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

by Haley Hill

  I smiled. ‘Ah, Zac. In Mandi’s chalet?’

  She nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘He’s American. A graphic designer, thirty-two. 6ft 3in. Quite flir…’

  ‘Stop,’ she said tugging at my arm. ‘I want to get to know him myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It spoils it when you know everything about someone before you really meet them.’

  I laughed. ‘Well that is sort of the point of all this.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But this time, let me get to know him first.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, reaching for another canapé. ‘So how about this chalet, any guys you like?’

  She shook her head vigorously, as though I had suggested she stand naked next to Victoria. ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She laughed. ‘They’re all tossers.’

  ‘No they’re not.’

  She continued laughing.

  ‘They’re actually really nice guys once you get to know them.’

  ‘Yeah right. Even the short one with the highlights? He’s the biggest knob of the lot. Really rates himself.’

  ‘Oh I do, do I?’ The voice came from behind us and we turned around to see Mr Marbella towelling his hair. It looked much better wet. The dulled-down highlights made him look almost normal.

  He cupped the contents of his shorts. ‘Biggest knob of the lot. You got that one right.’

  Emily giggled. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  He smiled, walking towards us, gown trailing on the floor like a bridal train. ‘You’re forgiven. As long as you promise you’ll be in the tub tomorrow.’

  Victoria pushed past him. ‘Can’t you find a robe that fits?’ she said. ‘Maybe they have some kiddie ones here.’

  ‘Only if you get a bikini that fits,’ he replied, gesturing at the now opaque white fabric stretched over her nipples. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, maybe not.’

  Mike glared at him.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ Cassandra squealed, opening her gown and looking down at her skinny frame. ‘I’m all wrinkly!’

  ‘Want a professional opinion?’ Dr Stud asked, stopping in front of her and pulling her robe further apart. ‘All looks good to me.’ He grinned.

  ‘Get a room,’ Mr Marbella and Emily chanted in unison.

  When we were all fully clothed, and seated at the dinner table, Kate kicked open the kitchen door and walked in with eight starters balanced on her arms. Her smile had now morphed into something like the acid house logo. Behind her was the on-site chef who described the menu as though his creations were comparable to the Sistine Chapel. After we had devoured our miniscule scallops sprinkled with mushroom dust, as well as the teeny tiny guinea foul breasts dipped in asparagus emulsion, Mr Marbella requested the chef prepare a large portion of fries, to share with Emily, after she’d expressed a preference for food that took less time to get ready than she did.

  ‘So, how’s that girl, Kerri, doing?’ Mr Marbella asked when we were tucking into the selection of cheeses.

  ‘Good,’ I replied, surprised he’d even remembered her name. ‘She’s engaged now. To David, a barrister, lovely guy.’

  ‘Engaged? Wow. Can’t say I’m surprised, though,’ he said, plucking two grapes from the cheese plate. ‘She’s got a great pair of…’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, taking the plate away from him and passing it to Emily.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t I say it?’

  Emily slammed the plate down on the table ‘Tits,’ she said. ‘That’s what you were going to say wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yep.’ He sat back and popped the grapes into his mouth.

  ‘So predictable,’ she said, stabbing her fork into the Stilton, ‘so pathetic.’

  I glanced round the table and saw Victoria and Cassandra smiling wryly. Mike seemed a little perturbed, as did Dr Stud. But Mr Marbella, having swallowed his grapes, sliced into the brie.

  ‘So what if I appreciate a nice pair of tits? All men think it. I’ve just got the balls to admit it.’

  ‘How do you know what all men think?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Because I am one.’

  She laughed. ‘That only qualifies you to comment on how you think. You can’t prove all men think like you. That’s utter rubbish.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Cassandra interjected and Victoria nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ Mr. Marbella continued, waving his fork in the air, brie wedged on the end. ‘Let’s ask the men around the table. ‘Mike? Studman? Do you like big tits?’

  Mike, it seemed, knew better than to offer comment and kept quiet. Dr Stud, however, dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin and launched straight into his response.

  ‘I like big ones, small ones, round ones, conical ones. All types. I like tits.’

  ‘Conical ones?’ Victoria asked with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Yes, you know, the ones that are less round and more, well, more, you know … conical.’ As he explained, his hands appeared to be trying to mirror the image in his head. ‘Yours are round,’ he added, as though it were an afterthought.

  Cassandra laughed. ‘And mine?’

  ‘Yours are small,’ he answered. ‘But a nice shape. Round I would say.’

  Mr Marbella turned to Mike. ‘So, mate, we haven’t heard from you yet. You like tits?’

  Mike glanced at Victoria. ‘I appreciate the female form for all that it is.’

  Mr Marbella laughed. ‘He’s just saying that because he doesn’t want to piss off the girls. If we were on our own, he’d be honest.’

  ‘Would he?’ Emily asked and then took a swig of her port. ‘If, as you say, he’s lying to impress the girls, then he may lie to impress the boys. How can you prove honesty, even to yourself?’

  Mr Marbella sat back in his seat. ‘We’ve got a smart one here, better watch ourselves fellas.’ Finally he devoured the lump of brie that he’d been waving around for the past few minutes. ‘But it still doesn’t change the fact that I like big tits. Anyway, I bet the only reason you’re offended is because you’ve got small ones.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, knocking back the rest of the port in her glass. ‘My entire self-worth rests on the size of my chest.’

  ‘Well you don’t have much to balance it on, so that could be the issue.’

  ‘I’m not the one with the issues here.’

  ‘Well clearly you are or you wouldn’t be so angry at me.’

  ‘Well clearly you are or you wouldn’t be so superficial.’

  ‘Clearly I am what?’

  ‘A twat.’

  ‘Well, there we go.’

  ‘There we go what?’

  ‘You’re obviously losing the argument if you’re resorting to name-calling.’

  ‘It wasn’t name-calling. It was an observation.’

  ‘Well you’ve got no tits. That’s also an observation.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I interrupted, ‘let’s change the subject.’

  Cassandra leaned forward and put up her hand. ‘Okay, ladies. Let’s talk about dicks. I prefer short, fat ones to long, skinny ones. Thoughts?’

  Dr Stud burst out laughing and Cassandra joined in. Moments later, they were gripping their sides, tears streaming down their cheeks. The rest of us looked on as though we’d missed the punchline.

  ‘And what’s inside? Doesn’t that count at all?’ Emily asked, digging at the rind on her plate.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Marbella. ‘The tighter the better.’

  Emily’s face turned a deep red. She threw her fork down, pushed back her chair and then stomped up the stairs. I turned to Mr Marbella, wondering what I should do. Send him to his room. Arrange a flight home. But instead of leaning back, triumphant in the debate, he looked down, the colour draining from his face. He then dropped his fork and, before I could speak, he’d jumped up from his chair and charged up the stairs after Emily.

  While I was trying to sleep that night, next to Cassandra who, it seemed, made more noise dor
mant than she did awake, the strangest thoughts filled my mind. Images of boobs and their various forms: big ones, small ones, Dr Stud sporting a pair the shape of traffic cones. Mr Marbella with an elephant’s trunk sprouting from his swimshorts. Victoria naked, Nick looking at her, then touching her, touching her perfect round boobs. Mr Marbella pumping them up with a bicycle pump until they were so big they engulfed Nick, trapping him between them. He couldn’t breathe. Emily lunged at them, plunging a fork into one. Air gushed out and then suddenly, I awoke to the sound of Cassandra’s snores as they reached a terrifying crescendo.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  ‘But I told you I’d never do a black run again,’ Emily said, legs dangling from a chairlift suspended above a ravine thick with powdery white snow.

  Dr Stud and I were sitting beside her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, lifting the bar. ‘Your knight with shining highlights will be here to rescue you.’ He pointed his pole at Mr Marbella, who was already at the top of the run, and appeared to be shouting at Mike.

  Emily huffed. ‘I don’t need rescuing.’

  Then she skied off the lift, wobbling only a little.

  It was four days into the trip and despite frequent bouts of bickering, and vastly differing ski abilities, our chalet group skied and après-skied as one. Following the first night’s boob feud, Mr Marbella seemed appropriately repentant, coaching Emily through the icy moguls and even retrieving a glove she had dropped off the chair lift.

  ‘Wait for me, Studs!’ screeched Cassandra, before launching herself from the chair lift, towards Dr Stud, and then careering into him. They fell over, laughing, skis and limbs entwined.

  ‘This way,’ shouted Mike, ushering us over. Mr Marbella stood beside him with an expression as unforgiving as the slope before them.

  We skied towards them. ‘Shit,’ said Emily, her face as white as the snow. ‘Is there any other way down?’

  Mr Marbella glared at Mike. ‘No, let this lot go down and then we’ll do it together.’

  Mike giggled.

  Mr Marbella glared at him again. ‘Seriously? You’re laughing because I said we’ll do it together?’

  Mike’s smile faded.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said to Mike, ‘Now you’ve got us here, go on and impress old tarty arse with your slick moves.’

  Victoria, virtually born on the slopes – apparently, her mother was skiing when she went into labour, had spent a lifetime perfecting her technique. However, she seemed more interested in skiing for an audience than challenging her ability. It was as though the slopes were her catwalk, and today she was modelling a white one-piece, purple boots, purple headband, and wraparound purple glasses.

  Mike pushed off in front of her, zig-zagging down the slopes with the simplest twist to his hips, his legs bending instinctively over the gradient. This was interspersed with jumps and subsequent glances over his shoulder to check Victoria was watching. Victoria moved down the slope, balletic and elegant like a gazelle springing down a hill. Dr Stud shimmied down after them, with the occasional off-balance wobble. Lastly Cassandra set off, hurtling towards him.

  ‘I’m coming Studs!’ she shrieked, skimming the edge of the run, beyond which the tips of pine trees swayed ominously.

  At the foot of the slope, skiers piled onto the lift. I watched them and the hundreds who queued behind them. I’m sure they were each aware of the risk, of the high probability of being hurt, yet they were still willing to chance it for the pursuit of pleasure, an intrinsic urge that seemed to lie within all of us.

  Mr Marbella positioned himself next to Emily. ‘You ready?’ he asked. ‘Just take a deep breath and follow my path, okay?’

  She positioned her skis into a downward turn.

  ‘Keep your eyes focused on the sign down there. That’s where we’re going.’

  ‘What, the one that says “Caution Hazard”?’

  ‘No, the one behind it that says “Happy hour”.’ He smiled before moving off slowly, carving out a route for her to follow.

  I stood behind Emily and looked ahead. The bright white of the snow made my eyes water. I pulled down my goggles but even so, I could barely make out what lie ahead.

  Mike sprint-skied down the final part of the run, concluding with a dramatic stop just in front of Victoria. He flipped off his skis and swaggered into the bar, a casual glance over his shoulder to check Victoria had witnessed. She followed nonchalantly, pulling up her purple glasses onto her head and unzipping her suit down to her waist. Cassandra and Dr Stud quickly joined them, their child-like giggles echoing up the slopes.

  When a haze softened the light, and my eyes could eventually focus, I looked at Mr Marbella and watched his eyes track Emily. Soon clarity replaced confusion. I noticed the way he looked at her: the intensity in his gaze, the slight furrow of his brow, the gentle curl to his lips. My stomach flipped and my hands started trembling. I recognised that look. It was the exact same way Nick used to look at me, the way he looked at me as I devoured the sashimi on our first date, the way I’d caught him staring at me during the months that followed. The look that had waned with time.

  Suddenly, though, Mr Marbella’s expression changed. His half-smile dropped and his eyes widened.

  ‘Achtung!’ a voice shouted from behind us, accompanied by rumbling sound though the snow.

  I glanced around to see a snowboarder, ploughing down the side of the run, the side that Emily was just turning into. I looked on, my muscles paralysed, my voice mute. Mr Marbella sped towards her, but it was too late and his face contorted as the boarder smacked into Emily and sent her tumbling down the hill.

  Before I could blink, Mr Marbella was by her side. He scooped her up and skied down to the bar with her in his arms as though he were the King of the Slopes. The crowd on the terrace outside, who had been drinking and laughing one moment earlier were now silent, their mouths open and their faces creased with concern.

  ‘Oh my Gaaad!’ wailed Cassandra, rushing over, as Mr Marbella lay Emily down on the decking.

  ‘Emily, are you okay?’ Mr Marbella asked, stroking her cheek.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, brushing him off and then trying to lift herself up.

  ‘Ow, that hurts.’

  ‘They’ve called the medical team, they’ll be here in a minute,’ Dr Stud said.

  Mr Marbella frowned. ‘You’re a doctor. Can’t you check her out?’

  Cassandra stepped forward, hands on hips. ‘He’s a gynaecologist. I doubt now is an appropriate time for a Pap smear.’

  Mr Marbella glared at Dr Stud and then began to feel Emily’s neck, arms and legs. ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘My ankle,’ she replied, collapsing back down, tears filling her eyes.

  Mr Marbella’s jaw tensed. He placed Emily’s ankle gently down on the decking and then stood up and looked around the bar. He paced the terrace for a moment until his gaze locked on a tall man shoving a snowboard in the stand. Mr Marbella walked towards him, said something in German and then swung a punch upwards into the man’s jaw. The man swayed for a few seconds and then fell face-first in the snow. The audience gasped. Then Mr Marbella picked up the board and smashed it against the decking, breaking it in two.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Mike said as three of the man’s friends began striding towards Mr Marbella, pushing up their sleeves and clenching their fists. Mike put down his pint and walked towards them.

  Before Mike could reach them, Mr Marbella, armed with a ski, hit the first over the head. The man dropped to the ground. The second he took down with an upwards flick of the ski to his jaw. When it came to the third, he threw down the ski, gripped the man’s jacket, pulling him towards him. He stood on tip-toes and then smacked his forehead into the man’s face. When the man collapsed into the snow alongside his friends, the crowd roared as though they had just witnessed a gladiator victory at the coliseum.

  Mr Marbella pushed through the now chanting mob, towards Emily who was being propped up on a deck chair by one paramedic, while another
wrapped a bandage around her ankle.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘My hero.’

  Mr Marbella turned to me with a smile. ‘Is there no pleasing her?’

  She laughed. ‘Was I supposed to be impressed by that lame display of testosterone?’

  He smiled. ‘As displays of testosterone go, that was not lame.’

  Emily’s eyes twinkled through her smirk.

  ‘See, she does like me really,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I also like my bulldog, Trevor.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay then, Miss Hard-to-get. I’m going to the bar, is it too non-PC of me to offer you a drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a slippery nipple,’ she said, still smirking.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A pink, upwards-pointing one if you can get it?’ she said.

  He nodded and then walked away with a baffled expression.

  After he’d left, I turned to her. ‘How do you know about that?’

  She looked down at the decking. ‘I was there.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When Mia interviewed him. I was in the bar.’

  I was still frowning.

  She leaned forward. ‘I wanted to do my due diligence before meeting you, so I sort of spied on a few of your consultations.’

  I laughed, realising that was exactly the kind of thing I would have done.

  ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘Glad you’re not pissed off.’

  ‘No, not at all. But why?’

  ‘Why did I spy?’

  ‘No, why did you sign up, after overhearing his consultation?’

  Just as she was about to reply, Mr Marbella appeared with a tray of slippery nipples.

  Several trays later, Mandi and Minky joined us with their chalet guests, by which time the bar’s clientele were dancing on the tables, the benches and various other improvised platforms, consumed in a Euro-pop frenzy. Cassandra and Dr Stud were drawing a crowd with a combination of moves that I suspected St Anton had never witnessed before and I doubted would ever witness again. It was as though two forces had joined to create something unique, something disconcertingly greater than the sum of its parts. Mike was still trailing Victoria like a Beagle after a fox, and Emily, despite her sprained ankle, and the fact that she was confined to a deck chair, was smiling a smile wider than anything the chalet staff could have mustered.