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

by Haley Hill

  While I was ordering another tray of slippery nipples, Mr Marbella appeared next to me at the bar.

  ‘Do you think I’m in with a chance?’ he asked.

  I scrunched up my mouth. ‘You and Emily?’

  He squinted. ‘No, me and Mike.’

  I laughed. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just –’

  ‘Just what?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

  He lifted his hands. ‘Look I never thought I’d fall for a girl like –’

  ‘Fall for?’

  He flushed.

  ‘Are you blushing?’

  ‘No.’ He fanned his face. ‘It’s hot in here.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, you’re in with a chance.’

  He grinned.

  ‘But,’ I nodded towards, Zac the 6ft 3in American from Mandi’s chalet who was now helping Emily out of her chair. ‘You know you’ve got competition.’

  ‘That little twerp?’

  ‘Little?’

  ‘He’s a total wanker. I heard him ask the waitress for a threesome.’

  ‘Maybe he was just ordering a drink? The cocktail menu lists some ambiguous creations.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his jugular twitching, ‘there’s no way he cares about Emily like …’ He paused. ‘Come on, help me out here.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, taking the tray of drinks from the barman. ‘You need to find a way to get rid of Zac, so you can tell her how you feel.’

  He grabbed two slippery nipples from the tray and then glared at Zac while nodding slowly.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘Thanks babes.’

  After I’d distributed the rest of the drinks, I grabbed my ski jacket, pushed open the wooden doors and walked out into the night air. Its frosty glaze clung to my face as I stood on the decking and looked up at the mountains. Their peaks were kissed by clouds dense with snow. Snow that would drop tonight, billions of flakes all united in their purpose. The morning would see the ground carpeted again, hazardous terrain softened once more. Away from the destruction and complications of human existence, nature’s default was peace and harmony. Maybe I could hoard things in the Austrian mountains rather than the English countryside? “Crazy bag lady and her canine companions relocate to St Anton.” I could swap chutney for gluhwein and maybe learn to play the accordion, though my hoarding of bric-a-brac would be more doily-centred and the dogs might need some fleece-lined coats.

  I turned back to the bar and looked through the window. As I watched everyone drinking and laughing, I wondered if I was destined to be the spectator rather than the participant. The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow interrupted my thoughts and I turned to see a jacket-less Victoria staggering towards me.

  ‘I kissed him,’ she said leaning against me. I pushed her back and she wobbled like a Weeble. ‘I missed Kike.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean I kissed Mike.’

  I looked ahead, saying nothing.

  ‘You’ve got to talk to me at some point,’ she said. ‘It’s physically impossible …’ She paused and then frowned ‘… I mean humanly impossible to ignore someone for an entire week.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Hah! Got you.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Now we’re officially talking again.’

  I sighed, looking up at the clouds, and hoping they might intervene and drop a large block of ice on her head.

  ‘He’s the first boy I’ve kissed since Patrick.’

  I turned to her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, you just don’t get it do you?’ Her face scrunched up in an exaggerated frown. ‘You always want to believe the worst of me.’

  I noticed my hands were on my hips, but I left them there.

  ‘You dated Nick, despite the fact that you knew it would hurt me. Despite the fact that you knew I was still in love with him.’

  She let out a deep sigh. ‘I needed to do it to prove to you that you did.’

  ‘What? You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘I’m a bit drunk.’ She swayed from side to side as though further evidence were required. ‘I needed to prove to you that you still loved him.’

  ‘By dating him?’

  ‘I didn’t date him silly. It was a test to see how much you still loved him.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand. So you didn’t date him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So Facebook was a lie?’

  ‘You do it all the time with your clients.’

  ‘What, lie to them?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes you do, if you think it will help them.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t, Don’t!’ I shouted. ‘And what about Robert, what was that all about?’

  ‘I didn’t want him messing everything up.’

  ‘So, your plan was to date my ex-boyfriends in order to help me?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I said.’

  ‘Well, what are you trying to say?’

  ‘I was trying to help.’

  ‘Help? What gives you the right to be meddling in my life?’

  ‘It’s what you do. You’ve made a profession out of it.’

  ‘People ask for my help. They want me to meddle. They ask me to meddle.’

  ‘Would you ever ask for help, though?’ She looked at me, her face almost pressing against mine. ‘Would you?’ She asked again louder this time. ‘No, you wouldn’t, because you’re too proud. Proudy, proudy, proudpants!’

  ‘Well your help I can do without,’ I said, turning my back on her.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  She went to flounce off, but her foot was wedged in the snow and she lurched forward. Instinctively I grabbed her arm to stop her from falling.

  She looked up at me, her eyes wide. ‘Did you even open it?’

  ‘Open what?’

  ‘The letter.’

  I let go of her arm. ‘No, not yet.’

  She wedged each foot in the snow, presumably to stabilise herself. ‘He thinks you cheated on him.’

  My stomach flipped. ‘What?’

  ‘With the penis.’

  ‘What penis?’

  ‘The one you drew.’

  My mind raced, flicking through all its phallus-themed files. ‘Oh. The elephant. I wondered where that had gone.’

  ‘Yes, so did Nick.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who drew it.’

  ‘I know. But he said it wasn’t the first time. That he’d found a penis photo on your phone when you met: a closeup with a dog in the background.’

  ‘I hope you explained that one.’

  ‘Yes, though not entirely. Anyway I’d just about convinced him. And then photos of you and Robert popped up on Facebook.’

  I frowned. ‘Photos?’

  She nodded. ‘On Robert’s profile, he tagged you at that wedding, didn’t you see?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘There was one of you with some old guy doing a weird dance, and then one of Robert stroking your hair.’

  I sighed. ‘But nothing happened.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, pulling her foot from the snow. ‘And he knows it deep down too.’

  I looked up at the clouds that had been capping the mountains to see they had lifted, exposing the peaks. I took a long deep breath.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said wrapping my coat around the both of us. ‘I’ve been such an idiot.’

  She smiled. ‘I only ever wanted to help you.’

  We linked arms as we walked back towards the bar.

  ‘Anyway, silly, didn’t you wonder why my brother represented you for free?’

  I stared at her for a moment. ‘David is your brother?’

  ‘Although I didn’t count on you matching him with that little glamour girl.’ She laughed. ‘He’s besotted now.’

&n
bsp; Our giggles had subsided by the time we walked back into the bar. Then straight away, I noticed Zac leaning against the table, next to Emily, rubbing his head and wobbling from side to side. A sudden realisation hit me like a Mr Marbella ski-slap.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, waiting for the fall.

  After a couple more wobbles, Zac hit the ground like a felled tree. My gaze shifted to Mr Marbella who was looking on, a sardonic smile creeping out from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Gosh. It’s almost like he’s been drugged,’ remarked Victoria as the crowd swarmed around him, Alice Cooper’s “Poison” infiltrating the airwaves.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  ‘Tea, coffee, birth control anyone?’ The air steward patrolled the aisles, sneering at couples.

  I couldn’t really blame him. Since we’d boarded the plane, he’d been required to conduct an extensive seat-swapping exercise in order to accommodate the newly-formed couples, then to service their incessant demands for slippery nipples from the drinks trolley. Then to tolerate hair-stroking, hand-holding, cooing, sighing, gasping and inappropriate fondling under blankets. However, from his current facial expression, and the tight grip he had on an open bottle of water, it seemed he was unwilling to overlook the squelchy noises coming from the seats behind me.

  ‘Come on guys. Give it a rest,’ I said, leaning round my seat to the row behind. Cassandra and Dr Stud’s lips and tongues were entwined. They glanced sideways at me without breaking contact.

  ‘Shhh,’ Mr Marbella said, sitting beside them with his arm around Emily. She was asleep, snuggled up on his chest. Mandi sat across the aisle with a furrowed brow and a pink notebook open on her lap. Her fluffy pink pen bobbed up and down, looking like some kind of exotic yet well-trained caterpillar.

  ‘Psst, Mandi,’ I whispered.

  She lifted her hand without looking up. ‘One second.’ The pen bobbed up and down some more. ‘Okay done.’ She looked up, grinning. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One hundred percent.’

  ‘No way.’

  She clapped her hands. ‘For the first time ever, a one hundred percent hit rate.’

  ‘Shhh,’ Mr Marbella held a finger to his mouth.

  I grinned, giving her a double thumbs-up.

  When I turned back in my seat, Victoria, who was sitting beside me, prodded my arm.

  ‘So that means everyone on this trip met someone?’ she asked.

  I nodded, still grinning.

  ‘What, even that heffalump in the other chalet?’ She scrunched up her nose. ‘And the skinny geeky guy?’

  I pointed to the happy couple who were two rows up across the aisle. ‘How did you not notice them? They’ve been all over each other for days.’

  She sniffed and then shook her head as if to clear the image. ‘I have a filter for ugly people.’

  Mike leaned in from her other side and then squeezed her knee, flashing his knicker-dropping smile. ‘Don’t you ever change,’ he said.

  ‘Ever?’ she asked.

  ‘Never, ever, ever,’ he said, twirling her ponytail and gazing at her adoringly. I glanced at the sick bag, just to be sure of its location if the need arose.

  When he leaned in to kiss her, I, along with the steward, decided my voyeurism quota had been filled for the day. I picked up my iPod, plugged in the earphones and closed my eyes. The music washed over me like the sea over sand, the rhythm and the lyrics triggering thoughts and emotions, rolling, crashing and then pulling back. My muscles tensed then relaxed. I let out a deep sigh and images floated through my mind. The faces of all those I’d known. The people I’d helped, the people I’d failed. Those who I’d loved and those who I’d lost. I knew now that without sadness, happiness was meaningless. That one was dependent on the other. As I let the acceptance flow through me, it felt as though I were floating in the ocean, surrendering to the peaks and troughs of the waves, letting the tide direct me. It was almost as though I could feel the spray from the sea, splashing on my face. Another splash. I opened my eyes to find the steward with a menacing glint in his eye and an empty bottle in his hand. Next to me, Victoria and Mike wore the contents with corresponding shocked expressions.

  At baggage collection, the carousel chugged along with suitcases piled high, showcased to their audience. The passengers waited, eyes fixed on the conveyor, searching for their case. Occasionally, someone would identify the wrong one, then quickly toss it back, embarrassed by their misguided certainty. Others would fidget, shifting the weight from their feet, seemingly fretful their suitcase may never arrive. I supposed some cases would remain unclaimed, circulating the carousel like unwanted dogs in a pound, eyed up suspiciously by officials and ultimately destroyed.

  ‘There’s mine!’ squealed Cassandra, before springing onto the carousel and wrestling her suitcase as though it were a crocodile.

  Meanwhile, Dr Stud was battling to balance his skis and an oddly shaped case on a trolley. Victoria stepped away from the scene, obviously keen to distance herself from any association, while Mike did his best to look unfazed by the weight of his suitcase, two pairs of skis and Victoria’s Louis Vuitton trunk. Clearly not wanting to be outdone, Mr Marbella, skis balanced across his shoulders, heaved his entire Burberry suitcase collection into his arms and then carefully placed Emily’s bag on top as though he were transporting a Faberge egg. I directed them to the trolley park and explained that my indemnity insurance didn’t include competitive lifting.

  Trolleys loaded up, we loitered by the customs exit, waiting to say our goodbyes. Mandi broke the standoff first with her clients, initiating a seemingly well-rehearsed group hug, which also appeared to include a team mantra and custom handshake. When they’d concluded with a bottom-wiggle high-five combo, Minky launched into an Oscar-style speech, thanking each of her clients for their role in the trip that would have undoubtedly changed their lives.

  Our group looked at each other with the awkwardness of teenagers at the end of a date. Despite good intentions, I knew that, for most of us, it was the end of a journey. As much as they felt like family, I knew that now was their time to move on, to begin their lives together. Some would update me, invite me to their wedding, their baby’s christening. Yet most would disappear, almost as though they were ashamed of any intervention. Ashamed that they had asked for help with something that was supposed to be easy and effortless.

  Victoria broke the silence with uncharacteristic perkiness.

  ‘Righty ho, let’s go to Arrivals.’

  Her tone and her choice of words seemed slightly bizarre: who says “let’s go to Arrivals”? She ushered us through customs, checking her watch.

  After passing through, with only a moment’s concern when a sniffer dog took a liking to Mr Marbella, we walked into the vast white space that was the gateway to London. It was teeming with people, all rushing to greet their loved-ones. There is no greater barometer for love than the arrivals area at an airport, I thought as I watched some swamped by a deluge of hugs and kisses, while others were left to make their own way home.

  Cassandra and Dr Stud skipped ahead laughing raucously. Mr Marbella stopped in front and threaded his fingers through Emily’s. She turned to him, pushed back the thick fringe from her eyes and smiled, just as a busty blonde in a sprayed on t-shirt wiggled past them. Mr Marbella didn’t flinch. He looked straight through her and then back at Emily with a smile that was worth more than all the diamond-encrusted watches in the world.

  Moments later, standing alone at the edge of the concourse while the latest arrivals were announced via the Tannoy, I watched as each of our hundred-percent-hit-rate couples left the airport. I plopped down on my suitcase and wondered how many of them would last. If the statistics prevailed, then eighty-five percent would end up single again.

  My thoughts flashed back to the day I’d decided to become a matchmaker. When I’d been focused solely on the end goal of finding love for my clients and myself. However, now I’d learned the truth: that love’s
arrival wasn’t accompanied by a magnificent fanfare. It wasn’t the prelude to a dramatic conclusion or fading final scene alluding to a lifetime of happiness. I looked around me, at the people arriving only to depart again, and I realised that one journey’s end was nothing more than the start of another.

  I tore the tag from my suitcase, screwed it up into a ball and tossed it in the bin beside me. Then I looked up to see Mandi bounding towards me, her luminous pink suitcase trundling behind her.

  ‘Fancy a victory drink?’ she said, pointing towards the bar next to us. Then she nodded at the sandwich board outside, which promised a foot of onion rings and a glass of wine for a fiver.

  When we were wedged in a faux leather booth, with two warm glasses of chardonnay in hand, Mandi and I looked at each other across the table. She smiled and then let out a deep sigh as though she were exhaling five years’ of matchmaking accomplishments.

  I lifted my glass. ‘Cheers.’

  She raised hers to meet mine, bypassing the imposing stack of onion rings. ‘To us,’ she said. ‘Mission accomplished.’

  I took a long slow sip and then put my glass back down on the table, wondering why I still felt a few residual stabs of dissatisfaction. Just as the chardonnay began to seep into my veins, it suddenly came to me: I wasn’t an altruist after all. All along, I had been secretly hoping fate might somehow reward me for my endeavours.

  ‘What’s up?’ Mandi asked, picking up an onion ring and inspecting it. ‘I thought this was what you wanted?’

  I looked up to the airport ceiling, hoping that beyond, God might be in the midst of an emergency meeting, having summoned Eros or Cupid and the angels, to debate the best compensation plan for a selfless matchmaker.

  I looked back down to see a giant onion ring disappear into Mandi’s mouth.

  ‘You know that proverb about the Doctor?’ I asked.

  She wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘Yes. I know it.’ She pointed her finger in the air. ‘The one where he tells the patient to pull himself together.’

  I sniggered. ‘That’s a joke Mandi. Not a proverb. I meant the one about the physician healing himself.’