.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘You don’t think that will bother him?’

  ‘Of course I do, that’s why I didn’t tell him.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. If you can override their better judgment and they fall in love before meeting, then magically the rest of their relationship challenges dissolve into insignificance.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  She laughed.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, if it works.’

  ‘It might not, but at least it gives them a chance.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yeah, let me know on that one.’

  ‘Ah hah.’ I leaned forward and poked her in the arm. ‘See you do care.’

  She smirked.

  ‘And I saw you crying at the wedding.’

  ‘I had something in my eye.’

  ‘Yes, a tear.’

  It must have been an hour or so later, following Caro’s compensatory snail’s pace driving, when I looked up to see we’d reached the M25, the electric fence of London. Only those prepared to suffer attempted entry or exit. From here, I knew it could take anytime between thirty minutes and a lifetime to reach our destination.

  As we slowed to a stop, cars crept up behind us. Soon we were just one tiny segment in the queue of traffic, which winded lazily along the motorway like The Very Hungry Caterpillar after it had polished off an entire book of snacks. A digital sign informed us there had been an accident on the other side. I realised that our queue must be due to drivers slowing down to look. What was so compelling about the suffering of others? Was it that it validated our own pain and made us feel less alone? Or perhaps it was the relief that it hadn’t happened to us: that we had survived, that our lives were not as bad as we had thought, and that, in fact, we were the lucky ones.

  Seconds later, my phone rang. It was Dr Stud, calling to tell me about his date with Emily.

  ‘You were right. She looked exactly like the picture I’d drawn,’ he said and then paused. I waited. ‘And we had a lovely time.’

  And waited.

  ‘She’s a lovely girl.’

  I was still waiting.

  ‘Very pretty.’

  Oh, come on, I thought, get on with it.

  ‘But …’

  Here we go.

  ‘I’m not sure she’s my type.’

  And lift-off. ‘You drew a picture of her. And told me that was your type?’

  There was a prolonged pause. ‘Maybe my type isn’t right. Maybe I need to change my type.’

  I laughed. ‘I think I liked you more when you didn’t have a type.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Shall we start again?’

  ‘Maybe we should.’

  ‘Okay, instead of telling me what you want, why don’t you tell me what you don’t want? What was it about Emily that didn’t work for you?’

  He inhaled slowly. ‘Actually, I’ve given it a lot of thought.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘When you and I first met, you told me to be more polite.’

  ‘Less offensive, yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m fed up with being on my best behaviour all the time. It’s exhausting.’

  I sighed. ‘So you’re saying that…’

  ‘I want a girl who loves me for who I am.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Preferably with a nice arse.’

  When the call had ended, I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, trying to think of someone who would tolerate his inappropriate comments, someone who might actually find them amusing, endearing even. As the traffic ahead of us started moving again, thoughts of Cassandra flashed through my mind, her loud New York drawl drowning out any of her competitors.

  Immediately I texted Dr Stud.

  Would you date someone in her late thirties?

  He texted back:

  Too old.

  We’ll see about that, I thought, just as an idea had popped into my head.

  By the time we arrived back at my flat, the clouds had drawn a curtain over the sun as though putting it to bed for an early night. Caro skip
ped off with a vague plan to meet the barman from Zuma. I made my way up the stairs and thrust my key into the lock. The door creaked open like the lid of a coffin and I shivered as a gust of cold air blew past the unpacked bags that littered the corridor.

  I looked down at the bulging suitcases and then sat down next to one, running the zip along the side. When I flipped it open, the memories came spilling out, like trapped souls from a burial ground.

  Two hours later with puffy eyes and a heavy heart I hauled the final empty suitcase into the loft. I looked back down at the two piles I’d created. One for items I couldn’t live without, which comprised my hairdryer, my passport and little else. And one for the things I knew I could no longer live with: dresses and shoes, piled on top of each other, each riddled with nostalgia and sentiment. Teddy bears professing a love for me equal to their arm span. Valentine’s cards with broken promises and photographs flaunting lost moments. The toilet brush and the Christmas tree stand wobbled precariously on the top and looked as though they might tumble to the ground at any moment.

  An entire roll of bin bags later, my flat was empty. It had been stripped of its soul, like an old country manor gutted for restoration. Once grand and spectacular, it was now just an empty shell. Lacking a team of jolly builders, a flamboyant interior designer and a signed blank cheque, I knew the daytime-TV cure was not an option. So I opened my cleaning cupboard and armed myself with dusting equipment, a vacuum cleaner with impressive-looking attachments and a bag full of cleaning products. I swept away every bit of dust, sucked away every speck of dirt, and wiped away every smear, smudge and stain.

  When I pulled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, I noticed the clouds had cleared and the crescent of the moon glowed like a smile in the sky. Its radiance spilled through the window and onto my skin. My body felt drained, but for the first time in years, my mind felt quiet, still even.

  ‘Darling? Are you in there?’

  Her voice broke the silence like a scream from a fox in the night.

  ‘Victoria?’

  ‘Yes, let me in silly!’

  I sighed and edged open the door. She flung it wide open and strode in, wearing impossibly skinny jeans, nude patent stilettos and a caramel tank top. Her ponytail swung almost smugly, as though it knew its creamy blonde tones coordinated perfectly.

  She looked me up and down. ‘What on earth have you got on?’

  ‘I’ve been cleaning,’ I said and wiped my hands on the pink polkadot apron Mum had given me for Christmas.

  ‘Now it just gets worse. Stop talking and get rid of it.’ She peered under the apron and scrunched up her nose. ‘Of course, I’m working from the assumption that what you have underneath is preferable.’

  I brushed her hand away. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you. That’s what friends do.’ Her mouth smiled but her eyes betrayed concern. ‘Besides you haven’t been returning my calls.’

  I folded my arms. ‘Why don’t you go and see Nick, he’s your friend now, isn’t he?’

  She flicked her ponytail. ‘No need to be like that, Ellie. Nick and I have been seeing quite a lot of each other lately, but I don’t want you to be all funny about it.’ She opened my fridge and then scrunched up her nose again. ‘Is that Californian chardonnay?’

  I sneered at her. ‘We can’t all afford…’

  ‘Puligny Montrachet?’ She opened her bag to reveal three bottles.

  By 7.30pm, the first bottle was empty and by 8.30pm, the other two bottles were also empty and lined up beside it. Victoria was now wearing my apron and we were working our way through an ancient curdled bottle of Baileys that I’d taken out to the bins earlier.

  ‘I’m a drunk alcoholic spinster,’ she slurred as she refilled her tumbler.

  ‘You can’t be a drunk alcoholic can you? Isn’t that an oxy-thingy?’

  ‘Moron.’

  ‘I’m not a moron.’

  ‘An oxymoron, I meant. But sometimes you are a moron.’ She hauled herself up in front of the mirror in the lounge. ‘An alcoholic isn’t always drunk.’ She pulled at the skin on her face. ‘So it’s not any oxymoron.’ She lifted her jowls. ‘I need a face lift. No wonder Patrick didn’t want me.’

  ‘Patrick loves you.’

  ‘Patrick loves women.’

  ‘He didn’t, doesn’t want anyone else. You were just being paranoid. And what are you worried about, you’re gorgeous.’ I stood behind her in the mirror, hunched my shoulders and stuck out my rabbit teeth. ‘Look at me.’

  She laughed. ‘My therapist says I’m a narcissist.’

  I dropped back down on the sofa. ‘Therapist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Since when do you have a therapist?’

  She spun round from the mirror, lifting her skin up in an improvised facelift.

  ‘Since I was five.’

  I sloshed some Baileys into my mouth and the rest down my chin.

  ‘My parents wanted me to be perfect.’ She pulled her ponytail up tighter. ‘Is that better? Have my jowls gone now?’

  I laughed. ‘Your parents thought a therapist would make you perfect?’

  When we’d drained the rest of the Baileys, we sat slumped on the sofa next to each other, the apron tied around both of us.

  ‘So did you?’ I asked, slipping off the cushion towards the floor.

  ‘Did I what?’

  Tied to me, she too began to slide towards the ground.

  ‘Have sex?’

  ‘Sex?’ She clung to the arm of the sofa.

  I hit the floor. ‘With Nick?’

  Her grip was stronger than I’d anticipated and eventually she hoisted me back up.

  ‘No silly.’ She giggled. ‘Nick loves you.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Straining and creaking with complaint, the train seemed to pull away from the station with the same reluctance with which I had left my bed that morning. I was on my way to meet Mia, to discuss her negative attitude and the numerous complaints it had elicited from clients. The most recent one having been prompted by her instruction to a twentysomething idealist to “go get a life”.

  She was waiting for me outside the club.

  ‘Good morning.’ I greeted her with my best cheery smile, relieved to see she had just finished her cigarette.

  ‘Is it?’ she replied and stamped it out on the pavement. ‘Let’s get this over with then.’

  She strode down the stairs, looking like a very beautiful military commander wearing skintight jeans. If I hadn’t have known otherwise, I would have thought she owned the club, though I suppose in a way she did. As I followed her, I tried to copy the way she walked, but the result was more camp Royal Guard than supermodel strut. As we passed the reception desk, Marie bowed her head. When we reached the bar, Steve put his hands behind his back and stood upright as though he were awaiting orders.

  As we sat down, her dark eyes narrowed.

  ‘So?’ She asked.

  ‘So …’ I replied.

  It was as though we were in a relationship that we both knew must end, yet neither of us could muster the courage to make the first move.

  I met her gaze. ‘It’s not working, is it?’

  She shook her head, and for the first time since I’d known her, she broke eye contact first, then looked down into her lap.

  ‘So, what’s changed?’

  She looked up. ‘People. I can’t work with them anymore. They’re a nightmare.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t think there’s a market for matchmaking any other species.’

  She smiled. ‘Other animals don’t have our issues though, do they? They just find a mate, do a little dance and that’s it. Job done.’

  ‘Well yes, we’re a bit more sophisticated than that.’

  Her eyes narrowed further. ‘The only difference between us and other mammals is that we have free will. Well, at least we’re supposed to have free will, but we don’t.’

  I frowned, wondering if she and Matthew had
been having clandestine meetings to discuss the fate of the human race.

  She looked up to the ceiling. ‘We’re all clones. We all want the same things. We want to date the same men or the same women. Have the same house, the same car, the same clothes, the same holidays. Even the same fucking kitchens. We don’t know how to think for ourselves anymore.’

  I shuffled in my seat, inwardly trying to justify the Poggenpohl catalogue I’d snaffled away in my bedside drawer.

  ‘Marriage is a dying concept. Year on year, the numbers drop,’ she continued. ‘Finally people are catching on that it doesn’t make them happy. But we’re angry because we were lied to. We were told that it would make us happy. That happiness was something we were entitled to. That we deserved it. It’s all bullshit.’

  She looked at me. Her face was flushed and her jaw seemed tensed.

  ‘Mia. Breathe,’ I said quietly.

  ‘And now we’ve created a self-serving, narcissistic and spoiled society. People expect to get everything, yet they’re not prepared to give anything. No wonder relationships are doomed to fail.’

  ‘We’re not all that naïve, Mia. Some find fulfilling relationships.’

  ‘And what exactly is a fulfilling relationship?’ She looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Relationships are either sado-masochistic dependencies or idealised projections which, at best, fizzle into the bland, mutually irritating interaction that people call friendship.’

  I sat back in my seat. ‘So what if they are? So what if no one actually achieves the idealised happy ever after? If people find happiness along the way, in whatever form it takes, then surely that’s something?’

  Straight away, I realised that was, in essence, what Caro was trying to tell me the day before.

  She laughed. ‘People don’t find happiness. It’s not lying on the ground somewhere waiting to be snatched up or handed to you by your friendly matchmaker. Happiness comes and goes. And with it comes pain. Equal measures of both. The perfect match.’

  I stared at her for a minute, wondering whether she was right. ‘But you can’t go through life without feeling anything. You may as well give up now.’

  Her expression was blank. ‘I gave up a long time ago,’ she said, ‘but this job is like lining up cows for the slaughterhouse.’