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‘Skinny calves.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Lumberjack shirt.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Flat bottom.’
‘Eew.’
‘Furry neck.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Whiny voice.’
‘Worse.’
‘Pointy fingernails. Head like a grape. Hyena laugh. Upside-down eyebrows. And what about the guy with the goatee?’
‘He looked like a gnome.’
‘He could have shaved it off.’
‘That’s not the point. He chose to grow it in the first place. I couldn’t trust a man with such bad judgement.’
He sighed and lifted his arms above his head.
‘Don’t you think I deserve to meet a great guy?’
‘Well,’ he said, planting his feet on the carpet, as though reverting to his default sexuality, ‘I think I deserve a room full of Playboy Bunnies and a permission slip from my girlfriend. But I’m not going to get that though, am I?’
I lunged forward and slapped him on the arm. ‘You shouldn’t want Playboy Bunnies. You’re supposed to be in love.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You also believe that a man who loves you should never so much as imagine having sex with anyone else because that’s disloyal.’
‘I have good values.’
‘You have idealistic values. There’s a distinct difference.’
I sighed, feeling like a deflated balloon at the end of a party.
Matthew’s expression softened as he shuffled up next to me and wiggled his fingers in my face. ‘Are my hands manly?’
I inspected them and then laughed. ‘You’ve had a manicure?’
He frowned. ‘Well, what about your feet, Miss Perfect?’ He glanced down at my size eights. ‘They wouldn’t look out of place on a seven-foot basketball player.’
I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my long toes.
‘Seriously though, no one is perfect. You have to abandon your quest for the ideal man or you’re only going to be disappointed. And even if you do find a man possessing all your requirements, who’s to say he’d want to date a banana-footed fussy pants?’
I huffed and then folded my arms. ‘So, instead, I’m supposed to settle? For someone I don’t fancy or even like?’
He took a sip of wine and stared at me.
‘Or should I have stayed with Robert, forgiven him for calling off our engagement? Because, yes, of course, every relationship has its ups and downs. And as for his webcam chats with naked Ukrainians, and his extensive porn collection, well, I should stop being such a fussy pants. I need to adjust my expectations.’
Matthew’s expression suddenly morphed into his newsreader face. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
He looked me in the eye. ‘If Robert didn’t look like your perfect man, if he wasn’t a good-looking investment banker who drove a Ferrari, would you have fallen in love with him?’
I took another large gulp of wine, swished it around my mouth and considered what he had said.
‘The issue is,’ he went on as though having been chimed in by Big Ben, ‘you made too many assumptions based on the fact that he looked perfect to you.’
I nodded, taking in the headline but wanting the full story.
‘So, my wise guru, if my perfect man might not look like my perfect man, then how am I supposed to know who he is?’
‘Well, firstly,’ he said, raising a finger, his face fighting a smile. ‘We’ve already established that there are no perfect men. That’s error number one in your pursuit of love. You really must pay attention.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, then. I stand corrected. As you are the fount of all knowledge on this matter, are you going to find Mr Not-so-perfect-but-right for me?’
He laughed. ‘What, like your personal matchmaker?’
I nodded. ‘You know me. You know what I’m looking for. So go find him. I’ll pay you in wine,’ I said, before refilling his glass.
Matthew stared at me for a moment, then pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and picked up the notepad and pen from the coffee table.
‘Right, young lady,’ he said, adopting a matronly voice. ‘You say you want to meet a wealthy man. Could you explain why this is so important to you?’
I giggled. ‘So I can live in a big house and have a nice lifestyle, without having to worry about money.’
The cringe crept in as soon as I had said it.
‘Well, madam,’ he began, peering over his glasses, ‘in this day and age, a lady can go out and achieve such things without the aid of a man. So, you’re just being a lazybones. I’m going to cross that one off your list.’
‘Er,’ I said, trying to interrupt but he—or she—was in full flow.
‘And what’s all this about appearance? You say you want a handsome man. Don’t we all, dear?’ he said as he hoisted up his imaginary bosoms. ‘But those good-looking ones are often a bit full of themselves and rather high maintenance, don’t you think? I’ll cross that off too.’
In quick succession Matthew’s alter ego went on to annihilate every characteristic on my tick list. When he began to question whether it was essential that my soulmate be a man, I downed the last of the wine and took myself off to bed.
Later that night, while I was trying to sleep, images flashed through my mind—goatees, tapered jeans, naked Ukrainians, hairy nostrils—and I began to wonder if Matthew was right.
If I had been deluding myself by expecting the perfect man to give me the perfect life, and to behave perfectly at all times, then what was I supposed to do instead? I couldn’t talk myself into fancying someone, and besides, I knew no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for someone who smelled of pickled onions.
I pulled the duvet over my head and wondered if I really had believed that love would come packaged as a six-foot-three investment banker. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as having not yet found the right man. Maybe it was me? Maybe my judgement was off.
Throughout the night, the questions kept coming. I lay there, tossing and turning. And thinking.
I wanted answers. I needed answers.
Just before dawn, a shimmering light suddenly filled the room. It could have been a street lamp, either that, or Eros had been sent to summon me. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. It was then that the idea came to me, flitting through my mind at first, skittish like a butterfly, but then it settled and I couldn’t shake it. When my focus eventually adjusted to the bright white light which was pouring through the window, I realised that the path to my destiny had been lit up like a runway.
It was up to me to find the answers. Not only for myself but for others too.
I would begin by reclaiming Cupid’s bow from soulless software. Then, using Matthew’s questionnaire as a template, I would lead an army of matchmakers across the land. Noisy eating and tapered jeans would be banished for ever and unconditional love, shared values and mutual respect would glisten in our wake. I smiled and gazed up at the ceiling. No longer would I be confined to a lab, staring at a titration beaker, pondering the most cost-effective way to synthesise fertiliser, instead my days would be spent nurturing budding romances from under a pile of thank you notes, and my nights sleeping soundly, content in the knowledge that I had helped unite all the lonely hearts of the world.
All I would have to do is quit my job at ChemPlant, figure out how to survive on a maxed-out overdraft, then set about discovering the formula for love.
I’m going to be a matchmaker, I decided, throwing off the duvet, I’ll start today.
And so, I did.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_6fdcc0c6-e28c-5b49-9e01-9470577aae6a)
‘WHAT ABOUT THEM? They’re cute,’ I said, pointing to a group of men by the bar.
‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia replied with a dismissive flick of her Jennifer Lawrence hair. ‘Your first clients have to be super eligible.’
With her sleek frame encased in a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped dress and her long legs elongated further with red Dior stilettos, she looked the image of timeless elegance. I couldn’t help but feel inferior. My ensemble wasn’t dissimilar, albeit a high street version on a high street body, but for me, it didn’t come so easily. With a smudge of Benetint and a light dusting of powder, Cordelia personified Hollywood glamour. However, my less-impressive result required hours of prep, more foil than a Christmas turkey, and a paranoid avoidance of neon lighting. People who loved me, or those who saw me in candlelight said I looked a bit like Holly Willoughby. The rest said Beverley Callard.
Cordelia slipped her arm through mine and led me away from the men—who she had culled for ‘drinking pints in a champagne bar’—then marched us on to a balcony which afforded a panoramic view of the bar.
‘No. No. And no,’ she said, scanning the crowd and dismissing everyone in sight. ‘Where have all the hot men gone?’
I laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking for the past two years.’
‘They must be hiding out somewhere,’ she said, craning her neck around a gilt pillar. ‘This is supposed to be the champagne bar of the moment according to the FT.’
I checked my watch: it was six o’clock on a Thursday evening. We were in the heart of the financial district and the bar was jammed, teeming with enough men to send the Weather Girls into cardiac arrest, but, according to Cordelia, no one was good enough.
‘They don’t have to be outrageously good-looking, do they?’ I asked, feeling far less discriminatory since my dressing down from Matthew. ‘All I need are normal people who are single.’
She tossed a sheet of golden hair behind her shoulders. ‘You want to avoid the stigma that other agencies have, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Well, the only way to do that is to have the uber-eligible as your first members. It’s a bit like a celebrity endorsement. You know, if they’re doing it, then it must be good.’
‘But no one really believes that Cheryl Cole dyes her own hair over a sink at home? Why would they believe that a gorgeous man has trouble finding love?’
‘Because he does. Everyone does. That’s the reason you have decided to become a matchmaker, is it not?’ Her voice was sympathetic, but the pinched expression betrayed her impatience.
I nodded again, looking around the bar at the seemingly contented patrons. What if it was just me? What if no one wanted or even needed my help?
‘Ah, here we go,’ she said, gesturing towards two men who had just swaggered through the doorway. ‘That’s more like it.’
Both well over six feet tall with dark hair, and wearing Savile Row suits, they sauntered in like they’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. One of them glanced my way and flashed a smile. I took a deep breath, sucked in my tummy and weaved my way through the crowd towards him.
‘Well, hello,’ he said, when I’d reached him.
‘Well, hello yourself,’ I replied, attempting a Cordelia-style hair flick which resulted in several drinks being spilled behind me. He laughed: a soft, sexy, George Clooney drawl, not the high-pitched Road Runner warble that appeared to be coming from my mouth.
‘So, what brings a gorgeous girl like you to a place like this?’
Back straight, tummy miraculously still in, I looked him in the eye and declared my purpose. ‘I’m headhunting for eligible men.’
He raised one eyebrow, and his friend, who was standing beside him, leant in closer.
‘You’re what?’ the friend asked, head cocked like a befuddled puppy.
‘I represent an exclusive dating agency,’ I explained, easing into character, ‘and I’m looking for men good enough to date our female clients.’ Technically, I decided, that wasn’t a lie.
They both laughed, but were clearly intrigued.
‘This, I absolutely have to hear,’ George Clooney drawl said. ‘Have a drink with us. If your female clients are anything like you then I could be persuaded.’ He waved a fifty at the barman. ‘I’m Mike, by the way, and this is Stephen.’ He nodded vaguely in his friend’s direction.
‘Ellie,’ I replied.
He slipped his arm round my waist and kissed me on the cheek. When Stephen stepped in to repeat the process, I wondered why I hadn’t considered this career change years ago.
‘So, you headhunters, do you hunt alone? Or in packs?’ Mike asked, handing me a glass of champagne.
‘In pairs,’ I answered, glancing over my shoulder, wondering where Cordelia had gone. ‘I’m here with my friend.’ I stood on tiptoes to look above the heads. ‘Cordelia. Now where is she? Ah, over there.’
I pointed her out. She was immersed in conversation with a tall olive-skinned girl who was blessed with the rare combination of endless limbs, tiny bottom and big boobs. As if to add further insult to the rest of the female population, she had also been awarded a super bonus prize of waist-length glossy brown hair.
‘So, you do the boys and she does the girls?’ Mike asked with a wink.
‘No, we do both,’ I replied, waving Cordelia over.
Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘You do girls and boys? Excellent.’
He smirked and then topped up my champagne.
Moments later, Cordelia returned and introduced her new acquaintance, Megan, whose bee-stung lips and emerald-green eyes now made the rest of her attributes seem decidedly average. Mike nudged me and then laughed. Stephen was transfixed, as if the befuddled puppy had encountered his first T-bone steak.
‘We’re not supposed to pair them off before they sign up,’ Cordelia said, pulling me away from Mike. ‘Or spend the entire night talking to one guy,’ she whispered in my ear.
Mike reached for the champagne bottle. Just as he went to top up my glass again, Cordelia placed her hand over the top.
‘We can’t stay,’ she said, before handing me my coat.
